“We thought it was handled, Jake. I swear.”
“Thought? Ya pretend ya such a big shot. ‘Don’t worry about nothin’, Jake. We got it covered.’ Next thing I know the cops are sniffin’ around and I gotta go to Los Angeles. Well, I ain’t ya fuckin’ dog, Steppy. I ain’t nobody’s dog.”
“Look, Jake, I got money …”
“Here? Ya got it right here in the house?”
“No.”
Jake pulled the trigger without thinking. The slug caught Steppy Accacio in the right shoulder, spinning him into the headboard. It glanced off bone and tore down the soft tissue in his arm, ripping arteries and veins before exiting just behind the elbow. The blood spread across the sheets, soaking them before either man could speak.
“Ya killed me,” Steppy Accacio finally said, trying to lift his shredded arm. “Look what ya done. Ya killed me. I got killed by a Jew.”
Twenty-five
It was eight o’clock when Moodrow finally decided to give it up. What was the sense of pretending to be patient? Who did he expect to fool? He was the only one there and he definitely wasn’t fooling himself. If he had a rope, he’d be skipping it. If he had a heavy bag, he’d be hitting it. The truth was that he’d never been this jumpy in his life. Not even before his first fight, when Uncle Pavlov had to hold him on the stool while the introductions were being made.
Despite his earlier decision to stay away, Moodrow was back inside his own apartment. He was waiting for Allen Epstein to arrive with the package on Jake Leibowitz and his impatience was only partially due to the desire for combat and the fear of arrest. He wanted Jake Leibowitz, no question about it. From that narrow point of view, he’d be a lot better off going to Pearse O’Malley with Leibowitz’s photo in hand. But that didn’t mean he could ignore the fact that O’Malley was in danger. If Sal Patero had been telling the truth (and Moodrow had no doubt that he was), there were at least four bodies tied to the shooting of Luis Melenguez. One more wouldn’t matter. Not to the killers.
Moodrow finally decided to wait until eight-thirty. If Epstein didn’t show by eight-thirty, he’d go up to Hell’s Kitchen and warn O’Malley, even if that meant losing him as a witness. This decision firmly made, Moodrow pulled a chair up to the window and sat down to watch for Epstein’s patrol car. It was a Tuesday evening and despite the dry streets and warm temperatures, the block was nearly empty. The few pedestrians strode purposefully, heads down, arms pumping. The press liked to call New York “The City That Never Sleeps,” but that description didn’t really apply to working-class neighborhoods where the kids had to be fed, the garbage put out, the dog walked … all before The Perry Como Show. Or Gunsmoke. Or The $64,000 Question.
Still, there’d be action on Third Avenue. The hookers would be coming out now that the shops and businesses had closed for the night. Customers were already drifting south from their uptown hotels. The flesh trade worked all night, every night.
The bars were open, too. There was one on every corner and two in the middle of the block. Some catered primarily to the Puerto Ricans, some to the Poles, some to the Italians, some even to the beatniks. There were no Jewish bars, as far as Moodrow knew. Jews, if they drank, had to migrate across cultural borderlines.
At eight-fifteen, Moodrow saw a squad car turn onto the block and his heart jumped in his chest. He had the entire Melenguez file in his possession, complete with the prints lifted at the scene. All courtesy of a repentant Sal Patero. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to match them with Leibowitz’s prints. Assuming there was a match to be made. If not, he’d still have a photo. And not a mug shot smuggled out of the precinct, either. Leibowitz had been in an army prison, a federal prison. The photo would come from J. Edgar Hoover’s boys and Moodrow could take it wherever he liked.
The cruiser drove past Moodrow’s window, hesitated at the corner, then jumped the light and disappeared. Moodrow’s rising excitement disappeared with it. Then the phone rang and Moodrow found himself cursing Ma Bell. It had to be Allen Epstein and it had to be bad news. Maybe the FBI was stalling. Or, worse yet, maybe they’d refused Epstein’s request altogether. There was no way to predict what the feds would do in a given situation. And no way to apply pressure, either, because FBI agents answered only to J. Edgar Hoover and Hoover answered only to God. (Or to Satan, depending on whose opinion was asked.)
