by Howard Fast
“He’s gone,” he said softly. “We tried. Those big slugs ripped him to pieces.”
I suppose his face was enough and they must have caught some of his words. Finelli’s mother let out a shriek, and Paula began to sob uncontrollably. One of Finelli’s squad went to her and put his arm around her. The doctor drew me aside. “Is your first name Harry?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he must have meant you. We were beginning the anesthesia and at the moment he was feeling no pain. The nerves were shattered. He said, ‘Hey, Doc, tell Harry I found the sugar.’” The doctor paused. “Does that make any sense to you?”
“It makes sense, yes.”
“He’s a Catholic, of course?”
“That’s right.”
“Who’ll take care of things? Our priest was with him. She’ll want to know that.”
Pointing. “That’s his wife. The old lady’s his mother. Those two men are from his squad. They’ll take care of everything, and they’ll notify his precinct and the people downtown.” I went over to the uniformed cop from our precinct, and I told him that there was nothing for him to do there and that he could go back to the station house.
“Let’s go,” I said to Toomey.
“It stinks,” Toomey said. “The whole goddamn thing stinks. Being a cop stinks.”
“You can say that.” I went over to Paula, who was kneeling on the floor, her face in the old lady’s lap. Mrs. Finelli, the mother, was keening a soft wail of pain as old as time. I raised Paula to her feet as gently as I could.
“I’m Joey’s friend,” I said.
“I know, Harry.”
“I’m still his friend. You know that. His soul knows that. And when you think of him, he’s there.”
“I know, Harry.”
“So if you need me, I’m here. And the department will take care of things—everything, Paula. You’ll always have enough to live on, you and the kids.”
“Thank you, Harry.” She embraced me. “God bless you.”
It’s not as hard with Catholics. They still believe in something. I wished to God that I believed in something as I walked out of the hospital with Toomey.
On the street, careful, nervous as a deer in the woods, my hand on my gun, I got into my car, which Toomey was still driving, and I said to him, “Toomey, ask me who killed Joe Finelli.”
“I’m asking.”
“And I’m going to tell you, and do you know why? Because I’m walking a tightrope between the Trade Centers, and any moment it can break. So if I’m dead, you stay alive and run this down, or Finelli and I will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“We’ll both of us stay alive, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe. Now listen. Jake Hallihan is responsible for the death of Joe Finelli.”
“The captain over—”
“Just listen. You remember that big cocaine bust at the Seventy-ninth Street marina?”
“Yeah, the one where the coke got lost.”
“It didn’t get lost. Hallihan had it stored overnight in his office and he switched it for powdered sugar. I suggested to Joe that he ask around the neighborhood for a store that might remember selling out maybe its whole stock of powdered sugar. Not so hard, because over there on the West Side, only a couple of supermarkets stay open to midnight and maybe half a dozen delis. Before Finelli died, he told the doctor to tell me that he found the sugar. The doctor asked me did it make sense?”
“Hallihan. My God, that’s hard to believe.”
“Believe it. I think Courtny’s in it too, but I have no proof. It ties into a guy named Porfetto, who runs a killing machine that makes the old Murder Incorporated look like kids’ play.”
“Porfetto?”
We were at the station house now, double-parking as always.
“That’s right.”
“Lieutenant, is he the guy who’s getting an award tomorrow at the Waldorf?”
“Same one, yes.”
Toomey shook his head and said, “It beats me. I used to try to figure it out. No more. It makes no goddamn sense at all. Courtny tells me to take Keene and Bolansky and Henderson and stake out the motor entrance to the Waldorf, where Porfetto is the big man tomorrow. It’s a lot of plainclothes cops in a situation where they got uniforms outside as usual, and I tell him I can’t put it together until the lieutenant gets here. Fuck the lieutenant, he says. This is from Washington, and I’m still captain here. That’s what he tells me.”
“What’s from Washington?” I asked him. At this point, far from thinking straight, I was hardly thinking at all.
