“And what I gotta do?” He looked at Kahn, who was in the passenger seat, and smiled.
She smiled back.
“You’re a registered CI,” said Jones, “a confidential informer. Which means that you’ve given us reliable information in the past.”
Isaac Ham saw which way the wind was blowing. “And now I’m going to give you more, only this time, you’re gonna tell me what it is, right?”
“Yeah, you’re gonna give me some reasonable-cause information that’s going to help us get the people who killed Hollyman and Gee.”
Isaac Ham’s face brightened; this was his kind of police work.
Stuart parked his category one car in the No Standing, No Parking, No Stopping, No Loading zone on Forty-first Street in front of the rear entrance of the Chanin Building. He had driven there directly from the Golden View Nursing Home. During the drive he had phoned the Squad. Jones had got on the line and told him that a CI had given up a meet at 1400 between Holiday and Ken Kirby, and that he was leaving to apply for a court order to wiretap.
“Where’s the meet?” Stuart had asked.
“The Parade Grounds.”
Stuart had looked at the dashboard clock, seen it was twelve-thirty, and said, “I’ll try and get back in time. If I don’t, run the show without me.”
“Right, Lou.”
As the car drew up in front of the Chanin Building, Stuart used his cellular phone to call the Franklin Investment Trust Corporation. When the operator answered, he asked to speak with Carmine Marino. He identified himself as Police Officer Tony Garvey from Midtown Precinct South.
When Marino came on the line, Stuart informed him that a van had been driven into the garage where his car was parked. Something caused the driver to lose control and crash into the front of his car. They were going to give the driver a sobriety test. They would appreciate it if he could come to the garage and bring his license and registration with him. Marino cursed and said he’d be right there.
A few minutes later Marino strode purposefully out of the lobby, wearing a tense expression. He was dumbfounded when Stuart intercepted him on the sidewalk in front of the building. “C’mere,” Stuart said, motioning him over.
“Who are you?” Marino asked him.
“I’m your worst nightmare, with a shield. Get in the car.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? I’m a legitimate businessman, a CPA, and you think you can—”
Before he could get out the rest of the sentence, Stuart spun him around and pushed his face up against the side of the car as he slapped the handcuffs around his wrists. He opened the door and pushed Marino into the passenger seat. He slammed the door, noticing that few of the lunchtime crowd stopped to look at the brief disturbance.
Stuart got into the car and, reaching across the seat, frisked the enraged man for weapons. “You got a right to a lawyer, and all the rest of that stuff. Now let’s you and me go into the Squad and have a talk about your uncle and his boss.” He picked up the magnetized roof light off the floor and slapped it onto the roof, switched on the siren, and sped off toward Park Avenue. Glancing at Marino as he swerved the car around a truck, he said, “Just like in the movies, huh.”
Stuart kept the siren on all the way back to Brooklyn. He switched it off as soon as they drove inside the boundaries of the Seven One Precinct. He parked in front of the station house and pulled a still protesting Carmine Marino out of the car.
As Stuart led him across the squad room into his office, he mouthed to Borrelli, “Smasher.”
Once inside his office, he took off the handcuffs and told Marino to sit in the chair beside his desk.
Massaging his wrists, Marino said, “I demand my right to call my lawyer.”
“Of course, Carmine.” He picked up the phone and set it down in front of the accountant. “Do your uncle and his boss know you’re cutting into their money-laundering business?”
Dialing a number, Marino grinned at Stuart and said, “You say that to me and I’m supposed to cave in and tell you whatever you want to know. You’ve been watching too many movies.”
“I like cop movies.”
When Marino’s lawyer heard where his client was, he wanted to speak to the arresting officer. Stuart took the phone and said, “Afternoon, Counselor.”
“Is Mr. Marino under arrest?”
“Not at this time. We only want to talk to him.”
“You are not to question him. If he’s not under arrest, I demand that he be released immediately.”
“Whatever you say, Counselor.” Stuart hung up the phone. Smasher, his mouth a mass of white foam and bubbles, ambled in from the squad room and hunkered down in front of the accountant, baring his awesome fangs and emitting a low, bone-chilling growl.
