VC01 - Privileged Lives

by Edward Stewart

  Dr. Tiffany rose and walked to his files. “Would you mind coming over here, Lieutenant?”

  Dr. Tiffany pulled a gold keychain from his pocket and unlocked one of the file drawers. The drawer slid out smoothly on noiseless rollers.

  “There’s a lot of agony going on out there, Lieutenant. Not just the kind you police deal with. These are the records of tens of thousands of blood tests, X rays, CAT scans, examinations by dozens of our doctors. They go back five years.”

  Cardozo stared at the alphabetized folders, aware that something alien and menacing was passing under his eyes.

  “The men and women in these files have suffered physical degradation you could not begin to imagine. Over half of them are dead. And the others don’t have long.”

  Cardozo ran his eye from the back of the drawer forward to the C’s and then along the names. CLEMENS, CANNING, CANFIELD.

  “In these drawers you’ll find the ex-wife of the head of the largest communications conglomerate in the country. A nun. Top fashion designers. Children. Infants. Grandfathers. Firemen. Pro football players. Some of your own coworkers. Some of mine. Famous actors. Actors who were never famous and never will be. Soldiers—men who survived Vietnam. Help yourself.”

  Cardozo drew out the folder marked CANFIELD, ASH, and stared at the photograph of Ash Canfield at nearly full body-weight, at the sheets of computer-generated graphs and printout.

  “I don’t understand these graphs,” he said.

  “Lady Ash Canfield had no T-cells and her blood tested positive for HIV antibodies.”

  Cardozo dropped the file back into place. An awareness was pressing at the margin of his consciousness. Something to do with the drawer, a deep drawer, the letters running back through the early H’s. He saw that the last name was Hatfield.

  “What about this one?” he drew the folder out. The photo showed a wholesome-looking man in his mid-thirties, HATFIELD, BRIAN. “Dead or alive?”

  “Brian was one of mine,” Dr. Tiffany said. “He died last summer.”

  Cardozo drew out the neighboring folder, HALLEY, JOHN. His stomach tightened as though a fist had slammed him. The face in the photograph was Jodie Downs’s.

  “Tell me about this patient,” Cardozo said. “John Halley.”

  “John was one of my outpatients. He had ARC—AIDS-related complex. He dropped out of the program a little over five months ago.

  “Is ARC infectious?”

  “We don’t know. Some people seem to be able to transmit the virus without coming down with AIDS themselves. I’d have to answer that one with a guarded yes.”

  “What’s the incubation period?”

  “There’s a lot of misinformation in the press on that. We don’t know what triggers the virus once it’s in the blood. There could be cofactors we’re completely unaware of. So far as we know, the disease can manifest anytime between exposure and death. So I’d put what you call the incubation period at anywhere from an hour to forty years.”

  “Then if someone was playing around with John Halley’s blood, there’s a chance that person might pick up the disease?”

  “Blood is the major vector. But that depends what you mean by ‘playing around.’”

  “Light cutting.”

  “Cutting through the skin?” Dr. Tiffany sounded perplexed.

  “Yeah. Ritual stuff. S.m.” Cardozo remembered a case from eight years back. Two fifty-year-old angel-dust freaks who’d thought they were vampires. “There may even be some—uh—drinking.”

  “Drinking Halley’s blood?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Anyone behaving that way in this city today runs an excellent chance of already having the disease.” An excellent chance, Dr. Tiffany’s tone of voice seemed to say, and a richly deserved one.

  That evening at home Cardozo opened the Manhattan telephone directory. He turned to the H’s, counting Hatfields. There were eleven.

  He sat a moment, feeling a thickening layer of certainty. It couldn’t be chance, he told himself. Chance never took such perfect aim.

  44

  CARDOZO SEARCHED THROUGH HIS Rolodex till he found Beaux Arts Properties, Ltd. He propped the card against the phone as a reminder to call Melissa Hatfield when her office opened—ten A.M.

  He settled down to read yesterday’s fives on a corporate takeover lawyer whose body had been found a week ago in the park at Sutton Place. Monteleone’s spelling, as usual, was atrocious.

