“And whadda we do if he leaves the precinct or the borough?” Siracusa asked.
“We stay on ’em,” Nagel said.
They looked at the sergeant. She peered out the periscope at Frankie Bones squeezing back into the car and said, “I say we do it.”
The drone of the late morning traffic came from Empire Boulevard as Joe Borrelli drove the unmarked police car into Rutland Road. As soon as he spotted the black sedan parked at the curb in front of Mary Terrella’s house, he slammed on the brakes.
“There’s anticrime,” Stuart said, gesturing to the gray van parked on the other side of the street a block and a half away. “Get us out of here.”
Borrelli shoved the transmission into reverse and shot the car backward across Schenectady Avenue, backing into a no parking zone with a squeal of brakes.
Kahn, who was sitting behind the driver, patted Borrelli on the shoulder. “Nice driving, Joe.”
Stuart snatched the handset out of its cradle and keyed the button. “Anticrime, whaddaya got?”
“Frankie Bones and the Hershey Bar are inside,” Christopher radioed over the detective band. “We picked them up visiting the retiree. After they left him, they came directly here. We’re gonna give ’em a tail when they leave.”
“Thanks,” Stuart radioed, and hooked the handset back into its niche.
They waited in silence for almost thirty minutes. Then the front door opened and Joey Hershey Bar stepped onto the Terrella porch. He stood beside the vine-covered trellis with his eyes fixed up on the police station straddling Empire Boulevard. Three minutes later Frankie Bones emerged from inside the house. He turned and kissed Mary Terrella good-bye, then the men walked along the stone pathway to their car.
Only after the black sedan had driven into Troy Avenue did the surveillance van pull slowly away from the curb.
“Let’s wait a few minutes,” Stuart said. “I wouldn’t want her to think we saw her boyfriend leaving.”
“You think Terrella had a hand in the Russo homicide?” Borrelli asked the whip.
Stuart’s eyes swiveled to the memorial cross he had chalked onto Andrea’s house. His answer came in a low, rough voice. “Yes, I do. I just don’t buy that smashed-in-door bit.”
Kahn said, “Crime scene took that lock apart. Their report states that it wasn’t picked or raked open. Which indicates that the shooter gained entry with a key.”
“Let’s go visit Mary,” Stuart said.
Borrelli waited behind the wheel as Stuart and Kahn stepped up onto the sagging porch. Kahn rang the doorbell. They heard the approaching footsteps from inside. “Yeah?” a woman barked.
“Police,” Kahn said, sliding her shield case out of her blazer’s vent pocket.
The door flew open. Terrella saw Stuart. Her eyes grew wide. She clasped her hands to her face and stumbled a few paces back into the house, as though she’d been punched in the chest. Then, without warning, she hurled herself at them, her arms flailing, pushed past them, and ran out into the roadway, screaming, “Help! Help! Help!”
Borrelli leaped from the car and ran over to her, attempting to calm her. She darted behind the detective, using him as a shield, jabbing an accusatory finger at Stuart.
“Keep him away from me,” she pleaded.
“He’s a police lieutenant,” Kahn said.
“No. No. He’s not,” Terrella shouted, and broke from Borrelli’s protection and ran back inside the house, where she slammed and locked the door.
The detectives stood in the roadway, exchanging baffled looks. “What the hell do you make of that?” Borrelli asked.
Stuart said, “You see those eyes of hers? There was no fear there. We’ve just been had.”
“You want to take down the door and drag her ass into the squad room?” Kahn asked.
Stuart spread his hands palms upward in a gesture of frustration. “That would not be a smart move. Let’s go back to the squad.”
Sergeant Arlene Christopher sat on the ribbed floor of the gray van, tugging off her jeans. She tossed them aside and plunged her legs into a beige skirt, which she pulled up over her body and zipped. Nagel handed her a black wig that she fitted on over her own brown hair. She thrust her hand into her bodysuit and worked up the receiver wire, which she plugged into her left ear. She lifted her hand and spoke into the sleeve mike. “Testing, one, two, three.” Her voice came over the surveillance network loud and clear.
