‘The parents pulled their kids,’ she told us. ‘After what happened, you can’t fault ’em. I’m waitin’ for Goodwill to come and pick up the junk.’
Though her tone was edged with defiance, Ellen Lodge’s gray eyes seemed weary to me, weary and disappointed. I wondered if she’d expected her husband’s death to lift a burden, only to find the weight on her shoulders increased many times. I wondered, too, if I might take advantage of her vulnerable state, if I might exploit her misery. Sarney had ordered us to go easy on Dante Russo. He hadn’t said anything about Ellen Lodge. She was in play.
Ellen led us across the lower floor of the house, then up a staircase to a sitting room where she dropped into an armchair. The chair and a matching couch were upholstered in an elaborate pattern of intersecting vines and blossoms. The colors were vivid, especially the scarlet roses which matched the ruffled curtains on the bay window. I stood there for a moment, taking it in, before deciding that the room was far too bright for Ellen Lodge. It was a room that spoke to the woman she wished to be. Or, perhaps, to a woman she once was.
Adele and I took seats on opposite ends of the couch. I was going to conduct the interview and I didn’t want my subject distracted. First, I took Ellen Lodge over old ground. Had any memories surfaced? Anything about her husband’s immediate plans? Anything from his letters? How about his demeanor when he left the house?
The last question finally brought a response more complex than a simple shake of the head. In her Times interview she’d described her husband as ‘wired’.
‘Well, I don’t know exactly. I mean he, like, ran upstairs, grabbed his coat and tore outta here, so you gotta figure somethin’ was botherin’ him.’
I might have reminded her that her original description of David Lodge’s movements didn’t include running, grabbing or tearing, but I let it go. Instead, I asked about the phone call that inspired her husband’s agitation. Again, she told me that she hadn’t recognized the voice, that she was only sure it belonged to a man who didn’t have a foreign accent.
‘I was in such a rush. You know, with the kids. I wasn’t payin’ that much attention. In fact, for all I know, the guy coulda been black.’
Score one for Ellen Lodge.
‘You told us the call to your husband came in around nine o’clock,’ I continued. ‘How close to nine would that be?’
‘Within a few minutes either way.’
I opened my jacket, plucked Ellen’s phone records from the inner pocket, then carried them over to her chair. When I knelt down, my face was within arm’s length of hers. ‘Would this be the call, this one at 9:01?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Now what about this one at 9:06? It went to a cell phone and lasted only a few seconds. I was wondering what that call was about.’
Lying to somebody on the other side of the room is one thing; lying to somebody two feet away is another. Though Ellen managed to deliver her lines, she couldn’t look me in the eye.
‘I was callin’ a girlfriend,’ she declared, ‘but I got a wrong number. I didn’t have the time to re-dial.’
I returned to my seat on the couch, then took a moment to re-fold the document and slide it into my jacket pocket. I was stalling for time as I tried to decide whether or not to go in hard. When I looked up, Ellen Lodge was staring at me.
‘So,’ I said, ‘the girlfriend you were trying to reach, her number must have been very similar to the number you called, right?’
I watched her stiffen and knew any direct assault on her story would result in a display of defiance; that I’d only strengthen her resolve. Thus, when she told me she couldn’t recall her friend’s number offhand, that she’d have to look it up, I simply changed the subject.
‘You remember Tony Szarek, the cop they called the Broom?’ I asked. ‘He was gonna testify that he left your husband alone with Clarence Spott.’
‘Sure, how could I forget? What about him?’
‘Szarek’s dead. Two weeks ago. The medical examiner said “probable suicide”, only there wasn’t any note. But then again, Szarek’s blood alcohol level was four times the legal limit, so maybe he was too drunk to hold a pencil. Or maybe he was passed out. Of course, if he was passed out it’s hard to see how he could shoot himself, but you never know. The Broom, he put your husband alone with the prisoner. I tell ya, when I heard he was dead, I took it hard. He was the first guy I wanted to talk with, Ellen. After you, of course.’
