Inside Job

by Levinson, Len

  “A few days ago.”

  “He flew?”

  “No, he drove.”

  “Do you know what kind of car he drives?”

  “He just bought a new car, a Lincoln Continental.”

  The gears in Pelletier’s brain starting spinning. “Do you know where he’s staying in Miami?”

  “The Taj Mahal Hotel.”

  Pelletier raised his eyebrows. “He must have a good job.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what he does.”

  “Are you in touch with him, by any chance?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since he left,” she said.

  “I understand he’s been living with you here.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be back,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, I don’t think he likes me very much anymore.”

  Pelletier smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll get back together again.”

  “I wish I could be as sure as you.” She looked over Pelletier’s shoulder into the corridor. “It’s awkward talking like this. Would you like to come in?”

  “Sure.”

  She took the chain off the door and admitted him. He followed her into the living room and quickly checked the furnishings. Like so many young people, her apartment wasn’t very comfortable and didn’t look very lived in. Just a place to come home to and sleep, maybe watch some television.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  He sat on a white leatherette chair, the only one in the room, and she sat on the sofa. On the coffee table was a copy of TV Guide and a cup half-full of cold coffee. On the wall was a Mick Jagger poster.

  “Do you know any of Tony’s friends?” Pelletier asked.

  “I’ve never met any of his friends. We had a very strange relationship.”

  “How so?”

  “We mostly just slept together. I let him live here and I used to help him out with money, but now that he’s got some money of his own he doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “I guess you don’t feel very good about that.”

  She signed. “That’s what guys are like. No insult intended.”

  “Not all guys are like that.”

  “The guys I meet are.”

  “Maybe you’re meeting the wrong kind of guy.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Do you know where Tony spent his time when he wasn’t with you?”

  “Are you sure he isn’t in some kind of trouble.”

  “What if he were?”

  “That’s his problem. Is he?”

  “I don’t know yet. Do you know if he had any hangouts?”

  “Well, he used to go a lot to a crummy bar on Roosevelt Avenue. The Firehouse. A lot of cops and firemen hang out there. I wouldn’t set foot in the place, but that was never a problem with us because he never asked me to go there with him.”

  Pelletier took out his notebook and wrote down the information. “The Firehouse, eh?”

  “Yes. I wonder where he got all that money all of a sudden?”

  “Did he like to gamble?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Anything else you can tell me that might be helpful?”

  “Helpful for what?”

  “To find out what his life was like.”

  “His life was women. If he wasn’t with me, I guess he was with somebody else.”

  “Why did you put up with him?”

  “He turned me on.”

  “It’s too bad that you’re turned on by men like that.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “They say that no woman wants what no other woman wants. Maybe you liked him because you knew other women wanted him too.”

  “Possibly. What’s your name?”

  “Paul Pelletier.”

  “Do many women like you, Detective Pelletier?”

  He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me.”

  She looked at him, and her eyes went sultry. “You’re an attractive man, and there’s something very nice about you. You’re also very confident, and women like that in men. I really can’t understand why.”

  “Well, maybe it’s because I only can deal with one woman at a time, and women prefer to be jealous of men.”

  “You have a low opinion of women.”

  “It’s based on my experiences.”

  She smiled. “If you called me sometime, I can promise that you wouldn’t have a bad experience.”

  He shook his head. “It ain’t me, babe.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’ll put it this way. Your boyfriend just left you, so you’re feeling lonely and unloved. You want somebody to make you feel loved. I show up, so I’m it. But I’m really not. I’m only a figment of your imagination.”

  “If you’re only a figment of my imagination, you’re making me feel awfully bad.”

  “Imagination works that way sometime. Can you think of anything else that you can tell me about Anthony Ricci.”

  “I hope he’s done something that’ll land him in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh yes I do.”

  Pelletier stood and put on his hat. “It’s been very nice talking with you, Miss Pfeiffer.”

  Pelletier got in his car and drove toward Manhattan. He’d been on duty for ten hours straight and it was time to go home, but he felt he was on the trail of something now. At Police Headquarters, he went to the Records Room and asked the clerk to get a photo of Ricci from the file of former police officers. The clerk had to check it through the computer, then went to the records and pulled it out, handing it to Pelletier, who looked it over. Ricci had the features of a real ladies man, not a bloodhound like Pelletier.

  Pelletier went to his office and looked up the Firehouse in the Queens telephone directory, then drove to Roosevelt Avenue.

