by R.J. Ellory
'So what about the police, the authorities who ran the place?'
'What about them?'
'Well, didn't they have security in place? Didn't they have the local police taking care of security for the airport?'
'The Port Authority had over a hundred uniformed police on the airport grounds every day. They had customs inspectors, FBI, additional police from the 103rd Precinct, but you're talking about five thousand acres of land and buildings. Take, for example, the US Customs building. I don't remember how many floors it had - ten, twelve, something like that. Huge place. People in and out. No security to speak of. And here were the pigeonholes that carried the consignment notes and bills of lading for every shipment that came though the airport. In the early Sixties there was thirty billion dollars' worth of stuff coming through Idlewild. So the airport loses thirty million dollars' worth of traffic, that's only a tenth of one percent. Even three hundred million is only one percent. They claim it off the insurance, the insurance pays up, the insurance company hikes the premium, but all in all it's a hell of a lot less hassle than hiring more security - managers and stuff - and the cost of it, you know? As far as the airport was concerned, it was par for the course.'
'And the police that were there . . . they took bribes as well?'
'Of course they did. Police, Customs people, even some of the federal guys. Take airline tickets, for example. Guys would come down with dozens of stolen credit cards and buy up a bucket-load of tickets. Then they would get cash for them, sometimes sell them at a discount. Frank Sinatra did a national tour on a wad of stolen airline tickets.'
'You're kidding—'
'Absolutely true. He had a manager called Dante Barzottini. He bought fifty thousand dollars' worth of airline tickets off of someone that had paid for them with stolen cards. He used them to transport Frank Sinatra and eight other people around the country. Barzottini got busted for that and they put him away.'
'And no-one ever came forward and testified against these people?'
'They tried to, of course, but people got killed. Informants, witnesses, as many as a dozen a year. And the thing that made the most money for these guys was the hijackings. They were kings of hijacking. You remember I mentioned Jimmy Burke? Well, he was so damned good at hijacking that the Colombo family in Brooklyn and the Luccheses in Queens shared his services. That was the first and only time I'm aware of where one guy ended up working for two different families. He had people in his own crew - people like Tommy DeSimone, Angelo Sepe, another guy called Skinny Bobby Amelia - but the real prize was Jimmy Santos. Santos was an ex-cop who got busted for armed robbery. He did his time and then he went over to the bad guys. Well, Jimmy Santos knew everyone. He knew who was good and who wasn't, and who would take money, or who wouldn't. He knew which guys had mistresses and which were stretched with alimony payments. He knew which cops gambled, and out of those who owed the most money. He got word out through his contacts in the PD, and he got the people he wanted transferred over to the airport detail. By the time they were through they had maybe half the police on the airport working for them, and that's how come my father got involved.'
'He knew Santos.'
'He knew of him. My father was already a sergeant in '67. He was here in Brooklyn, ran the department that processed all the paperwork for inter-precinct transfers. He had a couple of guys in his own precinct who wanted to move to the airport, which had become JFK by then. Anyway, he thought this was strange, two of his best people wanted out to the same detail within two or three months of each other, so he dug a little and found the connection to Santos. And what did he do? He went to Santos directly, said he couldn't have the men, not without paying up. You ask me about my father, you ask me what kind of man he was? That's who he was. A crook. No question about it. Santos started giving my father a monthly amount, just a couple of hundred dollars to make the transfers go smooth. My father would get the tip-off on which transfers were Santos's, and he'd hurry them through. That arrangement went on until my father moved to Organized Crime Control Bureau in 1972. Then they had the airport as their territory, and right at the top of their jurisdictional and operational priorities was cleaning up the scene down there.'
'But they didn't, did they?'
