The last remark needed no explanation. In the early morning hours, somebody had firebombed a low-end nursing home in the Castle Hill section of the Bronx. Eleven different camera crews, including CNN’s, had gotten the whole thing, moaning survivors hustled into blocky EMS ambulances, body bags taking a more leisurely voyage into the back of a morgue wagon. The death count, at eight o’clock in the morning, stood at ten and was expected to rise, nine of the victims being Puerto Rican or black. Best of all, the arsonist was still at large and there were serious questions about the nursing home itself. The sprinklers, it seemed, despite a recent Fire Department inspection, had failed to work.
“I spoke to the Suffolk County District Attorney last night,” Kirkwood went on. “Man named Robert Cortese.”
Holtzmann snorted, rolled his eyes. “Not another one.”
“Another what?”
“Another guinea is what. When you’re up to your ass in alligators, you don’t call in a crocodile.”
Kirkwood thought of his childhood buddies. Without exception, they’d been Italian, Jewish, or Irish. “I’m gonna let that one go, Karl, because it’s irrelevant here. The call was pro forma.” He watched the rain splash onto the dull gray surface of the Hudson River, wished he was somewhere else, maybe a mile north in that ugly frame house New Yorkers called City Hall. Having breakfast with old Rudy. “Anyway, Cortese told me some very interesting things. First, they finally traced the house Jilly was living in to Carlo Sappone. We already knew that, of course, and Carlo has no connection to the Agency, so it’s not a problem for us.”
“Always expected them to find Carlo in there somewhere,” Holtzmann said. “Had to happen.”
“Cortese told me a very interesting story. On the morning after the incident, Carlo Sappone was found in a Catholic shrine called Our Lady of Long Island. He was chained to a tree, Karl.” Kirkwood raised his hand. “Don’t interrupt. We’ve been asking ourselves how Gadd and Moodrow found Jilly Sappone’s house and now we know. Unfortunately, by the time the Suffolk cops put it together, Carlo had moved out of his own home. They’re looking for him, naturally, but I doubt that he’ll testify against Moodrow, who must have been the muscle, even if they find him. Stanley Moodrow and Guinevere Gadd don’t know that, of course, and I want you to use it against them. Tell them you know where Carlo’s holed up, that you might be willing to protect Carlo if he testifies.”
Holtzmann waited until he was sure his boss was finished. “Got the picture,” he finally said.
“Good. Now tell me about Ewing.”
“He’s coming along, Abner. Hates Jilly Sappone.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Not yet. Not until we’re sure. Ewing has his suspicions, naturally. One man to guard a dangerous prisoner.” Holtzmann shook his head. “Definite procedural violation.”
In the silence that followed the agent’s last remark, the wind picked up, first driving the rain beneath Kirkwood’s umbrella, then flipping the umbrella inside out. Kirkwood, instantly soaked, turned back toward the Bureau car parked fifty yards away, but Holtzmann grabbed his arm, spinning him around.
“Don’t tell him anything, Abner.”
“Pardon?” Kirkwood’s drenched suit had cost nearly a thousand dollars and he was having a hard time driving that particular fact out of his mind.
“Don’t speak to Bob Ewing,” Holtzmann said patiently. A steady stream of water ran along his nose and down over the corners of his mouth. “When the time comes, one or both of us will drive out there and handle Mister Sappone. Let Agent Bob deal with it after the fact.”
The more Jilly Sappone evaluated his prison, the more convinced he became that it was never designed to be a prison. First thing, it had real furniture, not slabs of iron or steel bolted into a concrete floor, and an air conditioner set into the wall. Furniture could be broken up, the pieces shaped into weapons, which was why Agent Ewing stayed on his side of the bars. Second thing, the windows had some kind of bullet-proof plastic instead of glass, but the plastic was set into ordinary wood frames and not into the walls. It was designed for protection, not confinement. Give him five minutes alone and he’d be out in the shrubbery. Third, and best, there were no walls around the walls. Once you got out of that little apartment, you were gone.
There was still the steel door, of course, the door between his cell and the rest of the house. Jilly figured the door most likely made Agent Ewing feel safe, that’s what it was there for. Meanwhile, the door was gonna be Agent Ewing’s immediate cause of death.
