“You got me Holiday’s personnel folder and his F File. What’s the big deal with this?”
“Do you really have to ask that? Holiday’s ancient history as far as the Job is concerned. But Big Building security, and IAD case folders, old or current, are a whole different matter.” She got up and went over to the sink. Staring out into the garden, she said, “I’ve dreaded you most of my adult life.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I come from a cop family, too. My mother was a policewoman. She used to tell me stories about what it was like for women in the Job during the fifties and sixties. How every boss expected head on demand, how women weren’t allowed on patrol, weren’t allowed to sit for the sergeant’s test, how in order to make detective they had to sleep with every asshole muck-amuck in the Job.”
“What the hell has that got to do with me, with us?”
“Everything.” She whirled around to face him. “When I decided that I was going to be the first woman PC in the Job, I was willing to give up marriage and a family to accomplish what I wanted. But I always knew that lurking somewhere was a man capable of derailing me from the fast track to the fourteenth floor. I … I knew that one day I’d meet a kind, decent man.” She looked away. “It gets lonely being the Ice Maiden.”
When he saw the tears filling her eyes, long dormant feelings of tenderness and caring broke through the protective crust he had erected for himself. He went to her, taking her into his arms, pressing her face to his chest. “I’m sorry, Suzanne. Forget that I ever asked. I’m a resourceful SOB, I’ll manage.”
“Do you understand why I can’t get involved?” She turned away from him. “Involved. Yeah, with you, too. It’s not going anywhere, Matthew.”
Stuart could feel the tenderness draining out of him. “I don’t know if it can. There’s too much of me that’s still missing.”
She took him by the hand and led him into the living room, over to the white sofa in the bay window with its view of the upper bay. She sat down and pulled him next to her.
The cuckoo popped out of the clock nine times.
“I’ve read your F File. Now I know that Beansy Rutolo saved the Job for your dad, so I can understand why you want to get the people who did him. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
Stuart looked away from her, trying to deal with his confused thoughts and emotions. “I don’t like the current crop of schemers and plotters. They’ll eat any honest cop alive who gets in their way.” He looked her in the eye and added, “They’re the descendants of Knight’s Roundtable.”
“Knight’s Roundtable,” she echoed. “That’s one of those vague legends in the Job that everyone’s heard of but nobody seems to know much about.”
“You’re the keeper of the F File. You’re not going to tell me that you don’t have the lowdown on the Roundtable?”
“I know what everyone else knows. That in the late fifties drug money began to flood the city, and the Palace Guard didn’t know what to do about the enormous sums the cartels were willing to pay to get their drugs onto the street. So the current chief inspector at the time, Arthur Knight, called a secret meeting of all uniform and detective borough commanders.” She frowned in concentration, trying to remember what she had read and heard. “They met on Thursday, October 2, 1963, at the Hotel Jefferson on East Fifty-sixth. They sat around a round table in a private dining room and decided the future direction of corruption within the Job. You know what their decision was? ‘Good money’ won.”
“That’s right,” he said. “And good money won for the same reasons that the Five Families voted not to get involved in the drug trade. They all knew that the money was so big, they would lose control of their people. The men sitting around that round table decided that in order to control corruption, they were going to put their people in every sensitive assignment in the Job.”
“It was all a big waste of time. Bad money won out anyway.”
“Narcotics was the wave of the future,” Stuart said.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” She walked over to the piano and picked up a picture. “I’ve never noticed this one before. Your family?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever hear from your ex?”
“We have no reason to stay in touch.”
She returned the frame, picked up another one. “I like this one of your dad and the nun.”
“My aunt Elizabeth. My father’s sister.”
She put the picture back on the piano and began wandering around the room, looking at his things. She strolled over to the mahogany bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines of books.
She reached into the bookcase and slid out a glass-encased teakwood plaque with an old .32-caliber Colt revolver with a four-inch barrel. The metal plate on the bottom was inscribed “Patrolman William J. Stuart, NYPD. Appointed January 1, 1887. Retired July 2, 1927.” She held it out to him. “Your grandfather?”
“Yes. His class was the first on the Job to be armed on duty.”
“And today we’re packing nines with fourteen-round magazines.” She went over to the piano and sat on the stool.
“What about taking a drive to City Island later for some lobster?” Stuart asked.
“I’d love it.” She looked up at him. He kissed the top of her head.
The weather-bleached wood of Rafter’s restaurant was mirrored in the waters of Eastchester Bay. The City Island restaurant sat atop pilings on the water’s edge of Belden Point, the island’s southernmost tip.
Stuart and the Ice Maiden sat at a table with a great view of the bay. She had changed into khaki slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt. The sleeves of a yellow sweater were tied casually around her neck. She wore white Dock-Sides with brown leather laces and no socks.
They had both ordered two-pound lobsters, steamed and opened. He had ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé wine. Looking out across the bay at Big Tom Island, she said, “Rumor has it that Patrick Sarsfield Casey lost his suit. The decision should be coming down next week.”
“Too bad. He was a good boss to work for.”
She ran her finger over the stem of her wineglass. “Do you really believe that Knight’s Roundtable yarn?”
