‘You want something to drink?’ he asked. ‘A beer, maybe?’
‘Sure, a beer would be fine.’
Sarney opened a small refrigerator, removed two bottles of Bass Ale, poured them into a pair of tall glasses bearing unidentified crests. I got a shield on my glass, flanked by two standing lions who seemed about to break into song.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘how’re they treatin’ ya, Harry?’
‘No worse than expected.’ I hesitated for a moment, then changed the subject. ‘You hear about Tony Szarek?’
That caught his attention. His chin came up for a change and he looked directly into my eyes. ‘No,’ he admitted.
‘Szarek was killed by his girlfriend’s brother, a man named Ryszard Gierek. It was funny, Bill, how it went down. For reasons he took to the grave, Szarek told his lover that she was his sole heir when he didn’t even have a will. Some kidder, that Tony.’
‘How’d you know,’ he asked, ‘about the Szarek arrest?’
‘I got a pipeline into the task force, but that’s not the point. What I’m talking about is the irony. When Szarek’s death came up suspicious, me and Adele, we assumed that it was linked to the David Lodge killing. That got us trying to connect Lodge, Jarazelsky, Russo and Szarek, which we eventually did. Meanwhile, after drinking himself into unconsciousness, Tony was capped by a Polish immigrant who collects baseball memorabilia.’
Sarney smiled, drawing his thin lips into a crooked grimace that seemed more pained than happy. ‘I take your point,’ he conceded, ‘but that’s how it goes sometimes. You try your best to draw a straight line between where you are and where you want to be, only the world doesn’t cooperate.’
I ignored the implications. ‘And Bucky Chavez, that was another one,’ I said. ‘Another irony.’
Maximo ‘Bucky’ Chavez, who had us connecting dirty cops in the Eight-Three with Paco Luna’s drug operation, had re-emerged a few days after my confrontation with Linus Potter. Subjected to an intense grilling, Bucky had finally admitted that he’d seen nothing more than a ‘white man in a suit’ enter Paco Luna’s town house. The rest — the part about a cop from the Eight-Three — was the product of his naturally dishonest imagination. And there was nothing suspicious about Chavez’s disappearing act, either. After a three-dollar hit on the number 437 netted him $1500, Bucky had quit Brooklyn to hang out with his ‘outside woman’ in Jersey City. Nina Francisco, he’d explained, would only have thrown the money away on something foolish. Like clothes for the kids.
‘What’s with the ironies?’ Sarney asked. ‘You and Bentibi writing a book?’
‘Nope, in fact Adele got a job. She’s starting on Monday.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘She’s going to work for Alessio, the Queens DA, as an investigator for Major Cases.’
Again, I caught Sarney off guard. He turned away from me and walked to a window framed by pale yellow curtains. For a long moment, his gaze remained fixed on a slice of yard dominated by an ancient fruit tree. The tree was gnarled and twisted, its bark slick with dew, its every branch dotted with thick green buds that seemed about to explode.
‘Well,’ he said without turning, ‘it looks as if Bentibi managed to land on her feet.’
‘Yeah, she did. Just like you. But there’s one more irony out there, and we need to discuss it.’ I laid what remained of my beer on a coaster and took a few steps in Sarney’s direction. I think by then he knew I had an agenda, and what that agenda was. One thing for sure, I hadn’t come to beg forgiveness, which is what I’d told him in the course of a long phone call.
‘When I first heard about Greenpoint Carton from Tony Szarek’s sister,’ I continued, ‘I didn’t think that much of it. A retired cop owns a little business? No big deal. But when I found out that Justin Whitlock was managing that business? The same Justin Whitlock who alibied Russo in the Clarence Spott homicide? I tell ya, that got the old sap rising.’
Sarney finally turned around to face me. His features were composed, even relaxed, except for his eyes. They were focused on me with the intensity of a blow torch. ‘When Justin Whitlock came up clean,’ he admitted, ‘it surprised everyone.’
But that, of course, was the irony. Justin Whitlock was exactly what he appeared to be: a hard-working manager who kept the inventory up and the deliveries flowing, who cashed his check at the end of the week and went home to his wife.
