by Lou Manfredo
“Alright, Joe. Tomorrow, eight a.m.”
“Take care, kid, see you then. Have a good night.”
McQueen hung up the phone. He had planned on a short nap before the drive to Brooklyn and a midnight tour. Now the balance of the eve ning lay empty before him.
“IT’S LIKE this, guys,” D’Antonio said. He was seated behind the large desk in the squad commander’s office, Rizzo and McQueen opposite him in two hard, straight-backed wooden chairs. “This councilman, Bill Daily, he needs to get his daughter back. She’s off her medication and doing God only knows what. He’s worried about her, and he wants her back, ASAP.”
Rizzo frowned. “Last I heard, Boss, the department had an outfit all set up for just such a situation. It’s called the Missing Persons Squad. Works outta Manhattan. Why not go to them?”
The Swede shook his head. “No good, Joe. We have to avoid regular channels on this one. You know the newspeople have access to the special squads; it’s all public information. They see this kid went missing and Daily’s po liti cal enemies use it against him, and his friends use it to get him sympathy votes. It becomes a media circus. And besides, confidentially, the guy is not all that fond of the kid, and I gather the feeling is very mutual. She’s been a po liti cal liability and an embarrassment. There’ve been a few incidents where the Six-Eight patrol units had to get involved. That’s why he wants it out of the precinct of jurisdiction. There’s too much history there, and he figures it’s more likely to get out. Somebody in the Six-Eight passing tips to a reporter, what ever. The Plaza came to me and said, ‘Use your best man on this.’ So, okay, that’s you, Joe. You’re my best man.”
Rizzo laughed without humor. “Well, that just makes me feel warm all over, Boss. But let me ask you this: Where’s the crime? The kid is nineteen and hates her old man and she moved out. Even if we find her, what do we do? Arrest her for being a crappy daughter? She can tell us to fuck off and there isn’t a thing we can do about it. There’s no crime here, Vince. This guy Daily is using the department as his own private detective agency, and I’m not sure why. Something goes wrong here, it’s my ass, mine and Mike’s. Let me take a wild guess here: You don’t want us to submit DD-fives on this, right? No ‘Investigation Follow-ups’ on this one, correct?”
D’Antonio compressed his lips and let air escape from his nostrils before answering. McQueen saw that the man was just as uncomfortable with this as Rizzo was.
“The guy can’t use a private eye on this. God knows where this kid is and what she’s doing. He can’t have that kind of info being raffled off. It’s po liti cal suicide. He knows the cops won’t blackmail him. Maybe pinch him for a favor or two, but that’s the price of doing business.”
Joe blew air through his lips. “You didn’t answer me, Boss. No DD-fives on this, nothing on paper, correct?”
“That’s right, Joe. You report directly to me. Orally.”
Rizzo nodded. “No paper. So if me and Mike get stuck holding the bag on this, we’ve got nothing to back us up.”
D’Antonio leaned across the desk. “Except me,” he said, his eyes and voice hard.
Rizzo smiled and shook his head. “Vince, you know I love you. But this is po liti cal. You won’t be able to help us, even if you try, and believe me, I know you’ll try. If I didn’t think you would, I’da walked out of here already.”
D’Antonio leaned back in his seat. He tapped ner vous ly on his desk with a pencil and shifted his gaze from Rizzo to McQueen.
“Mike,” he said. “You haven’t said one word. What do you think about this?”
Mike shrugged. “What ever Joe decides, I’ll go with him.”
D’Antonio nodded. “I can respect that,” he said. “But you should consider this: you guys handle this, do it right, and you got people at the Plaza, people at the city council, and people with the mayor himself who owe you. A young detective can cash those tickets in big-time. Just something you might think about. And Joe, tell me something. How do you figure a grateful councilman and some top brass at the Plaza on your bandwagon can hurt? Especially now. You know. All things considered.”
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, D’Antonio’s implication not lost on either detective.
Finally, Rizzo spoke.
“Vince, you know this guy? Do you really know this Daily?”
D’Antonio shook his head. “I know the name. I know he’s a wheel in city politics. But no, I don’t know him personally.”
