by Barbara Paul
“Uh, um, er, yes, I’m all right.” Shaken, but okay.
Carla burst out crying. “I wasn’t going to hurt her!”
“Yeah, sure.” Marian pushed her into a chair and went to the phone to call for a patrol car.
“Marian,” Kelly said, perplexed, “it’s a prop gun.” She was holding the weapon Carla had dropped to the floor. “This part where you’re supposed to put the bullets in? It’s solid. The holes are just painted on. And the trigger won’t pull.”
“Let me see.”
Kelly handed her the gun. “It’s just a stage prop.”
And so it was. Kelly had never really been in danger. Carla was howling, tears streaming down her face.
Marian went over to her chair and said in exasperation, “Carla, you not only have the right to remain silent, but I earnestly hope you will do so. Shut up!” Carla choked back her howls and gulped and sniffled while Marian read her the rest of her rights.
Only a few minutes later two patrolmen were at the door. Marian handed Carla and the prop gun over to them and said she’d file the arrest report as soon as she got back to Midtown South.
When they were gone, Kelly said, “Poor Carla. She’s kind of pathetic, isn’t she?”
“Yep,” Marian agreed. “She’s pathetic, all right. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Hey, I’m fine.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be alone. Do you—”
“Oh, Mar-ian!” Kelly wailed. “Don’t treat me like some fragile flower!”
Marian laughed. “You’re right. Sorry. Now, let’s figure out how she got in here. Who has a key to this place?”
“Well, you do. And the building super—for deliveries, repairs and stuff.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“All right, I’ll have a word with the super on the way out. And Kelly—stop being so nice to your fans.”
Her friend nodded vigorously. “Wicked Witch of the West from now on, that’s me.”
The super lived in a basement apartment. When Marian asked him why he’d unlocked Kelly Ingram’s apartment for a young woman he didn’t know, he’d said she’d shown up with a note from Kelly saying to let her in. “I know Ms Ingram’s signature,” he insisted.
“Signatures can be traced.” She told him what had just happened upstairs. He was so upset that Marian almost felt sorry for the man until she learned he was more worried about losing his job than he was about Kelly’s safety.
The two patrol officers who’d brought Carla Banner in hadn’t kept the arrest a secret. When the desk sergeant saw Marian walk in, he shook his head in mock sadness. “Copaholics, they’re the worst. Can’t even go to lunch without making an arrest.”
Upstairs, Captain Murtaugh gave her a tongue-in-cheek reprimand for approaching such a dangerous criminal without calling for back-up. When she walked through the squad-room, the detectives there stood up and politely applauded; a couple of them said, “Oh, good shew! Good shew!” On her desk was a sheet of paper pretending to be a flyer for the Larch Protective Services—“Guarding Celebrities Our Specialty.” She recognized Sergeant Buchanan’s handwriting.
Marian finished off the paperwork for Carla’s arrest quickly, glad to be done with the incident. Only then did it come to her that she’d not seen the Venetian glassware Kelly had bought as a wedding present.
About an hour later, Walker called. He’d lost Dave Unger. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. He tried to lose me twice in the mid-town crowds, but I kept up with him. Then he ducked into a cab. When I tried to follow in another cab, we got held up by a red light and he got away.”
“What did he do today?”
“He went to see Elmore Zook. Spent most of the morning there. Then he had some bank business to tend to. That’s where he spotted me, in the bank—and it was hide-and-seek from there on. You want me to stake out his apartment?”
“No, come back in. He knew you were following him, and he ran. That’s really what I wanted to know—what he’d do.”
“Sorry I lost him,” Walker said again.
“Don’t worry about it—mission sufficiently accomplished. Come on in.”
Walker wasn’t the only one to return early. Perlmutter, O’Toole, and Dowd showed up outside her office, looking disgusted. She waved them in. “What?”
Perlmutter said, “We’re just wasting our time, Lieutenant. We’re not going to find anything on Zook or Unger.”
