Damaged Goods (13 page)

He needn’t have worried because there was no peephole on the door to Apartment 4B, no way for anyone inside to see his face without opening the door first. And once that door opened, even if they had the safety chain attached, he’d be inside.

His knock was answered after a minute by a soft, “Who is it?”

“Police.” Jilly held up the badge with his left hand, kept his right in his pocket.

The door opened a few inches and a face appeared in the crack. Jilly, who’d been worried about his own ability to recognize his daughter, knew the Asian girl peering out at him definitely wasn’t Patricia.

“What’s it about?”

“I’m looking for a woman named Patricia Sappone.”

“Patty? She’s not home.”

“Will she be coming home soon?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not really sure. Patty went back to New York to be with her mother. She left an hour before you got here.”

The shitstorm ripped into Jilly’s brain with the sudden fury of a cyclone descending to earth. The first lightning bolt jerked him upright, the second ran down through his arms to yank at his fingers.
All
his fingers, including the one wrapped around the trigger of his nine-millimeter Colt. At first, Jilly thought the resulting explosion was just part of the show, but when the girl in the doorway let out a scream, then slammed the door in his face, he realized that something was seriously wrong. Unfortunately, he didn’t fully understand what it was until his attempt to rip the gun out produced a spent shell which bounced off the side of his coat to land in a small puddle of blood next to his right foot.

S
TANLEY MOODROW SWUNG HIS
legs over the edge of the bed and pulled himself into a sitting position. The box spring squealed in protest, echoing the complaints of his own body. According to the battered wind-up alarm clock on the night table, it was 5:47, much too early, he decided, for a sixty-year-old …. He stopped, automatically corrected himself: for a
nearly
sixty-year-old man to be up and about.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

“I’m comin’.”

He looked back to see if the buzzer had awakened Betty, then remembered that she wasn’t there, that she was in California with Marilyn, that a man named Jilly Sappone lay in his immediate future, that he had a dozen things to do.

“I’m comin’,” he repeated.

He lurched to his feet, threw on a robe, padded off down the hall to open the door for his former partner. “What happened, Jim? You finish early?”

Tilley stepped into the apartment, held out a copy of the
Daily News.

“Finish?” he said. “No such thing. I still have to generate tonight’s paperwork. The whip tells me I haven’t met this week’s quota. Check out the headline.”

Moodrow unfolded the newspaper, read the block letters below the paper’s logo. NO REFUGE. His eyes dropped to the two photos, one of Jim Tilley and several other detectives outside the NYU dormitory, one of a gurney sliding into an EMS ambulance. He studied them for a moment, then read the caption at the bottom of the page: “State-of-the-art security system fails to prevent tragedy. Four girls attacked in NYU dorm. Story on page 3.”

“The
Post
go with it, too?” he asked.

“The
Post
and
Newsday.
It’s ‘life in the fishbowl’ time.” Tilley set a paper bag on the table, removed two coffee containers and a half dozen frosted crullers. “How many days you think I have? Before they start screaming?”

Moodrow grunted.
They
meant Tilley’s NYPD bosses; all politicians, in and out of power; the entire media, from the
New York Times
editorial page to the fulminating Rush Limbaugh; a thoroughly cowed (and cowering) public.

“I’d say you got maybe fifteen
minutes.
”

“Wanna hear the kicker?” Tilley popped the lid on one of the Styrofoam cups, added a packet of sugar.

“Shoot.”

“Two of the girls were white, one was Asian, one was black. The black girl’s name is … no,
was
Keesha Montgomery, daughter of City Councilman John Montgomery. Keesha was beaten to death with a table leg. A weapon, as they say, of convenience.”

Moodrow nodded sympathetically, then took off for the bathroom. Knowing that despite Tilley’s pro forma cop protest, the investigation was a no-lose proposition for a precinct detective. If Jim found the mutts before the case was transferred out to the Sex Crimes Unit, a matter of forty-eight hours at the outside, and if he played it smart by allowing the lieutenant and the precinct commander to steal the collar, he’d most likely be promoted to Detective, First Grade. On the other hand, if he failed to pull the perps out of the proverbial hat, the job would move away, become somebody else’s responsibility. By the time the cops were ready to give up, he’d be too far removed to take the blame.

