New York Dead (18 page)
“That will be quite enough of this!” Palmer shouted, going to Morgan’s side and putting an arm around her. “You’ve got a lot of nerve pulling this sort of stunt!” he yelled at Dino. “I’ll have your badge before I’m done.”
“Aw, go fuck yourself, Counselor,” Dino said, and walked out of the room, slamming the door.
Stone found him pacing up and down alongside his desk in the squad room.
“Two more minutes!” Dino said, slamming his fist into his palm. “Two more fucking minutes, and I’d have had her!”
“Come on, Dino,” Stone said. “It would never have stood up; you know that. She’d have recanted on the stand, and the jury would have believed her.”
“I’ve still got her for the gun, though,” Dino said. “I’ll nail her for that. I won’t let the DA deal on it either. I’ll send her up for it.”
“Dino, stop it. You’re dreaming. You can’t even convince
me
she had anything to do with Nijinsky, so how is the DA going to convince a grand jury, let alone get a conviction? The woman had nothing to do with it.” A hard voice behind him caused Stone to spin around.
“Horseshit,” Leary said. “You better get with the program, Barrington, or the world’s gonna fall on you.”
“You mean Deputy Commissioner Waldron?”
“And the chief of detectives, and the district attorney, and
me
, and the whole world. We’ve got a chance for a good bust on this one, after you’ve fucked around getting nowhere all this time, and you’d better not get in the way of it.”
Stone felt anger rush through him. “That woman had nothing to do with Nijinsky’s fall, and you’re not going to prove she did. If I thought you could make a jury believe it, I’d testify for the defense myself.”
“If you pull something like that,” Leary said, his voice low and cold, “I’ll take you out in the alley and shoot you myself.” The lieutenant turned and walked away.
Stone turned to Dino. “What about you? Is that how you feel?”
“I’ll hold you while he pulls the trigger,” Dino said, his voice shaking.
Chapter
A
s Stone trudged up the front steps of the Turtle Bay house, his downstairs tenant, dressed in a white nylon coat, came out of the professional suite and caught up with him.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Hello, Dr. Feldstein,” Stone said.
Feldstein was a short, stocky, pink-faced man in his late sixties. Stone had always liked him, not least because he had overlooked chronic problems with the downstairs plumbing in return for a reasonable rent. Feldstein thrust an envelope at Stone.
“What’s this?”
“It’s my notice of leaving, Mr. Barrington. Thirty days, as my lease requires. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more notice, but my wife’s recent illness has made me decide to retire. We’re moving to Venice, Florida, next month.”
The news struck Stone like a spear in the ribs. That was twelve hundred dollars a month of income gone, and he knew he couldn’t rent the place again without major improvements, which he could not afford. “I’m sorry to hear you’re going, Dr. Feldstein. You’ve always been a good tenant.”
“And you a good landlord, like your great-aunt before you,” Feldstein said.
“I wish you and your wife a happy retirement in Florida.”
“She’ll like the sunshine; she always has.”
They both seemed at a loss for words for a moment, then Feldstein shook Stone’s hand and walked back down the front steps.
Stone let himself into the house and tossed Feldstein’s letter onto the front hall table with the mail. Nothing but bills there, and he didn’t bother opening them. He had a nearly overwhelming urge to call Cary; he needed desperately to talk with somebody, but he couldn’t forget that technically, at least, Cary was press, and he couldn’t let his thoughts escape in that direction. Normally, Dino would be the one to talk to, but he and Dino were on opposite sides this time. He wished his father were still alive.
He changed into jeans and a work shirt and went down to the kitchen. He had hardly cooked anything since the room had been completed, and now all he could manage in his mood was to microwave some frozen lasagna. He had a bourbon while he waited for the oven to do its work. He felt a curious numbness, a distance from reality. Not even the loss of his income-producing tenant, on top of everything else, could penetrate. He simply felt nothing. When the microwave beeped, he took out the lasagna and ate it immediately, in spite of the instructions to let it sit for five minutes. His was a simple, animal hunger, and he didn’t care what he was eating or how it tasted. It was like taking aspirin to make a headache go away. You don’t enjoy the aspirin.