“The extra protection for Porfetto.”
“Well, they ask for it when they think a diplomat’s in danger.”
“He’s not a diplomat. You going to take this from Courtny?”
“Toomey, what the hell do I do? Go up there and tell him to keep his lousy fingers off my squad? The hell with it!”
The reporters and the media had just been coming into the hospital as we left, but here at the station house they were all set up, the trucks from CBS and the other networks and the newspaper people, too. When they grabbed Toomey and me, I explained that nothing was coming down here and that the people from Lieutenant Finelli’s precinct were over at Lenox Hill Hospital. Some of them exchanged looks, and the lights went on, the cameras focused on Toomey and me. One of them asked Toomey to stand aside, so that they could get me alone. Toomey led the way into the house, and I followed him. The regulars at the precinct from the Daily News and the Post tried to get to me, but Keene, evidently waiting for us, interposed his huge bulk, pulled us into the men’s room, and put his weight against the door behind him.
“Whatever your reason is, thank you,” I said to Keene.
“Lieutenant,” Keene said, “I just couldn’t let you and Toomey go up there without some warning. They got two of them pissbellies from Internal Affairs waiting for you.”
“Internal Affairs—you got to be kidding.”
“I am not kidding. Some asshole leaked it, and since the video kids were here for poor Joe Finelli being shot, they figured they’d get a few frames of you. How is the lieutenant?”
“He’s dead.”
“No. Poor guy, poor guy. I used to work with Finelli about seven years ago. He was tough and hard, but you come to him with bad trouble, he’d give you his last dollar. I seen it.”
“What are they here for?” Toomey asked. “For the lieutenant or me?”
“I guess it’s mostly the lieutenant, Sergeant. But they said they want you there.”
“All right. We’ll go upstairs now.”
We moved quickly, out of the men’s room and up the staircase at the back of the station, which led to the detective squad room. The TV people were inside now and they tried to get to us with their mikes, but Keene spread his arms, pushing them back and explaining that police work required all the floor space in the station and they’d just have to go outside. It worked. It always worked with Keene because of his deep, rumbling voice and the spread of his arms.
I never met a cop who had anything good to say about Internal Affairs, and yet it makes sense that a police force like ours, with over thirty thousand men and women in its various parts, needs a disciplinary force. It doesn’t matter that we have the best police force in the country, and as I have said, maybe in the world. We have Christians and Jews and a sprinkling of Muslims, blacks and whites, and men and women, and Irish, Italians, Hungarians, Russians, Poles, Chinese, Hispanics, and any other ethnic group you can think of. And we work together with more human decency and compassion than any other cops I ever heard of, and we have higher IQs and a damn sight more common sense than those fancy but not so bright clean-cut characters who make up the FBI and the CIA—but we’re people; and in a group of people that size, you’re bound to have a reasonable selection of crooks, con artists, bunco players, and plain bums who are on the pad. It couldn’t be otherwise, and you couldn’t run our force without an inside force to police it. That’
s Internal Affairs. That doesn’t mean anyone likes them.
I didn’t like them, but I had been able to avoid them in terms of direct involvement. Now they were waiting for me, one of them pudgy, natty, wearing a three-piece suit, a pale mustache, and glasses, the other a middle-aged athlete with the neck of a line tackle. They introduced themselves as Flecker and Smithson. They told Toomey to wait and they took me into the interrogation room. As we passed Courtny’s office, he grinned with pleasure and nodded.
They weren’t unfriendly. We sat down around the table, and they said I could smoke if I wanted to. I said that I didn’t smoke, and they said that they didn’t smoke either. Flecker, the neat one, took a folder out of his briefcase.
“It’s your record,” he explained, opening it and glancing at it. “We been through it already. It’s a good record, a damn good record.”
“Actually, what we did,” said Smithson, the line tackle, “was to compare some dates. Did you know that Inspector Max Roberts, the zone commander, was due to retire first week in April?”
