Alone with the Dead

by Robert J. Randisi

  Slovecky hung up the phone and said, "Asshole!"

  "Which asshole are we talking about?" Dolan asked.

  Dolan always spoke to Slovecky with an amused tone. It burned Slovecky's ass, but he let it slide.

  "Needleman."

  "Captain Eric Needleman?" Samuelson asked.

  "You know him?" Slovecky asked.

  "I went through the Academy with him."

  "And he's a captain while you're still third grade?" Dolan asked, turning in his chair to look at the other man.

  "The cream rises to the top," Samuelson said with a lazy smile, "slowly."

  "Uh-huh," Dolan said.

  Slovecky wasn't listening to their banter. He was on the phone again, this time to the lab.

  "Yes, hello, this is Lieutenant Slovecky, of the Lover Task Force? Who am I speaking to? Stilwell? Listen, Stilwell… what? No, I know you haven't had time to examine it yet. When you do, give me a call. Meanwhile, I want you to know that if the contents of that note make it into the newspapers… Uh-huh, I know you know that; I'm just making it crystal-clear. If any of it-stop interrupting!" Slovecky's voice now got harder and colder. "If any of that note makes it into the newspapers, I'm gonna hold you personally responsible, Stilwell. You got it? Your ass'll be mine!… Yeah, well you better remember it."

  Slovecky slammed the phone down and stared at the note again.

  "Why do you think he left a note this time, Loo?" Samuelson asked.

  "And what does it mean?" Mollica asked.

  "Well, that's fairly obvious," Dolan said.

  The others looked at him, particularly Slovecky.

  "Tell us, Sergeant," he said slowly. "Tell us the obvious."

  Dolan looked at Slovecky and said, "The Brooklyn killings are copycat."

  "What?" Mollica asked.

  Dolan turned his head and looked at his ex-athlete colleague.

  "Sure," he said, as if it made all the sense in the world, "he's telling us he didn't do those two, and he doesn't want whoever did stealing his thunder."

  Dolan looked at Slovecky, as did the others.

  "Whataya think, Loo?" Samuelson asked. "You agree with Dolan?"

  "No," Slovecky said, shaking his head slowly. "No, I don't." He was looking directly at Dolan.

  "Why not?" Dolan asked. "What do you think he's tellin' us?"

  Slovecky's mind raced for an answer. He couldn't have the Brooklyn murders being taken away from him. He needed those to add to the Lover's list, so that when he caught him, it would make that much more of an impact. This case, when he solved it, had to be so huge that a promotion would be automatic.

  "I think…" he said slowly, and then it came to him, "… that the Lover doesn't want us looking for him in Brooklyn, and he's trying to keep us out of that borough."

  Mollica took up the cause, pointing with his pipe.

  "And that's why he's disavowing those murders," he said. "It makes sense."

  Dolan frowned, but he had to admit that it made as much sense as his assumption. Maybe the Lover was trying to throw them off his trail.

  "So what do we do?" Samuelson asked. "Concentrate our search in Brooklyn now?"

  "No!" Slovecky said quickly, startling the others. "No, we don't do anything different. We just keep going by the book. That means that you three get over to the Village and start canvassing."

  "Right, boss," Dolan said, standing up. "We'll get right on it."

  "Stay in touch," Slovecky said as they left their office.

  In the outer room, Swann had the coffee ready. He'd prepared it while he was listening to the conversation.

  "No time for coffee, Len," Dolan said.

  Out of earshot of the others, Swann said, "I agree with you, Artie. I think the Lover's telling us he's not the doer in the Brooklyn killings."

  "Yeah, well," Dolan said, jerking his head toward Slovecky's office, "he don't agree, and he's the boss. See you later."

  Swann watched them leave, then carried a mug of coffee into the lieutenant's office. Slovecky had his head in both hands, staring down at the report of that morning's murder.

  "Here's your coffee, Loo."

  "Just put it on the table."

  "Want me to make copies of that, Loo?" Swann asked.

  Slovecky looked up at Swann, his eyes red-rimmed, and then said, "Yeah, Swann, make copies and bring it right back."

  "Right."