“Absolutely.”
“And do you also believe that there is a cabal of dirty cops who protect the bad guys?”
He sipped his wine, watching her. “I believe that there are people in this Job who have sold their shields.”
They fell silent, both suddenly aware of the clatter of glasses and the buzz of conversations around them. They had been so preoccupied that they hadn’t noticed the restaurant filling up with other diners.
He made idle circles on the table with his glass, watching her attack a lobster claw. This afternoon she was fully into the role of a beautiful woman sharing a long lunch with her part-time lover. He liked her sexual honesty. She was a woman who knew what she enjoyed and made no bones about it. He had had a brief affair once with a woman who would make love only in the dark, covered by a sheet, and who thought oral sex was a town in Oregon. Suzanne was an exciting, sexually confident, and assertive woman without inhibitions.
She looked up from the claw and caught him staring at her. “What are you thinking about, Matthew?”
“About the many faces of Suzanne Albrecht.”
“And which one do you like the most?”
“This one, and the one I made love to last night and this morning.”
She laid her hand on top of his. “Me, too.”
An awkward silence came between them. They listened to the rhythmic lapping of the water against the pilings. After a while she said, “Most of the people I’ve met on the Job are honest and dedicated.”
“But a few scumbags in the right places can do a whole lot of damage. One of the biggest problems in the Job is the ‘Sweep it under the rug, I don’t wanna know about it’ phobia of the Palace Guard. They’re so terrified of bad press that they would rather see bad guys walk than do anything that might
jeopardize their lousy careers.”
“You sound like a one-man IAD crusade.”
“I’m one pissed-off cop.”
She looked out at the boats sailing the open bay. “Your righteous anger makes me ashamed. You’re trying to do your job, and I’m more interested in my career path than in being a good cop.”
“When you’re the PC you’ll end the reign of Knight’s Round-table and his jolly band of thieves.”
They picked up their glasses and made a silent toast. After they finished lunch they wandered the beach hand in hand, not talking, enjoying the glorious day and each other’s company.
Afterward when he drove her home, she slid across the seat and kissed him tenderly. “Thank you for a wonderful lunch, a wonderful day.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took his hand in hers and began tracing his veins. “I like the time we spend together, Matthew.”
“I do, too.”
She watched her finger moving over the blue network on the back of his hand. “Have you ever thought of marrying again?”
“Something broke inside of me when I lost David and Pat. There isn’t a whole lot left to commit.”
Suzanne’s voice took on an impatient edge. “You’re probably better off staying single. And me, too.” She opened the door and got out. As he watched her disappear inside the lobby of her apartment building, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and despair almost paralyzed him. He sat for a while, staring through the windshield, trying to decide what to do with the rest of his day. His piano lesson was on Tuesday, and he hadn’t practiced a whole lot. There was a new Clint Eastwood cop movie he wanted to see. But in the end he decided to drive to the Squad, reread the case folders, and listen to cop chatter bubbling over the radio.
Andrea Russo arrived home a few minutes after seven Saturday night. She was bone tired and hurting from unusually bad monthly cramps. She planned to take a long hot bath to relax. After that she was going to watch a video of Shadowlands, with Anthony Hopkins. She’d heard that it was a real tearjerker. She loved tearjerkers. And after the movie she was going to crawl between the clean sheets and savor the comforting cool smoothness of the cotton as it turned into a cocoon of relaxing warmth. She did not have to work tomorrow, so she planned on sleeping late, reading the Sunday papers in bed, working on one of her term papers, and watching another tearjerker.
She walked into the bedroom, kicking off her sneakers. She unbuckled her belt and wriggled out of her jeans. She removed her blouse and bra and fell across the bed, staring up at the thin crack that zigzagged the ceiling. I must get around to plastering that damn thing, she thought.
As she reviewed the events of that day, she was puzzled by Holiday’s unusual kindness. He’d even noticed she wasn’t feeling well and sent her home early. He must have gotten laid last night, Andrea concluded. She lifted her pelvis and worked off her underpants, then tossed them on the bed. She sighed as a cool breeze slipped through the open window and caressed her body. She heaved herself off the bed and walked into the bathroom.
Joey “the Hippo” Montie drove the stolen car to Rutland Road and stopped in the darker shadows of a tree. He killed the lights and the engine. The .32 S&W tucked inside his white-and-blue designer warm-up suit was cold against his massive belly. His eyes strained as his gaze zeroed in on her house. Her rusted Plymouth Valiant was parked in front. The house was in darkness save for the reflection of the bedroom light. She’s in the bedroom, he thought, checking out the rest of the street. Mary Terrella’s place was in total darkness. No lovers parked anywhere; deserted street. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and heaved his short, heavy body out of the car.
He kept to the darkest pools of shadows. When he reached the Terrella house he stepped onto the porch and lifted up the right front edge of the doormat. The key was there, just the way it was supposed to be. He picked it up and walked across the street.
Andrea stood in front of her bathroom mirror, rubbing cream over her body. This was pamper time. As she rubbed the lotion across her breasts, she thought of feeling a man on top of her and began to feel her nipples getting hard. She moaned as her fingers kneaded her tits. Her lethal weapon number one, a two-headed vibrator, was plugged in and waiting under the bed.