He finished the meal and put his plate in the dishwasher, then poured himself another bourbon and went into the study. The room was spotlessly clean now, and an air cleaner was running to remove the dust caused by the constant sanding by his helpers for the past week.
The bookshelves stood empty and bare of finish, ready for varnish, the first of ten coats he planned. Tomorrow, the helpers would come back to sand again. He opened a gallon can of varnish, selected a brush, climbed the ladder, and started at the very top, spreading the sealer with long, straight strokes. It was simple, mindless work, the sort that he needed for thinking. He let his mind wander at will over the events of the past days.
Stone knew he was not the first honest policeman to find himself in this position. When a police department had a major crime on its hands, especially one where the victim was a celebrity, what it needed was an arrest—preferably, but not necessarily, of the actual perpetrator. As time passed without a resolution of the crime, pressure increased on the department to produce results, and after a while the pressure could become too much for certain of its members. Assignments were at stake—promotions, careers, pensions—and policemen, just like everybody else, would finally act to protect themselves. Stone reckoned that most of the innocent people in prison had been sent there by police officers and prosecutors who reasoned that these victims were, after all, probably guilty of
something,
and better a conviction of an innocent person than no conviction at all.
He had seen it happen, but always from a distance. Now he was involved, whether he liked it or not, and he had a decision to make: he could keep his mouth shut and let Dino, Leary, and their superiors try to railroad Hank Morgan; or he could speak up—go directly to the mayor or the newspapers and create a stink. The first course would protect his job, his career, and his pension; the second would subject
him to the contempt that came to any policeman who went against his partner and his department. He would be transferred to some hellish backwater, shunned, ridiculed, perhaps even set up to be killed—sent first through some door with death waiting on the other side. It had happened before. Most of all, he would be separating himself from the work to which he had devoted his whole adult life. He would be a man alone, with enemies, and with no friends or support. It was the law of the cop jungle, and no man could last long on the force when he was subjected to it. It was time for him to decide if he was, after all these years, a cop.
The doorbell rang, causing him nearly to topple from the high ladder. He climbed down, moving carefully, cautious of the bourbon inside him. He went to the front door.
Dino stood there. He was dressed to kill in a new suit, obviously on his way to some girl. “We got to talk,” he said.
“Come on in.” Stone led him to the study. “The booze is in the kitchen. I’ve got wet varnish going here; I can’t stop.” He climbed back up the ladder and started to paint again.
Dino came back with something in a glass with ice. “What are you going to do?” he asked. He didn’t have to explain; he knew Stone understood the situation.
“I don’t know,” Stone replied, brushing on the varnish.
“You know what’s going to happen, you go against the grain on this one.”
“I know.”
Dino still hadn’t drunk from his glass. “Stone, you got a lot of time in. A little more than five years, you can walk away with half pay and go practice law, you know?”
“I know.”
“You and I got four years in together. You’re my partner. I respect you.” Dino shook his head. “Jesus Christ, Stone, I love you like you was my brother.”
Stone kept brushing. “Thanks, Dino, I knew that, but I’m glad you told me.”
“I don’t want nothing to happen to you, Stone. I’ll feel responsible.”
“Dino, whatever I decide to do, it’s on my head, not yours. I know the score; I know what can happen. It wouldn’t be your doing.”
“Well, thanks for that, anyway.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dino stood looking up at him. “Stone, I gotta know what you’re going to do.”
Stone stopped painting and looked down at his partner. “Dino, I swear to you, I just don’t know.”
Dino looked down at the floor and shook his head. He set the untouched drink on the floor and left without another word.
Stone heard the front door close. He kept painting, smooth and even strokes. He kept sipping the bourbon.
Chapter
S
tone woke at seven and turned on
The Morning Show
. Nothing on the national news. He waited impatiently for twenty-five minutes past the hour and the New York affiliate’s news. Nothing. Surprised, he got out of bed and dressed.