Rizzo produced a Chesterfield and dug out his lighter. He put the cigarette between his lips and struck the Zippo. Just before touching flame to tobacco, he looked across at D’Antonio and smiled.
“You don’t mind me smoking here, do you, Boss? I mean, since we’re bendin’ the rules and all?”
D’Antonio’s face tightened with anger, and his fair skin began to flush. He said nothing as Joe touched flame to cigarette. Reaching across the desk, Joe picked up a paperclip holder and emptied its contents, positioning it for use as an ashtray. Then he spoke to his supervisor.
“I’ll make you a deal, Vince. We’ll do this for you. But for you, not Daily, not the mayor, nobody but you. In return, I write my own paycheck. Mike’s, too. Also, you get Daily to go down to the court house, talk to one of his ass-kisser judge friends down there. Let him get a mental hygiene warrant for the kid. She’s off her meds, unwilling to go for help, and she’s a danger to herself or others. She qualifies for one. The judge can do it in chambers, it’s all confidential. They can even fill the papers out themselves, don’t even need a court clerk there. Mental hygiene warrants aren’t computerized, so there’ll be no leaks, no publicity. Then he hands me the warrant. That gives me the legal authority to look for her and take her into custody if we find her. The catchment hospital on a warrant for Bay Ridge is either King’s County or Coney Island, but if Daily gets the okay from a private hospital and the judge endorses the warrant accordingly, I can take her straight to anyplace that agrees to accept her. The councilman can use his influence at a private mental hospital, they can even Jane Doe her if he wants to. That way there’s no media involvement. The kid can get treated and that’ll be the end of it.”
D’Antonio thought it over. He frowned as he began to speak again. “If I remember correctly, don’t you have to bring her back to the judge when you execute a mental hygiene warrant? Doesn’t he have to give her a hearing, with a court-appointed lawyer, and then decide whether or not she goes to a hospital?”
For the first time, Mike spoke without having been spoken to first.
“I think that’s right, Joe,” he said. “I remember that from when I was studying for the sergeant’s exam.”
Rizzo expelled Chesterfield smoke as he answered. “Absolutely, Mike. But the law also says we can EDP her if, in our judgment, she needs to go straight to the hospital for her own safety. Then, technically, we wouldn’t have actually executed the warrant. It stays active for the balance of the initial thirty days it’s good for. In the meantime, the hospital can hold her and treat her as long as two psychiatrists sign off on it.”
Rizzo had referred to a provision of the mental hygiene law that allowed a police officer to deal with an emotionally disturbed person on an emergency basis. Patrol officers did it frequently, although it was a rare occurrence for a detective.
“And it’s all legal and aboveboard,” Mike said, nodding.
“Bingo,” Joe answered with a smile. “And yet sleazy enough that even this prick Daily would like it.”
D’Antonio spoke up as he fanned the air in front of him to clear the cloud of cigarette smoke. “We don’t know the guy’s a prick, Joe.”
Rizzo laughed. “Oh, we don’t? Didn’t you tell me yesterday that he’s more concerned about his election than his kid’s welfare?”
“Concerned, I said, not more concerned.”
“Oh, sure, Boss, you know, you’re gettin’ good at this, maybe you could write some speeches for him. You know like, ‘it depends on what the
meaning of is is.’ Stuff like that.”
Now the anger in D’Antonio surfaced.
“Damn it, Joe,” he said harshly, “knock this shit off. What am I supposed to do? I got brass calling me every five minutes. Daily lit up the Plaza— they even got a call from the governor’s office. They picked our precinct ’cause it’s next door to the Six-Eight and we’re familiar with the turf. Plus, we’re off the beaten path, no one knows we’re alive over here. It’s the perfect way to get it done and keep it quiet. Cut me some slack here, Joe. I’m on the spot.”
Rizzo reached across and ground out his cigarette in the paperclip holder.
“Yeah, Vince. That’s why you get to wear those pretty gold bars on your shoulders when you suit up for a funeral. You’re supposed to be on the spot.”
A few moments passed before D’Antonio spoke.
“I can probably sell the mental hygiene idea. And I can cover your overtime bill. Anything else?”