The anticrime team had trailed the Buick along Flatbush Avenue and over the Manhattan Bridge into Chinatown. It continued to head uptown.
The van was crawling along Third Avenue, lost inside a jumble of buses and trucks. The Buick was inching along eleven cars ahead and to the left of the van. The surveillance vehicle containing the cops crept into the intersection of Thirty-ninth Street and stopped, gridlocking the street in a mass of traffic, instantly bringing a cacophony of horns and profanity down on them.
Siracusa peered through the periscope. He called out, “They’re trying to get all the way over to the left.”
One by one, the cars and trucks untangled and drove up the avenue.
As the Buick turned west into Forty-second Street, Frankie Bones said, “Lemme out across the street from the office.”
“You want I should wait?”
“I’m gonna be a while, so why don’t you put the car away?”
“Okay.”
When the Buick drew into the curb in front of the Hyatt Hotel, a city bus pulled in behind it, trapping it in the hotel’s taxi queue. The van was stopped at the light across the Lexington Avenue intersection. Nagel shoved open the rear door and jumped down. Christopher followed. Nagel made his way through the stalled traffic to the north side of the street. Christopher crossed to the south side. Nagel rubbed the side of his nose and said into the sleeve mike, “Frankie is crossing to the south side of Four Two.”
“I see ’im,” Christopher radioed.
When Frankie Bones walked into the vaulted lobby of the Chanin Building and saw his nephew Carmine approaching him, he stepped off to his right, waiting in front of the lobby flower shop.
Christopher pushed her way through the revolving doors and walked past them over to the black glass building directory set into the marble wall.
“Where ya goin’?” Frankie Bones asked his nephew.
“I have to go pick up the law firm tapes.”
Frankie Bones saw concern in his nephew’s eyes and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Danny wants to start investing in discos, pizza parlors, and restaurants in Eastern Europe. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Danny L hasn’t been wrong so far. Everything he puts money into earns big. We’ll talk about it later.”
Christopher ran her finger over the directory, pretending to search for a name. She muttered into her sleeve mike, “Jack, glue on to the guy with the black hair and briefcase pushing through now.”
“Got ’im,” Nagel radioed as Carmine Marino pushed through the door.
When Stuart returned to the Squad he found Patrick Sarsfield Casey installed behind his desk, drinking the bitter remains of the morning coffee. A black briefcase stood on his desk. The inspector rose and picked up the briefcase. “Here’s your Cellmate. You can have it for seven days, then it’s gotta go back to Narcotics. There’s a phone number inside. Call the unit when you’re finished.”
“Thanks, Inspector.” Stuart took the case and put it under his desk.
“Where’s Kahn? I wanted to talk to her about what happened.”
“I sent her and Borrelli to surrogate court and the Department of Health to check out a few things.” He gazed out the window at Pigtown. “A strange thing happened this morning. We went to question Mary Terrella on the Russo homicide and she went ballistic on us. Ran screaming out into the street, then back inside her house and bolted the door.”
“Any idea why?”
“It was an act.” Stuart’s expression was grim. “I have a feeling that I’
m being set up.”
Casey watched him speculatively for a long moment before he made an impatient gesture, saying, “Matt, don’t go paranoid on me, hmmm? People don’t frame cops.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” But he didn’t sound convinced.
Glancing sharply at Stuart, Casey said, “I know Whitehouser’s a problem, but hang in there with him awhile longer. He’s not long for the Job.”
What do you get for saving his ass? Stuart wanted to ask, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “I’ll do what I can. But we both know that guys like that are their own worst enemies. And the hardest part is that when they take their inevitable fall, they always take somebody else along with them, usually their boss or partner who tried to cover for them.”
“I know.” His tone was placatory. He took a deep breath and said, “I might be retiring.”
Stuart nodded. “The Job’ll miss you. You’re one of the legends.”
“There are no legends in the fuckin’ Job. Only assholes who think they’re legends.”
