Piece of the Action (41 page)

Moodrow started to respond, but Epstein cut him off. “I’m gonna go back and talk to Rosten. You, on the other hand, are gonna stay here and keep your mouth shut. This is not a difficult thing, Stanley, but you might wanna take notes so you don’t forget. We’re looking for cooperation here and we’re not gonna get it by making the lieutenant sore. Remember, the captain
ordered
him to back off.”

Epstein spun around and marched back over to Rosten. “Look, lieutenant,” he said, loud enough for Moodrow to hear, “we’ve got a warrant to search the Leibowitz apartment. What’s the chance of getting in there?”

“Getting in there
when
?” Rosten answered. “The Medical Examiner won’t be here for another two hours. He’s working a multiple on East 72nd Street.
Nobody
goes in there until the M.E. clears the body. This you already know. After the M.E.’s finished, the lab boys take their turn. That’s standard procedure, which you also know. What I’m telling you is to get in line, because after the lab boys clear the crime scene, the detective in charge, John Samuelson, will conduct a complete search of the premises.”

“John Samuelson?”

“He was next up when the squeal came through. That’s the way it’s done, sergeant. Being a patrolman, I suppose you didn’t know that.”

“Yeah? Well, lieutenant, being a patrolman and not a detective, I
do
know where my first loyalties lie. Did the captain okay this?”

Rosten’s composure broke for the first time. “It’s not McElroy’s business. He’s not a detective.”

“He’s the precinct
commander,
lieutenant. In the Seventh Precinct, he’s accountable for
everything.
Look, I know we can’t enter the apartment before the M.E. and forensics finish up. Far be it from me to compromise a crime scene. But there’s no way Samuelson’s gonna go in there ahead of us. Not without the captain personally giving me his okay. Look at it like this. First, we’re in the process of gathering evidence on a man suspected of having committed
four
murders. Second, you already know who killed your unidentified DOA. You’ve got a statement. Third, this case is so fucking dirty, if you had half a brain you wouldn’t come within ten miles of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you don’t instruct Samuelson not to enter that apartment without Stanley or me looking over his shoulder, I’m gonna get McElroy down here to instruct him
for
you. Samuelson is completely compromised in this situation and you goddamned well know it.”

Rosten shook visibly. “I’ll tell you what, sergeant. Say the word and I’ll hand the case over to the jerk standing behind you.”

“No way,” Moodrow said before Epstein could take Rosten up on his offer. “The jerk has two warrants in his pocket. Both drawn up by an assistant district attorney and signed by the Honorable Judge Marone. He intends to execute the both of ’em and he doesn’t need any distractions. Maybe after the jerk gets that done, he’ll have time to enjoy the vacation Sal Patero forced him to take.”

Rosten turned away from them without another word and walked into the building. Moodrow started to follow, but Epstein held him back.

“Give it a couple of minutes, Stanley. Let him do what he’s gotta do in private. Remember, there’s still a warrant out for you.”

Moodrow stopped, then grinned broadly. “By the way, Sarge, I wanna thank you for the lesson in self-control. You really showed me the smart way to get cooperation. And I want you to know that I took detailed notes, just like you asked me to. You want a copy to give to the rookies?”

Rosten came down five minutes later. An infuriated John Samuelson trailed behind him. “I decided to take your advice,” Rosten said to Allen Epstein. “Paul Maguire’s gonna handle this investigation. He’s upstairs. I instructed him to cooperate and he agreed. That satisfactory?”

“Sure.”

“But there
is
one thing, sergeant. I’m going to have to see those warrants with my own eyes. I’d be derelict in my duty if I didn’t.” His gaze moved from Epstein to Moodrow, a thin smile spreading across his face. “You don’t hand them over, I’m going to bar you from entering the building.” He paused again. “If you want to call McElroy, there’s a phone booth in the candy store on the corner. I’ll
lend
you the dime.”

“Why should we get sore?” Moodrow said. He pulled the warrant from his pockets and carefully unfolded them. “Don’t touch, lieutenant. Just read and remember.” Moodrow knew what was coming. He also knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“This warrant only mentions one victim, Luis Melenguez,” Rosten said after a moment. “You claimed there were four murders.”

“You can only fry a man once,” Moodrow responded. “No matter how many times you throw the switch.”