Rizzo nodded. “You post us openly on the duty board as ‘special assignment.’ We’re not only off the wheel, but we don’t catch any new crimes. We’ve got three or four cases we’re working now that need attention. Assign them to somebody else, somebody good, and you follow up, make sure they stay on top of it. If they do clear anything, me and Mike get included in the stat breakdown.”
D’Antonio nodded. “Done. Anything else?”
Rizzo looked over at Mike. “You need anything, Mike? Want me to send him out for coffee and maybe some breakfast?”
McQueen sat silently. D’Antonio spoke softly. “Fuck you, Joe,” he said.
Rizzo stood slowly, the meeting over. He smiled as he leaned across D’Antonio’s desk and spoke into the man’s eyes.
“Boss,” he said, his voice low and threatening, “you wanna work in a whore house, every once in a while somebody’s gonna pay to piss on you. Get used to it.”
With that, he turned and began to walk out. At the same time, McQueen rose slowly from his seat and looked silently at the lieutenant. D’Antonio met Mike’s gaze and smiled weakly.
“Don’t say anything, Mike,” he said softly. “The son of a bitch has a point, and he wouldn’t be Rizzo if he didn’t feel compelled to make it.”
McQueen turned and followed his partner out into the squad room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“LET ME TELL YOU about this guy Daily,” Joe said as they climbed into the gray Impala. “Just so you get who we’re dealing with here.”
“So you know him,” Mike said.
Joe shook his head. “No. Never had the dubious plea sure. But he’s kind of a local celebrity in Bay Ridge, and I do live there. From what I hear, I gotta tell you, this whole thing smells bad.”
“How so?”
“Well, this kid, his daughter, it’s not like she’s a junkie or a hooker or some leftwing radical nut. She’s not even a lesbian, which could be a real problem for a Bay Ridge politician. No. The kid’s sick, she’s got a legitimate mental illness. And this guy Daily’s the master of spin: makes old Bill Clinton look like Harry Truman by comparison.”
“So what? I’m not following you, Joe.”
“It’s like this. Daily is bending over backwards to keep it all hush-hush. You’d think he’d just go the other way, spin it to his advantage. ‘Look at me,’ he can say, ‘my baby is sick and I’m trying to help her. In fact, I’m such a great guy, I’m trying to help all the psychiatrically challenged kids out there. That’s why I’ve introduced city council bullshit bill number two million and two that’ll get the federal government to outlaw mental disease, thus doing away with it forever and curing all our sick children. But my lowlife Republican adversary won’t help us because he sucks and gets richer from mental illness, the bastard. So vote for me and we’ll be free!’ You know, the usual crap. No opponent of his would dare to even bring it up. And what voter is gonna hold it against a guy because his kid is sick? It just doesn’t compute.”
“So what’s the reason?” Mike asked.
Joe shrugged. “Damned if I know. But I bet we’ll find out. And when we do, we may have to renegotiate our deal with The Swede. We’ll see.”
McQueen hesitated before speaking again.
“What do you think, Joe?” he began tentatively. “Can this Daily help out with I.A.? On the Morelli thing? Get them off your back a little?”
Rizzo shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I.A.D. isn’t any different from the other specialized units in the department— it’s just as stacked with po liti cally ambitious pricks.” Here Rizzo smiled before continuing. “Ralph DeMayo being one of them, I might add.”
McQueen shook his head. “Figures,” he said.
Rizzo’s smile faded as he saw tension enter his young partner’s eyes.
“Has he called you again?” Joe asked softly. “Reached out anymore?”
McQueen again shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Just that one time.”
Rizzo nodded. “Well, he will. Believe me. When he does, just answer his questions, the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the fuckin’ truth.”
A tight smile now formed on Mike’s lips. “Easy enough,” he said, “since I’ve got nothing to say to him of any value.” He glanced over at Joe. “And that’s fine with me, Joe.”
Rizzo laughed. “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, Mike. I ain’t gonna confess to you.”
McQueen blew some air through his lips. “Because there’s nothing to confess, right?” he asked.
“Absolutely. The only thing I’m guilty of is lettin’ Morelli make me into a class-A horse’s ass.”
McQueen nodded. “Okay,” he said.
