Speak of the Devil (41 page)

Apparently, the health of their patient did allow him extensive visits from a particular Hispanic police captain. Remy Sanchez informed Cox that Tommy Carroll was not only alive but singing a most fascinating tune. Perhaps, Sanchez suggested, Cox would like to gargle some salt water and weigh in with a tune of his own.

“He thought he was singing a duet,” Sanchez informed me over drinks at McHale’s after a long session at Cox’s hospital bedside. “But it was pure solo.”

According to Sanchez, it was a strong performance. Cox set his sights on Police Commissioner Tommy Carroll. He was under the impression that by handing over Carroll, he was to receive substantial leniency in his own case. “Gosh, I don’t know where he got that impression,” Sanchez said. “He might claim it came from me, but I guess a guy in his position—all that medication and pain and everything—sometimes they just hear things.”

Cox explained that it was Angel Ramos who had murdered Officer Thomas Cash out at the Brooklyn junkyard. Cash had arranged to meet with Ramos and had been wired to record their conversation in hopes of gathering information on his own partner, Jay Pearson, who was in thick with Angel. Or so said Cox. What Cash hadn’t known was that word had leaked to Pearson about Cash becoming a stoolie, so Pearson had directed Ramos to take the officer out. Ramos did. Somehow he managed to wrest Cash’s own service revolver from him and fired twice into the man’s heart. Pearson then appeared on the scene. Cox’s guess was that Pearson was planning to kill Ramos, thus mopping up two potential problems at once. But Ramos caught the drift and shot Jay Pearson point-blank in the forehead. Angel fled. Cox and McNally answered the 911 call about shots being fired in the junkyard, and while Cox was attempting CPR on Cash, he discovered the wire. He removed the wire and the recorder while McNally was off radioing for assistance.

“Cox had the whole damn thing on tape,” Sanchez told me. “I.A. was taking gas. They knew Cash was wearing the wire, and they knew it was missing when Cash’s body got to the hospital. Because Ramos had used a service revolver on both men, Cox convinced McNally that they should rig the scene to look like a murder-suicide. No one really bought it. Cox swapped Pearson’s and Cash’s guns around, since Cash’s gun was the one that had been fired. He put the gun in Pearson’s hand and fired it into the ground, to get prints and residue. That was picked up on right away—the gun switch. The whole scene just didn’t quite fit right. It was a hack job. They let the story go out there anyway. They decided two ‘bad’ cops taking their own justice was better than a double cop killer on the loose.

“Carroll knew Cox. Cox’s old man had been with homicide out in Brooklyn, and Carroll had tracked the son’s career, especially once it became clear that the son was going sour. Cox says that Carroll contacted him about a month ago. He said he wanted him to recruit a lowlife to take a shot at someone during the Thanksgiving parade. Just to shake things up, Cox says. Just to get the city on edge. He said he had fifty thousand dollars to play with.

“Cox knew immediately who his man was. He had the tape recording of Angel Ramos taking out not one but two New York City cops. Between the squeeze and the money, Ramos was an easy recruit. Cox told Carroll about Angel Ramos and added that Ramos had picked up some rudimentary bomb-making skills at Incarceration U. That’s what got Carroll thinking on a larger scale. Ramos brought in Diaz to do the parade hit. The idea was that Cox and McNally would nab Diaz and whisk him away in the patrol car, presumably to let him escape later. That was crap, of course. It was just the way to let Diaz think he was safe. Diaz was an idiot. They were going to kill Diaz no matter what. According to Cox, though, it was Carroll who shot Diaz at the Municipal Building. Shooting McNally at the parade had not been part of the plan, and Carroll was furious. He personally took Diaz out for it. Then Ramos left the bomb at Barrymore’s that night. It was supposed to be a small bomb, just a little flame-up, it wasn’t necessarily supposed to kill anyone. Then Ramos did that nun act you told me about when he dropped off the next note. Sometime after he left the note at the convent in Riverdale, he went free agent. He nabbed Byron and decided to take over the game. From that point on, according to Cox, Carroll’s orders were to find Ramos and kill him on the spot.”

Sanchez added an extra matter that I had already figured out by then. According to Cox, his instructions as of the morning I went up to Riverdale and spoke with Sister Natividad had been to take me out as well. Carroll could see that I was beginning to deduce that Margaret King was somehow pivotal. He feared that I’d uncover why Leavitt was being blackmailed and, eventually, who was behind it. I suppose it’s nice to know that the commissioner thought so highly of my skills.