“Convince me,” she said.
They gave her names, people they’d spoken to—neighbors, business associates, tradespeople. Zook and Unger both created exactly the same impression on everyone they met: courteous, pleasant, but not outgoing. Neither welcomed quick friendships, even while remaining on amicable terms with almost everyone they encountered. Marian knew from Zook’s outburst last Friday that that courteousness was just a façade. Doesn’t matter, the three detectives insisted. It was a façade that was well in place; it was one that worked.
“They’ve just been too damned careful for too many years,” Dowd said. “They’ve left no loose ends for us to pick up. We’re just knocking our heads against a wall here.”
Perlmutter agreed. “We can go on talking to people until we’re blue in the face and we won’t know one thing more than we know right now.”
O’Toole chimed in, “It’s a dead end, Lieutenant.”
Marian was convinced; she called off the background check. “We may have another way to get at them.” She filled them in on her interrogation of Austin Knowles, stressing his reaction to her mention of a deal and her suggestion that he find a new lawyer.
Perlmutter grinned. “Divide and conquer?”
She nodded. “So now it’s Austin Knowles’s move. For the time being, we’ll play a waiting game.” She gave them a big smile. “And that means you can go back to working on those other cases you’ve been neglecting in order to work on this one!”
They all groaned dramatically and said things like Goody-goody-gumdrops. Marian chased them out and got back to work.
Shortly before her shift was due to end, she needed to look for something in the records department. The file cabinets were set up in rows with narrow aisles between them; never enough space. Marian found the drawer she was looking for and pulled it open.
While she was reading a file, she heard a couple of people come in and open a file drawer the next aisle over. She couldn’t see them, but she recognized the voices of Sergeant Buchanan and one of the detectives on his squad. She paid no attention to what they were saying and went on reading her file.
Until something Buchanan said jerked her back to attention. “I never thought I’d end my days takin’ orders from some dumb cunt,” he groused. “When Murtaugh told me he was bringin’ in a fuckin’ broad as the new lieutenant, I almost asked him how good a lay she was.”
The other detective guffawed. “You think he’s really poking her?”
Buchanan snorted. “You gotta ask? How else did she get him to recommend her for the job? But if I was gonna have a piece on the side, she’d look a helluva lot better’n Larch!”
They both laughed at that. “Knockers ain’t bad,” the detective said. “But fuck, they have to be dogs to wanna be cops,” the detective said.
“Yeah,” Buchanan agreed, “but Larch, she thinks she’s Supercop. She hasn’t put her foot in it yet, but give her time. These pushy bitches always end up screwin’ themselves.”
Marian quietly closed the drawer and moved to the end of the row of file cabinets where they could see her. “Buchanan.” Both men jumped. “My office. Now.” She walked away.
When he followed her into her office, his face was a mixture of uneasiness and defiance. “Look, Lieutenant—”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, talking about me like that?” she snapped. “And spreading that story that I slept my way into this job—you’re maligning two superior officers, Captain Murtaugh as well as me.”
“Lieutenant, it dint mean nothin’.
It’s just the way guys talk when they get together.”
“Well, the ‘guys’ are going to have to clean up their act. We have police regulations, Buchanan, and you will obey them. Such talk will not be tolerated—ever. You have a woman detective on your squad, and there’s another on Campos’s squad. Do you talk about them that way behind their backs? Or do you say it to their faces? What can they do about it? You’re the sergeant, Buchanan. You set the standard your detectives follow. You just now taught that detective in there that it’s okay to call me a cunt and to spread a rumor that I whored my way into my position.”
“Hey, you got it all wrong. We was just kiddin’. He knew I was kiddin’. Can’tcha take a joke?”
“Don’t you dare pull that bullshit on me!” Marian flared. “All right, Buchanan, this is a warning. It’s going on your record. If it happens again, I’ll have you up for disciplinary action.”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“No, you wait a minute. I will discipline you if I have to. Or if you want to transfer out of Midtown South, I’ll sign the papers right now.”