I glanced at Adele, then nodded. She took a manila envelope from her bag and passed it over. The envelope contained David Lodge’s personal effects, but I didn’t open it right away. Instead, I held it in my lap as I continued to address Ellen.
‘You know what I keep thinking?’
‘No, what?’
‘I keep thinking that if your husband believed he was innocent, a conversation with Tony Szarek would have been prominent on his to-do list. Definitely.’ I paused long enough to laugh and shake my head. ‘Imagine a guy like David Lodge confronting a miserable drunk like Tony Szarek. How long before the Broom rolled over? An hour? A minute? A second?’
Ellen Lodge folded her arms across her chest. ‘What’s this have to do with me?’
‘Probably nothing,’ I admitted, ‘but did you know your husband was friendly with the prison psychiatrist?’
Ellen ran the fingers of her right hand through her short hair, her eyes closing momentarily as she reviewed her options.
‘No,’ she finally said, ‘I didn’t.’
‘Funny your husband never mentioned it in his letters, because David used to work in the shrink’s office and they were pretty tight. Anyway, the shrink’s name is Vencel Nagy and he claims that your husband left prison fully intending to prove his innocence. And not only didn’t he fear revenge, he never even mentioned DuWayne Spott’s name.’
I stood up and approached Ellen Lodge again, only this time I remained standing. At six-three, I towered over her.
‘You put yourself out front when you lied to me and my partner,’ I told her matter-of-factly. ‘And when you lied to the New York Times. Now, maybe everything’ll go smoothly; maybe the nightmare will just fade away. But if it doesn’t, if there are a few potholes down the road, you gotta figure someone’s gonna come lookin’ for Ellen Lodge the way they came lookin’ for the Broom.’
I took a business card from my shirt pocket and dropped it in her lap. ‘My cell phone number’s on the card.’
By this time Adele was standing in the doorway. I took a step toward her, then turned around.
‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot. We just came by to return your husband’s personal effects.’ I reached into the manila envelope, took out David Lodge’s wallet and placed it on a table to Ellen’s left. ‘One wallet.’ Then I dipped into the envelope again. ‘One Department of Correctional Services photo ID.’ Then again. ‘One appointment card with a parole officer named Paris Blake.’ Then again. ‘Twenty-two dollars in bills.’ Then again. ‘One treasured photograph.’
I placed the photograph in her hand, forcing her to look at herself, posed on a strip of sand in her blue bikini, her youthful sexuality as innocent and unaffected as her smile. That her husband had kept that photo with him throughout his prison years was as inescapable as the fact that she was no longer the girl in the picture. She was smaller now, and frightened, a middle-aged woman who’d taken so many wrong turns she no longer believed there was a right one out there.
Ellen Lodge continued to stare down at herself and I continued to stand in front of her. Maybe she was waiting for me to go away. I can’t be sure. But eventually, though she didn’t speak, she looked up at me through gray eyes that seemed drained of emotion.
‘Any hour of the day or night,’ I reminded her. ‘I’ll be there for you. All you have to do is dial my number.’
THIRTEEN
‘I’m sorry, Corbin,’ Adele told me as the door to Ellen Lodge’s house closed behind us and we descended to the street, ‘for what I said about you wantin
g to be rid of the case.’
I didn’t respond and Adele, apparently, decided that I was still angry. But I hadn’t been angry in the first place. As I’ve already said, Adele had a sharp tongue and I’d learned to live with it. No, what had captured my complete and undivided attention was the ankle-deep snow beneath which my shoes had disappeared. I’d had these loafers for years, had polished and conditioned the leather until the shine appeared to come from within. More to the point, having long ago molded themselves to my feet and toes, they were far and away the most comfortable shoes in my closet.
I don’t like to think of myself as a fuck-up, a label applied to me often enough in the past. But this was beyond fuck-up. This was actually subhuman.
‘You were very good in there,’ Adele continued. ‘The widow didn’t know whether she was coming or going.’
I responded by opening the trunk of the Caprice and searching through our evidence kit until I found a handful of sterile gauze pads. Then I tossed the keys to Adele.