It was Charlie who explained to me that when Carroll showed up at the house, the visit had been presented as a general query as to where I was in my investigation. As Carroll had said, he knew I’d be sharing whatever I was learning with Charlie. If it appeared that I had already shared too much, Carroll would decide how to proceed with Charlie. When Margo stumbled onto the scene with Donna Bia’s cell phone, Carroll’s dilemma doubled. According to Margo, it was when Carroll saw me on television from Pier 17—alive—that he ordered her at gunpoint to call me. No fool, Tommy. He knew I’d come flying.

SAY WHAT YOU WILL ABOUT WOMEN TAKING FOREVER TO GET DRESSED to go out; Shirley Malone wasn’t issued that chip. I dropped her off in front of her building, and by the time I’d located a parking spot two blocks away and made my way back to her place, she was waiting at the curb looking like the widow Jackie Kennedy herself. Well, as skinny, anyway. I made her go back inside and take off the veil. There are a lot of good things I can say about the woman, but you do have to keep an eye on her. It’s just her temperament that she has a tendency to want to upstage.

My mother’s apartment is located on Forty-eighth Street, a few doors in from Eleventh. We walked over to the Church of the Sacred Heart on Fifty-first near Tenth. There was already a large crowd milling about outside the church. As many were onlookers and press as were actually there for Tommy Carroll’s funeral service. My mother had her arm looped through mine, and I felt it stiffen when she spotted Phyllis Scott emerging from a limo, followed by her son, Paul.

Shirley muttered, “Brunhilde and the pussycat.” She stopped and produced a mirror and took a few pokes at her makeup. Phyllis and Paul made their way into the church without seeing us.

“I’m going to park you inside,” I said. “I’ve got a little business to attend to.”

“What sort of business?”

“Man stuff.”

“Can I watch?”

I got her settled into a pew on the aisle about halfway down. Tommy’s flag-draped casket was already positioned in the front of the church. The place was abuzz with low murmuring. My mother crossed herself and crawled onto the prayer bench. I noticed that there was a run going up the back of one of her stockings.

I continued to the front of the church and paused in front of Tommy’s casket for as long as I could manage. Just how many police commissioner memorials is a person expected to attend in one lifetime? I moved over to the front pew and spent a few minutes with Betsy Carroll. She was holding up well enough.

“Bastard went out with his boots on,” she said to me in a soft hoarse voice.

The press had been lavishing praise on the life and career of Tommy Carroll over the past several days. The impending ravages of his inoperable cancer were the explanation so far as to why the police commissioner had taken his own life. The smarter of the reporters sensed that there was a larger story to be told. I doubted they had any clue as to exactly how large. Soon enough they would.

“We’ll get him into the ground,” I said to Betsy. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a short-lived peace.”

She understood. Her husband’s pathetically desperate hopes of going out with a clean legacy weren’t going to be realized.

“He panicked,” she said. “Big strong man like that. But in the end, he panicked.”

I said nothing. She was right. Pride and fear. As far as I was concerned, making things right by Margaret King was simply how Tommy Carroll had attempted to justify his actions. Possibly in his own mind, he had believed in those motives. Maybe he had truly convinced himself. But ultimately, it was his determination not to allow Martin Leavitt to set the terms of his final public moment that had stuck in his craw. That was clear from the night I had seen him at home. That was what he couldn’t stomach, and it was what had brought him to his poisonous decisions.

Betsy looked past me at her husband’s casket. “What about that other thing?”

“I’m going to check on that right now,” I said. “We’re doing our best.”

“I know Tommy doesn’t deserve it, but I still hope—”

I cut her off. “We’ll just have to see.”

As I headed to the front of the church, I spotted my half sister. Elizabeth was crouched down in the aisle, talking with my mother.

Sanchez and I met outside the church. As planned. As I approached him, he gave a nod. “It’s done. We’re ready to roll.”

As if on cue, there was a burping of police sirens and a black limousine was escorted to the open spot cordoned off by traffic cones directly in front of the church. The first to get out of the back was the mayor. He blinked a smile at the crowd, then turned to help Rebecca Gilpin make her way out of the car. Her maneuvering was made a little difficult on account of her crutches. The crutches were a deep maroon, matching the large clip half buried in her hair. The actress gave her high-wattage smile, then seemed to remember where she was and settled her features into pleasant repose.

Sanchez took a breath. “Here goes.”