  Swann took the reports and went into the other room. He used the Xerox machine there to make copies of the report for each detective, then made one for himself. Before taking all of the copies into the lieutenant, he tucked his away in his desk, with the copies of the others he had made for himself. When no one was around, he sometimes took them all out and went over them, hoping that something would occur to him, something no one else had seen. It hadn't happened yet, but he'd keep at it.

  He closed the drawer and locked it, then picked up the other reports and took them back into the whip's office.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Corby came through. Keough had been at his desk an hour when the phone rang.

  "Keough, Six-Seven Squad."

  "Joe, it's Pat Corby."

  Keough automatically scanned the room with his eyes. Huff was across the room, sitting on Vadala's desk. He, Vadala, and Goldstein were bullshitting over coffee and doughnuts.

  "What have you got, Pat?"

  "Names," she said. "You ready?"

  "Go."

  He wrote them down as she read them off, last names only. Mollica, Samuelson, Lee, Ashe, Diver, and the second whip, a sergeant named Dolan.

  "The clerical's a cop, a detective named Swann," Corby said. "The whip is a lieutenant named Slovecky."

  "Wait a minute," Keough said, recognizing only one name. "This guy Swann, is that Leonard Swann?"

  "I got Len," she said. "I guess that's short for Leonard, right?"

  "Right."

  "You know him?"

  "We went through the Academy together," Keough said. "Jesus, in thirteen years on the job, I haven't even run into him. I haven't thought about him for years."

  "Well, he's on the task force," she said. "Looks like you got your in, Joe."

  "Looks like it, Pat," he said. "Thanks a lot."

  "Don't mention it," she said. "Uh, Joe, you want me to forget you called?"

  That was why he liked her: She was sharp.

  ***

  Chief of Detectives Robert LaGrange stared into the mouthpiece of his phone while holding the instrument to his ear. The damned thing felt like it was stuck to his ear. His mouth ached from saying, "Yes, sir," to Police Commissioner Raymond Steiger a couple of hundred times. He looked up at the ceiling of his office on the thirteenth floor of One Police Plaza and imagined himself looking at the broad ass of the PC on the fourteenth floor.

  "I know you don't like hearing this, Bob," Steiger said, "but the mayor's on my ass, and that puts me on yours. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," LaGrange said for the 199th time.

  "You assured me that Lieutenant Slovecky could handle this task force, Bob," Steiger said. "Don't make me look like an asshole. Uh, you know what that would mean, don't you, Bob?"

  "Yes, sir." Two hundred.

  "Get back to me on this."

  "I will, sir."

  Now, LaGrange picked the phone up again and buzzed his outer office.

  "Yes, sir?" his clerk said. Ah, to hear someone call him that for a change.

  "Where's Inspector Pollard?"

  "In his office, sir."

  "Well, tell him to get his ass in here forthwith."

  "Yes, sir!"

  LaGrange hung up and shifted in his leather chair. He had started to sweat during the conversation with the PC, and now his ass was itching. He stood up and walked around his desk, just to air it out. LaGrange was fifty-five, and had been C of D for two years. He liked the job, and he didn't want to lose it. This fucking Lover bullshit had to stop.

  There was a knock on his door and he said, "Co
me in, damn it."

  The door opened and his exec, Insp. Paul Pollard, strode in. Pollard was forty-seven and dressed as if he was on his way to stand in the window of Macy's or Bloomingdale's. LaGrange knew that the younger man would make a helluva better-dressed C of D than he did-but that wouldn't be for a while.

  "You wanted me, sir?"

  "I want you, Paul, yes," LaGrange said, sitting back down again.

  Pollard started to sit and LaGrange said, "No, don't sit."

  "Sir?" Pollard asked, his knees still bent in the act of sitting.

  "I want you to get your ass over to Twelfth Street, Paul."

  "Twelfth Street, sir?" Pollard asked, straightening. "The task force office?"

  "Right," LaGrange said. "The mayor has his teeth in the PC's ass and the PC is biting my ass. Who does that leave for me to bite, Paul?"

  Pollard swallowed and said, "Me, sir?"

  "You," LaGrange said with a nod. "You assured me that this man, this Lieutenant Slovecky, could handle the Lover investigation, Paul."

