A Dark and Broken Heart

by R.J. Ellory

  “Screw you, Duncan!”

  “And screw you too, Carole!”

  They stood there then, seemingly for an hour, a day, one on each side of the bed just glaring at each other.

  Walsh was the first to look away, but it was merely to move from the edge of the mattress and walk around to the other side.

  “I am sorry—” he started.

  Carole stood there for a moment, and then she shook her head. “Jesus, Duncan, what the hell are we going to do?”

  He shook his head.

  “I mean, who is this guy? The one with the cellphone?”

  “His name is Bernie Tomczak. He’s a crook, a lowlife, a gambler . . . Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

  “And what did you say exactly?”

  “I told him I needed some information . . . important information regarding the possibility that a cop might have been involved in a robbery and a multiple homicide, and he said he had a name for me, and then he asked me to get a weapon out of evidence and get rid of it. Some bust his brother was up for, and if the weapon disappears then there’s no case.”

  “And you agreed to this?”

  Walsh nodded. “Yes, I agreed.”

  “And he has you recorded on his phone.”

  “Yes.”

  Carole closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Walsh heard her exhale resignedly.

  “So you didn’t even get the information you wanted?”

  “No,” Walsh replied.

  “How the hell—”

  “You weren’t there, Carole. You weren’t part of the conversation. If you’d been there—”

  “Duncan, if I’d been there you wouldn’t have even been in a conversation with this guy. Jesus, what in Christ’s name was going through your mind?”

  “The purpose, that’s what. The reason I do this. The reason I went to IA. It’s the job I do, Carole. That’s why I was there.”

  “But speaking to some scumbag in a bar someplace . . . How the hell is that IA business?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Carole sat down on the edge of the bed. She grabbed her purse, took out her cigarettes and lit one. “Well, I’ve got time, Duncan. I’ve got time, and I think you better tell me what the hell is happening here.”

  Walsh sat down. He’d not smoked for two years, three perhaps, but he took one of her cigarettes and lit it. His hands were shaking. He felt a cold sheen of sweat across the entirety of his body. He’d not felt this way since his second month in Homicide when an OIS review had gone bad for him. For a while he was up for an accidental shooting of a civilian, but then Ballistics came back and it was not his gun. That had been the roughest three days of his life. Until now.

  He told her then. He told her about the robbery of the Sandià house, the deaths of the couriers, the three DBs in the storage unit, the shooting of the little girl, the missing mother, the murdered aunt, the reason he was involved in the first place. He told her about Madigan and Bryant and his meeting with Richard Moran, how that had led to Officer Karl Benedict and the OIS Review, and lastly his meeting with Bernie Tomczak. And when he was done she was silent for some time, and then she looked at him and said, “This Madigan guy? He’s okay?”

  “Okay? What do you mean, okay?”

  “He’s a good cop?”

  Walsh smiled. “Is there such a thing?”

  “Hey, listen to yourself. We don’t have time for anything but trying to figure this out. Now, tell me, who is Madigan and what’s he like?”

  “He’s in Robbery-Homicide. He’s a good cop. Has a good arrest rate.”

  “Is he straight, or does he take money?”

  Walsh frowned.

  “What?” Carole asked. “You think I don’t know about you guys? You think I don’t know how much money changes hands? For Christ’s sake, Duncan, I’m not naive. Why the hell do you think there’s an Internal Affairs Division in the first place?”

  Walsh raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. “Okay,” he said. “Madigan? I think he does what he needs to do. I’m sure he’s not the best, but I don’t think he’s the worst either.”

  “So you could talk to him in confidence? You could tell him what happened and he wouldn’t go running to the police chief or something?”

  “You what? You’re suggesting I tell Madigan about this?”

  “Duncan . . . you have to tell someone. You think I know what to do about this? Well, I don’t. And you certainly don’t have some magic solution up your sleeve. You have to get some help on this. You have to get this sorted out. If you don’t . . .”

  “Okay, okay, I got it,” Walsh interjected. “But Madigan?”

  “Well, is there someone else? Someone better? I don’t care who you talk to, but it can’t be the squad sergeant, and it sure as hell can’t be the precinct captain. And you tell your superior in IA and it’s all over. Your career is finished, and then where the hell will you be, huh? They’ll kick you out on your ass with nothing.”

  “I suppose Madigan’s the best bet,” Walsh said. “He’s as good as anyone else.”

  “So we’re agreed. You talk to this Madigan guy, and see what he says, okay?”

  Walsh didn’t speak.

  “Okay, Duncan?”

  “Okay, okay, yes . . . I’ll speak to Madigan.”

  Walsh had let the cigarette burn down in his fingers. He stubbed it out in the ashtray, and then he turned to Carole and he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry for putting you through this . . .” He reached out his hand toward her.

  “Duncan, I am so pissed with you. Jesus Christ . . .”

  He touched the sleeve of her robe.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said matter-of-factly. “Don’t touch me right now, Duncan.”

  Walsh withdrew his hand. He sat there on the edge of the bed, and he felt sick—from the cigarette, from the arguing, from the situation he had created, from the thought that Bernie Tomczak was out there somewhere with a recording of their conversation on his cellphone.

