“Yeah, very nice. Look, I’ll be there with you, but I don’t think I can pull the trigger.” He hesitated, tried and failed to smile. “I’ve been considering alternatives, Karl. For instance, why can’t we arrest Sappone? You know, just take him into custody and let the chips fall where they may? Or bring him back to New York and release him? With Ann Kalkadonis gone and Carmine in jail, with Sappone’s apartment and car under surveillance, he won’t last a day on the streets.”
Holtzmann, who’d seen it coming, fought a sneer. He’d served three tours in Vietnam, most of it in command of battle-scarred grunts. Kirkwood, on the other hand, at least according to his FBI package, had spent the war years at Rutgers University, angling for a National Guard slot until a high lottery number had freed him altogether.
“We can’t have him killing anybody else, can we? Or telling his story on Donahue?” Holtzmann’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t worry, Abner. When the time comes, I’ll be glad to handle Jilly Sappone. More than glad.” He allowed himself a warm smile. “Now for something more pleasant. I’ve worked out a plan to eliminate the last variable in the equation. That’s what I asked you here to talk about.”
As Moodrow, a step ahead of Ginny Gadd, approached the door leading into the Kalkadonis apartment, he felt a hesitation that bordered on paralysis. The last few days had done a lot to heal his wounds, both physical and psychological. But time had not (and could not) change the facts; time hadn’t relieved him of responsibility, only made his ultimate responsibility easier to accept. Until now.
“It’s not gonna get any better, Moodrow.” Gadd stepped around him to knock on the door. “Not until after it’s done.”
A moment later, Patricia Kalkadonis opened the door, then moved aside, nodding to each of them as they passed. Moodrow returned the nod as he walked into the living room to find Ann Kalkadonis, the bruises on her face and neck reduced to a few muddy patches, sitting on the couch. A uniformed cop stood in the center of the room. He watched Moodrow and Gadd enter, then turned and strolled into the kitchen without saying a word.
“Ann?” Moodrow raised his head far enough to meet her steady gaze. He had a little speech all prepared, but found he couldn’t open his mouth.
“Thanks for coming.” She indicated the two clubs chairs at either end of the couch. “Please, sit down.”
Moodrow nodded, then took the chair farthest away from where he stood. He looked over at Gadd as she sat, watched her cross her legs at the knee, drop her hands to her lap. A momentary resentment flooded his consciousness, but then he remembered that she’d been an innocent bystander, a witness and not the perpetrator. She had a right to relax.
“I don’t know if it will do any good.” Ann Kalkadonis looked directly at Moodrow. “But I want to tell you that never, not for one moment, have I held you responsible for what Jilly did to Theresa.” Her voice was steady, if not actually strong, filled with clear determination, the voice of a survivor. “I’m angry, you understand, but not at you.”
Patricia strode into the room carrying a packed suitcase. She laid it next to several others, then returned to the rear bedrooms. Ann waited for her to leave, before resuming.
“I’ve had questions all along. How did he get out? Why wasn’t I notified beforehand?” She took a deep breath, glanced from Moodrow to Gadd. “Where is he now? Why has he been quiet? For the first two days after Theresa was killed, I kept expecting Jilly to come through the front door. That’s his nature and he can’t help it. So, where is he?”
“I don’t know, Ann.” Moodrow inched forward until he was sitting on the edge of the chair. “We’ve been looking for him, me and Gadd, but we’ve run into a dead end.” He quickly outlined their efforts, including their discovery of the apartment and the car. “I’m glad you’re leaving,” he concluded, “because the cops found an arsenal in the trunk of that car Jilly rented. He wouldn’t have put it there if he didn’t expect to come back. If he didn’t have his next move planned out.”
Ann nodded. “Do you think Carmine Stettecase might have …?”
“Anything’s possible. But if Carmine whacked Jilly, he wouldn’t hide the body. Carmine’d want everybody to know.”