“You have a point there, Moodrow.” Rosten stepped back and stared directly into Moodrow’s eyes. “On the other hand, if you let the perpetrator live, you can hurt him every single day of his miserable fucking life. Now, what I’m gonna do is go back to the house and get an APB out on Leibowitz. And I’m gonna personally attend the next three roll calls so I can pass out Leibowitz’s photo and spur the troops on with a rousing pep talk. Of course, I’ll have to warn them, too. I’ll have to say that Jake Leibowitz is suspected of having committed
four
murders and that he’s
extremely
dangerous. Be quite a feather in the cap of the man who takes him down.”

“Especially if he shoots him in the back, right?”

Rosten didn’t bother to answer. He turned away and began to shout at the lounging patrolmen. “Let’s get these cars out of here. I want everybody back to work. This isn’t a holiday. There’s criminals out there. Let’s nab ’em.”

“Just great,” Moodrow muttered. “When you give your pep talk, do it just like that.” He watched Rosten walk away for a moment, then shook his head admiringly. Rosten had prepared a trap and he’d blundered into it like a stupid lumbering bear. He was now obliged to stay on the scene until the Medical Examiner and the lab boys finished working. Meanwhile, every cop in the 7th would be looking for Jake Leibowitz.

“What are you thinking, Stanley?” Epstein asked. “I can see the little wheels turning in your head.”

“Rosten thinks I’m after
his
ass. His and Pat Cohan’s. But that’s not the point at all. The Department is here to stay. If I want to keep on being a cop, I have to accept that. Which doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. I wanted to arrest Leibowitz myself. You know what I’m saying, Sarge. I wanted to put the cuffs on with my own hands and that doesn’t seem too likely, now. On the other hand, before I came along …”

“It sounds like you’re taking this personally,” Epstein replied.

“Yeah, that’s just the word I would’ve used. Personal. It’s a good word, Sarge. Keeps you interested.”

W
HAT IT IS, IS I’VE LOST
almost everything I value, Pat Cohan thought, and I don’t want to lose the little I have left.

It was really that simple. He’d known the truth of it as he’d handed his retirement papers to Deputy Chief Morton. It’d sunk into him like droplets of rain sinking down between grains of desert sand. He could still feel it in every pore of his skin.

“Pat,” Morton had said, “this isn’t necessary.”

But Morton hadn’t refused to accept them. No, he’d dumped Inspector Pat Cohan’s retirement papers in a desk drawer, then sucked on his pipe like the gutless fairy he was.

“How long have you been on the job, Pat?” Morton had asked.

“Thirty-seven years. Since January eighth, 1921. I’ve seen a lot over the decades, but I’ve never seen a deal as dirty as this. When the Department takes the word of a rookie detective with five years in the job over the word of a full inspector … let’s just say the force I joined in 1921, the force my father joined in 1898, the force my grandfather joined in 1867, has changed too much to include the likes of
me.
”

Pat Cohan watched Morton hem and haw. The situation, pleasing as it may have been to the deputy chief’s sheeny soul, had apparently taken him by surprise. “What makes you think we believe Stanley Moodrow?” he’d finally asked.

“I think you believe him, boyo, because you stepped all over my authority. Because you put the heel of your shoe on my head and ground me into the sidewalk like you were disposing of a cigarette butt.”

“Aren’t you being overly dramatic, Pat?” Morton’s head had wobbled on his skinny neck as he denied Cohan’s statement. “
Believing
Moodrow has nothing to do with the situation. In our best judgment, he has enough information, be it true or false, to make the Department very uncomfortable. What I’m trying to say is you don’t have to protect your pension by retiring.”

The little bastard may have been surprised, but it’d hadn’t taken more than a few seconds to figure it out. If he, Pat Cohan, was dismissed from the force as the result of a departmental investigation, his pension would fly out the window like an escaped canary. If, on the other hand, he retired
before
the investigation, they’d have to get a court conviction to take his money away.

“Well, that’s neither here nor there, Milton. I’ve handed in my papers and you’ve accepted them. The only thing left is for me to warn you about Stanley Moodrow, which I intend to do whether you’ve got the time or not.”