The phone rang just as he was about to get off his stoned-lazy ass and go to work. Jilly stepped over to the door and watched Agent Ewing emerge from the kitchen, pick up the receiver, say, “Hello.”
“That for me?” Jilly called. “Is that my loved one?”
Ewing responded by carrying the telephone across the room. He dropped it on the shelf, then turned away.
“You don’t gotta hurry, Agent Ewing,” Jilly called merrily. “I’ll wait until you get the earphones on.” He watched Ewing until the kitchen door closed behind the agent, then picked up the receiver.
“Yeah.”
“Jilly, how you doin’?”
“Great, Aunt Josie. Considering they got me back in prison.”
“No complaints. You don’t know what it’s like to suffer.”
Jilly groaned. If he didn’t shut her up, she’d run through every goddamned thing Carmine ever did to her, finish with her fucking jetatura.
“I’m not complaining,” he said quickly. “Agent Ewing takes good care of me. Every night, after I shut the lights off, he tucks me into bed. Sometimes, Aunt Josie, sometimes he stays under the covers for a long, long time.”
Josie grunted. “Hey, strunza, stop with the games,” she ordered. “You gonna stay four more days. Then we go in the program. I’m gonna make ’em send us to Hawaii.”
She hung up before Jilly could say good-bye. A minute later, Ewing crossed the room.
“Hey, look, Agent Ewing, I was only kiddin’ around,” Jilly said. He was still holding the telephone. “I mean about you tuckin’ me in at night. You’re much too chickenshit to open that door.”
“Put the telephone down.” Ewing’s jaw was clenched. His lips barely moved.
Jilly dropped the phone, raised a hand to his mouth. “Jesus Christ, he is tough.”
As Ewing picked up the phone with his right hand, he touched the tight network of steel bars with his left. The gesture was habitual, the agent doing it each time he approached the door. Jilly, though he noted the touch with great satisfaction, kept his eyes focused on Ewing’s. When the time came, he was going to rely on that hand.
Meanwhile, he had work to do. Not much work, but work nonetheless. He strode into his bathroom, squeezed a dab of toothpaste onto his finger, stepped onto the rim of the toilet, covered the lens of the pinhole camera behind the wall. Then, ignoring Agent Ewing’s shout, he walked into the larger room and did the same thing to a second camera, this one concealed in a clock.
“What do you think you’re doing? What, you goddamned son of a bitch?”
“Sticks and stones, Agent Ewing.” Jilly stepped up to the barred door.
“I want you to clean those cameras.”
“Why? So you can see me naked? Hey, Agent Ewing, you wanna see me naked, you don’t have to peep through a camera. Come inside with me.” Sappone licked his lips, blew Ewing a kiss. “I wanna make you my sweet honey, Agent Ewing. I wanna run my fingers through that crew cut, lick the sweat off the back of your neck, push your head down where it belongs.”
Without warning, Jilly slammed the heel of his hand into the bars on the door. The sudden movement, the sharp crack as the door rattled on its hinges, sent Agent Ewing stumbling backward. He stared at Jilly Sappone as if seeing him for the first time.
“My sweet honey,” Sappone screamed. He wrapped his fingers around the bars, yanked at them until the veins in his throat stood out like swollen blue worms. All the while s
creaming, “My sweet honey. My sweet, sweet, sweet fucking honey.”
“I don’t want to do a goddamned thing,” Moodrow told Betty over breakfast. “Even if I could think of what to do, I wouldn’t wanna do it. And I can’t think of anything, Betty.” He shook his head decisively, as if determined to convince himself. “Personally capturing Jilly Sappone, even if I could bring it off, would be nothing more than an ego trip. You could believe me when I say I’m not exaggerating here.”
The bell in the lobby sounded before Betty could frame a response. Three minutes later, Leonora Higgins walked into the room and stripped off her dripping raincoat.
“I ran Josie Rizzo’s name through the DHCR computer,” she said, accepting a cup of coffee. “But before I give you the result, I need to know exactly what you plan to do.”
Moodrow groaned, nearly dropped the coffeepot.
“About what?”
“About Theresa Kalkadonis.” Leonora was blunt, as always.
“If you were in my position,” he said after a moment, “what would you do?”
