Inside Job

by Levinson, Len

  “We’ve already wired the report all over the country,” Sutherland said. “Everybody’s looking for these cars now. I’ve also had Brody’s old partner, Tom Shannon, transferred to this case. He’ll be working with you from now on. Your next move is to go to Miami and check out Ricci.”

  Pelletier went to his office and found Shannon waiting for him. Shannon was reading the Daily News and smoking a cigarette. Scraps of toilet paper were stuck to spots on his face where he had cut himself that morning.

  They shook hands and exchanged greetings, sizing each other up. Pelletier reminded Shannon of a lieutenant he had had in the Army. Pelletier pegged Shannon as an experienced detective who’d seen everything and could handle anything.

  Pelletier sat behind his desk. “You ever meet Ricci.”

  “No.”

  “What do you think of Brody.”

  “He was a good detective and he had lots of guts. Smart kid too. I can’t believe he’d do a thing like this.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Yeah I liked him.”

  “That going to get in your way?”

  “Nope.”

  “You got any idea where he might be right now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I got a feeling it’s not going to be easy to take him.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s a toughie. Been in the Vietnam war and won some medals. He’s not afraid to shoot somebody.”

  Pelletier scratched his nose. “Well neither am I. I’ll bring him in in cuffs or I’ll bring him in on a stretcher— it doesn’t matter a fuck to me.”

  At two in the afternoon they boarded an Eastern Airlines jet to Miami. They were met at Miami International Airport by Detective Carlos Guzman of the Dade County Public Safety Department—the county police. Guzman drove them to the Miami Beach Police Department and introduced them around. Pelletier told the Miami Beach cops that if he called for a back-up, he expected it fast. They lent him a unmarked car, and he drove off with Shannon to the Taj Mahal Hotel.

  They drove up Collins Avenue, passing palm trees, retired New Yorkers, and hotels that weren’t as spiffy as they’d been in the heyday of Miami Beach. The atmosphere was languid, quite unlike New York. It didn’t look like there was much street crime.

  Pelletier coasted the car into the driveway of the Taj Mahal. A sign said that Liza Minnelli was appearing nitely in the Red Room. He stopped in front of the main entrance.

  A guy dressed like a rajah opened the door of the car. “How long will you be here, gentlemen?”

  Pelletier showed his shield. “Leave the car close by in case we need it fast.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Pelletier and Shannon entered the huge lobby of the Taj Mahal Hotel. A circular bar was to the left and Shannon felt like a scotch on the rocks, but didn’t think Pelletier would go for shit like that. People in bright-colored resort clothes were all about. There were a few babes who looked like hookers but were probably the wives or girl friends of rich men.

  They found the manager’s office and opened the door. A pretty young secretary was sitting at the desk, and she looked up. “Can I help you?”

  Pelletier showed his shield. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

  “Yes sir.”

  She spoke on her telephone, then opened the door behind her. Pelletier and Shannon entered a spacious office filled with plush furniture. A man in a white suit arose from behind the teak desk near the windows. He was in his fifties, had a beautiful tan and a lovely white mustache, and through the window behind him could be seen tennis courts, a swimming pool, and an outdoor bar. Shannon’s mouth watered for a scotch on the rocks.

  “How do you do, gentlemen,” the manager said, extending his hand. “How can I be of service?”

  The two detectives shook his hand. “ We may have to arrest somebody whom we believe is a guest of your hotel,” Pelletier said.

  “Why don’t you have a seat.”

  The two detectives sat.

  “Well,” said the manager nervously, “I hope there won’t be any trouble.”

  “There shouldn’t be,” Pelletier said.

  “Can’t you arrest your man—I assume it’s a man— somewhere away from the hotel?”

  “We’ll take him where we find him.”

  The manager cleared his throat. “I see. I hope you won’t do anything to upset our guests. We wouldn’t want the hotel to get a bad name, you see.”

  “We’ll do our best. We’d like to know the man’s room number, who he checked in with, where his car is, and any other information you might have.”

  “What is the man’s name, please?”