Before he had taken two steps, a figure came out of the crowd and planted herself in front of the couple. It was Tommy Carroll’s assistant, Stacy. She said nothing. She simply stood there, her arms crossed loosely, and gave the mayor a withering look. Leavitt was clearly taken aback for several seconds, then found his footing.

“Um, Rebecca, I’d like you to meet Stacy . . .” He hesitated on the last name. “Kendall. Stacy worked very closely with Tommy. Stacy, this is—”

She cut him off. “I know who she is.” Her normally monotonous voice wavered. “Does she know who I am?”

Leavitt’s mouth opened, but for once there were no ready words.

Rebecca smiled sweetly. “Well, who
are
you, dear?”

Stacy’s answer came in a hiss. “
I’m you
.” She glared at Leavitt. “Except I guess I’m stupider.”

Rebecca turned to Leavitt. “What?” Leavitt’s face was nearly the color of the crutches. The sweet smile had drained from the actress’s face.

Leavitt sputtered. “S-she’s upset.”

Rebecca gave him a withering look of her own. Stacy glanced over at Sanchez. Something in her eyes told me. She knew already. Friends in the right places. Sanchez came forward. As far as I could remember, this was the first time I’d ever seen an arrest come as a rescue.

“Mr. Mayor?” said Sanchez. “I need to see you for a moment.”

Leavitt’s response came out angrily. “What is it?”

“Sir? I think in private would be better.” Sanchez tapped his fingers against his lapel.

Leavitt still hadn’t caught on. “What is it, Captain?”

Sanchez kept a low, steady voice. “It’s a warrant, sir. For your arrest. Multiple counts.”

“My— I’m giving Commissioner Carroll’s eulogy, Captain.”

My cue. I stepped closer. “Actually, Mrs. Carroll says she would prefer it if you didn’t,” I said. “Sir.”

The mayor grew bug-eyed. He was staring at Remy Sanchez’s lapel. Maybe he could see the slight bulge of the warrant. “But . . . but it’s been arranged.”

“It’s been unarranged,” I said. “It’s what the widow prefers. Tommy will receive a perfectly fine send-off, nothing to worry about.” Lord help me, I couldn’t keep the shit-eating grin off my face. “Sir.”

A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I TOOK MARGO OUT FOR DINNER. THERE was a Vietnamese place in Tribeca that she had been wanting to try. The menu confounded her with so many options that I finally called the waiter over and asked him to bring us six or seven of their most popular appetizers and a main course of fish.

“The biggest fish you’ve got. Preferably with the head still on.”

Margo made a face. “Oooh.”

She loved everything the waiter brought. She had so much fun with the octopus that I asked for a second helping. When the fish arrived, she remarked, “He looks like you.”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

She planted her chin in her palms and smiled at me across the crowded table. “Because he looks like you.”

We had ginger-and-green-tea ice cream for dessert. Margo declared the whole meal “heavenly.”

“What we did to that country, and now look. I actually feel a little guilty.”

It was a cool evening, bordering on downright chilly. The temperature had dropped noticeably while we’d been in the restaurant, and we could see our breath. There’d been a prediction of flurries. I asked Margo if she was up for a little walk. She thought I was taking her to the Hudson River Promenade, but instead I turned east at Murray Street. Her eyes widened with mock delight. “You’re taking me to the Dollhouse?”

“Sorry. No strip clubs tonight.”

“Shoot.” She tried to snap her fingers, but they were too cold.

We skirted City Hall Park and made our way down Fulton Street to the South Street Seaport. Margo darkened as we crossed onto the cobbled market area. “Scene of the crime. How romantic.”

The sound of singing was drifting our way. In the middle of the cobbled area, a green metal structure had been erected, reaching some thirty or more feet high. The shape of the structure—like the color—was intended to resemble a Christmas tree. There was a red-and-green chain running around the base of the structure, within which were several wrapped “Christmas presents” about the size of hay bales.

A sign hanging from the chain identified the structure as “The Chorus Tree.” We didn’t need the sign to tell us. Perched on small platforms running in increasingly shorter rows all the way up to the top of the tree were the carolers. They were singing a cappella, their frosty breath swirling up into the blackness. They were dressed in identical green coats and caps and were holding red flashlights made to look like candles. None of the carolers looked to be older than sixteen. A standing sign identified them as students of La Guardia High School for the Performing Arts. A person I assumed was their teacher stood facing them, conducting them through the range of holiday standards. As we watched, they segued from “Joy to the World” to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Margo tugged on my sleeve.