“Nothing, Stanley, because there’s nothing to be done.”
Leonora was wearing a navy blue suit over a white blouse. Moodrow recognized the outfit as her courtroom costume, her take-no-prisoners uniform. He smiled, trying to disarm her.
“My point exactly.”
“In that case, Stanley,” Leonora tapped the edge of the table with a crimson fingernail, “maybe I should call Jim Tilley, hand the information over to the police.”
Moodrow plopped himself down into a chair on the opposite side of the table. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair, then dropped his hand to his lap. “I was hoping you wouldn’t get a hit,” he said.
“That doesn’t answer the question.” She leaned forward, glanced at Betty. “Look, I got a call yesterday from D.E. Brecker, the DA’s personal aide. He wasn’t angry, Stanley, didn’t order me around. No, what he did was suggest, since you and I are known to be friends, that I advise you of the fact that you’re interfering with an ongoing Major Cases’ investigation.”
“How?” Moodrow kept the question simple. Not that he had any real hope of a simple answer.
“Brecker didn’t tell me that.”
“Why am I not surprised? Look, I had a visit from the FBI last night. You remember Agent Holtzmann with two ns? Well, Agent Holtzmann with two ns told me the same thing you’re telling me now. Meanwhile, I’d bet my left hand against a quarter the scumbag’s protecting Jilly Sappone.”
“I wouldn’t take the bet, Stanley. Mainly, because I don’t need an extra left hand.” Leonora’s mouth opened into a warm, genuine smile. She recited an address, 618 West Ninetieth Street, then added, “You guys see the paper today? Watch the news?”
“No,” Betty replied, “we just got up.”
“It must be nice to be part of the leisure crowd.” Leonora tossed the New York Post across the table. “Big fire in the Bronx last night. Enough bodies to draw the vultures away from Jilly Sappone, drive the investigation back to page twenty-three. Whatta you bet, come tomorrow, it’s not in the paper at all?”
Moodrow hesitated for a fraction of a second. “That leaves the feds in the clear. If the press isn’t looking, they can do whatever they want.”
“Not quite, Stanley.” Betty opened the refrigerator, took out three navel oranges, began to cut them into quarters. “Even if the vultures go somewhere else for their daily dose of carrion, there’s still you and Ginny Gadd to worry about. You guys would be the only remaining witnesses.”
FIFTEEN
GADD BEGAN TO COMPLAIN before she was inside Moodrow’s door. “I hope you had a better morning than I did,” she announced as she pulled off her Gore-Tex jacket and shook it out in the hallway. “Because mine has been an absolute nightmare. Jesus, I hate the rain. I hate the rain and I hate the FBI.” She stopped suddenly, dropped her jacket into Moodrow’s waiting hand. “I think I’ve found out what it’s like to be a criminal. At least, part of it. Swear to God, Moodrow, I wanted to shoot that fed in the worst way.”
Moodrow stepped aside to let her pass into the apartment, then hung her jacket on a hook attached to his closet door. “Why didn’t you?
“Fear of incarceration,” she answered promptly. “Hi, Betty. “You’re just the person I’m looking for.”
The two women exchanged a quick hug, then Gadd took off for the bathroom. Betty, after a quick shake of her head, poured out three mugs of coffee, while Moodrow, who found that he couldn’t stop grinning, set milk, sugar, and a plate of oozing jelly doughnuts on the kitchen table. When Gadd reappeared a few minutes later, she bit into a doughnut, sipped at the steaming coffee, then wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. She was about to have a second go at the doughnut when Moodrow cleared his throat.
“That was a grand entrance,” he declared. “But it needs a punch line.”
Gadd held the doughnut in front of her mouth long enough to declare, “Well, the shit’s hit the fan, now. Agent Holtzmann caught me staking out the tape box.” Then she bit into the doughnut, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Actually, ‘caught’ may not be the right word. I think the bastard was following me.”
“And you didn’t spot him?”
“It was raining, Moodrow, raining hard.” She waved the question away. “And maybe he was only making a pickup. Maybe I’m being too paranoid. Either way, that tape I copied yesterday is the first, last, and only.”
“Did he accuse you directly?” Betty asked. Her sharp black eyes were glittering. “Of stealing the tape?”