  At 8:37 Cardozo’s phone rang.

  “We have to have a talk, Vince.” It was Mel O’Brien, the chief of detectives. Usually phone talks with O’Brien began with his hatchet man, Detective Inigo, and then thirty to ninety seconds on hold before you got through to Himself. It was a rare thing for the CD to place his own call, and it was a dangerous thing when his voice was as easy and congenial as it was now. “Nine o’clock, my office, okay?”

  Which gave Cardozo exactly twenty-two minutes to bust his ass getting through morning rush-hour traffic down to One Police Plaza.

  Mel O’Brien stood at the window, gazing out at the fall sky and the glow it cast on the high rises beginning to encircle Chinatown. “What are you up to, Vince? Spending all your time in the field? Out-Sherlocking your own men?”

  “No, sir. Unless it’s a task force, I don’t go into the field.”

  “How many hours have you logged in the precinct this last month?”

  “It’s in the log.”

  “I wouldn’t mind knowing what cases you’re on.”

  “You do know, Chief.”

  The CD turned and looked at Cardozo. “You were tying up the computer a few weeks back—running a lot of lists through—what was that all about?”

  Cardozo had a sense that his head was about to be held under a bucket of bureaucratic horsepiss. “It related to an ongoing homicide.”

  “What homicide?”

  “Sunny Mirandella, a stewardess. She was murdered in her apartment up on Madison.”

  Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but it was pretty thin ice.

  “You had Babe Devens into the precinct for a slide show.” O’Brien’s gaze moved over Cardozo with the coolness of a stethoscope. He was making it very obvious that he’d been checking back over Cardozo’s movements, that he had the power to do it and that he had a damned good reason to do it.

  “I was showing Mrs. Devens slides from the Downs case.”

  “You thought Mrs. Devens was involved?”

  “I hoped she could give me some help.”

  The CD sat down in his big upholstered swivel chair, shaking his head from side to side. “Jesus Christ, Vince, Devens and Downs are closed. You closed them. We’ve got five new homicides a day in this city and we’re not even making arrests in three a week.”

  “Chief—you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Because that wasn’t the only time you were seen with Mrs. Devens.” O’Brien was studying Cardozo, watching to see what his reaction would give away. “You two were at a viewing at the Campbell Funeral Home.”

  At that point the whole picture changed.

  Cardozo had known he was taking risks: even though he hadn’t let his ongoing caseload slide, if he reopened closed cases without a good cause and a fast result, and the wrong people found out, the price could be his shield and his pension. He could find his ass busted back to patrolman. But now he saw that if he did show cause and produce results, the price could be all that and a little bit more too.

  “Ash Canfield was a friend,” he said. “She died, she had a viewing. I went.”

  The complaint had to have come from Countess Vicki. Again. Which showed Cardozo how the chain of communication ran—from the countess to someone who was probably Ted Morgenstern, to the D.A. to the CD.

  “And Babe Devens?” O’Brien asked.

  “Mrs. Devens is a friend too. If there’s something wrong with our going to a funeral home I wish you’d tell me.”

  “Did you go on job time?”

  “It was a v
iewing, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t like I was going to a party.”

  “It wasn’t like you were going to a homicide, either.”

  O’Brien gave him a long, dark look. It galled Cardozo to be reminded that this man had an absolute right to tell him what to do; it galled him to accept that sometimes in this job nothing was wanted or tolerated but obedience.

  “What was the case you were discussing with Dan Hippolito last Tuesday?” O’Brien asked. “Was that job-related too?”

  The CD was a master in the use of words. That little syllable too said it all.

  “I was in the neighborhood—I stopped by. Dan and I go back a long way.”

  “You got a lot of friends.”

  “I’m lucky.”

  “What about that kid murdered outside the Metropolitan Museum this morning?”

  The call had come in on 911 at 8:10. Cardozo had assigned the case. “O’Rourke is on it,” he said.

  “Why don’t you get on it too.”

  Cardozo drove back to the precinct, sorting it out. Calling the CD on him meant someone was scared, using up big favors, taking big risks—and that meant that very soon someone would be wanting Vince Cardozo silenced.