Detective Calvin Jones logged the telephone message at 1315 hours. It directed Lieutenant Matthew Stuart, Seventy-first Detective Squad, to report in civilian clothes to the Internal Affairs Bureau, 315 Hudson Street, Room 16, on Thursday, September 29, 1994, at 0900. “GO 15 applies.”
The second message was logged at 1320 hours and directed Detective Helen Kahn to report at the same time. “GO 15 applies.”
When Stuart stood in the squad room, reading the message for the first time, a jolt of anxiety punched his chest. Every cop’s nightmare was to be snagged in the web of the Job’s internal system of justice. The ominous “GO 15 applies” meant that he and Kahn might be subject to criminal charges or dismissal from the department. Had the scumbags at IAD found out about the mug shots they’d discovered at the Manny Rodriguez crime scene?
Stuart’s mind raced through a litany of possibilities before he overcame his paranoia. He reached down into the library cabinet and took out the heavy looseleaf binder with the blue cover and the department seal. He opened it and thumbed rapidly through its pages until he reached the provisions of General Order 15, which had been incorporated into the Patrol Guide under the provisions of 118–9, titled “Interrogation of Members of the Service.”
Jones walked over to him and asked, “What does it say?”
“That you can have a lawyer with you during interrogation, that you can invoke your constitutional privileges against self-incrimination, but if you do, you’re fired. It goes on to say that they can only ask you questions specifically directed and narrowly related to your official duties, and any admissions of a criminal nature can’t be used against you in any criminal proceeding.”
“Bullshit.”
“Exactly,” Stuart said, and slapped the book closed. As he turned to go back to his office, he caught the worried glances of his detectives.
“Any idea what it’s about, Lou?” Jordon asked.
“Not a clue,” Stuart said.
The law firm of Richard J. Danzer represented the Lieutenants Benevolent Association and its members. When Stuart telephoned, he was immediately put through to Danzer. The lawyer’s booming voice filled the line. “Matt, how are you?”
“I’ve been summoned to the snakepit on Thursday morning. GO Fifteen applies, and they want me there at oh nine hundred.”
Danzer’s tone became cool and professional. “Anyone else from the Squad summoned with you?”
“Helen Kahn, one of my detectives.”
“I’ll meet you at eight in the Mayfair restaurant. It’s across the street from the snakepit.”
Kahn walked a few paces ahead of Borrelli as they came off the steps of Manhattan Surrogate Court. The cloudless sky was a deep blue. As she walked, the sun lit her skirt, revealing the shifting ribbon of light coming through it. He saw the shadow at the apex of her thighs and felt the pull of excitement deep within him. He had often wondered what it would be like to be in bed with her. There had even been times when he had worked up his nerve to ask her for a date, but whenever he saw her, his resolve faded.
He took a deep breath and, walking up to her, gently placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. She turned, a questioning look in her eyes. He tried to sound light and confident, but the fear of rejection was knotting his stomach. “Whaddaya say we cut across the plaza and grab some lunch? My treat.”
She saw the awkwardness behind his warm smile and said, “That would be nice, Joe.”
They dashed across Centre Street and entered the wide plaza that led to police headquarters. The stone wall of the Municipal Building bordered the plaza’s south side, while Saint Andrew’s Church and the Federal Detention Facility lined the north side. Ethnic food stands and picnic tables with large umbrellas filled the space between.
They walked among the stands, deciding on their lunch, and in the end ordered sausage-and-peppers heros, French fries, and two large diet sodas. Borrelli ordered his soda without ice. They looked around the plaza for a table, but all were filled, so they went over to the long alley between the detention center and Saint Andrew’s Church and sat on the church’s side stoop. Kahn spread out one of her napkins on the stoop and sat. Federal marshals armed with shotguns and Uzi submachine guns patrolled the alley, guarding the prisoners’ entrance to the Federal Detention Facility.