“Yes.”
Gadd shook her head. “Holtzmann didn’t mention the tape at all, though he had to know what I was doing. Instead, he asked me about an old friend of ours, Carlo Sappone.”
“Well, the chickens are coming home.” Betty folded her hands and laid them on the table. “Did he threaten you?”
“Absolutely. The man was anything but subtle. He told me that if I didn’t lay off, he’d offer to protect Carlo in return for his testimony.”
“Protect Carlo from whom?” Betty asked.
“He didn’t actually say, but I’m assuming Carmine Stettecase.” Gadd looked over at Moodrow. “I don’t think it matters all that much.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” Betty took a breath. “What did you tell him, Ginny? How did you respond?” Her calm tone masked a lawyer’s concern for an unpredictable client.
“I told him if he didn’t take a hike, I’d get my partner to slap him around.”
Moodrow started to laugh, then caught a glimpse of Betty’s stern expression and covered his mouth with his hand.
“Maybe I’ll do that,” he mused. “Take his badge and his gun and shove them up his ass.” He looked directly into Betty’s eyes. “Because this prick, this Holtzmann with two ns, is getting me more and more pissed off as time goes on.”
“Stanley, look …”
“I don’t want to look, Betty. This mutt is responsible for getting Sappone out of prison. I know he’s protecting Sappone even as we speak. Now, he threatens to put me and Gadd in jail for the crime of trying to save a child’s life. I swear to Christ, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this is one dog that needs a serious beating.”
Gadd raised her mug. “I’ll drink to that.”
After a brief hesitation, Betty raised her own mug and drank. “Just keep one thing in mind, boys and girls, needing and receiving are two different sides of the coin. The risks, here, are genuine.” She waited long enough for the message to sink in, then continued. “Now, Ginny, what did you really tell the agent?”
“I said, ‘Message received,’ then walked away. Call it a Mexican standoff.”
Moodrow shook his head. “He was bluffing you, Gadd. If Holtzmann had Carlo in his pocket, he would have dragged you down to FBI headquarters, made a big production out of it. What I think is that he’s scared, really scared. Remember, he could have waited for you to go into the box, then arrested you.”
�
��Why didn’t he?” Betty asked.
“Because,” Gadd declared, “we, meaning Moodrow and myself, are holding all the cards. Maybe a week from now, the day after they takes Carmine, it’ll be different.” She turned to Moodrow. “We get a hit on that housing computer?”
“As a matter of fact,” Moodrow announced, “they, meaning Betty and an ex-FBI agent named Leonora Higgins, did. An apartment on West Ninetieth Street leased to Ms. Josefina Rizzo.”
Gadd jerked up straight. “Then why are we sitting around with jelly on our chins?”
“Because there’s no rush,” Moodrow declared. “Jilly Sappone’s not there. He couldn’t be.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Moodrow giggled. “Not so sure that I plan to go unarmed,” he admitted.
It took Moodrow and Gadd more than an hour to cover the five miles between Moodrow’s Lower East Side apartment and West Ninetieth Street. The Chevrolet, slow to start under the best of conditions, had gone through its own battery and most of a nearby Pontiac’s before it finally coughed its way to life. A grateful Moodrow had given the lot attendant, Walberto, a ten-dollar bill, then run head-on into an FDR Drive packed with traffic. By that time, both he and Gadd had taken the hint. New York, a city of endless frustration under the best of circumstances, was about to snatch another piece of their collective adrenals.
“Think of it as a test.” Moodrow had gestured at the surrounding traffic. “All these people trapped behind their windshield wipers. Peering out through the grease smears.”
“A test of what?”
“Well, when I was in Catholic School the nuns used to tell us that calamity and suffering, especially when they happen to good people, are God’s way of testing the faithful.” He paused to flip on the heater, turn it to defrost in an effort to clear the foggy windows. “See, what I was thinking was maybe there’s a junior-apprentice god in charge of New York. Maybe the frustration is a way of testing our worthiness to live here. I mean, let’s face it, Gadd, everybody wants to take a bite out of the Big Apple. The only problem is that most of the time it’s the Big Apple taking a bite out of us. You can’t tell me it doesn’t need theological justification.”
Damaged Goods Page 28