‘Justin still works at Greenpoint Carton, making that commute from Gravesend every weekday. Personally, I don’t see why he does it. Him and his wife, they own a nice little co-op, with no mortgage, in a nice little neighborhood. Plus they both have pensions and social security. Justin could just lay back and enjoy the remaining years, but…’
‘Is there a point here?’ Sarney finally interrupted.
‘Only that Justin Whitlock told me, if I should run into you, to remember to say hello for him.’ I smiled. ‘Hello, Bill.’
When Sarney didn’t reply, I turned to a cluster of photographs on the wall to the right of the window: Sarney shaking hands with Rudolph Giuliani, with Michael Bloomberg, with George Pataki, with Hillary Rodham Clinton, with two police commissioners, with a host of lesser lights. Arranged in what appeared to be a perfect rectangle, the tight grouping was impressive, even though I knew the photos had been snapped at expensive fund-raisers attended (and occasionally sponsored) by his wife’s law firm.
‘Where do you want to go, Bill?’ I finally asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a captain, now, and there’s no more civil service exams for you. If you’re gonna move up, you’re gonna have to do it by appointment. So my question is real simple. How big are your dreams? How high do you hope to rise? Inspector? Deputy Chief? Chief? How about Chief of Detectives? You stay another ten, fifteen years, it’s not impossible.’
‘Funny thing,’ Sarney replied after a moment, ‘but I somehow don’t feel the slightest need to discuss the issue with Detective Harry Corbin.’
I nodded to myself, then turned and took a step in Sarney’s direction. We were now standing a couple of yards apart. ‘You remember those tips Adele and I received?’ I asked. ‘There were five of them in all.’
‘Yeah, what about ’em?’
‘Well, did you ever wonder who sent them?’
‘My guess was Linus Potter, trying to control the investigation.’
‘Potter sent the first two, but not the rest.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Let’s just say the fact was revealed to me when I mentioned receiving Russo’s photo via email during my confrontation with Potter in Sparkle’s. As it turns out, Linus Potter equates operating a computer with chemical castration. He wouldn’t know an email attachment from a carrier pigeon.’
Though I’d promised Adele, going in, that I wouldn’t lose my temper, some part of me hadn’t been listening. ‘You were really good, Bill. The way your face got all red and you pounded the desk when I walked into the precinct with Ellen Lodge. And that bit about how you rescued me, a nothing detective riding out the tail end of a nothing career? I tell ya, I didn’t have a clue.’
I recalled Potter’s story about David Lodge’s confrontation with Justin Whitlock, how Lodge had intimidated Whitlock with a display of temper. Bill Sarney, I already knew, was of a different breed. ‘I should’ve figured it out right away, of course. That first pair of tips — the one that had us looking for DuWayne Spott and the one that told us where to find him — they helped the bad guys. But the other three? They helped the good guys, Bill, meaning me and Adele. Now why would Linus Potter, or any of his buddies, want to aid the investigation? That was the logical question, but I was too busy, too focused on Russo and Szarek and Greenpoint Carton, to ask it.’
Sarney walked over to the pool table. He lifted one of the cues, hefted it for a minute, then put it back on the table.
‘You made a lot of mistakes,’ I told his back. ‘First, whoever sent the last three tips must hav
e known about the first two. That narrowed the field to Bill Sarney or some higher-up who was following the investigation. Second, one of those tips advised me to stay out of Greenpoint; that Adele and I were wasting our time. Great advice, as it turned out, but it just raised more questions. Like, who knew we were working Greenpoint in the first place? And how did they know? That’s when I ran down Justin Whitlock in his Sheepshead Bay co-op; that’s when he told me he’d been visited by a ranking officer, a detective-lieutenant named William Sarney, on the day after I confronted him at Greenpoint Carton.’
Sarney finally put a little distance between us by walking over to the wet bar. ‘You’re pretty sharp, Harry, when it comes to judging other people, but the truth is that I didn’t put a gun to your head. You made your own choices.’
‘What about Russo’s service photo? The one that turned up while I was still sitting on the fence.’