His face turned red with anger. “I been workin’ this precinct for fourteen years—”
“Then don’t blow it now. I understand that men of your generation have trouble with women in authority. But do you know something? I don’t care. Adjust—or get left behind. And if I hear one more sexist remark out of that filthy mouth of yours, I’m going to throw the book at you. Do you understand?”
He looked as if he wanted to hit her. “Yeah. Oh yeah. I understand.”
She stared at that lived-in face and wondered if she’d gotten through to him at all. “For your own sake, Buchanan, I hope you do. I mean that. Now get out of here. You make me sick.”
He left without another word.
Marian sat down at her desk, resting her head on one hand and feeling lower than she’d felt in a long time. We was just kiddin’… Can’tcha take a joke? Did he really think he could smooth over the whole thing, that she’d let him get away with calling her a cunt? Did the men who thought like that expect her to win them over by going along, by trying to make them like her?
To hell with that.
And here she’d thought Buchanan was one of the friendlies. She picked up the paper he’d left on her desk, the one advertising Larch Protective Services—part of the general razzing she’d taken after her arrest of Dangerous Carla Banner. She balled up the paper and tossed it at the waste-basket. What a hypocrite the man was.
On her way out, an utterly silly thought popped into her head: No wonder he never asked me to call him Buck.
32
On Tuesday, they caught Hook Nose.
A sharp-eyed bluesuit riding in a patrol car spotted him coming out of Tiffany’s around one o’clock. The officer and his partner nailed him just as he was stopping a cab. A quick frisk revealed no weapon, but he was carrying a Tiffany box containing a pair of diamond earrings. Somewhere a woman was waiting for this murderous man.
His name was Thomas Schumacher, or at least that’s what his ID said he was calling himself, and he was carrying a room key from the Regency. A hastily arranged search warrant for his hotel suite turned up nothing of interest. But the warrant also covered the hotel safe and there the detectives hit pay dirt: banded stacks of thousand-dollar bills and, more important, the murder weapon—locked in a velvet-lined carrying case.
They had him cold.
Schumacher understood that, and steadfastly refused any comment until he’d talked to his lawyer. When the lawyer got there, a lantern-jawed man named Jasper, a long consultation between attorney and client ended with Jasper’s indicating they were willing to talk about a deal. But Lieutenant Marian Larch took a chance and put Schumacher in a lineup, summoning the witnesses who’d been on the subway when Robin Muller was shot. All three placed Schumacher on the seat next to Muller at the time she died.
Now the police were in a position of even greater bargaining strength. Captain Murtaugh issued an order that no mention of Schumacher’s capture was to be made, even impressing upon the arresting officers the importance of not telling anyone—not their wives, not their fellow cops, not anyone—of the big catch they’d made that day. He went out of his way to make sure Jasper would cooperate; the lawyer had nothing to gain by defying the captain’s wishes. The police had an advantage over Virgil now, and Murtaugh made sure they all understood that losing that advantage through careless talk would be a career-ending mistake.
Their shift had ended for the day, but no one working on the case had left. Another lawyer appeared: Assistant District Attorney Julia Perry, whom Marian knew only by reputation. The bargaining was short; Perry made it clear at the outset that there would be no deal without full disclosure on Schumacher’s part. Jasper first asked for full immunity for his client in exchange for his information. Perry said forget it, while the cops just laughed. Jasper had evidently advised his client already that that one wouldn’t go, so the bargaining over a reduced sentence began. Perry and Jasper quickly reached agreement, with Perry stressing that the information must lead to the capture of Virgil or the deal was off. Schumacher agreed to the terms and was ready to make his statement.
