Bad to the Bone (15 page)

Not that that particular piece of information would produce any immediate results. Moodrow and Betty had taken the promise of a sworn affidavit to an old friend, Leonora Higgins, an assistant district attorney with the Manhattan office. Betty had been convinced that Leonora could get a judge to sign a search warrant. Moodrow had disagreed and been right.

“
If
,” Leonora had carefully replied, “your informant had seen Michael Alamare within the last nine
days
, instead of the last nine months and
if
there was an intense police investigation already under way, you
might
get a warrant.”

“But if we can get in there,” Betty had pleaded, “we can almost certainly find some trace of the child. Davis Craddock is a proven liar.”

“Listen, Betty, I know that Legal Aid people think we can put a judge’s signature on a recipe for buttermilk pancakes. That’s the general myth—judges are rubber stamps for gung-ho cops and assistant DAs—but it’s simply not true. Just because the child was at a certain location nine months ago, doesn’t mean he’s there now. Hanoverians, like all other Americans, have a constitutional right to privacy and no judge will violate that right on the basis of information that’s nine months old. Especially, when there’s no real evidence of a crime.”

“What about kidnapping?”

“Do you
know
that the grandmother has legal custody of the child? I’d say she’s going to have to prove the child
exists
before she gets custody. And even if the Hanoverians are holding the child, it can’t be kidnapping. At best, they could be fined for not notifying Special Services for Children. And that’s if the father, or someone claiming to be the father, isn’t lurking in the background. You want a warrant? Have the grandmother get legal custody, then prove that the cult is
currently
holding the child and that you know
where
the cult is currently holding the child. You’re as familiar with the routine as I am.”

“Look, Leonora,” Betty had said, “the Hanoverians aren’t a group of benign eccentrics. I’m convinced that Michael Alamare’s at serious risk.”

“All of the Hanoverian children are at risk. As are half the children in this city, for one reason or another.”

“Maybe we could do something
here
,” Betty had insisted. “Maybe in this one small instance, we could eliminate the risk.”

“Now you know how the DA feels when a defense lawyer gets the bad guy off the hook.”

Leonora’s voice, in deference to their friendship, had been gentle, but the message had been clear enough. Or, if it hadn’t been, NYPD Chief of Detectives Franklyn Goobe had made it clear enough. Moodrow had wanted Goobe to reassign the Flo Alamare investigation to the Seventh Precinct, where Moodrow had considerable influence. It had taken three separate calls to get past Sergeant Ryan Reilly, Goobe’s fifty-year-old answering machine.

“How’s it hangin’, Moodrow? You solve the case yet?” Goobe’s voice, when he came on, oozed jocular authority. It was his favorite posture when dealing with subordinates.

“Not yet, Franklyn.”

“Whatta ya waitin’ for, guy. Sam Spade’d be lining up his next caper by now.”

Moodrow hastily outlined his progress and got the response he’d expected. At best, Michael Alamare’s situation was a problem to be resolved in family court. How could Moodrow expect the Seventh, set in the heart of a drug-infested neighborhood, to accept another burden?

“Prove,” Goobe unknowingly echoed Leonora Higgins’ advice, “that Flo Alamare was the victim of a crime and we’ll investigate. Get custody of the kid and prove the Hanoverians are holding him, and we’ll put Davis Craddock away for twenty years. Remember, the reason why I recommended you to the old lady is because I don’t think it’s a problem for the cops. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Franklyn.”

“Good. And one more thing, Moodrow: don’t call me anymore. You’re getting paid, so accept the responsibility.”

Connie Alamare’s call had come the next morning.
Before
Moodrow’s first cup of coffee. Her voice was amazingly sharp over the phone and Moodrow, sitting at the edge of the bed, bleary-eyed, had had trouble formulating coherent responses.

“Hey, Nero Wolfe,” she’d said, referring to Rex Stout’s fictional detective, “today’s the big day, right?”

“Huh?” The alarms going off inside Moodrow’s skull sounded as if they were underwater. He shook his head, turning to read six-thirty on his clock.

“C’mon, Stanley…”

“Don’t call me Stanley.”

“What are you gonna turn out to be, sensitive? I hope I didn’t buy sensitive, because what I need is tough. We’re raiding Hanover House, in case you don’t remember. This is the day I get my grandson back.”