That’s not the way it was going to be with Jilly Sappone, of course. There was no out for Stanley Moodrow, no way to shift responsibility. The simple fact that the media wasn’t looking over his shoulder meant less than nothing to him. Moodrow looked over his
own
shoulder.

His teeth brushed and bladder emptied, Moodrow went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He yanked the lid off the second Styrofoam coffee container, added two sugars, took a long satisfying drink.

“So, what’s up, Jim?”

Tilley opened his briefcase. “We got some possibles on Sappone’s partner.” He took out several sheets of paper and laid them on the table. “Plus, something real interesting on Jilly himself. I got a medical report here says that Sappone is brain damaged. Something about …” He picked up a single sheet, scanned it quickly. “According to this report, Jilly is some kind of an epileptic. Seizures in the temporal lobes. The doc says that unless he has brain surgery, Jilly is a hundred percent guaranteed to reoffend upon release.”

Moodrow broke a piece off one of the crullers, popped it into his mouth, took a moment to let the glaze dissolve on his tongue. “I must be missing something here. Does this help us in some way? Maybe we should get him on Prozac.”

“Can’t you see what’s happening?” Tilley stared at Moodrow through bleary eyes. “The fucking doc set up a perfect insanity defense. Correction:
temporary
insanity defense. Jilly could have the surgery and claim he’s cured. His lawyer can use the goddamned
state
to prove his case. I don’t …”

“Jim, this time the doc ain’t lyin’. Jilly Sappone is strictly damaged goods.” Moodrow raised a hand, saw that it held the rest of the cruller. “Damn, but I’m hungry.” He took his time finishing it off, chewing slowly, licking his fingertips clean. There was something he had to tell his ex-partner, but he didn’t quite know how to put it. How to break through Tilley’s evident paranoia. “Sappone was just a little kid, five, six, seven, when his old man got blown away. They were in the car together, parked at the curb after a trip to grandma’s, when two shooters opened up from close range. They weren’t trying for Jilly, but a slug fragmented on his father’s skull and Jilly caught a piece of it. From what I understand, it’s still sitting there.”

Moodrow paused, then, when Tilley didn’t respond, took another tack. “Look, Jilly’s gonna get brain surgery, all right, but it’s more likely to be done with an ice pick than a scalpel. You understanding me here? The cops are the least of Jilly Sappone’s problems. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”

Tilley’s white-on-white complexion reddened. He looked down at his hands, then back at his ex-partner. “Yeah, you’re right. When I saw the report, I got carried away. It seems like every mope on the street has some kind of an excuse.” His voice dropped to a guttural whisper. “‘See, ya fuckin’ Honor, the reason I butchered that old bitch was because my stepdaddy used to fuck me in the ass.’ After a while you can’t hear it anymore.”

Moodrow held his partner’s gaze, deliberately refused to let him off the hook. “If you don’t slow down, Jim, the job is gonna eat your whole life. Rose, the kids, your whole fucking life.” He gave Tilley a chance to respond, though what he expected and received was an angry stare. “You gotta back up. You gotta back up or get out altogether. Every time I see you, lately, you sound off like one of those PBA jerks.” He pitched his voice up, ran the next words in a mocking singsong. “They’re back out on the streets before I finish the paperwork. The jails are country clubs and nobody goes there anyway. The liberal judges, the liberal media, the sleazy lawyers, the technicalities.” He slapped his palm on the table. “If there’s anything in life more disgusting than a whining criminal, it’s a whining cop.”

Again, Moodrow stopped. He could feel Tilley’s anger now, feel it rise up like the stink off a week-old corpse. Nevertheless, he plunged forward.

“You have to forget about the stats, man. You have to pick and choose your cases, what you’re gonna pursue and what you’re gonna let go. If the silks don’t like it, let them go fuck themselves. Better the job should bury you, than you should bury yourself.” He flicked a contemptuous hand in Tilley’s direction. “How many pounds you lost in the last year? Fifteen? Twenty? That suit hangs on you like a wet blanket.”

Tilley froze halfway out of the chair. He leaned forward, palms on the table. “Who are you to tell me how to live? You spent your whole life buried in the job.”

“That’s true.” Moodrow bit into another cruller. “But in thirty-five years, Jim—thirty-five
years
—I never once lost weight. Think about it.” He chased the cruller with the rest of his coffee. “Meanwhile, let’s get back to business.”