His decision had been made while he slept. Over an English muffin, he reflected that he had always wondered what would happen if he had to choose between the right thing and the department. His choice surprised him.
He picked up a
Daily News
at the corner newsstand, expecting another headline about the arrest of Hank Morgan. Nothing. Suddenly, for some reason, the leaks in the precinct had dried up.
The squad room was filling up with the morning shift of detectives, and Dino was already at his desk.
“Hi,” he said. “Leary wants to see you.”
“I figured,” Stone said.
“You decide?” Dino asked.
“Yeah.” He turned away and started for the lieutenant’s cubicle; he’d let Dino stew for a while before he told him. He knocked on the glass door, and Leary waved him in.
Stone sat down and waited. He’d make Leary ask him.
Leary looked at him for a long time before he spoke. He reached into a large, yellow envelope and extracted a letter. “Stone,” he said finally, “the results of your physical came in.”
Stone was surprised. “The doctor said it’d be next week.”
“It’s today.”
“Great. The sooner I’m officially back on full duty, the better.”
“You’re officially retired, for medical reasons.”
Stone stopped breathing, stared at Leary, unable to speak.
Leary handed him the letter.
Stone read it.
Detective Barrington has suffered severe, perhaps irreparable damage to his left knee as a result of a gunshot wound received in the line of duty. In spite of extensive surgery and physiotherapy, the knee has not responded to treatment sufficiently to permit a return to active police duty. The prognosis is unfavorable. It is therefore recommended that Detective Barrington be retired from the force with immediate effect and with full line-of-duty disability benefits.
Stone dropped the letter and stared at Leary’s desktop, his eyes unfocused.
“You can ask for a reexamination after a year,” Leary said, “and, if the results are favorable, apply for reinstatement.
Of course, if you were reinstated, that would mean a transfer to other duty and probably a loss of seniority.”
That was clear enough to Stone. Don’t come back. In a flash, he saw himself floundering through a series of unsuccessful appeals.
“There’s no point in appealing this,” Leary said, reading his mind. “You’re out, and that’s it.”
“I see,” Stone said, for lack of anything else to say.
“Let me have your ID card,” Leary said.
Mechanically, Stone removed it from his wallet and handed it over.
Leary took some sort of stamp from a desk drawer, imprinted the card, and handed it back. The word
retired
had been punched into the card. “You can keep your badge, and you’re entitled to carry your gun, like you were off duty.” He handed Stone a thick envelope. “Here are your papers. Fill out the insurance forms and send them in; you’ll still be covered under the department medical plan for life. Your pension will be three-quarters of your highest grade pay, tax free. That’s a good deal. There’s a check in the envelope for the first month.”
Stone couldn’t think of anything to say, and he couldn’t seem to move.
Leary leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Look, Stone,” he said, not without sympathy, “you’re a good investigator, but you’re a lousy cop. What you have never understood is that the NYPD is a fraternal lodge, and you never joined. You always bothered people. Being whitebread didn’t make it any better; I mean, just about everybody on the force is micks, guineas, yids, spics, or niggers. They got that in common. But you’re fuckin’ J. Stone Barrington, for Christ’s sake. That sounds like a brokerage house, not a cop, and you never even let anybody call you Stoney. A lot of the men respect you—
I
do; but nobody trusts you, and nobody’s ever going to. You were never really a cop; you
were always a college boy with a law degree and a badge.”
Stone took a deep breath and struggled from the chair.
Leary started shuffling papers. “Good luck,” he said.
“Thanks,” Stone managed to say as he turned for the door.
“And Stone,” Leary said.
Stone turned and looked at him.
“Stay out of the Nijinsky thing, you hear me? I don’t want to read any of your theories in the papers.”
Stone left, closing the door behind him. Numbly, he walked back to his desk. Dino was gone. On top of Stone’s desk was a cardboard box containing his personal effects. He looked around the place; everybody was busy doing something.