‘If I don’t dry these shoes,’ I explained, ‘I’m gonna end up throwin’ ’em away.’
Though it took her a moment to shift gears, Adele didn’t argue. She slid behind the wheel, then unlocked the passenger’s door. Inside, I wasted no time. I took off my shoes and began to work the gauze into the leather. For all my good intentions, I succeeded only in transferring brown polish from the leather to the gauze pads to my fingers. The shoes remained as damp as ever, as did my socks and feet.
I was still holding my shoes a few minutes later when the cell phone in my jacket pocket began to ring.
‘Do you want me to get that?’ Adele asked.
Ignoring my partner’s sarcasm, I jammed my damp feet into my damp shoes and answered.
‘Corbin here.’
They’re gonna roll your boy tonight, Harry. Unless you find him first.
The phone went dead while I was still fumbling for a response. I put it back in my pocket, then repeated the message to Adele, doing my best to imitate my anonymous informant’s gravelly whisper.
‘The plot thickens, partner,’ she said. ‘Must be all that excrement pouring off the fan blades.’
It was still snowing hard enough to dot the windshield between swings of the wipers. Ahead of us, the rear end of a mini-van swung out as the vehicle tried to negotiate a right turn on the hard-packed snow. We were headed for the adjoining precinct, little more than a mile away, which was fortunate. City-wide, traffic would be a nightmare.
Adele finally broke the silence. ‘Can we assume,’ she asked, ‘that the “boy” we need to find is DuWayne Spott?’
I shoved my feet under the heater, consigning my loafers to their fate. Somehow, dry was looking better and better. ‘Either that or some devious miscreant wants to throw us off the track. But here’s a problem we need to deal with right now. Sarney told us to go ahead with the interview, but not to get in Russo’s face. What exactly did he mean by that?’
‘What do you think he meant?’
I replied without hesitation. ‘You ask a question. You accept the answer that you’re given.’
‘Corbin, are you suggesting that I’m argumentative?’
‘Perish the thought, partner.’
We met Dante Russo in the office assigned to the precinct’s Community Affairs Officer. Russo was alone and sitting behind a desk near the center of the room when we arrived. He motioned us to a pair of small armchairs, explaining that the CAO, Justin Moore, was over at Bushwick High School, delivering an anti-drug lecture to the freshman class.
‘Ya know what I’m sayin’, right? This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Meanwhile, the little humps know more about dope than he’ll ever know.’
As I sat down, I slid my chair toward the end of the desk, separating myself from Adele. The first thing I noticed, before Adele fired off a single question, was that Russo’s warm and friendly voice didn’t match his expression. He sat with his jaw thrust forward, staring down at us along the length of his long nose. The net effect was disdain, an impression reinforced by his full lips which were noticeably compressed.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what can I do ya for?’
Adele crossed her legs, attracting his rapt attention. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it,’ she told him, ‘but Clarence Spott’s case file is missing.’
Russo took a second to answer. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘Eventually, of course, we’ll get a copy from the DA, but for right now, we’re kind of dancing in the dark.’
‘What can I do to help?’
‘Well, why don’t you run down the events leading to Spott’s arrest?’
We got the official version, of that I was certain, the one that held Dante Russo blameless. Clarence Spott was a known drug dealer whose photo had been on display in the muster room for weeks. Russo had recognized him, stopped his car, finally ordered him to get out. Then, in quick succession, Spott called Lodge a pig, Lodge slapped Spott, Spott punched Lodge, Lodge reacted predictably.
‘I eventually managed to pull him off, but Dave’s a big guy and—’
‘Was,’ Adele corrected.
‘Was?’
‘Dave was a big guy. Now he’s dead.’