  "Well, yes, sir"

  "I appointed him on your recommendation."

  "I know, sir"

  "Because you said he could handle the job."

  "Yes, sir"

  "Well, he's not."

  "Sir, I"

  "Get over there and tell him to get his ass in gear or I'm gonna replace him-and I'll replace you at the same time, Paul. Then you and Slovecky can go work in Greenpoint. How would you like that, Paul?"

  "No, sir," Pollard said, "I wouldn't."

  He hated when the C of D used his given name so often during a conversation. It always meant the man was royally pissed.

  "Then do your job, Paul," LaGrange said. "Motivate Slovecky. Just like I'm biting your ass, Paul, go take a piece out of his."

  "Yes, sir," Pollard said, "I will."

  "I want to know what progress he's made on this case," LaGrange said. "I want something encouraging to tell the PC, so he can pass it on to the mayor." LaGrange leaned forward and said, "Don't make me look like an asshole, Paul."

  "No, sir," Pollard said. "I won't."

  "Get to it, then."

  "Yes, sir."

  ***

  When the phone on Len Swann's desk rang the first time, it was downstairs announcing that the C of D's exec had just entered the building.

  Swann hung up and swiveled around in his chair.

  "Sarge, Inspector Pollard's on his way up," he called out loudly.

  Dolan, who had returned an hour ago without Mollica and Samuelson, looked at Swann and said, "Okay, thanks, Swannie."

  Dolan got up, went to the whip's office, and gave a perfunctory knock on his open door.

  "Pollard's on his way up, Loo."

  Slovecky looked up and said, "Fuck me. Is the coffee on?"

  Dolan looked over at the pot and saw that it was almost full.

  "It's on."

  "Get me the bottle."

  Dolan opened the bottom drawer of a file cabinet just outside and to the right of the whip's door and removed a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He had just handed it to Slovecky when Pollard entered the outer room.

  Swann started to rise, but Pollard waved him off and breezed past him.

  "Sergeant," Pollard said at Slovecky's door.

  "Inspector," Dolan said. "Coffee?"

  "Yes," Pollard said, "and then I'd like to talk to the lieutenant alone."

  "Yes, sir."

  Dolan waved at Swann, who came over with two mugs of black coffee. He set them down on the whip's desk and then he and Dolan went out, closing the door behind them.

  "Sweeten it, Paul?" Slovecky asked.

  Pollard nodded.

  Slovecky leaned over and poured a liberal dollop of bourbon into the inspector's mug, then added some to his own.

  "To what do I owe this pleasure, Paul?" Slovecky asked then.

  Pollard stared across the desk at Slovecky, a man he had nothing but contempt for. He'd no choice but to recommend-strongly recommend-Slovecky as the whip for the Lover Task Force because Slovecky was a blackmailing son of a bitch who knew where the bodies were buried.

  He also knew that Insp. Paul Pollard, married twenty-five years to the same woman, had had something going on the side for the past five years. The department knew that cops cheated on their wives, but neither the wife nor her minister father would have appreciated it. It was information that Slovecky had "come by" over the years, the kind of thing he routinely tucked away for a rainy day-like the day he decided he wanted to command the Lover Task Force.

  "The chief is boiling, Lieutenant," Pollard said.

  "Is he now?"

  "It's coming down from the mayor to the PC to the chief, and to me."

  "And he sent you to come down on me?" Slovecky asked. "You know better than that, Paul."

  Pollard sat forward so fast, he spilled coffee and Jack Daniel's on the razor-sharp crease of his pants. He was so upset that he didn't even notice it.

  "I'm not coming down on you, Slovecky," Pollard said. "Lord knows, though, I wish I could."

  "You should have thought of that when you first got interested in dark meat, Inspector," Slovecky said. "You should have made the move before you got into the chief's office, Paul. Either divorce your wife and marry your black junkie or cut her loose."

  "I can't get divorced," Pollard said. "I'm Catholic… and Mary Alice would never go for it."

  "And you can't give up the dark meat, can you?" Slovecky asked.