Before I could answer, Flecker cut in, “You know, Lieutenant, you’re not obliged to answer any of our questions, and you’re not under arrest or duress or even suspicion. This is just an inquiry for the good of the force.”
And I was born yesterday, I thought, but said, “Yes, I understand that.”
“And about the zone commander?”
“I had heard some rumors. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Just indifferent to it?”
“No, not exactly indifferent,” I said, wondering what on earth the impending resignation of Max Roberts had to do with anything. “Officers resign. They get old, they get sick, sometimes they get sick and tired.”
“So the passing of Inspector Roberts wouldn’t mean a thing?”
“That isn’t what I said, and I damn well don’t want words put into my mouth. I said inspectors retire. Of course, I’m interested in who becomes the zone commander. Inspector Roberts is a very nice and intelligent man. I work well with him. I have a squad of detectives that I’m responsible for, and a zone commander could make my life miserable.”
“Would you mind if we record this?” Flecker asked, reaching into his briefcase.
“I would! I sure as hell would! I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t know of any reason why you should be here. I’ll answer your questions and I’ll talk to you, but I won’t be recorded without an attorney.”
“Okay, okay,” Flecker said. “Don’t get excited.”
“Excited? I’m not excited. I am sore as hell. I am pissed off that you characters can come here and interrogate me with stupid prosecutor talk. I want to know why. And I want to see that tape recorder in your briefcase. I want it here on the table, where I can see it’s not running.”
“You’re too suspicious, Lieutenant.” He took out the tape recorder, a small one, and placed it on the table.
“Not running. Try to trust us.”
“That’ll be the day. Now what’s all this about Inspector Roberts? Suppose you give me a straight answer and stop trying to be cute.”
“You’re not Mr. Nice Guy.” Smithson sighed.
“None of us are.”
“All right, Lieutenant. Did you know that last month your name was put up to fill the post of zone commander after Inspector Roberts resigned?”
“Come on. What kind of crap is that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s bullshit. They don’t pick up lieutenants and make them zone commander. They don’t go over the heads of the captains and the uniforms. Well, maybe it could happen in Manhattan South or at Fort Apache. Not here. We don’t have that kind of war here.”
Flecker shrugged.
“Why should we lie?” Smithson asked.
“God knows.”
“All we asked is did you know that your name was put up?”
“No, I didn’t. And who put me up?”
“Captain Courtny.”
“Oh, Jesus God, that’s to laugh.”
“Why?”
“Courtny. I’m poison ivy to Courtny.”
“Maybe he wanted to get rid of you. Maybe he wanted to get you out of here, if you’re such a pain in the ass to him. He wasn’t out of line. You got a brilliant record, Golding, but I can see just sitting here that you could be a pain in the ass to work with.”
“Thank you. But tell me this—what in hell difference does it make whether or not I knew that my name had been put up?”
“It’s a question of motivation,” Flecker said. “If you knew about your nomination and if you wanted it badly enough, you might just have done what you’re accused of. It could give you a real running head start for the job.”
“I won’t ask you what I’m accused of,” I said tiredly. “I’m in a mood to tell you both to fuck off and walk out of here.”
“Look, sir,” Smithson said, “maybe we came on too strong. How would you like our lousy job?”
I stood up and said, “I’d starve first or clean toilets.”
“Sure. Come on, Lieutenant, sit down and let’s talk civilized about this. We have a charge against you that we have to talk about. It may satisfy your ego to walk out of here, but in the long run, it can only hurt you.”
“Okay.” I sat down. “Talk. I’m listening. But don’t try to be cute.”
“You ever hear of Paul Grogan?”
“No. Should I?”
“He’s one of the millionaire types on the board of directors of the museum.”
“Go on.”
“You never heard of him. We thought maybe you had and that he was working some kind of personal vendetta because maybe you gave him a fat ticket.”