“You can go,” Stuart said.
When Marino made a move to get up, the hairs on Smasher’s head and back stood up and his growl grew louder. “Get this animal away from me!” Marino shrieked.
“Smasher, tell the man his lawyer don’t want me to talk to him,” Stuart said as he dialed the phone. “Mr. Lupo, please,” he said to the receptionist. “Tell him it’s Lieutenant Stuart.”
A few seconds passed before Lupo came on the line. “Yeah?”
“Danny, I figured it was time we talked,” Stuart said, watching the frightened man in the chair staring at the growling rottweiler.
“Yeah? Whaddaya wanna talk about?”
“Danny, you’re a murderer and a thief. That’s a way of life, and I understand that. But you broke the rules when you tried to set me up with my own Job. And hurting the woman detective, that wasn’t nice. You broke the rules again. And now you know what you got on your hands?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“You got a major problem to deal with.”
“What the hell is that?”
“That’s an honest cop with a personal hard-on for you. I’m the guy who’s gonna put you inside for a lotta years.”
“Next time you wanna talk, call my lawyer first.”
Stuart looked over at Marino cowering in his chair. Smasher was staring at him as if he were lunch. “Danny, just to show you I’m not a bad guy, I’m gonna do you a big one.” He let the silence grow before saying, “I got your accountant, Carmine, with me in the Squad. The good news is, he’s stand-up, won’t tell us anything. The bad news is, he’s gone into business for himself. He’s only charging the Rastas one point to do their laundry.”
Marino grabbed for the phone, shouting, “He’s lying, Danny. I swear!”
Smasher leaped up on the accountant, toppling him back to the floor and planting his massive paws on his chest. He shook his head, showering frothy saliva over Carmine’s terrified face.
Stuart hung up the phone, looked at the dog, and said, “Don’t eat him, Smasher. He wouldn’t taste good.”
The dog gave Carmine one final shower and trotted back into the squad room. The accountant was shaking as he picked himself up off the ground.
“You can go now,” Stuart said.
“Do you know what you just did to me?” Marino whined.
“There’s always witness protection.”
“Fuck you.”
“See you in the morgue, Carmine.”
19
The football spiraled through the air in a high arc toward the running receiver, who nestled it to his chest with splayed fingers. Two men were playing a game of catch on the Parade Grounds, a forty-acre plot of grass that, at the turn of the century, had been used as a marching field by the National Guard and the American Legion. Now the big field had five baseball diamonds on it. This wide-open space was sandwiched between Brooklyn’s Parkside and Caton Avenues. Portable bleachers were set up behind the baseball diamonds and around the other playing fields.
Groups of women with baby carriages sat and stood around the bleachers, talking. A high school soccer team was practicing on the field. A bicycle rider raced down the sidewalk. He was wearing a black skintight L
ycra bodysuit and a white racing helmet. He blew a warning whistle as he sped around two joggers.
The sky was blue, and the afternoon sun spread its warmth evenly. Gulls wheeled in a circle over the Parade Grounds.
Ken Kirby had arrived there at one-thirty. After scouring the field and bleachers for Holiday and not seeing him, he’d decided to sit by himself on the top row of the bleachers behind the baseball diamond off Parade Place. He kept looking over his shoulder at the street and scanning the wide-open field, ignoring the four women who had arrived there shortly after he had and sat on the first rung, talking and rocking baby carriages. “Kirby looks nervous,” Borrelli said, adjusting the binoculars’ focus wheel.
“I would, too,” said Kahn. They had established a surveillance platform on the roof of a six-story prewar apartment building on Caton Avenue, across the street from the Parade Grounds. The bleachers Kirby was on were about eighty feet away, diagonally to their right. Kahn was sitting on the roof with her back to the wall, hugging her legs with her arms. On the roof, a breeze cut into the late autumn warmth.