  “Ricci. Anthony Ricci.” Pelletier spelled the last name.

  The manager picked up his phone and spoke into it. Presently his secretary arrived with the hotel records on Ricci. The manager handed them to Pelletier, who looked them over and passed them to Shannon.

  Pelletier stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation. If I need you for anything, I’ll let you know. Oh yes, I’ll need a passkey to Mr. Ricci’s room.”

  The manager opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a key attached to a circular piece of brass. “This opens all the rooms on the 18th floor.”

  “The 18th floor? Is that the top floor?”

  “Indeed it is. Our most expensive suites are on that floor.”

  Pelletier and Shannon walked out of the manager’s office.

  “What do you think we should do first?”

  “Check out his car. I suspect that’s where the money is. If we find it, we’ll have reason to arrest him with no bullshit.”

  They took the elevator down to the basement and found the stall where Ricci’s Lincoln Continental was parked. It was crimson with white trim, and had a white leatherette roof.

  “Some boat,” Shannon said.

  “Looks like a pimp’s car.”

  They went back to the truck and Pelletier took out his key ring. On it were keys that would open any car lock made in America. He located the one for Ford Motor Company cars, inserted it in the lock. It turned and the hood went up.

  The huge trunk was filled with cardboard boxes, and Pelletier recognized them as the type of box used to store things in the Property Room of Police Headquarters. He opened one of the cardboard boxes, and it was filled with money.

  “Touchdown,” Shannon said.

  Pelletier slammed shut the trunk. “Let’s get Ricci.”

  “You’re gonna leave the money here?”

  “If we impound the car, Ricci’s liable to get wise and run.”

  “What if he decides to go for a ride while we’re looking for him?”

  Pelletier unlocked the front door of the car and unlatched the hood. Going to the front of the car, he raised the hood, located the distributer, took off the cap, removed the armature, put it in his pocket, and replaced the cap. He then pulled loose a few wires around the engine.

  “The only place Ricci’s going is to jail,” Pelletier said, closing the hood. “Let’s go get him.”

  They took the elevator up to the 18th floor and walked down the corridor to Ricci’s suite. Pelletier knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He looked at Shannon. “Get ready.”

  Shannon drew his revolver. So did Pelletier. Pelletier took out the passkey, inserted it in the lock, and opened the door fast. He charged into the room, with Shannon close behind.

  The large sumptuous room was empty. Slacks and a shirt had been thrown over a chair. Pelletier looked in a closet. It was filled with suits and sport jackets. In the bathroom were the most expensive shaving lotions and men’s hair conditioners.

  “The motherfucker’s living pretty high off the hog,” Shannon said.

  “Not for long.”

  They took the elevator down to the lobby and looked for Ricci. They went to the coffee shop, Green Room, Red Room, and barbershop. No Ricci.

  “Maybe he’s outside,” Pelletier sai
d.

  They walked out the rear of the lobby to the tennis courts, where golden girls in white shorts whacked balls at their male counterparts. Ricci wasn’t among them.

  “Nice lookin’ babes,” Shannon said.

  “Yeah.” Shannon wasn’t thinking about babes.

  “Have you noticed that we look different from everybody else around here?”

  “I know. We look like a couple of New York cops.”

  “If Ricci sees us, he’s gonna start running.”

  “We got legs too.”

  They came to the large Olympic-sized L-shaped swimming pool. Nobody was in the water, but guests were lying on the chaise loungers. Pelletier and Shannon went walking among the chaises, looking for Ricci.

  “These broads must think we’re dirty old men,” Shannon said, gazing at the crotch of a young woman in a blue bikini.

  “Stay alert.”

  They walked the length of the pool, checking out the men. No Ricci. They turned the corner to come down the other side, when Pelletier noticed a tall man with dark hair lying beside a platinum blonde and holding her hand. The man’s face was pointed in the opposite direction. Pelletier casually walked past the man, and glanced at his face. He looked like Ricci. His eyes were closed.

  “I think that’s him,” Pelletier said softly.