“So I’m to be left with my questions unanswered? A poor, helpless woman whose rantings are tolerated in the name of her loss?” She hesitated momentarily, then smiled. “As you might’ve heard, I’m involved in a lawsuit with Con Edison over the death of my husband. Well, I’ve decided to settle and use the money to get some answers. I’ll be working through a lawyer, mostly, using the Freedom of Information Act.” Her voice tightened down, her eyes narrowing as well. “This morning, I gave an interview to a Newsday reporter named Marcia Hammond. Once Jilly is taken, I intend to appear on every talk show that’ll have me. My lawyer’s negotiating with a production company that wants to make one of those terrible fact-based network movies out of my life story.”
Moodrow held up his right hand as if warding off an attack. He knew what was coming next and didn’t want any part of it; he felt like a spectator at his own funeral.
“My attorney has investigators of his own, of course, a midtown firm he uses regularly, but I told him I wanted to continue with the two of you. That was presumptuous, I know, but …”
“Tell me something, Ann,” Gadd interrupted, “what happened to the FBI?”
“They left several days ago.”
“Just like that? Just took off?” Gadd looked over at Moodrow, but failed to catch his eye.
“They didn’t think Jilly would try to contact me.” Ann Kalkadonis rubbed the side of her face with the fingertips of her left hand. “Once Theresa was gone.”
“That figures. And the cop in the kitchen?”
“He hasn’t asked to stay in the apartment, but Detective Gorman told me the police would keep the building under surveillance.”
“That’s great, just great.” Gadd glanced at Moodrow again, noting the tight jaw and closed fists. “Look, I don’t wanna get into the details, but we have reason to believe the situation’s gonna resolve itself real soon. Like the day after tomorrow. If Jilly doesn’t make an appearance by then, he’s not gonna make an appearance at all. So, what about you give us a key, let us stay in the apartment? That way, if Jilly decides to pay a visit, he won’t lack for company.”
As Moodrow walked the mile and a half back to his Fourth Street apartment, his mood went from bitter anger to even more bitter resignation. He’d confronted Gadd, of course, as the two left Ann’s building, demanding to know how she could speak for him.
“Or maybe,” he’d concluded, his hand on his hips, “when you said the word ‘we,’ you were speaking as a member of the royal fucking family.”
Gadd had simply turned away. “Look, I wanna go over to my apartment, put a few things together, get back before Ann takes off. That doesn’t leave me a lotta time.” She’s stalked off a few steps, then turned. “What could I have done?” she asked, “make it seem like I was gonna cut you out? We’re talkin’ about a paying client here. And a private investigator who lives in an office above a pornographic book store.”
“You could’ve just backed off, let the game play itself out.” His response had sounded lame, even to his own ears.
“I don’t see it. Not while there’s still a chance.” A smile lightened her face. “C’mon, Moodrow, it’ll be fun. I’m gonna bring my laptop and a modem, see if Tommaso’s left me another message. I didn’t mention it, but we exchanged electronic mail last night. Tell ya the truth, it’s the closest I’ve come to a genuine romance in the last year.”
And that had been that. Ginny Gadd had stalked off down the street, leaving Moodrow to his own thoughts, thoughts that ran from the pleasure of watching Holtzmann with two ns squirm in the public spotlight to the stark reality of the blue wall of silence. Breaking the code was unthinkable, as was letting the hated fibbies off the hook. Meanwhile, out of nowhere, he was tired again, ready for bed.
By the time he reached Avenue A and F
ourth Street, two blocks from home, Moodrow was ready to once again acknowledge the possibility that Jilly Sappone would return to his wife’s apartment. It wasn’t going to happen, of course. Even if he somehow got free of his keepers, Sappone would go for his stashed weapons, maybe try to get back into that uptown apartment. The cops would be waiting, as they’d be waiting in front of Ann’s building. Given any sort of excuse, they’d shoot him down like the rabid dog he was.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the bottom line, not even close. No, for Stanley Moodrow, all the probabilities were rendered meaningless by the simple fact that if Sappone actually got through, if he somehow did to Ginny Gadd what he’d done to Carol Pierce, Stanley Moodrow would not be able to live with the results. And the only serious question, given that admission, was whether or not he had enough clean underwear for an extended stay.