Sarney shook his head. ‘Gimme a fuckin’ break. You’re a knight in shining armor, and you always have been. That’s why I wanted to promote you and get you transferred to Homicide. The best detectives always take it personally; they’re always out to right wrongs. Funny how Bentibi knows this and you don’t.’
I watched him rinse his glass carefully, then dry it with a white bar towel. The towel was immaculate. It looked as if it had been ironed.
‘Ask yourself,’ he continued, setting the glass on the counter, ‘why you went for the detectives in the first place. Ask yourself why, when it became obvious that you weren’t going to be promoted by the bosses, you didn’t do what I did.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Which is pass the sergeant’s exam, the lieutenant’s exam, the captain’s exam. Which is move up through the civil service, instead of waiting around for some arrogant jerk in Borough Command to decide you’re worth promoting.’
I thought about it for a moment, then admitted, ‘I was afraid, if I passed the sergeant’s exam, I’d be transferred out of the Detective Bureau.’
‘My point exactly.’ Sarney turned to face me. As on the night I’d waltzed Ellen Lodge into the house, his act was very convincing. He tucked his chin down into his adam’s apple, presenting me with a furrowed expanse of forehead, then stared up at me through his eyebrows. If he’d only remembered to blink, he would’ve been perfect. ‘You’re in love with that gold shield,’ he continued, ‘you and every other detective. But that’s never been a crime. In fact, I’ll even admit that seeking justice is an admirable way to pass a career.’
‘But it’s not Bill Sarney’s way?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘True enough, but I did learn something from you, Bill. Tell me, what do you think would happen if I took what I have to Inspector Clark at Borough Command?’
‘Look, Harry, I didn’t arrange for David Lodge to get killed in the One-Sixteen, any more than I arranged for you and Bentibi to catch the case. It’s just something that happened, one of those random shit-storms life throws at you from time to time.’ Sarney turned to face me before delivering the punch line. ‘If you remember, right from the beginning, I advised you to cover your ass.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question. What would happen if I took what I have to Inspector Clark?’
Though Sarney looked as if he was ready to explode, he got the words out. ‘Nothing. Nothing would happen.’
I nodded. ‘See, that wasn’t so hard. Now tell me why nothing would happen.’
Sarney stared at me, his dark eyes disbelieving. Here he was, a Captain, being pushed around by a nothing detective he’d consigned to the rubbish heap. I might have reminded him that life, as he’d been kind enough to explain, was full of nasty surprises, but I held my tongue.
‘I wasn’t alone,’ he finally admitted. ‘There were others who wanted Potter and his crew taken down.’
Cops on the job call NYPD headquarters, at 1 Police Plaza, the Puzzle Palace. Within its walls, or so the common mythology goes, the levels of intrigue rival those of a Byzantine court. Exactly who is doing what, and to whose benefit, and for what reason, is never entirely certain. I looked over at the collected photos on the wall, Commissioner Ray Kelly with his crooked nose, his square jaw, his jagged line of a mouth. Standing next to him, Sarney was grinning like a kid left alone in a candy store.
‘We followed them for years,’ Sarney continued, ‘right through the killing of Clarence Spott, and the arrest of David Lodge. When Pete Jarazelsky was arrested for burglarizing that warehouse, I thought it was all over. I was sure Jarazelsky would flip. I still don’t know why he didn’t.’
‘Maybe he was afraid, Bill, afraid of Linus Potter. Maybe you were afraid, too. Maybe that’s why you didn’t go after him yourself, why you sent Harry Corbin instead.’
Sarney absorbed the insult with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘We knew about Greenpoint Carton,’ he explained. ‘That Jarazelsky, Szarek and Russo owned it, and we’d heard the rumors about Paco Luna, but we had no real proof. Then Szarek turned up dead. That got our attention, especially after we received word that David Lodge was going to be released.’
‘Somebody called you from Attica?’
‘Not me, Harry. And not anybody I’m willing to name.’
‘But you knew Lodge was coming out.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you knew he was claiming to be innocent.’ I poked Sarney in the chest, but he held his ground. ‘You knew there was going to be trouble and you did nothing to stop it.’
Now defiant, Sarney jammed his fists into his hips. ‘Yes, I knew that blood would flow, Davy Lodge’s or somebody else’s, and I didn’t give a shit. Potter and his little gang, they were a cancer growing on the job. We were determined to cut that cancer out, and we succeeded.’