'They cleaned up, that's for sure, and my asshole of a father was right inside of it all. Just in the ten months from the start of '67 to October, two point two million dollars' worth of goods went out of JFK. That was the actual value of goods taken right out of the storage bins and security rooms of the Air Cargo Center. TWA also lost two and half million dollars' worth of stock, and those figures don't take into account any of the goods that were hijacked beyond the airport limits. Believe me, Doctor Marie, the stuff that was stolen out of JFK was pocket change compared to what they took once the trucks had left the perimeter.'
'These were the hijacks and the give-ups?'
'Yes. Well - one of the difficulties the OCCB and the police had at the time was that the New York State Legislature hadn't officially codified hijacking as a felony. Anyone who got busted for hijacking actually had to be charged with robbery or kidnapping, maybe firearms offences or possession of stolen property . . . stuff like that. And because hijacking a truck wasn't in the statute books yet, there was a loophole for these guys. They had the money to buy up the best lawyers, and they paid off the courts to delay hearings and postpone arraignments. I heard one time that one case was kept rolling back and forth between the courts and the DA's Office for eleven years, and by the time it actually came to court they fined the guy two hundred and fifty dollars.'
'Which brings us to Lufthansa.'
'Yes, it does, except—'
'Except you have to go now.'
'I'm afraid I do.'
'Well, if nothing else it's been interesting, Frank.'
'Tomorrow. We talk about Lufthansa tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow is Sunday.'
'Monday then?'
'Monday it is.'
'You going to manage without me for a whole day?'
'I'm sure I'll cope somehow, Frank.'
'Well, you have my file there, and my phone number's got to bein there somewhere. You feel like you need to talk to someone then you give me a call, okay?' 'That's very good of you.' 'You take care now.' 'You too, Frank, you too.'
TWENTY
As if all the parts had been put together by a clumsy child, the seams of his life gaped wide and would not close with time. This was how Parrish felt sometimes.
Other times he felt driven by a purpose, incandescent and fierce. Blood on the teeth, the Scandinavians said. You caught the scent. The case had a hook and it pulled you. You pulled back and it started to unravel like a ball of twine. Back in the Forties sometime, at least from Parrish's perspective, the law and justice seemed to diverge. The law served its own end, and then it served the lawyers. Justice, once fast and cheap, was laborious and expensive, as rare as a prize diamond. People read fiction, they watched movies, they wanted life to be like that, but it was not. The good guys did not always win out, and the bad guys stayed bad and free. Frank Parrish believed himself one of a dying breed. Someone who gave a damn. He did not believe himself an arbiter of justice or a staunch testament to the law, but there were cases he had pursued in his time that had resolved through sheer persistence and an indomitable sense of purpose. And it was always children. As he had so long considered, for the children there could be no reason, no excuse. And though neither Rebecca nor Karen were children, they were young enough to be unaware of the snares and pitfalls that lay in wait. The dark spirits of the city had been out in force, and they had been too naive, too innocent, to see them. And if Frank Parrish didn't care what had happened, then who would?
He carried a notebook in his pocket, and sometimes he wrote down thoughts that came to mind. Seated in a coffee house three or four blocks south of the Precinct, somewhere down near Schermerhorn, he scribbled down a line he remembered from aTom Waits song. The one about how there wasn't reall
y a Devil, that it was just God when He was drunk.
He drank his coffee. He waited for Jimmy Radick to come meet him. He thought of Rebecca, of Karen, and he tried so very hard to believe their deaths were unrelated. But he was unable to convince himself. It was then that he decided to go out and see Karen's parents.
Radick was there just after eleven-thirty. Parrish told him what he wanted to do.
'And you want to go alone again, right?'
'I think it's best. This is now crossing precincts—'
'And what was her name?'
'Karen Pulaski, P-U-L-A-S-K-I.'
'And you really think there's a connection between her and the Lange girl?'
Parrish shook his head. 'Instinctively, yes. In reality? Probably not. But I've got to check it out. It'll bug the hell out of me until I do.'
'OK. I'll head back to the squad room. What do I tell Valderas?'
'Say you don't know where I am. Tell him we're meeting later, that we're starting the shift late, that you've just come in early to do paperwork or something.'