The question, still unanswered, was rendered meaningless a few minutes later as Moodrow crossed Avenue B and started to walk into the block. The FBI came at him from both ends of the street, a dozen agents in three cars, waving their automatics like cowboys, demanding that he lie flat on his face, like any other criminal. Moodrow, as he dropped slowly to his knees, found himself strangely calm, as if he’d been on this end of an arrest many times before. He noted the level of force, pronounced it overwhelming, finally decided that he approved of the operation, that it was just what he, if he was in Holtzmann’s place, would do.
TWENTY
BETTY HALUKA DIDN’T BEGIN to panic until after the eleven o’clock news. Up until that point, she’d been able to convince herself that Moodrow’s visit to Ann Kalkadonis had uncovered some new piece of information, that perhaps Moodrow was sitting on a stakeout, unable to leave the car. She’d phoned Ginny Gadd, of course, and Ann Kalkadonis, but there’d been no answer at either place, though Gadd did have an apparently defective answering machine which disconnected immediately after the beep. Betty wasn’t upset by the lack of response—Ann had wanted to see Moodrow because she was leaving the city and Gadd was with Moodrow now, pursuing whatever they’d decided to pursue. It was that simple.
Then the news came on, a litany of the day’s violence recited alternately by the coanchors, Sue Simmons and Matt Lauer. There was a murder on Ninety-fifth Street, another in a Lexington Avenue subway car, a ten-year-old wounded in a Brownsville drive-by, a pair of lice-infested toddlers found wandering in a reputed crack house. Finally, after a commercial break, Matt Lauer introduced a long piece on the still-unsolved nursing-home fire, then mentioned New York’s other unsolved crime, the execution of Theresa Kalkadonis. Jilly Sappone’s mug shot, silent and unyielding, propelled Betty from her chair to the telephone.
She tried Ann Kalkadonis and Ginny Gadd again, with the same result, then Leonora Higgins. Leonora’s phone rang four times before her answering machine picked up and Leonora’s disembodied voice urged her to leave a message. Betty, feeling just as disembodied, briefly explained the situation before hanging up. She was rummaging in the closet, looking for Moodrow’s phone directory, when the telephone rang back in the kitchen.
Betty, always optimistic, charged across the room, grabbed the receiver and half shouted, “Stanley, where the hell have you been?”
But the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t that of her lover.
“It’s not Stanley, it’s me, Artie, calling from Los Angeles. Long distance.” His tone was crisp and efficient, as if arranging an appointment with a client. “You were supposed to call me tonight. I’ve been waiting.”
Betty groaned. Artie, I’m sorry. I’ve got some problems out here and I just forgot. How’s Marilyn?”
“The same, but the hospital wants to throw her out.”
“Into the street?”
“Very funny.”
“Artie, I don’t …” She stopped, decided to push one of his many buttons. “This is long distance, Artie,” she said, “it’s costing a fortune.”
“You’re right.” His voice dropped a half octave, became conspiratorial. “What they say is she’s not getting better. I’m talking about the doctors. She’s not getting better and the insurance won’t pay for the hospital beyond the end of the week. What I’ve gotta do, they say, is arrange for long-term care which means a nursing home. Betty, it’s $6,000 a month and they want I should pay every penny out of my own pocket. How will I do this? Marilyn’s breathing is good now, her insides are working. It could take years before …”
Artie paused, maybe expecting a response, but Betty didn’t intend to prolong the conversation. Not when Artie lived in a two-million-dollar house.
“You could always bring Marilyn home,” she finally said. “And take care of her yourself.”
That stopped Artie cold. “Betty,” he said, after a series of false starts, “I have to make a living.”
“I understand, Artie. What I’ll do is call you next week, see if there’s any change. When Marilyn’s settled, I’ll come out to Los Angeles. In the meanwhile, you keep your chin up.”
Artie hung up without another word and Betty, still angry, began to leaf through the phone book. Then she remembered Jim Tilley.
“Damn,” she said to herself as she dialed his number. “You must’ve taken an extra dose of stupid pills this morning. Where is your goddamned brain?”
As if to confirm her self-judgment, Tilley answered on the second ring. After listening patiently while she detailed everything she knew and everything she feared, he spoke with no trace of anxiety in his voice.