“I’m a lieutenant of detectives,” I said icily. “I don’t give out tickets.”
“Joke. All right, this here Paul Grogan swears out a complaint and hands it in downtown where he knows Ed Crown, the chief of detectives. It charges you with stealing that Vermeer the media made such a fuss about and taping it under the bench, so you could discover it later and become a big media hero and maybe walk into the zone commander job.”
“What?”
“Yeah—that’s it.”
“Why don’t you say joke again? You two are full of jokes, but this does it.”
“We didn’t write the complaint, Lieutenant. Why don’t you talk to us instead of putting us down? What the hell are we, lepers?”
I nodded. He was right, and I told him so.
“Let’s begin with first things first. Is there any substance to this complaint?”
“None. I didn’t know one damn thing about the zone commander job, and if I had I’d have enough brains to know how the department works. I could kiss the commissioner’s ass in Macy’s window for forty-eight hours and it wouldn’t buy me that job, and I would have to be a low-grade moron to think up such a crazy caper as that Vermeer thing to buy points.”
Flecker nodded. “I see it that way. But we got to go through the motions. Point two—do you have any connection whatsoever with this Grogan?”
“Never met him, never heard of him.”
“When was the last time you or your wife visited the museum? I mean before the robbery.”
“We haven’t been there for months.”
“Grogan asserts he spoke to a guard who says otherwise.”
“That’s to be expected,” I said. “If this bastard Grogan wants to frame me, he might as well buy a guard for the package. What else have you got?”
He reached into his briefcase and came out with a brown envelope, from which he extracted a handful of paper scraps and paper ribbons.
I told him, “They learn from TV. The killers are the idiots of the world and they suck on a glass tit.”
“I take it that means something, Lieutenant. Meanwhile—” He held up the tangle of paper scraps.
“The magazine pages from which the ransom note was cut. You found it in my apartment, which has now become a corridor. I carefully saved those
incriminating pieces because if I put them in the garbage someone might find them and discover my heinous crime. So I put it all in an envelope and shoved it into my desk or the fridge or some such place. That’s because I was born brain-damaged and didn’t have enough sense to put them in an ashtray and burn them or flush them down the toilet.”
“That’s what it looks like,” Smithson said. “What can we do, Lieutenant? Tear up the complaint and say it’s too stupid to float? We couldn’t do that. You know that, and there’s been so much talk about how you reached under the bench and found the painting that as crazy as this complaint is, it makes some kind of point.”
“What kind of point?”
“Beats me. Anyway, we talked to you.”
“What are you charging me with?”
“We’re not charging you, but for the time being, we got to recommend your suspension. So you better hand over your badge and gun to Captain Courtny.”
“That’s it. That puts me out of the running, doesn’t it?” I thought of what Fran had said this morning about crucifixion taking the place of execution. It wasn’t exactly crucifixion, but it hurt.
Flecker said, “Lieutenant, why don’t you go downtown today and have a talk with Frank Opperman. He’s the D.A. who takes most of the bunco stuff, and he’ll be dealing with this. He’s a good man.”
“Bring your lawyer,” Smithson said. “That’s the best advice I can give you. You don’t want to talk to Opperman without a lawyer.”
Flecker said, “Ask Sergeant Toomey to step in here.”
“What do you want Toomey for? He had no part of this. He wasn’t involved in the museum thing.”
“He’s your number one man, right? All we want is to check out some dates and places.”
“Are you going to suspend him?”
“No. We got no complaint about Toomey. We just want to talk to him.”
I told Toomey that they wanted to talk to him. Hennesy and Keene were working at their desks with a couple of pushers or muggers or robbers, and they looked at me but didn’t say anything. I went into Courtny’s office. He wasn’t grinning. He simply watched me in silence as I put my gun and badge on his desk. As I turned to leave, he said, “Golding, you’re a good cop. I don’t believe any of this shit.”