She walked back into the bedroom and was reaching under the bed when she heard a scraping sound behind her. She whirled around and gasped when she saw the almost grotesque figure blocking the doorway. Fear gripped her body; her legs began shaking, and she started to rock from side to side.
Hippo smiled as he looked straight at her with pitiless eyes.
When she saw the black hole pointing at her face, she squeezed her eyes shut, clamped her hands over her face, and begged, “Please don’t.”
The slug ripped between the ring and middle fingers of her left hand, plowing into her skull a centimeter above her eyebrow. The force of the impact threw her body on top of the bed, its sheets soaked with her blood.
The Hippo tucked the .32 back inside his warm-up suit and walked over to the bed to see what she had been reaching for. When he saw the vibrator he let out a raucous laugh. He always wanted to use one of them with Rose Marie but had been too embarrassed to walk into one of those sex stores and buy one. He unplugged the machine, stuffed it into his pocket, and left.
Outside on the porch, he locked the door. Looking up and down the block, he saw nobody, so he stepped back and rammed his stubby foot into the door above the lock. The door splintered open. He went back across the street and replaced the key under the Terrella doormat. His excitement mounted at the thought of watching his girlfriend use the vibrator. He hurried to the car.
11
Who’s catching?”
“I’ll check,” Whitehouser said, and walked over to the sixty sheet on top of the library cabinet. This was the second time in three hours that the same guy had called, wanting to know who was catching the new cases coming into the Squad. Scanning the sheet, he saw that Borrelli had caught the first two hours. Kahn was up now; Jones would cover the end of the tour.
He went back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Who is this, anyway?”
“Goldstein in Missing Persons. We got a missing seventy-year-old male who resides in your precinct. His daughter reported directly to us. I’ll do all the paper on it and send whoever’s up a copy of the ‘thirteen.’”
“Helen Kahn is up.”
“Thanks,” Goldstein said, and hung up.
Whitehouser replaced the receiver and looked across the squad room at Kahn, who was bending over an open file drawer, tucking in case folders. Great ass, he thought, getting up and going over to her. “Goldstein in Missing Persons is gonna be sending you a missing persons report on a seventy-year-old male.”
“Thanks,” she said as she pushed in a case folder.
He moved closer so that his leg pressed against her. “You married or otherwise involved?”
“Something like that,” she said, edging away from him.
“Too bad.” As he walked away, he fumbled at her crotch.
She froze, unwilling to believe what had just happened. When she recovered from the shock, she wheeled and saw him leering at her. She walked calmly over to him and slapped him in the face with the full force of her outrage.
Borrelli and Jones looked up from their typewriters, stunned.
Whitehouser leaped up. “Who the fuck …!”
“What the hell is going down there?” Stuart barked from the doorway.
“Nothing,” Whitehouser growled, slinking back to his desk.
Kahn walked back to the open file drawer. Stuart stormed through the squad room, passing her, saying, “In my office. Now.”
She banged the drawer shut and followed him inside.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Nothing, Lou. Just a misunderstanding.”
“Helen, I’m not about to let some asshole screw up this squad. Now you tell me exactly what went down out there.”
She avoided his glare. “Nothing, Lou.”
His temples throbbed as his anger rose. “Outside, and send him in here.” Helen’s a stand-up gal, he thought. I’m going to have to act on my gut instincts.
She left the office, motioned for Whitehouser to go inside, and ran crying out of the squad room.
Borrelli and Jones ran out after her.
She ran down the hall to the female bathroom and darted inside, slamming the door behind her.
“You’re out of here,” Stuart barked at Whitehouser.
“For what?”
“Assholery in the first fucking degree, that’s what.” He snapped up the phone and dialed the chief of detectives’ office.
The detective division’s XO answered, “Inspector Gebheart.”
“Inspector, this is Stuart from the Seven One Squad, I need to speak with the boss.”
“It’s Saturday, he’s not around. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a serious personnel problem. I’m either going to suspend or lock up the newest member of this command. But before I do, I’d like a little guidance from the c of d.”
Stuart heard a stifled groan over the phone. “Whitehouser?”
“You got it, Inspector.”
“Don’t do anything until I get back to you.”
“Ten-four.” He hung up and glared at Whitehouser. “Wait outside.”
“Lou, lemme explain, f’crissake,” Whitehouser pleaded.
“You dealt this hand, not me.”
Stuart went outside and looked around for Kahn. Not seeing her, he asked Borrelli, “Where’s Helen?”
“She ran into the head, crying,” Borrelli said.
Stuart hurried out of the squad room.
Borrelli glared at Whitehouser and said, “You’re a lowlife prick.”
Going along the corridor that connected the detective squad with the precinct’s anticrime unit, Stuart saw her coming out of the bathroom. He went over to her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Lou. Thanks.” She had repaired her makeup and regained her composure.
Jones came running out of the squad room. “Lou,” he called out, “the desk officer just phoned up. We got a homicide at Four-oh-one Rutland Road.”
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