Russo’s chin rose a millimeter even as his tone became more confidential. ‘Dave was mostly OK when he was sober. But he couldn’t lay off the bottle, not for more than a couple of days. I tried to convince him to check into rehab, but askin’ for help wasn’t his style.’ When Russo paused, Adele simply nodded for him to continue. ‘Anyway, after I got my partner under control, we transported Spott to the house. Lieutenant Whitlock – he was the desk officer – told us to dump him in a cell, which we did. I was out front, talkin’ to Whitlock about whether we should get medical attention for the prisoner, when I found out he was dead. The last I saw of Dave, he was in the cell area with an officer named Szarek.’
‘The Broom.’
‘Yeah, the Broom.’
‘He’s dead, too.’
Russo shrugged. ‘I heard he ate his gun.’
‘Then you heard wrong.’ Adele put her forefinger to her temple and mimed pulling a trigger. ‘He put one in the side of his head.’
Adele was working herself up. That much was obvious. What was equally obvious was that she wasn’t looking at the situation from her subject’s point of view. Russo was holding his nose so high that he might have been sniffing for the carcass of a dead rat. But it was the disconnect between Russo’s tone and his expression that interested me most. The differences were so pronounced that he might have been two people. Not that I felt he was the victim of some obscure personality disorder. Russo’s mastery of the vocal part of his act was impressive – his voice remained honey-smooth and he would not be flustered – but he still needed work on the visual part. He was giving his hand away.
By then, I was sure that Russo was lying, and not without reason. The way he was telling the story, he’d immediately intervened on Spott’s behalf. That wasn’t true. Spott’s extensive injuries had been inflicted in the course of a prolonged beating. More than likely, he and Lodge had carted Spott off to some quiet corner of the precinct where David Lodge had administered a serious tune-up while his partner watched out for the sergeant.
Russo, of course, was in no position to admit to any of the above. He’d escaped punishment because the story he offered the bosses suited their interests, the same story he now offered to Detectives Corbin and Bentibi.
‘Ate his gun,’ Russo told my partner, ‘is just a figure of speech. Szarek and I were never friends.’ Russo’s lips expanded into a smile that didn’t come within a shouting distance of his eyes. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just a couple of items. You told me that you pulled Spott to the curb around three-thirty in the morning.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he was the only one in the car?’
‘Right again.’
‘So, I was wondering what happened to the car? Did you search it?’
>
‘Gimme a break. My partner was bleeding, the prisoner was bleeding. No way did I have time to worry about Spott’s car.’
‘But you notified the sergeant that you were transporting a prisoner to the house, right?’
Russo shook his head. ‘What with all the blood, I thought my best move was to get inside and let the desk officer sweat the details.’
‘Well, did someone go back later? Was the car towed into the precinct?’
Russo’s chin finally came down. ‘Look, the way our snitches are tellin’ the story, David Lodge was blown away by DuWayne Spott who first swore to take revenge seven years ago. So you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t understand why you wanna know what happened to Clarence Spott’s car.’
‘It’s just that . . .’ Adele waved her hand, a circular gesture that might have meant anything. ‘I mean, all this happened on Knickerbocker Avenue. That’s the main drag in Bushwick, the shopping district, and there’s a subway stop at Myrtle Avenue, too.’
‘At three-thirty, everything’s closed up. And the subway – if it should happen to be on time, which mostly it isn’t – runs every twenty-five minutes.’
Adele smiled brightly. ‘What about CSU? Didn’t they process the Knickerbocker scene? Why didn’t they tow the car to their evidence yard?’
Russo’s chin resumed its customary jut and his smile vanished. ‘Detective, I have no idea what happened to Spott’s car. As you can imagine, the house was swarmin’ with bosses at the time. Internal Affairs was there too, and they had lots of questions.’
He should have let it drop at that point. The first rule of resistance, in a police interrogation room or on a witness stand, is never volunteer anything. But Russo needed to impress the two pissant detectives who’d come to question him. He couldn’t help himself.
‘They were gonna try to take me down with Lodge,’ he finally added, ‘but I lawyered up right away.’
‘How about your partner? Did Lodge get a lawyer?’
‘Hey, I was the PBA delegate. Helpin’ cops out is what I did. No way I’d let the cop-haters from IAB get their hands on Davy.’
Bodies in Winter Page 9