  The surf from the Atlantic Ocean was crashing only fifty yards away, but Shannon was close enough to Pelletier to hear him. He looked at the man. “My eyes ain’t that good.”

  “We’ll get closer.”

  Some sunbathers with their eyes opened looked at the two strange men creeping up on the well-built sun-bather.

  Pelletier was only a few feet from the sleeping man now, and he was sure it was Ricci. He nodded to Shannon and took out his cuffs. Ricci moved toward the man’s left hand, and Shannon to the man’s right.

  A nearby sunbather watched curiously. “I wonder what those two are up to?” he asked his wife.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of show.”

  Pelletier slapped one cuff on the hand of Ricci that was holding the blonde. Ricci lurched as if he’d been plugged into an electrical socket, as Shannon grabbed Ricci’s other hand and moved it toward the cuffs. In a fast move, Pelletier cuffed Ricci’s hands together behind his back.

  The blonde sat up and Ricci cranked his head around. He’d been fast asleep and couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

  “Your name Anthony Ricci?” Pelletier asked.

  Ricci looked at Pelletier and knew a bloodhound when he saw one. He experienced a terrible sinking feeling. “What’s the problem?” he asked weakly.

  “I asked if your name was Anthony Ricci?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You’re under arrest for murder and armed robbery. You have a right to remain silent and you have a right to legal counsel. Hereafter anything you say may be used against you.”

  Ricci had made many arrests in his police career, and had recited those rights many times. He never dreamed that someday they’d be recited to him.

  Shannon grabbed Ricci’s hair and pulled him to his feet. “You fuckin’ cop-killer bastard.”

  “Take it easy with him,” Pelletier cautioned, because he noticed all the sunbathers were watching now. It wasn’t good public relations to rough up a suspect in a place like this.

  The platinum blonde looked at Ricci. “Anthony, what’s this all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Ricci replied, his ears buzzing.

  Pelletier looked at the blonde. “Have a nice day, sweetheart.” He turned to Ricci. “Let’s go, killer.”

  Ricci was more scared than he had ever been in his life, even when he was under the heaviest bombardment in Vietnam. He knew that they had him, that he would never wriggle out of it, and that he should have known better than become a crook. But he knew it all too late.

  They marched him into the lobby and he moved along with his head down and his wrists cuffed behind his back. Everyone stared at him and he looked down toward the rug. He had been a big sport for the past few days, throwing money around as though he were a millionaire, but now the people were seeing him for what he was, a crook who screwed up.

  They went to the check-in desk; Pelletier showed his shield and asked to use the phone. One was brought him, and he dialed the Miami Beach Police Department, identifying himself and asking to have Ricci’s car impounded.

  The manager came out of his office, his face twitching. “Do you have to stand with him here in front of everybody?” he asked Shannon.

  “Yeah,” replied Shannon.

  “You could have used the phone in my office.”

  “Relax.”

  “How long are you going to keep him here in front of everybody.”

  “As long as we want.”

  After the phone call, they took Ricci down to the basement where his car was.

  “Can’t you let me put some clothes on?” Ricci asked.

  “No,” Pelletier replied.

  “Hey Ricci,” Shannon said. “What’s it feel like to kill a cop?”

  Ricci felt like vomiting.

  They waited in the basement until some cops and a tow truck showed up from the Miami Beach Police Department. He told them to take the Lincoln Continental to their headquarters, and to stay out of the trunk. They watched them tow the Lincoln away, then marched Ricci to the driveway and put him in the back seat of the car they’d borrowed from the Miami Beach cops, and locked him in. They got in the front seat and drove away from the hotel, with Pelletier behind the wheel.

  They drove south to the Miami Beach Police Department, and no one spoke. Ricci realized that was an old cop trick to get a suspect rattled, and realized it was working. He was scared of going to jail and having the other prisoners find out he used to be a cop. They’d beat the shit out of him and gang-rape him.

  At the Miami Beach Police Department, Pelletier obtained use of an interrogation cell and pushed Ricci into it. They sat him in a chair under a bright light and sat down in front of him.

  “Cigarette?” Pelletier said, holding out his pack.