“Stanley had identification, Betty. That means if he was in the hospital, you’d know it, because somebody from the cashier’s office would’ve called for his insurance ID number. Those people don’t fool around.” He hesitated briefly, then continued when she didn’t challenge his assertion. Or his weak attempt at humor. “He might’ve been arrested, although I can’t believe they wouldn’t let him make a phone call. What I’ll do is see if he’s in the computer. Remember, it’s not like the old days when they could bounce you from precinct to precinct, one step ahead of your lawyer. Now, you go into the computer when you’re booked and the computer tracks you through the system.”
“And if he’s …” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
“Dead, Betty?”
“Yes, or lying somewhere hurt.”
“Look, when he left, he was heading for the Kalkadonises’ apartment and he was planning to come right back when he was finished. That means whatever happened to him, happened between here and there. This is Manhattan we’re talking about, with tens of thousands of people walking around. You can forget about him lying in some alley.”
“Make me feel better, Jim. Tell me why he can’t be … the other.”
“Because I would’ve heard about it. The Kalkadonis apartment is in the One-Three. Half the cops in the house know Stanley. Plus, if a cop went down, even a retired cop, it would’ve made the news. But what I’ll do is call the ME’s office. I’ve got friends there, so it won’t be a problem.”
Betty felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders relax, her breathing open up. Jim was right. The odds against Moodrow being in some terrible trouble were huge.
“Look, Betty,” Jim continued, “when I spoke to Stanley this morning, he told me the feds were on his back. I can’t help you with that, but Leonora used to be an agent. Have you tried her?”
“I left a message on her machine.” She carried the phone over to the stove and turned on the burner under the tea kettle. It was going to be a long night, but she was now ready for it. She was going to handle it step-by-step, piece it together as if Stanley Moodrow was a client.
“Look, Jim, will you call me as soon as you know anything? I don’t care if it’s four o’clock in the morning.”
“As soon as I know anything for sure.”
Despite Jim’s assurances, Betty called every hospital below Fifty-seventh Street, spending most of the next two hours on hold. Wasted calls to Ann Kalkadonis, Ginny Gadd, and Leonora Higgins followed. By the time
she finished, it was almost two o’clock in the morning.
She found a blanket in the hall closet, wrapped herself in it, and lay down, fully dressed, on the couch. Her body craved sleep, but her mind was jumping from thought to thought like a flamenco dancer on a bed of hot coals. It was after three before she finally drifted into a troubled sleep in which Marilyn’s broken body became Theresa Kalkadonis lying by the side of a road, in which a small body bag swelled like an inflatable boat, until there was only one person big enough to fill it.
The ringing telephone yanked her awake half an hour later. For a minute, Betty didn’t know where she was and she fought her way out of the blanket, convinced it was a shroud. Then she shook her head clear, half staggering across the room to grab the receiver. It was Jim Tilley, calling to say that Moodrow was definitely not in custody and even more definitely not in the morgue.
“So, it’s good news and bad,” Jim concluded. “We know where he’s not, but not where he is. What I’m gonna do is take a couple of days off, make myself available until he shows his face. I’ll be over as soon as I get a few hours’ sleep.”
Betty, after hanging up, glanced at the clock. It was almost four o’clock and she was wide awake. Resigned to her fate, she went into the kitchen, shoveled a few scoops of coffee into the basket of Moodrow’s percolator, then added water and set the percolator on the stove. She was about to light the burner when the phone rang again.
“It’s Leonora. I just got in.”
Under other circumstances, she and Betty might have spent an hour discussing why she was coming home at four in the morning, who he was, and the exact nature of his intentions. Now, she settled for, “I’m glad you called.”
“Your message didn’t get into specifics. …”
“He’s gone, Leonora, that’s the only damn specific I’ve got.”
When Jilly Sappone awakened at first light on the following morning, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up without exhibiting any sign of his inner excitement. His movements were quick, but deliberate, as if he’d planned every muscular contraction, every breath, every beat of his heart. This was it, the seventh game of the World Series, the final act in the Jilly Sappone story; he wanted to drain every last drop of glory.
Damaged Goods Page 32