Moodrow, as he picked up the phone and muttered a greeting, was totally unprepared to discover Kate Cohan on the line. He was even more unprepared for the sorrow in her voice. What he heard was near to grief. He’d been telling himself any number of things about Kate. Telling himself that, for instance, Luis Melenguez’s right to justice overrode Kate’s pain. Or that there was nothing he could do about it, anyway. Or that Pat Cohan, at least for the time being, was holding all the cards, but he, Stan ‘The Man’ Moodrow, would someday make it up to her.
Maybe all of that was true, but now he could actually feel Kate’s intense confusion as she bounced from her father to her lover like a medicine ball tossed between two heavyweights. He could feel it and he wasn’t sure the injustice done to her didn’t equal the injustice done to Luis Melenguez.
“Crime would be a lot easier,” he said, “if innocent people didn’t get hurt. It’d be a lot easier if it was just one crook killing another crook. If there were no families, no innocent bystanders, no …”
“Stanley, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Kate. Your father wants to put me in jail, but the funny thing is that I’m not worried about myself. Maybe I should be, but I’m not. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m all right, Stanley. It was really bad for a while, but I’m better now. I want to hear your side of it. That’s what I called for. I realize you don’t have to tell me anything, but I need to hear it.”
She didn’t sound all right. She sounded like she was about to burst into tears and Moodrow didn’t have the faintest idea what to do about it.
“Is your father there? Is he listening? Like the last time you called?”
“Daddy went out. I’m alone.” She hesitated for a moment. “How did you know Daddy was listening?”
“He called me. Right after you hung up. He called to rub it in.”
“Have you been arrested, Stanley?” Kate abruptly changed the subject. “Are you out on bail?”
“No, I’m still walking the streets. A couple of detectives and half a dozen patrolmen came down this afternoon, but I wasn’t here. They questioned all my neighbors.”
Actually, Greta Bloom had given him hell for coming back, but he really hadn’t had any choice. Father Sam had refused to give him anything more than a place to sleep. The priest had drawn the line at having Allen Epstein (or any cop except Moodrow, for that matter) come into his gym on business.
“I can’t do it, Stanley,” he’d explained. “I got kids here who’ve been in trouble a time or two. If I go takin’ sides in a cop war, it could be the winner’ll come out with a grudge against Sam Berrigan. Too much of my funding comes from the Police Athletic League for me to take that risk. You wanna stay here, fine. But no calls and no visitors. My boys come first.”
“Stanley,” Kate said, “are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” Moodrow took a deep breath. “You want to know the whole story? That’s what you said?”
“I want to hear your side of it. I’m not saying …”
“Wait a minute, Kate. There’s someone at the door.”
“Don’t answer it.”
“I’d better. It sounds like the son-of-a-bitch is gonna break it down.” Moodrow covered the receiver with his hand. He knew who it was. Allen Epstein had knocked three times, then stopped, then knocked again. “Wait a minute, Sarge. I’m on the phone.”
“Stanley? Stanley?” Kate was near to panic. Her voice quivered like a plucked guitar string.
“I gotta go, Kate,” Moodrow whispered into the phone.
“Are you being arrested?”
“Be careful, Stanley. Take care of yourself. I … Oh, damn, I don’t know what to say I can’t stand this.”
She hung up before Moodrow could reply, leaving him with a surge of emotion, a mixture of guilt and rage that threatened to overwhelm him. What he wanted was the simplicity of a movie western, but all he could see were victims, some dead and some living. Would arresting Jake Leibowitz or Steppy Accacio or Pat Cohan ease Nenita Melenguez’s suffering? Would cop justice, courtesy of Stanley Moodrow, feed her children?
Moodrow walked over to the front door and pulled it open. “Give me some good news, Sarge,” he said. “I could use it.”
Epstein stood in the doorway for a moment. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I just spoke to Kate. I feel like I’m killing her.” Moodrow stepped back. “Get inside. Let’s at least close the door.”