  “Thanks,” Ricci replied, taking one.

  Pelletier lit a match and held it out.

  “Thanks,” Ricci said again.

  Pelletier lit his cigarette and Shannon’s, then threw the match to the floor. He crossed his legs and leaned back. “You know you’re in a lot of trouble, don’t you Ricci?”

  Ricci tried to brazen it out. “I’m not saying anything until I speak to an attorney.”

  Pelletier looked at him, measured him, probed for weak spots. So this was the fancy dan whom Dawn Pfeiffer had loved. He didn’t look so fancy now.

  “What good’s a lawyer gonna do you, Ricci? We’ve got the evidence and we’ve got it cold. You can’t even afford a good lawyer. All you’re gonna get is some courthouse hack, and he’s not gonna keep you out of jail.” Pelletier leaned forward. “Nothing can keep you out of jail, Ricci. You’re going away for the rest of your life, and with no hope of parole, because you killed a cop. And if they bring back the death penalty, you’ll fry in the electric chair.”

  “I din’t shoot the cop,” Ricci said. “All I did was drive the getaway car.”

  “Sure, and I’m Snow White, and this here’s Cinderella.”

  “Naw,” said Shannon, “I’m Big Foot and I’m gonna step on this motherfucker’s face if he doesn’t start talkin’.”

  Pelletier looked at Ricci. “Who shot the cop?”

  “I wanna see a lawyer.”

  “Fuck you and fuck your lawyer. You wanna know what your only shot is right now, Ricci? Well I’ll tell you what it is. If you tell me who your accomplices were, we’ll get the D.A. to recommend clemency, and maybe you’ll get twenty years for armed robbery, and be eligible for parole in ten years. Ten years isn’t so long, Ricci, especially when you measure it against life imprisonment, which for you might be forty-fifty more years. If you don’t cooperate with us the judge’ll really sock it to you, and you know it. An
d like I said, if they bring the death penalty back, and they probably will pretty soon, you’ll fry like a hot dog at Nedick’s.”

  “I still wanna see a lawyer.”

  “What the fuck for? He’s not gonna tell you anything that I haven’t told you already. If he’s any good, he’ll tell you to play ball with us, but we might not be in a playing mood then. You’d better take advantage of this chance while it’s here.”

  “I wanna think about it.”

  Pelletier tapped him on the knee. “Listen, we already know Brody’s in it with you.”

  Ricci couldn’t hide his shock at hearing that.

  Pelletier laughed. “Yeah, we know already that Brody was one of the guys. Shannon here used to be Brody’s partner. “We’re gonna get him any day now. You guys were fucking stupid. How could you think you could get away with a job like that? You should’ve realized that we would’ve known right off that it was an inside job, and come looking for you, Ricci, because you’re a sneaky little son-of-a-bitch. What’s the nigger’s name?”

  “I’m not talking,” Ricci said.

  Pelletier shrugged and looked at Shannon.’ This bird wants to do life to save a nigger—whataya think of that?”

  “He’s got to be an asshole.”

  Pelletier looked at Ricci. “How come you want to save the nigger? He shot the cop—not you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Are you crazy, Ricci? Do you really want to do Life or go to the chair?” Pelletier looked at Shannon. “Maybe we’d better let him think about it.”

  “Fuck him. Let him go to jail for the rest of his life if that’s what he wants.”

  The two cops got up and walked toward the door. Ricci watched them go, thinking that he’d rather do ten years in a nice jail than life in a snake pit. He was scared and disoriented, and more desperate than he’d ever been in his life. He didn’t want to be left alone. He wished he were back in Queens with Dawn Pfeiffer. The cops left the cell and locked the door.

  Ricci was alone. He got up and paced the cell. They hadn’t brought him any clothes and he hugged himself to keep warm. How did he get mixed up in this godawful mess? It was Brody’s idea, wasn’t it? He never would have done it if it hadn’t been for Brody. Why should he take the rap all alone? Why not spread it around? Instead of him doing life, each of them could do ten or twenty years, except for Hardesty, but nobody told him to shoot that cop.