  In his cubicle, Cardozo phoned Judge Tom Levin. He got the judge’s secretary.

  “Amy, can you tell the judge I’ve got to see him tonight. Nine o’clock, his place, unless he leaves word otherwise.”

  “I’ll tell him, Vince.”

  Cardozo jiggled the cradle, got a dial tone, and punched out the number on the Rolodex card that he had left leaning against the phone.

  “Beaux-Arts-Balthazar.” It was Melissa Hatfield’s voice, with the husky, offhand tone that he remembered.

  “Melissa, it’s Vince Cardozo. How you been?”

  “Oh, life’s been stumbling along as best it can.”

  “What I’m calling about, could I come up and see you after work? Your place? Six, six-thirty?”

  Cardozo would have been on time for Melissa, but at 12:30 Larry O’Rourke burst into his office.

  “Vince—we got an ID.”

  O’Rourke had Irish red-blond hair and intense green eyes. He was short and slender, but his body was all muscle and tendon and he worked out at a gym to keep it that way. He’d just made detective and if he seemed a little excited it was because the dead girl found outside the Metropolitan Museum that morning was his first homicide.

  “Her name’s Janet Samuels. The stepdaughter of Harold Benziger.” O’Rourke was standing there as though the name should mean something.

  “Sorry,” Cardozo said. “Bell’s aren’t ringing.”

  “Real estate. He spearheaded the I Love New York campaign. Gives the mayor a lot of financial support. I mean a lot.”

  Cardozo had often thought that the money spent putting celebrities on TV singing that jingle could have renovated a few thousand units of decayed housing. “Oh yeah, that Benziger.”

  Two hours later the CD telephoned Cardozo again. “I want you personally to tell the Benzigers that their daughter’s been murdered.”

  “It’s O’Rourke’s case, Chief.”

  “I’m not sending a rookie in there. That would be complete disrespect of the Benzigers’ stature in this community.”

  “O’Rourke isn’t a rookie.”

  “Christ’s sake, he just got his gold. Harold Benziger is a force in this town. He gets a lieutenant to bring him the bad news. His secretary says she can’t reach him, but he’ll be at his home at seven tonight.”

  It was eight thirty by the time Cardozo pushed Melissa Hatfield’s doorbell.

  “You’ve changed the color scheme,” he said.

  “I’m trying to.”

  Melissa Hatfield invited him in and offered him a drink.

  “Melissa, would you mind sitting down?”

  “Sure.” She didn’t sit. “What is it?”

  “Who was Brian Hatfield?”

  After what seemed a long time, though it might have been only ten seconds, she said, “Brian was my brother.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He died.”

  Cardozo looked in her eyes. “Dr. William Tiffany was treating him in the Vanderbilt Pavilion, am I right?”

  Melissa’s teeth came down over her lower lip.

  “You thought you recognized Jodie Downs’s photograph. You said he reminded you of someone you’d seen in an elevator. Someone you’d seen regularly but couldn’t place. Later you backed away from that. Said you’d made a mistake. I think you did place his face. I think Jodie Downs was an outpatient in the same program as your brother. I think you saw Jodie in that elevator regularly when you went to visit Brian.”

  She reacted as if she were living in slow motion. She moved to one of the windows, stood with her hands resting on the air-conditioning unit.

  “I was ashamed,” she said.

  “Ashamed that your brother had AIDS?”

  Melissa dropped her head. “There are people who get ashamed. They can’t help it. And then they have to be ashamed of being ashamed. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”

  For a long moment the room was hushed.

  “Jodie Downs was ashamed,” she said softly. “You know what he told me his name was? John Halley. That’s how he happened to be in Brian’s group. F to L. Imagine being ashamed that you’re dying, having to pretend you’re someone else, that the person with your name would never have a disease like that.”

  “Was Brian ashamed?”