“What could I say? If there were no victims, we’d be out of business.” Epstein walked into the apartment and waited for Moodrow to close the door. “I got everything you wanted, Stanley. Or Maguire got it. His brother’s an agent, so it didn’t turn out to be a big problem.”
Moodrow sighed. “All right, let’s go into the bedroom. I don’t wanna show a light. And thanks for the sympathy.”
The bell rang before they could move.
“Who is it?”
“Police, open up.”
“Give me your hands, Stanley,” Epstein said matter-of-factly. “I been thinking about this for the last four hours.” He snatched a pair of handcuffs off his belt, slapped them on Moodrow’s wrists, then smiled. “Wouldn’t it be funny if me and Pat Cohan have been working together all this time?”
Moodrow grinned. “I think I’m starting to feel a lot better,” he said.
“That not an appropriate response, Stanley. Maybe you should see a head-shrinker.”
Epstein lifted Moodrow’s.38, then opened the door. The two detectives in the hallway performed a double-take that would have made the Three Stooges proud.
“What the fuck is this?”
The one who spoke, the oldest, was short and fat. His three chins wobbled obscenely as he jerked his head from the stitches in Moodrow’s head to the stripes on Epstein’s sleeve. The second detective was taller and smarter. He kept his eyes on the Smith amp; Wesson in Epstein’s hand.
“What’s with the gun, Sarge?” he asked. “And what’re you doing here?”
Epstein grinned. “My name is Allen Epstein. Sergeant Allen Epstein. This is my precinct, the Seventh. And my bust. Who are you?”
“I’m Donnelly,” the short one said. “And this is Wittstein. We’re from Midtown North. We got a warrant for a cop named Moodrow. I take it this is him.”
“What about it?” Epstein asked.
The two detectives looked at each other. The obvious (though unasked) question was how do you arrest someone who’s already under arrest? Especially when you, yourself, have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“And why is it,” Epstein continued, “that two suits from Midtown North come all the way down to the Seventh to make an arrest for a routine assault that didn’t occur in their precinct? How is it that you even know there’s a warrant out for Detective Stanley Moodrow? Who sent you down here? Who put the warrant in your hand?”
“Wait a second, Sarge,” Wittstein said. The tips of his ears glowed red. “You got no right to question us.”
“Wrong,” Epstein said. “I outrank the both of you. Unless one of you passed the sergeant’s exam. The fact that you’re wearing a cheap suit and a spotted tie doesn’t mean squat. I outrank every detective in the job.”
“That’s just technical,” Wittstein hissed.
“Technical? I could order you off the scene, but I’m not gonna do that. In fact, even though it’s my bust and two dicks from Midtown North are trying to take it away from me, I’m gonna let you accompany me down to the house so I can book this vicious criminal. While we’re there, maybe I can get you an appointment to see the captain. He’s a busy man, the captain, but I think he’ll wanna know what two precinct detectives from Midtown North are doing on the Lower East Side. I think the captain’ll give us a little personal time.”
“We have a right to make an arrest anywhere in the city.” Wittstein was livid. “Who the fuck are you to tell us where to operate?”
“Because it never happens innocently,” Epstein ignored the challenge. “Never. You’re down here because someone sent you. Someone who didn’t trust Captain John McElroy, Commander of the Seventh Precinct, to get the job done.”
Wittstein started to respond, but Donnelly waved him off. “All right, Sarge, you’re holding all the cards. Me and Wittstein, we’re just following orders. The lieutenant asked us to come over and knock on the door. We didn’t expect to find anyone, because the lieutenant also told us the suspect was long gone. That’s how come we didn’t bring backup. Now, me and Wittstein, we’re goin’ back up to Midtown North and tell the lieutenant that Sergeant Allen Epstein put the suspect under arrest before we arrived on the scene. And you could forget about draggin’ us down to the Seventh. Unless you plan to shoot us in the back.”
Epstein waited until the two detectives were out of sight, then closed the door and walked over to the window.
“Hey, Sarge,” Moodrow said, “how ’bout takin’ off these cuffs?”
“Wait a second, Stanley, I wanna see them drive away.” He stared down at the street for a moment. “They’re going. We got a little time.” He turned back to find a grinning Stanley Moodrow.