Ignoring the marshals’ wary looks, they began to eat their lunch. From a stilted beginning, their conversation became more relaxed as they talked about the Job. She had always wanted to be a detective and had taken her undergraduate degree in criminal justice at John Jay College and her master’s in behavioral science. Joe had done four years in the navy after high school. When he got out he drew a job hauling furniture across the country. One morning when he was back home in Brooklyn, he went down to the candy store to get the morning paper and noticed the banner headline of The Chief, a civil service newspaper. As he read the lead article, the idea of becoming a cop suddenly seemed right to him. He hated the thought of working in a factory or an office and was tired of driving eighteen-wheelers across the country. He liked the idea of rotating shifts and working outdoors, and the twenty-year half-pay pension was a big plus.
Dabbing the tip of a French fry into a dollop of ketchup, she asked, “How come you never married?” and immediately regretted her question.
“I used to think I was married to the Job.” He grimaced. “But that’s not the reason. I guess I just never got around to it.” He looked at her. “And what about you, how come you never took the plunge?” When he saw sadness in her eyes, he felt remorse for having asked.
A wan smile settled across her mouth. “I’ve come close a few times.”
“Hey, I’d better call in,” he said, and slid the empty paper plate off his knees.
Watching him cross the plaza toward the bank of telephones, she thought angrily to herself, I’ve come close a few times. I wonder what he’d say if he knew every damn one of them was either married or an emotional cripple.
“The boss wants us back in the Squad,” Borrelli said, coming over to her.
Picking up his plate, she said, “Thanks for lunch, Joe.”
“Maybe we’ll have dinner one night. You like Peking duck?”
“I love it.”
14
“Son of a bitch,” Kahn hissed as she read the telephone message directing her to report to IAD. She went over to her desk and telephoned the offices of the Detectives’ Endowment Association and made arrangements for an attorney to meet her Thursday morning at the snakepit. After she hung up, she picked up her watering can from the windowsill beside her desk and watered her plant. She returned the can to the sill and walked through the open door into the whip’s office, looking both worried and angry.
Stuart was behind his desk, reading through the Russo case folder, while Jones, Borrelli, and Whitehouser stood in front of the corkboard, examining the photos of the various crime scenes. As Kahn walked inside, she was met with curious stares from the other det
ectives.
Stuart looked down at the yellow pad on which he had jotted “mug shots, who’s catching? no Goldstein at Missing Persons, and you got a ‘homicide.’” He looked up from the pad at Kahn and asked, “You got any enemies on the Job?”
She smiled at Borrelli. “A couple of ex-lovers, but none of them are sore losers.”
“You ever mention those—” He caught himself, glanced over at Whitehouser, and let the rest of the question on the mug shots hang.
“No, not a soul,” she said, understanding him.
“I have the feeling that someone is pissed off at us.”
Her face brightened up; in a feisty tone she said, “Well, whoever it is is just going to have to learn to chill out.”
“You got that right,” Stuart said. “Now. Tell me what you and Joe came up with.”
She took her memo pad out of the side pocket of her blazer, flipped it open, and read, “Jacob Epstein, Lupo’s father-in-law, went out of the picture on January 10, 1981, cause of death, cardiac arrest, secondary ventricular fibrillation due to coronary artery disease. His wife, Sylvia, bought the farm on July 15, 1989, cause of death, metastatic breast cancer.”
Stuart leaned back, rocking. “Okay, so they died of natural causes. What about the Franklin Investment Trust? When did Lupo get his hands on the company?”
“He didn’t,” she said. “Old man Epstein sold him twenty-five percent of the stock in 1978. Epstein’s will was probated in March of eighty-one. Excluding a few gifts to relatives and servants, he left his entire estate to his wife.” She looked up from her notes. “Here comes the good part. When Sylvia died, she split the remaining seventy-five percent of the stock between her daughter and her own sister, Madeline Fine, who was Beansy Rutolo’s girlfriend.”
Stuart picked up a pencil and began tapping it on the edge of his desk. “So, Danny L doesn’t own Franklin Investment.”
“According to Sylvia Epstein’s will, he doesn’t,” Kahn said.
“Franklin is a privately owned corporation,” Borrelli said. “Lupo might have somehow forced his wife and her aunt to sign those stock certificates over to him.”
Pigtown Page 18