  The Firehouse was about half full. Pelletier thought it pretty sleazy, just the sort of place where he’d like to stop for a beer and chat with the characters. He sat at the end of the bar near the cash register. The bartender came over and looked at him. “What’ll you have?”

  Pelletier took out his shield and showed it to the bartender.

  The bartender looked at the badge and wasn’t impressed. “What’s the problem?”

  Pelletier showed him the picture of Ricci. “You ever see this man?”

  “No.”

  “Think about it.”

  “His name’s Ricci.”

  “He come in here a lot?”

  “Once in awhile.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He used to be a cop. Got laid off a while back.”

  “He come here alone?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Many people here know him?”

  “A lot of the guys do.” The bartender looked down the bar at a beefy-faced drunk. “Hey Charlie—this guy’s lookin’ for Ricci.”

  Charlie opened one of his eyes. “Ricci’s gone south.”

  Pelletier walked to Charlie’s side. “When did he go south?”

  “Whatcha wanna know for?”

  Pelletier showed him his shield. “Investigation. You a cop?”

  “Yeah, but I’m off duty.”

  “If you’re a cop, you’re never off duty. How well do you know Ricci?”

  “I see him in here from time to time.”

  “You hang out with him?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “He hang out with anybody?”

  “Yeah—Brody.”

  “Brody who?”

  “Mike Brody. He used to be a cop took Got laid off about the time Ricci did.”

  “You ever see Ricci’s new car?”

  “Yeah, a Lincoln Continental.”

  “Brody been in he
re recently?”

  “Haven’t seen him for about a week.”

  Pelletier called the bartender over. “You seen Brody in here lately?”

  “Not for about a week.”

  “Thanks,” Pelletier said.

  Pelletier put the photo in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and walked out of the bar.

  Pelletier went back to the Records Room at Police Headquarters and asked for the file on Michael Brody. He also got Brody’s picture. It showed another ladies man. The address was out in Queens. Although he didn’t feel like driving back there, he had to now. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together.

  He reached Brody’s apartment building at ten in the evening. At the designated apartment, he rang the bell. A man opened the door. Pelletier showed his shield.

  “Michael Brody live here?”

  The man was young and had a beard. “No.” The odor of pot wafted out of the apartment, and the man looked scared.

  “How long you been living here?” Pelletier asked.

  “Moved in a week ago. What’s the problem?”

  “Did you know Brody?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s all. Thanks a lot. And by the way, you ought to burn incense to kill the smell of the pot.”

  Pelletier went down to the basement to find the super. He located the right door and knocked on it. A Latin guy with a mustache opened up.

  Pelletier showed his badge. “I’m looking for Michael Brody.”

  “He don’t live here no more.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “Don’t know. What’s he done?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Did you know him very well?”

  “Not that well. He was a good feller.”

  “ When’d he move out?”

  “About a month ago. Right after his wife left him.”

  “Why’d his wife leave him?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “They fight much?”

  “I never heard them fight.”

  “Do you know where his wife lives?”

  “She moved back with her mother.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I got the address written down. Just a minute.” The super went back into his apartment and came back with a slip of paper.

  Pelletier wrote down the address and handed back the paper. “Thanks a lot.”

  Pelletier left the building and got in his car. His ears were ringing from lack of sleep, and little white flashes zigged across his eyes. He decided to make one more stop and then got to bed. The face of Dawn Pfeiffer kept floating before his mind. He pushed it away and started the engine.

  He drove to Francis Lewis Boulevard in Jamaica. Driving along slowly, checking the numbers on doors, he finally found the one he was looking for. He stopped his car, got out, approached the door of the three-story wooden building, and knocked.

  A dowdy little woman opened the door, and Pelletier could see that she’d been pretty once.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m looking for Michael Brody.”

  “He doesn’t live here.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Who’re you?” she asked with a note of hostility.

  He showed her his shield. “Detective Pelletier, Manhattan Detective Division.”

  “Is this an official call, or are you a friend of his?”

  “Official call.”

  “Good, because I wouldn’t speak to you otherwise.”

  “I understand you’ve split up recently.”

  “That’s right. Would you care to come in?”

  “That would be nice.”

  She led him into a living room with old furniture and a worn rug on the floor. Photographs of family members were on the walls. They sat on chairs that faced each other.

  “Is he in some sort of trouble?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I’d like to find out where he lives.”

  “I have the information upstairs. Excuse me for a moment.”

  She stood and walked out of the room. Pelletier could sense the desolation of the woman and it made him depressed. She returned with a court order, handed it to him, and sat down.