Radick got up. 'Call me if you need me, okay?'
'Sure I will,' Parrish replied.
Parrish left Brooklyn at noon. He walked a while and then took the subway at Nevis Street. Between Fulton and Clinton- Washington he instinctively looked left towards his own apartment. A woman sat facing him and to the right. She was reading Trying To Save Piggy Sneed. She glanced up at Parrish, and Parrish smiled. He opened his mouth to say something about the book, but her expression cut him dead. I don't know you. Don't even think about talking to me. Say one fucking word and I will scream until your ears bleed.
He wondered when it had changed. The world. But had the world changed, or was it simply his perception?
After alighting at Broadway, he took another subway to Myrtle Avenue. He remembered the Pulaskis' address, up there on Troutman Street, and he found it without difficulty. The place, a three-storied brownstone walk-up, looked cold and empty, as if vacant, but he went on up and knocked on the door anyway.
It was when he heard the voice from within - I'll get it! - that he fully realized what he was doing.
The woman that opened the door was dark haired, five-four or five, wide in the shoulders and slim in the waist. She had on sweat pants and a tee-shirt, over that a loose-fitting gray cardigan sweater. She had socks on her feet but no shoes, and she stood there for a moment just looking at Parrish as if he was some long-lost relative finally returned.
'Police,' she said matter-of-factly.
Parrish nodded. He had his hand around his pocketbook, was ready to show his ID, but who he was seemed such a foregone conclusion there was no point.
'Detective Frank Parrish,' he said quietly. 'I've come up from Brooklyn, and I wondered whether you might have a moment or two to answer some questions.'
'Karen?'
'Yes, Karen.'
'You haven't found the guy who killed her, have you? If you had you wouldn't have more questions—'
'No, I'm sorry, I haven't found the guy who killed her, Mrs Pulaski, but I have lost another girl—'
'You have lost another girl? What d'you mean, you?'
Parrish felt foolish all of a sudden. 'I don't mean ... I don't know, er . . . I'm sorry, it's just that sometimes I tend to take these matters personally.'
'Well, Detective Parrish, I'm glad someone does, and it's reassuring to know that the investigation is still going on after a year. Come in. My husband's upstairs. I'll fetch him down.'
Parrish followed her into the front room of the house, stood there on a colorful rug, looked at the wall, and found Karen looking right back from a photograph that couldn't have been taken much before her death. He felt bad. The Pulaskis would now think he was working on their daughter's murder, and he was not. He imagined - in all likelihood - that the death of Karen hadn't been looked at for a good seven or eight months. It was one of the Williamsburg 91st Precinct ghosts.
The father appeared, the management accountant. Mid-forties at a guess, graying hair, bespectacled; the kind of guy who wore an old football shirt without ever having played football in his life. He had on a wristwatch with multiple dials and a black rubber housing. Why did desk jockeys always wear Navy SEAL watches?
'Detective,' he said calmly. 'I'm David Pulaski. You've come to tell us something about Karen?'
'No, sir, I'm afraid not. I'm actually working on another case that may be related, though that is not certain right now.'
David Pulaski looked at his wife. The disappointment was evident in both their expressions. They wanted to know that their daughter's killer had been found, that he had been shot by the police as he tried to escape, that even now he was experiencing the most excruciating agony, lying in a pool of his own blood in a filthy alleyway somewhere. The medics would take their time. There was no reason to hurry. I mean, why should this guy deserve any care at all? But they would step in at the last moment, they would staunch the blood-loss, ferry him to hospital, fix him up sufficiently for trial, conviction, for some interminable prison sentence, and then a prolonged and terrifying execution. This was what they wanted to hear, but this was not what Parrish would tell them. This was real life; it only worked that way in the movies.
'Another girl?' Pulaski asked.
Parrish nodded.
'Sit down, Detective.'