Morton, resigned, had puffed out a little sigh, then settled back in his chair. “Go ahead, Pat. Tell me.”

“Moodrow’s a vicious dog. He deliberately seduced my daughter, then left her like you’d leave a prostitute on the street. He stalked her, waited until she was vulnerable, then took her innocence. I know this to be true because my daughter
told
me. When I confronted Stanley Moodrow, he invited me to come out behind the house and settle matters. When I refused, he swore he’d get even some other way. Sal Patero’s statement was forced, Milton. It’ll never stand up in court.”

“Just a minute, Pat. We’re under the impression that you pulled Sal Patero out of the Seventh Precinct
before
he, shall we say,
confessed.
By the way, I don’t actually know what Patero said. The only one who’s seen this so-called confession is a sergeant named Epstein. I did call Patero into the office, but he refused to talk to me. I might add that Lieutenant Patero seemed fit as a fiddle. There wasn’t a mark on him.”

“You don’t have to leave bruises to get a confession, Milton. I realize you never had much street experience, but you ought to know that much. A cocked thirty-eight will do just fine.”

But that’d been that. There was nothing more to be said. He’d left and come home to Bayside. To his house and his wife and his daughter. And to the money, of course. He’d done quite well over the years. That had to count for something in a man’s life. He’d taken care of his family and put enough away for a comfortable old age. It had to count for
something.

He was making himself a cup of tea when the front door opened. Quickly, while Kate was shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her galoshes, he added a shot of Bushmill’s to the tea, then hid the bottle in a cabinet beneath the sink.

“That you, Kate?”

“Yes, Daddy, it’s me.” Kate bounced into the room, smiling.

“Yer a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. A sight for sore eyes.” She’d always had that bounce. As far back as he could remember. A tomboy to her bones. “Kate, do ya remember the time I had to pull you out of the oak in the back yard?”

“Yes, Daddy. How can I forget when you remind me at least once a week?”

Pat Cohan ignored the comment. He’d begun knocking down shots the minute he’d walked through the door. Not that he was falling-down drunk or anything close to it. No, he was on the kind of jag that glues you to the barstool. That makes your thoughts spin through your mind until you have to reach out for an anchor. Or another shot, which is the same thing.

“You couldn’t have been more than ten years old.”

“I was eleven. And if you hadn’t panicked, I’d have gotten down by myself.” She walked over to the stove, lit the right front burner with a match, then hefted the teapot. “Is the water hot?”

“Almost. I just poured meself a cup.” He raised the cup to his mouth, sipped a little, spilled more. “B’Jesus,” he muttered. “Now I’m after foulin’ meself.”

“Daddy, have you been drinking? It’s only three o’clock.”

“I’m sober as a judge.”

“Then why are you putting on that Irish accent? You only do that when you’ve been drinking.”

“Well, I may have had a drop, darlin’. It’s in the way of a celebration.”

Kate turned back to him, smiling. “That’s swell, Daddy. What’s the event?”

“I’ve retired from the New York Police Department. Did it this afternoon. Just walked in and handed my papers over to the sheeny in charge …”

“Don’t say that word.” Kate turned back to the stove. The teapot was whistling madly. “You
must
be drunk. You know how much I hate that kind of talk.”

“Now, darlin’ …” He could see the gears turning in her head. The questions were going to fly and he didn’t have any good answers.

Kate took her time, dipping the teabag, then pressing it dry against the spoon before tossing it into the garbage. “Daddy,” she said, coming back to the table, “what made you decide to retire? Didn’t you always say, ‘They’ll have to rip the uniform off my back’?”

Pat Cohan put his cup on the table, noting, with satisfaction, that he hadn’t spilled a drop. “When the time comes, the time comes,” he proclaimed. “You don’t have to pull on the rope to hear the bell toll.”

“And Stanley? Has Stanley been arrested?”

Damn, but she was persistent. There
had
to be some way to talk about Moodrow without looking like a criminal. There
had
to be. “You saw the warrant yourself, Kate.”

“Has he been
arrested,
Daddy? Is Stanley in jail?”

“No, he hasn’t been arrested and he’s not in jail.” He wanted to lie, but he couldn’t take the chance that she’d call him and find out for herself.

Kate stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea, then blew the steam away before sipping delicately. “What are they waiting for?”