  Pelletier read it, the notice of a trial. Brody had punched out his brother-in-law one night. There was an address for Brody, and Pelletier wrote it down. “Have you seen your husband lately?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  “Do you know if he has a job?”

  “Last thing I heard he didn’t. He was living on unemployment.”

  “Have you filed for divorce?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about his life these days?”

  She sighed. “I imagine he’s sleeping with other women as usual.”

  “He did that a lot?”

  She looked down, embarrassed. “Yes.” Then she looked up. “Why is it that men get tired of being married so fast?”

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never had a chance to make a woman unhappy, then.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “If you’re looking for Mike, then he must’ve done something wrong.”

  “It’s only a routine investigation.”

  She ground her teeth together. “I hope you put him in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “Can you think of anything that might tell me about his life these days?”

  “No.”

  He stood up. “Then I’ll be going. I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Brody.”

  She followed him across the living room to the door. “I suppose you don’t blame him for leaving me, since I’m not pretty anymore.”

  “I never thought about that, ma’am.”

  “I think you did. Well, I can’t help it if I’m getting old. It’s not easy to raise two children when your husband’s out running around.”

  “He never comes back to see his children?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Thanks very much for your help, ma’am.”

  Pelletier returned to his car. He’d intended to go home, but couldn’t resist following the lead to Brody’s address. He drove to Brody’s rooming house and parked in front. He wondered what’d happen to him if he was laid off someday. He shuddered at the thought, then checked his revolver and got out of the car. Entering the rooming house, smelling the rotting timber and crumbling curtains, he found a door marked MANAGER and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked harder and heard rustling within. The door was opened by a squat little man with the face of a pig. The man squinted his eyes and his overalls looked like he had been sleeping in them

  “You got a lotta nerve . . .”

  Brody held out his shield. “Police.”

  The man blinked. “Oh.”

  “I’m looking for Michael Brody. I hear he lives here.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Don’t know—I hadn’t seen him for a while so I went into his room one night. He’s moved everything out.”

  “When was that?”

  “Sometime last week.”

  “He didn’t leave anything?”

  “Only some newspapers.”

  “You still got them?”

  “I threw them out.”

  “Did you get to know him at all?”

  “No.”

  “He ever have any visitors?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Women?”

  “No. Guys. They used to come at night and stay for a long time. I think he was a fag.”

  “You ever see any of the guys?”

  “I was working on a light figure in the hall that got blown out, and I saw them once.”

  “Do you remember
how many there were?”

  “Three.”

  Pelletier took out the picture of Ricci. “Was this one of them?”

  The man looked at the picture. “I think so. It’s hard to tell. They passed kinda fast in the hall.”

  “You can’t describe them at all?”

  “One was a nigger. They were big fellas.”

  “Brody didn’t leave a forwarding address?”

  “Not with me.”

  “You’re sure there were three of them?”

  “Yes. I know how to count.”

  “Anything else you can remember about them?”

  “They were all carrying briefcases.”

  “How were they dressed?”

  “The guy whose picture you showed me, and the nigger, were dressed pretty neat. The other guy was a slob.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothin’ I can think of.”

  Pelletier gave him his card. “If you remember anything else, give me a call.”

  “What’s Brody done?”

  “Maybe nothing - I don’t know yet. If he comes back, don’t tell him I was here. Just call me. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pelletier returned to his car. He was tingling because things were starting to add up. He knew that four cops or ex-cops had committed the Police Station Robbery, and now he had evidence that four ex-cops had been meeting late at night during the time before the robbery. One of the robbers was black, and one of these guys was black. Two of them had left town shortly after the robbery. One of them had worked in the Property Room, and now he was driving a new car. Pelletier was sure he was on the right track.

  He returned to Police Headquarters and put out an All Points Bulletin for Brody and Ricci. The Automobile Registration Bureau in Albany would be checked to see if they owned vehicles. Law enforcement officials throughout the country would be placed on alert, and U.S. Customs would be notified. The passport office would be checked.

  Then Pelletier went home to his bachelor apartment in a housing project in Lower Manhattan, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. He went to bed but was too nervous to sleep. He had to take a Dalmane, and that did the trick.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Pelletier reported at his office the next morning, he stopped first in the office of Chief of Detectives, Albert Sutherland.

  “You did some good work last night,” Sutherland said. “I think we’re gonna crack this case wide open in a few days.” He pushed some papers toward Pelletier. “Look at this.”

  Pelletier read the information. It was a report from the Automobile Registration Bureau in Albany listing the license numbers of Ricci’s Lincoln Continental and Brody’s Dodge pick-up. It also gave a description of the vehicles.