  “Brian wasn’t ashamed, not of AIDS, not of anything. He was Gay Lib militant and triumphant. Right to the end. I tried to be like him. Every evening I’d go and sit by the bed and pretend it was all right, that dying was just part of life and if he wanted to accept it that was just great. We read Kübler-Ross together, and when his eyesight went I read it to him and he held my hand. Oh, Brian was a real champ at acceptance. But I couldn’t accept it. I still can’t.”

  She looked up at him. “I could use a drink. What about you?”

  A sense of her isolation engulfed him.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have a date with a judge and I’m late.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” Webbing out from Jerry Brandon’s red-rimmed eyes were the fine lines of overwork.

  “Tell them,” Cardozo said.

  “AIDS is already endemic in the prison system.”

  “Tell them anyway.”

  Brandon moved the long extendable arm of the lamp out of the way and sat at his desk. He lifted the phone and dialed. In a minute he was talking chummily to a prison doctor and all of him was in motion—his bony head, his big shoulders, his square jaw.

  “You’ve got an inmate up there by the name of Claude Loring, L-O-R-I-N-G as in George. He ought to be tested for AIDS.”

  It must have been a long reply, because Brandon listened for over three minutes. “You’re sure? When?” His eyes flicked up at Cardozo’s and he picked up a ballpoint and began scribbling quickly. “Thanks.”

  Brandon hung up the phone and stared at Cardozo. “Vince, this is going to surprise you.”

  “I’m never surprised.”

  “Claude Loring’s not in prison.”

  Cardozo sat forward. “What the hell happened to him?”

  “It seems to be a very long story. I couldn’t get all of it. The governor commuted Loring’s sentence a week ago.”

  Cardozo’s stomach was getting tight. “On what grounds?”

  “Compassionate medical.”

  “For AIDS?”

  Brandon shook his head. “Loring’s mother is sick. He’s her sole support.”

  Cardozo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. When he moved his head the room seemed to tip. “How could the governor fall for that bullshit?”

  “Rumor is a lot of heavyweights interceded for Loring. He must be one popular guy.”

  “Who interceded?”

  “It’s just rumor. The archdiocese of New York—some real estate moguls by the name
s of Nat Chamberlain and Harold Benziger—Cyrus Hastings, president of Citichem Bank. Know any of them?”

  “No—and neither does Loring.”

  “Why the hell did you make the deal with Morgenstern?” Cardozo said. “Now we’ve got a killer loose, skipping around spreading AIDS.”

  District Attorney Alfred Spaulding rose, crossed the office, and closed the door. He returned to his desk and gazed imperturbably at Cardozo. “To clear the Downs case we had to deal with Morgenstern; he happened to be defending the accused.”

  “Who the hell wasn’t he defending?” The words came hurtling out of Cardozo’s throat. “I questioned the dealer who sold the mask, Morgenstern’s associate rushed in, you can’t do this to our client. I questioned the doorman who was running coke in the building, Morgenstern’s associate rushed in, you can’t do this to our client. I arrested the killer, Morgenstern came rushing in, you can’t do this to my client. Morgenstern was wired in to this from the very start, before we even knew who the dead man was. He would have defended the hooker on the ninth floor if we’d accused her of farting. Ted Morgenstern was ready to defend anyone connected in any way with this killing. Why? Who paid him? You’re going to tell me this was pro bono, this coverup, this fix?”

  “What the hell are you calling a fix?”

  “The director of Citichem bank and the Catholic archdiocese of New York and the two guys who own every building in Manhattan that Donald Trump doesn’t—they all petition the governor to commute Loring’s sentence. You think that comes free? You think those people even know who Claude Loring is? Ted Morgenstern was calling in favors. He’s represented the archdiocese against the city, he’s represented Citichem against the city, he’s represented Benziger and Chamberlain before the zoning commission. Those are major call-ins. For a punk. Doesn’t that even make you curious?”

  “Vince, we’ve talked about this.”

  “Let’s talk some more.”

  “The case is closed. A guy was killed, we caught his killer. My curiosity stops there. In case you haven’t heard, this city isn’t exactly operating in the black. If we can clear a case without coming to trial that’s a saving. Yes I did a deal, and I saved time and money. It was in line with city policy and I’m not ashamed of it.”