  Pollard sat back. It was true, he couldn't give Rachel up. He was as hooked on her as she was on her drugs. If it ever got out that he was committing adultery, that he was supplying her with drugs, his life would be over. He knew that and yet he still couldn't…

  "We all have our own private hell, Paul," Slovecky said.

  "And you," Pollard said with a sneer, "you're my own fuckin' Devil?"

  "Not me, Paul," Slovecky said. "I didn't get you into this mess; you did. You're your own Satan."

  Pollard sat back. Slovecky was right after all.

  "Deliver your message, Paul."

  Pollard closed his eyes and took a greedy sip of his bourbon-laced coffee. He then delivered his message with his eyes still closed.

  "The chief wants to have a progress report," he said. "He wants something to give to the PC, something that shows you're making progress, or he's going to replace you." Pollard opened his eyes and added, "And me."

  "And send us where?" Slovecky asked.

  Pollard shuddered and said, "He mentioned something about Greenpoint."

  "Ah well," Slovecky said, "at least we'd be together, Paul."

  Pollard shuddered again.

  Meanwhile, Slovecky's devious mind was racing. He knew he had to give Pollard something to give to the chief, even if it was bullshit.

  "All right," he said.

  "You have something?" Pollard asked hopefully.

  "I have something, Paul," Slovecky said. "Last night, when the Lover hit? He left a note."

  "What?"

  "A note, Paul, that leads us to believe that the Lover lives in Brooklyn."

  "My God!" Pollard said, shock plain on his face. "Do the papers have this?"

  "No."

  "Have you put it in writing?"

  "The report is being typed up even as we speak," Slovecky lied. Swann was a helluva typist. He'd be able to get it done fast, so it was practically typed up.

  "I'll take it with me," Pollard said.

  "I'll send it over, Paul," Slovecky said with a smile. "I still have to work on the… subtle nuances of it."

  Pollard sat forward slowly and set his coffee cup down on the edge of Slovecky's desk.

  "Is this straight stuff, Slovecky?"

  "I'll put it in writing, Paul," Slovecky said, spreading his hands in a benevolent gesture. "How much straighter can I make it?"

  "Where's the note?"

  "I'll send a copy with the report, by courier, in a sealed packet, for the chief's eyes only."

 
; Pollard frowned and stood up. It was then that he noticed the spill on his pants.

  "Shit," he muttered. He looked at Slovecky and said, "I'll go back and tell the chief."

  "You do that, Paul," Slovecky said. "And Paul?"

  "What?"

  "Get your private life together, my friend," Slovecky said.

  "Fuck you," Pollard said, and practically fled from the office.

  Instead of getting angry, Slovecky chuckled. There went a man who had it all, a helluva future ahead of him, one that Lt. Dan Slovecky would kill for, and he was risking it all for sex with a nigger junkie.

  Go figure, Slovecky thought, shaking his head.

  ***

  Swann watched as Inspector Pollard left the whip's office and got out of there so fast he and Dolan had no time to stand at attention.

  "What the fuck…" Dolan said, looking at Swann, who simply shrugged.

  The phone on Swann's desk rang a second time, and when he answered it this time, it was Det. Joe Keough.

  ***

  Slovecky sat behind his desk for several minutes after Pollard left. It was starting. The politicians were trying to take this case away from him. The fuckin' note was going to come in handy now. Of course, the whip agreed with his second whip, Dolan, about the contents of the note. The Lover was, indeed, trying to disavow any knowledge of the two Brooklyn murders, but that didn't matter to Slovecky. His explanation made as much sense as anyone's, and he was the boss. All he had to do was send a report to the C of D's office about the note, indicating that the killer lived in Brooklyn, and they'd leave him alone for a while-hopefully long enough for him to catch this sick fuck.

  But of course, catching the killer was secondary in Dan Slovecky's mind, as it had been from the start. Advancing his career was first and foremost, and using lies and blackmail to do so was not an unusual way to accomplish that.

  It happened all the time, didn't it?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kopykat read the report of the Lover's newest victim in the late edition of the Post. She was in her twenties, a secretary in a Wall Street firm who, when she left for work the morning before, never suspected that she would not be returning home that evening-or any evening after that.