  He got up. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said.

  Carole didn’t reply.

  Walsh left the bedroom and made his way down the hall. He closed and locked the bathroom door behind him, and then he sat on the edge of the tub and put his head in his heads.

  “Dumb, dumb motherfucker,” he whispered, and he hoped like hell that Vincent Madigan could be trusted, and that he would have something useful to say about this nightmare situation.

  He knew little about Madigan, save that he’d been a cop for twenty years and had seen pretty much everything there was to see.

  If Madigan was the wrong choice then he—Duncan Walsh—was screwed.

  36

  KEYS TO THE KINGDOM

  Bernie stayed in the kitchen.

  Madigan went upstairs and ran a bath for Isabella. He tried to fix up the spare bedroom. He moved boxes out of there into his own room, found some clean sheets, made up the bed. He hadn’t had anyone stay since . . . Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had stayed.

  When he was done he went down and got her. He showed her the bathroom, where the towels were kept, the soap, a spare robe, and he showed her where she could sleep once she was done.

  “I have to deal with something with this guy downstairs,” he said. He stood there on the landing, aware of the fact that six inches beneath his feet was three hundred grand of Sandià’s money.

  Isabella stood in the doorway of her room. She had a strange expression on her face.

  “What?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Okay, so take your bath and get some sleep.”

  Madigan turned to the stairwell.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to say thank you.”

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “Good, because I don’t trust you. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know why you’re doing this, and
I might wake up in the morning and find out . . .” She paused, shook her head. “I might not even wake up, right?”

  Madigan took a deep breath. “Take a bath. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  He didn’t wait for her to reply. He went on downstairs to deal with Bernie Tomczak.

  “You know Larry Fulton, right?”

  Madigan frowned. “Know the name, yes. Who is he?”

  Bernie smiled wryly. “You ain’t such a good liar, Vincent.”

  “Say what you have to say, Bernie, and then get the hell out of my house.”

  “You are a mean-mouthed son of a bitch at the best of times,” Bernie replied. “Jesus Christ, you act like someone’s pissing down your back and tellin’ you it’s raining.”

  Madigan got up from his chair at the kitchen table. He fetched down a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two glasses from a cupboard, poured drinks, took his seat again.

  “I had a conversation this evening,” Bernie said.

  “Good for you.”

  “A very, very interesting conversation.”

  Madigan took a deep breath. He didn’t know whether to hit Bernie Tomczak right then and there or wait a moment before he hit him.

  “With a man called Walsh.”

  Madigan’s thoughts stopped dead. He made such an effort to display no change in his expression, but the surprise was evident in his eyes.

  “You want me to tell you about my conversation with Detective Walsh, Internal Affairs Division, 167th Precinct?”

  “Sure, go ahead and tell me about your conversation.”

  “You gotta be nice, Vincent. You gotta be nice, okay?”

  Madigan smiled as best he could. “I’ll be nice, Bernie.”

  “Well, Detective Walsh went to see a guy called Cutter Moran. You know him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Calls himself Cutter. His name is Richard, but he and Larry were close like family. He was Cutter, Fulton was Bone, like after that movie, you know?”

  “Yes, I know the movie.”

  “Well, anyway, whatever, the thing was that this Walsh went to see Moran, and Moran told him about me, so Walsh comes looking for me and he finds me. And he tells me a real interesting story about a job that was pulled on one of the Sandià houses, and how a bunch of people got messed up real bad and then Larry Fulton and a couple of his compadres get themselves all shot to pieces in some storage unit someplace, and this Walsh is looking for the fourth man. Seems this fourth man was not only in on the Sandià heist, but he killed Fulton and the other two and took off with all the money . . .”

  Bernie Tomczak paused.

  Madigan’s heart was like an angry fist trying to break out through his rib cage. His entire body was freezing cold, and yet covered in a slick layer of sweat. He felt the glass sliding through his fingers and he set it down on the table before he dropped it. He couldn’t look Bernie in the eye, but he had to, he had to show nothing, to give nothing away . . .

  “You okay, Vincent?” Bernie asked.

  Madigan nodded. “Tired, Bernie. Long, long day. You got much more of this story to tell me?”

  “Do I need to tell you any more of it?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Bernie shook his head. “Nothing, Vincent . . . It means nothing.”

  “So, like I said, go on and tell me whatever you have to tell me and then get out of here.”

  “You said you’d be nice.”

  “This is nice. Piss me off any more and I’ll get mad.”

  “Jesus Christ, you really do spend your whole sorry life in a bad mood—”

  “Bernie . . .”

  “Okay, okay . . . Take it easy. Anyways, so this Walsh is telling me all of this, and then he tells me that Cutter Moran has told him that guy number four is a cop. Can you freaking believe it? A cop robs one of Sandià’s places, wastes the three guys in a storage unit, and then takes off with the money. Jesus, the balls on this guy! So I’m listening and I’m listening, and I’m thinking all the while what I gotta do, and then it comes to me. It comes like a blinding flash of freaking lightning. Something like this comes once in a lifetime, Vincent, once in a lifetime. So here we are . . . you and me . . . and we got some shit to sort out, right?”