Borrelli was kneeling beside her, watching Kirby through a hole in the bottom of the cardboard box they had planted on the ledge that ran around the flat. He made a slight wheel adjustment and said, “If we finish at a reasonable hour tonight, whaddaya say we go for some Peking duck?”
“That sounds nice, Joe.”
“Good. And afterward we can stop by my place and get acquainted.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already been ‘acquainted,’ Joe. And I don’t intend to walk down that road again.”
“Whaddaya sayin’ about tonight?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pass on the duck.”
“Any sign of the retiree?” Stuart’s voice broke in. He and Jones were inside the surveillance van parked at the curb on the opposite side of the Parade Grounds, on Parkside Avenue.
“Nothing yet, Lou,” Kahn radioed back.
Borrelli shifted the binoculars to the women sitting below Kirby. All four “housewives” were part of the stage crew—detectives from Electronic Intelligence. The two baby carriages had parabolic microphones concealed inside their hoods. The dish antennae, which were the size of large dinner plates, had microphones in their centers. The antennae picked up conversations from as far away as one hundred and fifty feet and fed the words into the high-gain microphones, which had feed wires coming off ends that were connected to tape cassette recorders. The wires and recorders were concealed under the blankets. The lifelike dolls, when bundled in their blue and pink clothes under blankets, looked real from a distance.
All of the stage crew had transmitters strapped to their bodies with sleeve or chest microphones. Concealed under the women’s hair were wires that ran up their sides and along their necks to the plastic receivers plugged into their ears.
Stage crew control was inside the Mr. Softee ice-cream truck parked four cars to the left of the surveillance van. The control lieutenant operated from inside a closed compartment four feet wide that ran the width of the truck and was directly behind the driver’s seat. This compartment was crammed with electronic equipment. A videocamera with a telescopic lens peeked out the center of an ice-cream sandwich on the truck’s side. The image of a jittery Ken Kirby showed clearly on the monitor.
Paddy Holiday spotted Kirby on the top rung but continued driving past him. He slowed the car to a crawl, his eyes sweeping the area, searching for a stare that refused to meet his, or something else out of place. He stopped the car and got out, standing by the open door, again carefully checking out the whole area. Satisfied, he got back into the car and drove away slowly. When he reached Coney Island Avenue he made a U-turn and drove back.
He drew the car into the bus stop on the corner of Argyle Road and parked, watching. Something wasn’t right. Somethin’s out of place here and I can’t see it, he thought, watching Kirby cup his hands to shade his eyes from the sun. He was still looking around, searching, when he rounded the bleachers and went over to the baby carriages. He glanced in at the babies and hawkeyed the mothers for a moment before saying, “Afternoon, ladies.” He climbed the four rows of benches up to the fifth, sidestepped down the narrow aisle between the rows, and sat on the bench next to Kirby. He could see that Kirby was badly shaken. “So? What’s up?”
“Stuart made me as the finger on the two niggers your friends whacked.”
“Whaddaya mean, made you? All you did was order the mug shots for the shooter.”
Kirby was flexing his fingers nervously. “They got the ninety-fives I used to order those mug shots, and my fingerprints are all over them. They also got copies of the Big Building’s security tapes showing me entering the building minutes before those ninety-fives were clocked in at the Photo Unit.”
“Did you check to see if they even saved those forms?”
“You know the Job, they save everything.”
“Not since they computerized all the department forms, they don’t. How do you know it was Stuart?”
“The envelope came in department mail. Who else could it be?”
“How does he even know you exist?” His expression of puzzlement vanished as an idea hit him. “I’ll tell you how, you hadda throw your old girlfriend into that phony GO Fifteen bullshit against Stuart.”
“Kahn’s a dumb bitch. She could never figure out this setup.”
“She couldn’t, huh? Well, she sure as shit figured you out.”
“Whadda we goin’a do?” Kirby was desperate.
“What was in that envelope ain’t the problem, Ken. The problem is that you did exactly what Stuart wanted you to do. You fucking panicked.” He pulled a surly face and stood up, sweeping the area with new intensity.
Borrelli ducked down, leaving the box on the ledge.