“Just like that?”

Moodrow shrugged. “There’s no point in me running my mouth if you can’t hear what I’m saying. I know the feeling because I’ve been there. It’s like being surrounded in a dark alley, fists and feet coming from all directions. You get to punching back so fast, there’s no time for strategy. You’ve been in the ring, so you know what I’m talkin’ about. If you wanna survive, you gotta force the enemy to fight
your
fight.”

“Are you saying that the job is an enemy?”

“What I’m saying is what you already know. The silks at One Police Plaza don’t give a shit about you. No more than Don King with his fighters. One goes down, another comes up, like pushpins in a cork board.”

Tilley let himself drop back onto the chair. He knew there was no disputing the truth of what his friend had told him. It was a reality every veteran lived with. The bosses would sacrifice you in a heartbeat, claiming it was for the good of the department when it was really for the good of their own precious careers. It had been that way for a hundred and fifty years and it wasn’t going to change.

“Stanley, you’re right,” he said. “It’s time to get back to business.”

“Sounds good to me.” Moodrow began to shovel ground coffee into an ancient percolator. “You ready for another cup, Jim?”

“Desperate is more like it.”

Moodrow added water, set the percolator on the stove, turned on the burner. “So what about Jilly’s partner? What have you got?”

“First things first.” Tilley managed a weak smile. “It seems like maybe Jilly took a little side trip last night. Up to Boston. Looking for his daughter, Patricia.”

The information brought Moodrow up short. “
Maybe?
What does that mean?”

“That means a Boston cop faxed a report to the Seven last night. According to said report, one Mary Ling was confronted in the apartment she shares with Patricia Sappone by a man claiming to be a cop. When said cop asked to speak with her roommate, Mary Ling informed him that Patricia had left to be with her mother in New York. Whereupon said cop shot himself in the foot.”

Several thoughts rumbled through Moodrow’s brain, the strongest (and worst) of which concerned itself with how much he wanted Jilly Sappone for himself.

“They get him?”

“No. And they didn’t get a positive ID either. What they did get was a spent nine-millimeter casing and a blood trail.”

Moodrow scratched the side of his face, remembering the advice he’d given Ann Kalkadonis. He told himself not to let it go to his head, that he could win every battle and still lose the war.

“Why didn’t you tell me this when you came in?” he asked.

“It was supposed to be a surprise.” This time Jim Tilley’s grin was genuine. Moodrow was his mentor and his friend, a pair of roles that held any number of contradictions. “But I think your lecture threw off my timing.”

Moodrow sat down. “I’m worried about you. You haven’t been looking good.” It was that simple.

“That’s fine, Stanley, but your solutions are out of date. There’s no ‘pick and choose’ anymore. The bodies come too fast. You remember the forty-eight-hour rule? The one that says if you don’t clear a homicide in the first forty-eight hours, you’ll never clear it?” He waited for Moodrow to nod. “Well, Stanley, the forty-eight hours you worked with is now down to forty-eight minutes. In ten years, it’ll be forty-eight seconds.”

Moodrow started to respond, but Tilley waved him off. “Down to business, right?” He spread six photographs across the table. “I spoke to four deputy wardens yesterday and got three responses. From Attica, Clinton, and Greenhaven. The way I hear it, Jilly didn’t have a lot of friends.”

B
Y THE TIME STANLEY
Moodrow passed the photo of Jackson-Davis Wescott to Ann Kalkadonis, he was absolutely sure that Wescott was Jilly Sappone’s partner. So sure, that he intended to assume the fact, even if Ann failed to make a positive ID. He needn’t have worried. Ann Kalkadonis, with Patricia looking over her shoulder, took a single glance, then handed the photo back to Moodrow.

“That’s him,” she said.

It was eight o’clock in the morning, a little too early to be ringing doorbells, but as long as Moodrow could bring himself to wait. He’d been staring at Wescott’s blank, open face since Jim Tilley had left for the precinct. The other photos had gone back into a manila envelope, so far off the description given by Ann Kalkadonis and Buster Levy as to be unworthy of consideration. Meanwhile, Jackson-Davis, an innocent smile plastered to his face, had beckoned like the scent of game to a hungry fox.