‘Didn’t it bother you that some of that blood might have flowed from innocent bystanders like Adele Bentibi and Harry Corbin? If you recall, Adele’s features were permanently rearranged.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it didn’t. Not before, and not afterwards.’
I hit him then, a right hand to the side of the face that drove him to the ground. When he didn’t get up immediately, I took a step back and waited for him to climb to his feet before continuing. ‘When you said nothing would happen if I took my case to the bosses, you were right. Being co-conspirators, they’d naturally have to protect you. But those tips you sent me? They’re part of the case file, and how I received them is already being questioned. You gettin’ this yet? Three days from now, Adele and I are going to meet with Ginnette Lansky to prepare our testimony before the grand jury. Ten days from now, Adele and I are going give that testimony. If we name you as the probable source of three of those tips, you will also be called to testify.’
I’d finally broken through. The anger dropped from Sarney’s face, the smug superiority too, as his dilemma became clear. If called to testify, Sarney could not hide behind his Fifth Amendment rights because he wasn’t being accused of any crime. That left him with a simple choice: he could swear that our conversation never took place, and expose himself to a charge of perjury, or he could name the bosses who’d conspired to bring down Linus Potter. Those bosses, they wouldn’t be happy about that.
Sarney twisted for a few minutes, standing before me on unsteady legs, one hand pressed to the side of his face. ‘What do you want?’ he finally asked.
‘First, I want a pipeline into the Puzzle Palace. I want to be able to come to you when I need help, and I want you to be seen with me in public. I want you to make a commitment.’
‘What else?’
‘I want a transfer to Homicide, Bill, the place where white knights go to die.’
Sarney’s laugh seemed genuinely amused, and perhaps a bit admiring, but his eyes had grown shrewd. ‘Are you telling me you can deliver Bentibi?’
‘I’m telling you those anonymous tips — all five of them — will remain anonymous. At least as far as we’re concerned.’
We were almost at the end now. It was time to finish up and go home.
‘You have to do your penance,’ Sarney explained, ‘and there’s no getting around it. You can’t shit on the bosses and expect to be rewarded.’
‘Even if certain bosses wanted me to shit on them?’
Sarney ignored the sarcasm. ‘And I can’t stop the rumors going around about you and your girlfriend being IAB snitches. Those rumors are comin’ from the PBA and that’s a world unto itself.’
‘Bill, are you telling me that you can’t deliver?’
‘No, I’m saying it’s gonna take time, and that it’s gonna be hard for you.’
The last part didn’t interest me. ‘How much time?’ I asked.
‘Nine months, a year.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime, we’ll see about your rehabilitation.’ He shifted his weight, nodding to himself. ‘I’ll tell you this,’ he finally said, ‘it’s very good that you’re cooperating here. Certain people will be impressed.’
‘Well, let’s make them doubly impressed. Ten days from now, the Holy Name Society is throwing its annual dinner-dance at the Sheraton. Adele and I are gonna be there.’
‘And you want me to be there as well, to be seen with you?’
‘That’s right, Bill, and when I invite your wife to dance, I expect her to accept without hesitation.’
As Sarney considered the demand, his grin began to widen. Again, I sensed a degree of admiration, as if by playing his game, I was somehow flattering him.
‘OK, I think I can make that dinner.’ He reached out to touch my arm, a gesture as intimate as it was unwelcome. ‘And if you wanna dance with Rebecca, it’s fine, as long as you don’t ask me to dance with Bentibi. That’s one gesture I don’t feel up to making.’
This time, when I hit Sarney, his eyes rolled up in his head and he went over backwards, crashing to the floor. I stood over him for a moment, half-hoping he’d make some attempt to rise, but the man lay as unmoving as a corpse. I thought of Adele, then, waiting for me back in Rensselaer Village. When we’d finally uncovered Sarney’s contribution to the dramatics, her first instinct was to bury him. But she’d turned on a dime when I laid out my goal, and my plan to attain it. Her only moment of hesitation came after I announced my determination to confront Sarney alone.
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