“Holiday’s getting skittish. He could be on to us,” Kahn radioed.
“Come down off the roof,” Stuart transmitted from inside the van. “Wait in the lobby. If there’s a problem, I’ll radio you.” He peered back through the binoculars. Holiday and Kirby were both standing now, scrutinizing their surroundings.
Jones radioed the control compartment in the back of the ice-cream truck. Watching the video monitor, Control said, “Looks like they’re on to something.”
Holiday looked around, concentrating on the four housewives chatting below. A vivid picture of the two women with a baby carriage bullshitting outside the bar the other day flashed into his mind. “If you were going to lay a wire on this meet, how’d you do it?”
“I’d probably plant RF transmitters under the bleachers.”
“You could only do that if you knew for sure we’d be here.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’d probably go with parabolic microphones.”
“Where would you hide them?”
“Depends. I mean …” His stare fell to the baby carriages, and fear showed in his eyes.
“Yeah, that’s what I think, too,” Holiday said, stepping down onto the next rung. When he jumped to the ground, he walked toward the women, a menacing expression narrowing his eyes as he approached the carriage.
The mother pushed his hand away when he reached inside to touch the infant. “Don’t you wake my baby!”
He shoved her hand away and yanked off the blanket, exposing the wires and cassette recorder. He grabbed the doll and threw it at the detectives. Before he had a chance to say anything, the women leaped on him, pushing him up against the fence. Two of the detectives pinned his hands behind his back while the third slapped handcuffs around his wrist.
Kirby stared down in disbelief. It was only when the detectives turned their attention up to him that he reacted by jumping off the bleachers and running across the Parade Grounds.
“Get him!” Stuart radioed to Kahn and Borrelli.
The surveillance van lurched up over the curb and sped across the grounds, heading for the fleeing man. Borrelli and Kahn burst out of the apartment house and gave chase over the Parade Grounds.
&nbs
p; Kirby kept looking back as he ran. When he saw the van gaining on him, he cut sharply to the left, smashing into the soccer players, causing them to gape with astonishment at the gray, tattooed van speeding toward them. The van plowed across the field and sped ahead of Kirby, then careened left and stopped, blocking his flight. Stuart and Jones jumped down.
Kirby had just wheeled about to run back the way he’d come when he spotted Borrelli and Kahn. He waved his hands in a gesture of surrender and crumpled to his knees. Stuart rushed over to him.
“I’m a lieutenant on an IAD investigation,” Kirby blurted.
“You’re a scumbag and a thief,” Stuart said, hauling him off the ground.
Kahn and Borrelli trotted over, panting from the chase. Kahn and Kirby exchanged grim glances.
“I love you,” Kirby mocked.
“You son of a bitch,” Kahn said, swinging her pocketbook at him.
Stuart blocked the blow with his hand. “He’s not worth it, Helen.”
Jones dug his hand inside Kirby’s jacket and yanked his gun out of its holster.
The stage crew drove up in an unmarked van and dragged Holiday out of the backseat. Jones and Borrelli bundled Kirby and Holiday into the surveillance van. The older woman in the stage crew handed Stuart a tape cassette.
“Thanks for everything,” Stuart said to the stage crew.
Smasher lapped up a large bowl of water in the squad room before he ambled into Stuart’s office. The rottweiler stopped to scratch behind his right ear, then squeezed his bulk under the whip’s desk, where he sprawled, his snout resting across his front paws.
Kirby and Holiday sat on chairs in front of the desk, watching Stuart pop the cassette into the tape deck. During the ride back from the Parade Grounds, Stuart had phoned Jordon and told him to take Whitehouser on patrol with him. Stuart didn’t want the c of d’s nephew telling his uncle about Kirby’s predicament.
“I wanna call my lawyer,” Holiday said, and then slumped into a hostile silence.
Stuart ignored him and pressed the play button. As their conversation flowed from the tape deck, Kirby kept glancing over his shoulder at Kahn, who was standing a little behind and to his right with her arms folded tightly across her chest. His pleading looks were met by her cold, expressionless eyes.
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