The interrogation room had the close smell and feel of any small space with too many people packed into it. Schumacher, his lawyer, the Assistant DA, Marian, Captain Murtaugh, and Gloria Sanchez from the Ninth Precinct were there; Captain DiFalco was out of town. On the other side of the one-way mirror, Sergeant Buchanan and the four other detectives who’d worked the case were watching. Gloria’s partner, Detective Roberts, was observing as well. Marian started the tape recorder, gave the date and the names of those present.
“Who is Virgil?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Schumacher said.
Gloria Sanchez threw up her arms.
“This,” Marian said heavily, “is not a good start.”
“I never met Virgil,” Schumacher replied sharply. “I speak to him on the phone, but I’ve never seen him.”
Start at the beginning.
Thomas Schumacher was a sort of circuit contract killer. He’d work one city until his MO became noticeable and then move on. Periodically he’d change his MO and then work the circuit again. A lot of his earlier hits in New York had been made to look like accidents; he’d been paid extra for those. He had contacts in a dozen cities, and this time he’d come to New York from St. Louis.
Perry demanded the names of these other contacts. Jasper reminded her the deal was for Virgil only and his client was under no obligation to incriminate himself further. Captain Murtaugh pointed out that the NYPD’s only interest was in putting Virgil out of business, but the Assistant DA was adamant; she’d seen a way to make a big case even bigger and she wasn’t about to let go. Schumacher put an end to it by agreeing to provide the names of his contacts.
Everyone in the room stared at him. Jasper tried to caution his client but Schumacher shrugged him off. “But why?” the lawyer asked.
“I’m running out of time,” Schumacher answered cryptically.
Julia Perry was in seventh heaven; the killer had just handed her the case of her life. Schumacher recited a list of names—which were probably phony—and phone numbers, which were undoubtedly real.
Marian had watched all the bargaining with contempt, contempt for the procedure and even more contempt for the man Schumacher. “How did you first find Virgil?” she asked.
Virgil had found him, Schumacher said. Through a mutual contact in Chicago. All arrangements were made over the phone.
How did it work?
Virgil paid only when the contract had been fulfilled, Schumacher told them. He was to wait by his phone in his suite at the Regency at noon every day. If there was no call by twelve-fifteen, that meant Virgil had no work for him that day. Virgil had also made it clear that if ever Schumacher was not there to receive the phone call, he’d be off the payroll for good.
Gloria Sanchez said, “So that’s why you’re r
unning out of time.” Suddenly a lot of things fell into place. Schumacher’s only bargaining chip was his link to Virgil; if he missed the phone call that could come as soon as the next day, that link would be severed and Schumacher would be left with nothing. So he needed the quick bargaining, the quick statement. If the police were to catch Virgil, Schumacher would have to be sitting by his phone every day at noon until he called.
“So what does Virgil say in these phone calls?” Murtaugh asked.
Virgil would name a time and place and hang up. The time was always that same day, and the place always a public one. A courier would meet Schumacher with an envelope containing one or two photographs plus a data sheet identifying the target. Once the contract was fulfilled, another phone call would name another time and place where a different courier would bring him his money.
“Wait a minute,” Gloria Sanchez said. “You never saw the same courier twice?”
Frequently, Schumacher said. But the courier who brought π the information envelope was never the one who delivered the money. Virgil had two groups of couriers. The first was mostly women just trying to earn a buck who clearly had no idea of what Virgil’s organization was. But the second group had to be different, Schumacher reasoned; they were entrusted with carrying large sums of money. Schumacher’s theory was that the first group was undergoing a tryout unknown to themselves; Virgil probably hired people he judged to have a potential for corruption, who could be developed for more important positions in his organization.
Marian asked if Robin Muller had ever delivered an information envelope to him.
A flicker of surprise showed in Schumacher’s hard eyes. No. He’d not known Muller was one of Virgil’s people.
And that was it. That was what Schumacher had to offer.
The killer had had personal contact only with the outermost fringe of Virgil’s organization, the couriers. But the couriers were the link to the man Robin Muller had called the paymaster. The police’s next step was obvious.