Moodrow hesitated, imagining himself and Connie Alamare charging into the commune. It was funny, but it didn’t give him a clue as to what she really meant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally admitted.

“You don’t recall what you told me yesterday? Wake up, Nero, it’s daytime.”

“Just barely.”

“You’re a comedian, now?”

“What I am is a hired professional. Not your dog.”

“You don’t recall telling me that you were going to try for a warrant. I seem to remember that phone call took place less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Moodrow hesitated for a moment. Part of the deposit she’d given him had already been spent on a car. A car which wouldn’t start. “What I remember about last night is trying to find out why you lied to me about your daughter. Why you didn’t tell me she’d been a junkie? You painted your daughter to be Mother Teresa, but the evidence says she was a doped-out enforcer for Davis Craddock.”

“I didn’t know, all right? Whatta you makin’ such a big fuss about?”

“You keep saying that, but you had to know she was using drugs because the doctors told you she was.”

“Does it matter that I wanted to keep her pure for a few more days? You were gonna talk to the doctors anyway.”

“What matters is that I might not have taken the case at all. I don’t like cases where the victim’s a perp.”

Connie burst into rapid-fire Italian, speaking far too fast for Moodrow to understand. Which was just as well, because he probably wouldn’t have cared for the plans she had for him and the donkey. When she was finished, she took a deep breath before switching back to English. “Hey, Nero,” she said. “Let’s not make a fight about it. You want out of the case, send me a check and we’ll forget we ever met.”

Moodrow felt Betty’s fingers on his neck. He’d been trying to keep his voice down, but, of course…Her arms slid around his chest, fingers barely reaching his nipples, as she molded her body to his back.

“What about the work I already did? The way I figure it, my hours, plus my associate, Betty Haluka’s hours, plus my expenses, which have been considerable, add up to more than the deposit. I think you owe me money.” Betty, having slipped her nightgown over her head, was gently rubbing her large, dark nipples against his back. A circumstance which considerably strengthened his determination not to be bullied.

“What’d I just say? Let’s not make a fight. You told me last night that you were trying to get a search warrant for the commune. Why don’t we start from there?”

“I made the phone calls and nobody wants to know about it. Which, if you recall, is what I told you would happen. There’s progress, because we now
know
that Davis Craddock lied about when Florence left the cult. Assuming he’s not psychotic, his only conceivable reason for lying is that he has something to protect.”

“Get to the point, Moodrow.”

“I’m tryin’, okay?” Betty had his left nipple between two long red nails. She was pinching it right to the threshold of pain. “This is not gonna get done in a few days. Ouch!”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Listen. I can’t get the cops to act. As far as law enforcement is concerned, the case is dead. I have a completely different angle in mind. Damn!” He snatched Betty’s hand away, pulling it, quite accidentally, down into his lap. “I don’t buy that Flo had a stroke and neither do you. Maybe we can find other doctors to take a look. I’ll go back to the former Hanoverians, too. Be a little harsher, this time out. If nothing pops loose, I’ll set up surveillance.”

“That’ll take a year.”

“Did I promise quick results?” He groaned, a morning man to his bones. “If you wanna take me off the case, send me a release and I’ll send you a statement.”

With the sound of Connie Alamare’s machine-gun Italian still echoing in his ear, Moodrow wrestled Betty down to the bed. He knelt above her for a moment, looking down at her body. She was heavy, maybe fifteen pounds over her best weight, but the underlying muscle was heavy enough to keep the smooth curves of her body well defined.

“You know what the old lady calls me?” he asked.

Betty ran her hand over the hair on his chest. “No, what?”

“She calls me ‘Nero.’ ”

“After the Emperor? I don’t get it.”

“She calls me ‘Nero’ after the detective in the Rex Stout books.”

“Nero Wolfe?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Why would she do that?”

“It’s a fat joke.”

He waited a few seconds, hoping her laughter would subside. It didn’t.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. Don’t you remember what Dear Abby said about laughing at the male partner before intercourse? It don’t promote enthusiasm.”

