Forced Entry (36 page)

“Stanley,” she said, “you son of a bitch. I thought you were dead. Where did you go?” She came off the floor in a hurry, running toward him, throwing her arms around him. “You bastard. You dirty bastard. How could you disappear like that?” Crying, as much from the remembered fear as relief to find him in one piece. “I want to go inside. I want us to get undressed and into bed. Please, Stanley. I’ve been thinking about it for hours. I want to get into bed and I want you to tell me what happened.”

Ten minutes later, the front door bolted behind them, they huddled under the covers, sipping at glasses of bourbon, speaking softly, darting around the central issue. Inez Almeyda was dead, as was Katerina Nikolis and the dealer. The Almeyda children were unhurt, though devastated by the violence, while their father, Andre Almeyda, was in shock, alternately vowing revenge and weeping uncontrollably.

The Chief of Patrol, Sean Murphy, had made his will known to Inspector Mario Gerardi, his hatchetman, who’d passed it on to Captain George Serrano, Commander of the 115th Precinct. All illegal tenants (regardless of political conviction) would be arrested for criminal trespass and charged with breaking and entering. Despite there being virtually no chance for any convictions, the apartments would be classified as crime scenes and padlocked as they were cleared. They would not be rerented without NYPD approval. The landlord (or his agent) would be sought out and informed that only cooperation stood between Bolt Realty and a full-scale, multiagency investigation. Once things had settled down, anticrime would keep the building under surveillance until Serrano was sure nobody was coming back.

“So that’s it for the Jackson Arms,” Moodrow said. “The bad guys lost. Along with everybody living there.”

“The price was too high,” Betty said. The bourbon, which under other conditions would have made her choke, was sending a warm glow directly to the place where the fear had been. She could feel the muscles in her back relaxing, one by one. Casually, she turned toward Moodrow, throwing one leg across his thighs.

“The price is the price,” Moodrow said. “How do you figure it’s too high?”

“A lot of innocent people died, Stanley. And the mother-fuckers tried to kill you. Don’t pretend it’s not true. I’ve been thinking about it for hours and it’s the only thing that makes sense. If they wanted to frighten the tenants, they’d do it at three o’clock when the kids come home. Or at five when people come home from work.”

“You’re right.” Moodrow cut her off. He was amazed (and very happy) to discover that she’d seen through the charade. “I think they were after me. It could have been you or Paul Dunlap, but I think it was me.”

“And it’s because they’re afraid of you?”

“Most likely that’s it.”

“And they’ll probably try again.”

Moodrow grunted. “They came after me and it completely destroyed their project. Maybe they’ll learn a lesson. Maybe not. But either way I figure they don’t have more than a couple of weeks until I catch up with them. I’m not really too crazy about getting shot at.”

They were quiet for a few moments, lying close to one another. Moodrow, his arm around Betty’s shoulders, could feel the ebb and flow of her breathing. He expected her to fall asleep and her question caught him off guard.

“What happened this afternoon?” she asked. “My head was buried in your chest and I couldn’t see any of it. Tell me what happened.”

“Paul Dunlap…”

“I mean with you and me, Stanley. I mean about what you did.”

Moodrow sat up in the bed, turning his back to Betty Haluka. He was very uncomfortable; it wasn’t in his nature to say things to another person that he couldn’t say to himself. On the other hand, if he remained silent or tried to evade the truth, Betty would know it immediately and her knowledge would have consequences that also frightened him.

“I wanted to protect you,” he said. “But it was bullshit protection. I should have thrown you to the ground, but all I could do was hold you. Military weapons like those Uzis can shoot through car doors. My back wasn’t any protection. By holding you upright, I only put you in greater danger.”

Betty laid one hand gently on his shoulder. She was going to pull him around until she could see his eyes, but thought better of it. “Still, in your own mind, you believed you were protecting me.”

“I didn’t think at all. I wasn’t even there.” He drew a deep breath; he didn’t want to talk about this and he could feel resentment beginning to grow. He knew it was better not to let that build up. “Do you know about Rita?” he finally asked.

Betty, as she felt the blush rising in her throat, was glad she hadn’t turned her lover around. She’d spent an afternoon with Rose Carillo talking about Moodrow’s former girlfriend, Rita Melengic. Gossiping behind Moodrow’s back had been delicious. “She used to be your girlfriend.”