  Madigan takes a drink. He empties the glass. He pours another. He waits.

  “Right, Vincente?”

  “Don’t call me Vincente.”

  “What? You think I’m scared? You think I don’t have some insurance, Vincent? I have insurance, my friend . . . I have plenty of insurance. We’re gonna make a deal, you and me. We’re gonna make a deal and it’s gonna be really straightforward, and when you hold up your end of the deal then I am gonna just disappear out of your life, out of New York, and you will never see me or hear from me again.”

  Madigan knew he was cornered. This was a turn he had not predicted. Christ, which turns had he predicted? Any of them?

  “So what is it?” Madigan asked.

  “I got a debt to pay,” Bernie said. “As you know all too well.”

  “How much is it?”

  “One eighty.”

  Madigan’s eyes widened. “A hundred and eighty grand. You are out of your fucking mind!”

  “What? You don’t think what I know is worth that much?”

  “No, Bernie, I don’t know how you got into that much of a hole with Sandià.”

  “Oh, screw you, Vincent. You know the score. You get on a winner and it’s never gonna end, and then you get on a loser and you have to keep on because it has to end sometime. It’s the freakin’ game, man. It’s the life. You know the beat here.”

  Madigan raised his hand.

  Bernie fell silent.

  “Have another drink, Bernie.”

  Bernie took the bottle and refilled his own glass.

  “I could take you out the back here and shoot you in the head and no one would be any the wiser.”

  Bernie smiled. “You could, but you ain’t going to.”

  “Why, Bernie? Tell me why I’m not going to do that.”

  “Because my insurance is your insurance.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “This cocksucker, this Walsh guy . . . man, he’ll be onto you in no time. He’s around and about the Yard, he’s talking to people, and it isn’t gonna be long before he runs into someone who gives you up. He’ll find someone like me, but it’ll be someone who’s already paid off the vig to Sandià and doesn’t give a crap about you, and then where are you? He’ll tell Walsh that you’re working muscle for Sandià, and all of a sudden Walsh is putting two and two together and coming up fours. You’ve pissed off enough people, Vincent, and you know it—”

  “So what you got?”

  “I got a soundtrack of my interesting conversation with Detective Walsh.”

  “You got what?”

  “What I said. I got a recording of my conversation with Walsh. Had my phone with me, and there we go . . . The wonders of modern freakin’ technology, right?”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Well, first things first, just to show that I’m on your side, I told Walsh that Cutter was full of shit, and that the fourth man was no more a cop than I am. That threw a spanner in his works, I’ll tell you. Second thing is I give him the impression I know who set up the robbery. I tell him that I know who he’s really looking for. He gets all excited. He’s got a freakin’ hard-on for this, you see? I tell him I know who it is, and I tell him I want something in return.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “He did.”

  “What did he give you?”

  “Told me he’d lift a .22 out of evidence and get rid of it.” Bernie smiled as best he could with his mess of a face. “He promised me a doozy, Vincent, a freakin’ doozy.”

  Once again, Madigan could not hide the change of expression on his face. He looked away for a moment, turned back, and said, “A doozy? Who the hell talks like that, Bernie? Jesus, you sound like a schmuck.”

&nbs
p; “Whatever, Vincente—”

  “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

  “Hey, will you just shut the hell up? This is important. I got this recording, okay? I got a recording of your IA dickhead making a deal with me, and I got it good and safe. So even if whatever the hell you’re doing goes belly-up, you got some insurance against getting the bust. And what I want in return is for you to sort out my business with Sandià.”

  “A hundred and eighty grand.”

  “Yes, indeed. A hundred and eighty grand.”

  “And this recording is where?”

  “On my phone in a safe place.”

  “You’re asking me to trust you, Bernie.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Madigan leaned back. He had not had time to think. Now that he had time, he didn’t know what to think. He was in a box. But there was a good side. If what Bernie Tomczak was telling him was true—and there was no reason to doubt it—then he did indeed have some insurance against Walsh. It just left the matter of a hundred and eighty grand . . .

  “I’d want to hear that conversation, Bernie.”

  “Well, I figured you might say that, and though I don’t trust you enough to bring you the phone and play it for you, I did take a moment to just write it out for you.” Bernie reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a sheet of paper. He straightened it out on the surface of the table and slid it across to Madigan.

  Madigan read through it quickly. Bernie possessed neither the skill nor the intelligence to fabricate such a thing.

  Looks like you need a little time to think this over.

  No. You need to tell me what you know.

  You’re sure, Detective? You’re agreeing with me that if I tell you what I know, then you and I have a deal. I give you a name and my brother’s .22 goes walkabout never to be seen again . . . That’s the deal we’re agreeing right here and right now?

  Yes.

  “So?” Bernie said.

  “So what?”

  “So do we have a deal?”

  Madigan smiled. “You recording me now, Bernie?”

  “Hey, Vincent, just because you beat the living crap out of me on Monday morning doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore.”