After a few moments, Rizzo spoke again. His tone was reflective and soft, and McQueen got the impression the older cop was merely thinking out loud.
“Besides,” he began, “I.A.D. won’t push too hard on this Morelli thing. They know that even if they do nail him somehow, he can only lead them to some underling of Quattropa’s, some foot soldier one step above a street mugger. Assuming Morelli’s even guilty, that is, and can lead them anywhere. If they nail him, that soldier goes into the river the next day, and the cops hit a dead end. No, I.A.D. is just stirring the pot a little. OCCB wants Quattropa. He’s the real target. They grab him, they can always backtrack it to Morelli. Quattropa then says Morelli turned the mole over to some family associate, and he had the guy whacked on his own. Quattropa says he didn’t know anything about it. He gives up some names, they drop a charge or two against him.”
Rizzo turned in his seat now and spoke more directly to Mike. “You see, kid, it’s a one-way street: Quattropa can lead to Morelli, but Morelli can’t lead to Quattropa. It becomes a question of which fish they wanna fry more, Quattropa or Morelli.”
Rizzo dug out a Chesterfield and lit it before continuing. “
I’m bettin’ on Quattropa,” he said.
With over an hour until their ten o’clock meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Daily, they decided to go to Joe’s favorite diner on Fourth Avenue. Once seated, McQueen moved the conversation to lighter topics.
“You know, Joe,” Mike said, sipping coffee across the table from Rizzo, “I was talking to some friends about you and I mentioned what a good detective you are. But I’ve gotta tell you, I couldn’t explain why you were still at precinct squad level. You’ve got the smarts, the stats, the balls, everything, yet you’re still at the Six-Two. I have to say, Joe, I don’t get it.”
Joe smiled as he replied. “Kid,” he said, a twinkle in his dark eyes, “I get two calls a year from Jimmy Santori, the boss over at Brooklyn South. He begs me to jump over to hom i cide and work for him. He figures I’m his ticket to bigger and better things once I get his clearance rate up. And I turn him down every time.”
“Can I ask why, Joe? Is it the blood and guts?”
This time Joe laughed his reply. “No, kid, if it ain’t my blood or my guts, I got no problem with that. But you know, every once in a blue moon Muffy might kill Buffy over Faw-tha’s st
ock portfolio, but usually it’s just two knuckleheads in a bar fighting over the last cheese doodle. Who needs that? Most murders nobody cares about. And when John Q. Public is leafing through the papers and sees some hip-hop drive-by or mob rubout or he-say she-say stabbin’, he shakes his head and turns the page. He can’t relate to it. No, that stuff doesn’t scare folks much.”
Mike thought for a moment. “You’re probably right,” he said.
Joe nodded as the waitress placed their breakfast before them.
“Thank you, dear,” he said as she smiled and walked away. “I am right,” he continued. “What scares people, especially in the Six-Two, is when they hear of a burglary or a mugging or God forbid a rapist runnin’ loose. Then they get scared because when they hear about something like that, they worry about their kids, their wives, their husbands, or their old parents. That’s what scares people, and that’s what I— what we— do. The little crimes have the biggest effect on most of the people. It’s like a cancer eating away at the quality of their lives. Me and you, we’re their chemotherapy. We fight the cancer, keep it at bay. We may never win, not completely, but we’re all these people got. So the harder we fight, the more they live in peace. There’s no special squad anywhere does more than that, Mike. So I’m happy right where I am. Me and my family live in Brooklyn, my mother’s right here. So every asshole I lock up is one less can hurt them. What else should I wanna do?”
Mike chewed his scrambled eggs and thought a moment.
“I understand what you mean,” he said.
Rizzo nodded. “ ’Course you do. Not just the glamour boys in P.D. are important. When you think about it, they mostly serve the big shots and the insurance companies. The really horrible crimes are the day-today stuff, the undramatic stuff you never see on TV or in the movies. The kinda stuff we catch. Like with your ex, and that shithead Flain, may he rot in hell. You never see some Hollywood actor starring in a movie about that. But how happy is everybody that Flain’s gone? How much better off is everyone with Donzi gone? It doesn’t get more important than that.”