Moodrow didn’t stop to consider how Betty had come by the information, though he’d think about it later on. “I was crazy about her,” he announced, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It was very unexpected, because I had chances when I was younger and I hadn’t felt that way before. We had only been living together about a month when it happened. She and I were tryin’ it out, thinking about getting married, but what happened was that I saw her get killed. I don’t wanna get too dramatic, but in some ways it was like this afternoon. They weren’t after Rita. She was standing on a corner waiting for me and I was coming up Sixth Avenue. I had no idea what was about to happen, just like today. It’d be very strange if I hadn’t been in some tight spots after thirty-five years in the job, but I could see those situations coming. When you’re walking down a dark corridor toward an apartment where you expect to find large amounts of contraband, you get yourself ready for gunfire. But when it’s someone you care about, when you’re not expecting it at all, it comes on you very different. I remember that the afternoon was real hot and I don’t do so well in the heat. We were going shopping at A&S in Herald Square and, naturally, all the big stores were air conditioned, so that’s what I was thinking about. I saw Rita standing in front of the store from about half a block away. She was waving to me and then she was gone. I was about to step into the street. My foot was in the air and then she was gone. Today, when…”

Moodrow’s voice trailed off. Like a talking doll when the string winds back into its body. Betty wanted to take him in her arms. A dozen questions jumped to her lips, but she held back somehow. As if her hand, still resting gently on his shoulder, had already passed her thoughts between them.

“You always believe those things eventually go away,” Moodrow began abruptly, his voice stronger. “You have to believe that, because if you don’t, you’ll lose control. You expect to feel bad for a while. Maybe you even get torn up, but sooner or later it goes away. That’s what I always believed, but this afternoon I didn’t know where I was. I had my eyes closed and I was seeing Sixth Avenue, but I could hear what was happening in Queens. Every sound was sharp and clear. They just didn’t match the movie playing in my head. All I could really think about was losing you.” He shrugged her hand away, then turned to face her. “I think I’ve had enough of that in my life.”

By the time Leonora Higgins called, at ten o’clock, Betty and Moodrow had done what lovers do to restore basic equilibrium. Their lovemaking, complemented by the bourbon, had driven their fear into hiding; now the job was to keep it penned up. Betty had dozens of questions about how Moodrow expected to proceed and what he intended to do if he got to the source of the violence, but she held them back. She recognized, dimly, that her own role was probably over. Inspector Gerardi, in her presence, had made a phone call to William Holtz, attorney for Bolt Realty, explaining the delicacy of the situation and casually mentioning the possibility of a joint task force composed of Fire Department, HPD, and NYPD personnel. Gerardi had explained exactly what he intended to do to the squatters and Holtz had assured him of Bolt Realty’s full cooperation—the padlocked apartments would not be rerented without approval. Holtz had even offered to furnish Gerardi with an accurate list of unleased units.

None of this, of course, brought Moodrow any closer to his quarry. Leonora’s phone call, on the other hand, brought a piece of information that gave Moodrow considerable optimism for the immediate future. Leonora’s voice was chipper. She had no sense of the scene she was interrupting.

“How’s Betty doing?” she asked, ignoring him altogether.

“She’s doing okay,” Moodrow returned. “I’m gonna put her on the extension, if you don’t mind.”

Betty and Leonora exchanged greetings, then Leonora, perhaps in deference to the hour, got into the meat of her information. “I finally gained access to the Department of State computer by pretending I was from the Department of Finance investigating a failure to file a corporate tax return. They change the password for those files every few weeks and it’s hard to get it. Anyway, Bolt Realty is owned by a Delaware Corporation called, if you can believe this, the Flatbush Realty Corporation.”

“Are you serious?” Moodrow interrupted. “Another corporation? This is bullshit.”

“Wait a second, Stanley. It gets better. When you file an application for a corporate charter in New York State, someone has to swear to the truth of the information and that someone has to be an officer, though not necessarily a stockholder. The charter for Bolt Realty was filed by the president of the company, Simon Chambers. I have an address for him, but no phone number. Why don’t you take it down?”