Elizabeth Pulaski asked if Parrish wanted coffee. He declined. He didn't want to be here any longer than was absolutely necessary.
'I just wanted to know if there were any further details that you might have remembered,' Parrish said.
Pulaski shook his head. 'I don't know, Detective, I really don't. Karen was here, and then she wasn't. She was a grown-up, even at sixteen. She knew what she wanted in life, she knew where she was going. She was responsible, polite . . .' He paused, glanced at his wife. 'She often stayed with friends, always had lots of friends, and it was Christmas. She went over to see them on the 26th. They live up on Willoughby. She arrived about ten in the morning, was with them until four-ish. Then she walked down the road, got on the bus, and that was the last anyone saw of her. Whether she got off the bus before she reached home no-one knows. Whether she made it all the way home and was abducted before she reached the house . . .'
'Or if she never intended to come home?' Elizabeth Pulaski ventured.
The question silenced her husband.
Parrish understood that they knew no more than they had already told the police.
'And the only reason I have ever considered that was because of her clothes,' Elizabeth added.
'Her clothes?' Parrish asked.
'When they - er - found her . . . when they found her she was wearing clothes that she would never have worn.'
Parrish's nostrils cleared, as if someone had given him ammonia. 'Would never have worn?'
'A short skirt,' Elizabeth said. 'Very short. And high-heeled shoes. I mean, Karen had high-heeled shoes, but only for dances, only for special occasions. She dressed in jeans and sneakers and sweatshirts, things like that. She hardly ever wore skirts, and even if she did they were long, down to her knees or longer. A short skirt and a halter-neck top, and high-heeled shoes . . .' She shook her head. 'That wasn't like Karen, not at all.'
'And you told this to the investigating officers?'
'Yes,' David Pulaski said. 'We told them everything. It should all be on record.'
'I'm sure it is,' Parrish said, remembering no note regarding Karen's clothes in the file. 'However, this is a Williamsburg investigation whereas my investigation is Brooklyn.'
'And the case you're investigating might be—'
'This is standard,' Parrish interjected. 'The investigation of your daughter's death will remain open until the perpetrator is found. The detectives working on it will never close it, and though you might not hear from them for weeks, even months at a time, it doesn't mean they're not giving it due attention.'
'We understand,' Pulaski said, and in his tone Parrish recognized the res
ignation. Pulaski knew that Parrish was telling him what he wanted to hear, and that this may not necessarily be the most accurate of truths.
Elizabeth Pulaski rose from the chair. She looked at Parrish, then at her husband. 'The sad thing is that after all the work we put in ...' She shook her head slowly.
'Sorry?' Parrish asked.
'Karen was not our daughter,' David Pulaski said. 'Not by blood. We adopted her when she was seven. She was not doing well, not well at all. It took a good three or four years to really get her to settle down.'
'You adopted her?' Parrish asked, attempting to subdue the surprise in his voice.
Pulaski smiled awkwardly. 'It's not so uncommon, Detective . . .'
'No, of course not. I'm sorry. No, that's not what I meant. That just ties into something else I am investigating.'
'Something else you are investigating?'
'Another case. I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound insensitive, but it just drew my attention to another unrelated matter I am looking into.'
Parrish knew he sounded unprofessional. He stood up, perhaps a little too quickly, and it was obvious to both the Pulaskis that he was now ready to leave.
He thanked the couple for their time, he wished them well, and when he crossed the road and started down the facing sidewalk he did not look back towards the house. He felt their eyes on him, and he wanted them to forget as much of their meeting, as much about him, as possible. He had said nothing for a very simple reason: If he had stressed the significance of the adoption, then he had no doubt that they would have been up at the 91st asking questions of Detective Richard Franco and his colleagues. Did you know that a girl was murdered in Brooklyn? A detective came to see us, and he told us that the girl from Brooklyn had also lost her parents, just like Karen? Did you know this? Was this part of your investigation when you were looking into the murder of our daughter?