“You’re in it now, Sarge. You’re in it up to your neck.”
“Unless I actually make the arrest, Stanley. If I make the arrest, I’m a hero.” Epstein was already turning the key in the handcuffs. “Jesus, what am I gonna tell the captain?”
“Tell him I escaped. Tell him you cuffed me with my own cuffs and I must have had a key.”
“That’s another charge against you, Stanley. And a black mark on my record. Plus, it still doesn’t explain what I was doing here in the first place.”
“Then tell him the truth. Tell him that we-meaning me and you-are gonna bring a murderer before the bar of justice.” The look of disbelief on Epstein’s face brought Moodrow up short. “Take a seat, Sarge. There’s a few things you need to know. When you hear what I got to say, you’re gonna feel a lot better.”
Moodrow took his time, detailing O’Neill’s statement and the contents of the complaint signed by Samuelson and Lieutenant Rosten. As he described Sal Patero’s confession, Epstein’s eyes began to widen. By the time Moodrow finished, the sergeant’s mouth was hanging open.
“Holy shit. Patero admitted to covering up a homicide?”
“Well, I did ask him real nice.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You must’ve halfway killed him.”
“Actually, he wasn’t that tough. He didn’t last as long as the Playtex Burglar.”
Epstein took a minute to think about it. “How come you didn’t tell me about this before?” he finally asked.
“I didn’t trust you, Sarge. It’s that simple.”
“You’re a smart kid, Stanley. With that blank face, you look like a big dumb flatfoot, but you’re smarter than hell. Why don’t you tell me what you think I should do? Being as you already know.”
“First, I take you down to my neighbor’s apartment and let you look at the evidence. Then, you go back to the house and find the captain. Tell him you’re a go-between, a negotiator. Describe the evidence. Make sure he understands that he’s not involved. Tell him that I threatened to go to the papers if you brought me in. All you did was act in the best interests of the Department. Which interests would be well served by allowing Stanley Moodrow to make a case against Jake Leibowitz.�
��
“I don’t know, Stanley. The captain’s got all ten fingers in Patero’s pie.”
“That’s the whole point. McElroy’s on the take. The last thing he wants is for me to go public. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. About what I want and what I don’t. You tell McElroy that I’m not out to fuck the Department. That’s not my intention at all. I have two goals here. I wanna put Luis Melenguez’s killer in the electric chair and I want to keep my job. Look, Sarge, what I’m trying for is a little offense. Pat Cohan claims to run lower Manhattan. He brags about it. So why hasn’t McElroy sent half the precinct after me? Why does Cohan have to send out detectives from Midtown North?”
“The guys are refusing, Stanley. That’s why Cohan’s reaching into other precincts.”
“Yeah? So, why didn’t McElroy assemble a squad and directly order the men to cooperate? Why didn’t he jump on their heads with both feet which is what precinct commanders always do when the boys get out of hand? I got a funny feeling that McElroy didn’t know about the coverup. I also have a feeling that McElroy has no interest in helping Pat Cohan. Look, Sarge, you make sure McElroy understands that he’s not implicated. Maybe we can isolate Cohan. Maybe McElroy will go over Cohan’s head. Whatever happens, I don’t see how we can lose. You came here to talk me into surrendering, but when you saw what I had and realized it was enough to make headlines, you decided to back off and consult your superiors. They’ll give you a fucking commendation.”
Epstein, smiling, held his hands up. “Okay, I surrender.”
“Not yet, Sarge. Because I got one more favor to ask. I was hoping you’d take the prints home with you and make the comparison yourself. Because I have to get up to see Pearse O’Malley. Before someone decides to kill him.”
Twenty-six
It was nearly midnight as Pat Cohan drove along the Belt Parkway near Idlewild Airport in southern Queens. He could plainly hear the roar of landing airplanes. He could hear the planes a quarter of a mile away, but he could barely see the car in front of him. The warm air and the rain had had a predictable effect on the icy waters of nearby Jamaica Bay. The fog was so thick you could taste it.
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