Moodrow fumbled for a pen, then took the address, a street in Sheepshead Bay on the southern end of Brooklyn. He was looking for a way to get off the phone without insulting Leonora (maybe a quick thank-you for the information, followed by a good-bye and the instantaneous acknowledgment of his sudden need for rest) when Leonora floored him with a piece of information she, herself, considered old news.

“Congratulations on getting the arsonist,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What’re you talking about?” The sentence, much to his dismay, was nearly a scream.

“I thought you knew about it. Dunlap matched a print last night. He was all over the Queens District Attorney’s office, trying to find out if it’s enough for an arrest warrant. The cops are looking for the torch right now.”

“How come you heard about it?” Moodrow demanded. The anger was rising between his ears like the steam in a sixty-year-old tenement. “You’re in Manhattan.”

“The Jackson Arms is a big story. Can’t you see the headline: Crack Comes to the White Folks. It’s like Man Bites Dog.”

Moodrow laughed bitterly. “Is that what they think? That it’s drugs?”

“That’s what I hear.” Leonora stopped, abruptly. “I suppose you think it’s something else?”

“I don’t have any proof,” Moodrow offered lamely.

“Do me a favor, Stanley. When you get proof, give me a call. Now that you’re a civilian, I’ll need a head start if I’m gonna save your ass.”

“Good night, Leonora.”

“Nighty-night, Stanley. Night, Betty.”

O
N THE FOLLOWING MORNING
, Moodrow got himself out of the bed just before the sun came up, rising to the smell of the percolator and Betty, in her red terry-cloth bathrobe, moving purposefully about the kitchen.

“You want coffee, Stanley,” she called cheerfully.

“Bless thee, woman.” It was a little after six and the Lower East Side was beginning to stir. Moodrow liked being up at this time, drawing his own work energy from the men and women trudging toward the subway. His working days inevitably began within his own mind, with problems that needed resolution (usually, the same problems he’d gone to sleep with) and Betty’s presence made no difference. He used her, as he’d once used a woman named Rita Melengic, for a sounding board.

“I think the best thing about this President of Bolt Realty…What’s his name? Simon Chambers? The best thing about him is that I don’t have to find a way to confront the lawyer, Holtz.” Moodrow had high hopes that, between the lead given to him by Leonora Higgins and the identification of the arsonist, the end of the road was well within reach. On the other hand, Holtz was undoubtedly the hub of the operation; he would know virtually everything about the criminals who ran Bolt Realty, but Moodrow could not simply walk up to an attorney and lean on him the way he’d leaned on poor Al Rosenkrantz. The concept of fang and claw didn’t apply to lawyers: you could beat them down with paper, but not with your fists.

“I’ve given Mr. Holtz a lot of thought,” Betty said. “I think of him the way you’d think of a corrupt cop. I know lawyers aren’t supposed to have any honor, but I’ve always been too much of a
shmuck
to be completely cynical. I don’t think Holtz committed a crime and I don’t think you can make him pay for being a merciless scumbag, either. Merciless scumbaggery is not, to my knowledge, a violation of the penal code.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t like this guy?” Moodrow grinned, but Betty’s anger was too strong.

“Yesterday,” she said, “some bastard tried to kill me. I still can’t believe it. Whenever I close my eyes, I hear the sound of gunshots. I want revenge and I think Holtz was as responsible as the rest of them. Him and that bastard, Rosenkrantz.”

“Rosenkrantz,” Moodrow groaned, “The whole reason I took off yesterday was to go see Big Al.” Quickly, he outlined his futile interview with Rosenkrantz, including his means of persuasion. “A dead end,” he concluded. “But I got a tape out of it. The prick admits he took his orders from William Holtz; he was told to fire the super and to prepare eviction notices for people who always paid the rent. Rosenkrantz figures the plan was to clear the building out, but he never actually discussed it with Holtz. It wasn’t any of his business.”

Betty shrugged. “That’s about the way I figured it. Rosenkrantz’s job was to keep the people confused until it was too late to do anything. He might have succeeded, too, if he tried it ten years ago, but the druggies are more violent these days. That’s the difference between crack and heroin. Anyway, I have to go into my office for a while. We’re going into court Monday and I plan to ask the judge to force disclosure of Bolt Realty’s stockholders. With everything that’s happened, he might even agree. If Holtz is stupid enough to make a personal appearance, I’ll put him on the stand as a hostile witness and ask him, under oath, who he gets his orders from.”