Once Were Cops (12 page)

On the way to the West Side, we didn’t talk,

double-checked our firepower. The street was

deserted and Kebar pointed to a run-down

apartment, said, “He’s on the ground floor.”

Checked his watch, said, “He should be just about

getting his ashes hauled now.” I asked, “This is not

an arrest?” He said, “Not too late for you to bail.”

We jimmied the door with a small pick, went in

real quiet and a guy was dozing on a recliner,

Kebar shot him in the gut then kicked in the

bedroom door, Fernandez was indeed on the job

and Kebar opened up with the Magnum, a volley of

shots, not much chance the lady was going to

survive.

Kebar came back out, said,

“Scatter those packages of coke all over the place,

make it look like a dope deal gone to shit.”

Like that was going to fly.

Kebar was surveying the scene when I moved up to

him, whispered.

” ‘Twas me fucked your sister.”

His howl of anguish was cut short by the two

rounds I put in his skull.

I think you can figure which side of my duality won

out.

I had to move fast but didn’t really feel hurried, I

had it all mapped out in my head.

Left Kebar’s car at the scene, caught the train, then

grabbed a cab, had him go past Fernandez’s club,

saw Gino was in place. I had his apartment from

traffic citations.

I had the cab drop me about five blocks from there

and then strolled over. Easy to boost his door, the

dumb fuck, didn’t he ever hear of deadlocks?

Boy, did I get lucky, found the envelope with the

picture of me accepting the money from Morronni

under a pile of dirty socks.

I cleaned the Ruger, still smelled the cordite from

the recent firing, and I stashed it in a rag under his

mattress, and reluctantly, my last two remaining

sets of green

Hated like hell to let them go.

Walked another five blocks, then made a call to

911, reported shots from Fernandez’s address.

Then I caught the train to Brooklyn, had me a large

Jameson and chicken on rye, put lots of mayo on, I

love that stuff, I turned on the TV and caught an

episode of Veronica Mars, jeez, she is so hot.

I wondered how she’d look with the beads.

Turned in shortly after, man, I was beat. Next day,

all kinds of shitstorms had erupted.

I was summoned to O’Brien’s office, where

regretfully, he informed me that Kebar had been

killed after he attempted to arrest Fernandez. As a

matter of form, he asked where I was and I said I’d

been home watching the ball game, this was the

two hours before Veronica Mars.

I asked if I could see the head of the task force.

O’Brien was surprised but made the call.

Peters arrived, mumbled something about sorry for

the loss of my partner, he almost sounded sincere.

Almost.

I said,

“I’ve been following Gino for a while and I jotted

down some of the neighborhoods he was cruising

in.”

Peters said,

‘So?’

“I checked the papers, those are the places the girls

were strangled.”

He chewed my arse about going out on my own and

when he was done, I asked,

“You want to hear the rest or not?”

He did, begrudgingly. I said,

“Kebar had told me Gino was always playing with

a worry beads and I didn’t make the connection till

the other night when I realized Gino is Italian, he

wouldn’t have a worry beads but he would have a

rosary beads.”

Peters was on the phone, yelling to get him Gino’s

address and to have the task force suit up and get

ready to roll.

He looked at me, said,

“Sit tight, this pans out, you’re in fucking clover.”

I’d swear he was grinning.

Gino was charged with not only the stranglings but

also the murder of Kebar, the slugs in Kebar’s

head matching the Ruger.

The papers went to town on it and my photo was

plastered all over, I looked pretty good, serious

face, intense expression, and the mayor said I was

exactly the type of young man the department was

now recruiting.

Kebar was given a hero’s funeral, and in full

uniform, I attended. As he had no family, I got the

flag, thought that was a neat touch.

And … I got my gold shield.

In Kebar’s apartment, they’d found tapes of

Morronni’s threats and bribes and he was currently

under indictment.

He’d asked to see me.

Yeah, like that was going to happen.

He claimed he had evidence of me taking bribes

but none came to light.

I was given two weeks’ compassionate leave for

the loss of Nora and my partner and I went to

Miami, lay on the beach, watched the gorgeous

women, well, mainly I watched their necks, so

delicate, just crying out for ornamentation.

I had to fight the urge, and the department doctor

had given me some tranquilizers which I doubled

up on, add a half bottle of Jameson and I could bite

down, swallow hard and resist the impulse.

The odd time I thought of Lucia, and by now,

they’d have transferred her to some state place.

I remembered her lovely neck and the Miraculous

Medal I’d put on it.

She’d be left to rot, I figured, and then said,

“Shite happens.”

No matter how I tried to summon it, I couldn’t get a

picture of me killing Nora and cutting her finger

off, that crap would never occur to me … I think.

I’ve not got much time for the cops, but I feel sorry

for them with all those violent crimes.

-Buster, great train robber

JOE MULLOY WAS Once … a …cop. In New

York.

He’d done eight rough months on the streets and it

bruised him in ways he still hadn’t fully come to

terms with.

Staring down a guy, flying on angel dust, he had an

epiphany.

His thirst for investigation was of the written kind.

He wanted to write and use words to track down

the dirt.

And he wrote a semifictional account of his time,

he’d had a wonderful Rilke title for the book but

the publishers told him to get real. And it appeared

as: Cop Out. Jesus. Sold modestly, Publishers

Weekly said it had promise. Translate as … Don’t

give up the day job. He was still earning back the

advance.

But it did lead to an offer on a small paper outside

Fort Lauderdale and he honed and perfected his

craft which led to a bigger paper and finally, to

being an investigative reporter.

Made him a great journalist, killed his marriage.