Despite the morning sex (he was still without his first cup of coffee) and his successful squelching of the widow Alamare, Moodrow was lost in gloom as he ducked the traffic on Houston Street. He was thinking, naturally enough, about the Alamare case, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts focused. He did have an immediate course of action in mind, but little expectation of results. He would interview Craddock, but the interview, though it might be amusing, would almost certainly come to nothing. He would go back to the former Hanoverians as well, looking for the names of cult members who’d been close to Flo Alamare. If he could, for instance, find an ex-lover and separate him (or her) from the cult for a few hours…

But the problem was that, despite his best intentions, he continued to jump from ‘what’ to ‘why.’ Why, for instance, should he give a damn about Flo Alamare, a junkie enforcer for an asshole like Davis Craddock? He wasn’t a cop anymore. He had no obligation to investigate just because a crime might have been committed.

When he thought about Michael Alamare, it got even worse. Betty kept trying to make the child into the victim, but Moodrow couldn’t imagine himself handing the little boy over to Connie Alamare. “Here’s ya granny, kid. Have a nice life.” Who was to say the child wasn’t better off with the Hanoverians?

And the widow was going to become more abusive as time went on. More abusive and maybe she’d hold back on the money, too. Try to beat him over the head with the checkbook. And that was the answer to the “why” of it. No sense pretending. Whenever Moodrow thought “why,” he thought ‘money.’ He needed it and she had it. He felt like a junkie watching a busy cash register.

It was just a little past eight-thirty as Moodrow made his way down Clinton Street, but some of the shopkeepers were raising the steel gates protecting their merchandise and a few of the stores were already open for customers. Delancey Street, west of the Williamsburg Bridge, had been a haven for ‘smart’ clothing shoppers since the early part of the century, when Jewish immigrants had flooded the Lower East Side. The small shops, cluttered together and serving a clientele that expected rock-bottom prices, had no hope of maintaining themselves on shopping mall hours. They wouldn’t close until late evening.

Moodrow knew many of the owners from his years with the Seventh Precinct. They’d been mostly Jewish, at one time, but now they came from a dozen countries spread over three continents. Moodrow nodded to the ones he recognized. A few years before, when he was still Detective Sergeant Moodrow, they would have come over to discuss their problems. These days, they waved and went back to their work.

Moodrow glanced at his watch and frowned. Once again, the sins of the flesh had come between him and the performance of his duty. If he was to keep his nine o’clock appointment with Davis Craddock, he was going to have to hustle. Nevertheless, believing, as he did, that there was, in fact,
no
life before caffeine, he turned into a small restaurant at the corner of Delancey and Clinton. The Latino behind the counter, recognizing him, grinned broadly.

“Hey, you, Moodrow, who you bustin’ now?”

“Balls, José. The only thing I’m busting these days is balls. Gimme a coffee, light and sweet. Wait a second. Pour me a cup. I’ll take the container when I go.” Late or not, Moodrow wanted to be awake for Davis Craddock. It was the least he could do.

“Maybe you could bust the guy who fucked up Armando.” José nodded to an older man, the owner, who had his back turned to them. The man was slicing onions, already preparing for the hamburger crowd. The Crown Coffee Shop was famous for its hamburgers. “Armando, come and say hello to the old man.”

Moodrow was fishing for a proper retort (and hoping that José was trying to be funny), when Armando turned around. Both sides of his face were grotesquely swollen and the skin over his brow had been split. It was being held together by stitches and small pieces of tape.

“What happened to you?” Moodrow asked, the question no more than ritual.

“It was the crack, man,” Armando answered. “They didn’t even have enough money to buy a gun. They used pipes.”

“You should’ve given ’em what they wanted.” Moodrow felt the emptiness of the cliché, even as he spoke it.

“They didn’t ask for nothin’, Moodrow. They just hit me in the face and kept on hittin’ me until I went down. Crazy men. If I didn’t block most of the shots with my arms, I woulda been dead. And I wasn’t comin’ home with the receipts, either. I was on my way
to
the job. One dude was wearing a purple sweatshirt with Minnie Mouse on the front. He didn’t even bother takin’ it off. Alls he could think about was crack. The cops grabbed him an hour later in front of a drug house on Forsythe Street. He was still wearin’ the Minnie Mouse, but he was stoned out of his mind.”