Brooke saying,

“You’re like a dog with a bone, when you’re on a

story, nothing else matters.”

‘Tis sad ‘tis true.

She married a dentist two months later.

And then his beloved adored sister was murdered

in New York. A victim of the strangler.

Nora had been all lit up before this, in her weekly

call, she had said,

“Met Mr. Right, not only is he a cop, he’s Irish.”

He’d never heard her so hopeful.

And best, the evening she rang to say the guy had

given her his gold Claddagh ring. Irish women see

that as: Signed. Sealed. Delivered. Then she was

strangled.

He was bereft, hit the bottle for a bit then got

himself in some sort of shape and went up there for

the funeral.

And that’s how it began. The Mr. Right never

showed for the funeral. The fuck was with that?

Something odd.

The guy was an Officer O’Shea and lo and behold,

he was the one who cracked the strangler case.

Hello. How convenient.

And digging more, Shea’s partner was killed in a

very dubious drug bust.

When Joe tried to get in touch with Shea, he

learned he was on vacation.

Vacation?

His partner is killed, his girl is strangled, and he

takes a holiday?

Hero cop.

The blues joined ranks, closed out questions,

especially from a goddamned reporter.

And … Mr. Right got his gold shield.

Nora got a cold grave, his partner got the same,

and Shea got to make detective.

Joe went back to his job and began to dig.

Eighteen months of solid research and he had some

names to work with. Gino. Morronni. Fernandez.

And a total blackout from the NYPD. He wrote to

Gino, said he was doing a book on the Brooklyn

strangler and would Gino like to give his version?

A guy doing three life sentences, he’ll talk to

anyone.

Joe traveled up to the max security pen, brought

lots of cigs and candies.

He’d been to the joint before and knew what

passed for currency there.

He was put in a small room and they brought Gino

in, manacled from head to toe, in a green prison

uniform.

Joe said,

“Thanks for taking the time.”

Gino looked like death warmed over, the prison

pallor accentuated by a yellow sheen to his face.

He said,

“Buddy, all I got is time and not even much of that,

I’m sick.”

Joe shoved the carton across the table and a

disposable lighter, the guard moved over, checked

the carton and then let them be. Gino peered at the

candies, asked, “Got any Hershey’s Kisses there?”

No. Joe said, “Next time.” And Gino gave a smile

that might have actually been tinged with sadness if

he could for a moment let the tough guy persona

ease.

Joe asked if he could tape the interview and Gino

shrugged, hard ass back in place, asked,

“Whatcha wanna know, bud?”

Joe looked at his notes and then:

“You always claimed you weren’t the strangler,

any way of backing that up?”

Gino said,

“There was an incriminating photo of the kid taking

kickback from Mr. Morronni.”

Joe noted how even though Gino was never getting

out of prison, Morronni was still mister. He asked,

“The kid?”

Gino looked enraged, said,

“Young Irish cop, I trashed his place, sliced up his

uniform, and he had a hard-on for me, when the

cops hit my place, the photo was gone and under

my mattress, the gun that killed the kid’s partner

and the rosary beads … fuck’s sake, I haven’t said

a prayer since I was ten years old and I ain’t going

to lie to you, I hurt people but never … never a

broad.”

Joe digested this, then asked,

“Any idea of who the strangler was?”

Gino said,

“The kid, he was Irish, he offed his partner, and set

me up for the gig, you ever meet this kid?”

Joe shook his head. Gino said,

“Got them brooding Irish looks going for him and a

kind of slow burn, but you don’t get it at first, he

seems harmless but then you think, there is

something real cold about the dude.”

“What about Morronni, Mr. Morronni, what did he

think?”

Gino sighed, said,

“It was him put it together about the kid, all the

kid’s problems went away, everyone got wiped

and he got to be a hero, very slick, I tell you, bud,

I’ve met some real predators, some stone killers,

and none of them, none of them had the iciness this

kid has.” The guard moved, said, “Time’s up.” Joe

stood, said, “I’ll be back soon, with the Hershey’s

Kisses.” Gino laughed, said, “Better be real soon.”

Before he left, Joe went to see the warden, thanked

him for his cooperation, and asked, “Gino seemed

sick, is it just jail time?” The warden looked at

Joe, then said, “Lung cancer, he’s got maybe a

month.” Joe involuntarily muttered, “Jesus.” The

warden said, “I don’t think Jesus has much to do

with it.”

JOE READ THROUGH HIS NOTES, THEN

COMPARED THEM with a telephone call he’d

had with Morronni. They both sang the same song.

Joe did some more research on Shea.

In the eighteen months, he’d been to Ireland for the

death of his mother and had cracked some high-

profile cases, he was on the fast track to the top.

He checked the time of Shea’s Irish visit and then

used his search engine to check on murders there.

Shea had been in his hometown of Galway and got

a hero’s welcome.

Joe nearly missed it.

A girl had been strangled in Sligo, a silk ribbon

used. Joe would bet anything it was green.

He’d one last person to see, Peters, the head of the

task force.

Retired six months ago, he was living in Boca, Joe

got the number, said about the book he was writing

and could he perhaps talk to him?

He could.

Joe drove up there, and marveled at the display of

money in Boca.

Peters lived in a small bungalow off the main strip.

Joe knocked at the door, he’d brought a bottle of

Maker’s Mark, his research had shown that Peters

liked to sink a few.

He opened the door in silk pajamas, and Joe’s first

impression was how old he looked.

Bit like the Hef in fact but he didn’t think any

bunnies would be running around.

They went into a small living room, obsessively

tidy, bachelors go one of two ways, let everything

slide or keep it in regimental order.