The Letter Writer (28 page)

“Where in Jersey?”

“Edison.”

“I need an address.”

Euston nodded. “Hand me that, plus your pencil.”

Cain gave him the notebook and Euston began to write.

“If there's a phone number, give me that as well.”

“There isn't. It's bare-bones, practically an empty apartment. Not even a man on the door.”

“You'd think with all those Reichsmarks and dollars Chase could have at least afforded a bodyguard.”

Euston opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He handed back the notebook and pencil. Then he crossed his arms and sighed loudly.

“I will stand by anything and everything we have done on his behalf,” he finally said. “Our actions at the time were perfectly legal, and we've adhered to the highest professional standards throughout.”

“And at a nice hourly rate, I'm sure. Next time you speak to him, you might advise him to cooperate fully when the authorities come knocking. Understood?”

“I told you, he's no longer a client.”

“Right. Now he's just a tenant.” Cain handed Euston the crystal cocktail glass, which was still half full of bourbon. “Here. You need it more than I do.”

He turned and pushed the button for the elevator. Behind him, he heard the door opening to the party, a spill of laughter and conversation, with a woman's voice rising above it in a refined British accent. Lady Ashfield giving a speech, something bland about hands across the water. She spoke Hitler's name just as the door shut.

He wondered what Euston would tell his buddies about the interruption. He was even more curious about what Herman Keller would have to say. The elevator opened. Cain stepped aboard feeling like he'd just faced down a bully. But he had also stirred things up, quite violently, and by the time he was strolling past the doorman downstairs he was already wondering if he'd made a huge mistake.

HERMAN KELLER WAS NOWHERE
to be found. Or so said the police in Edison, New Jersey, who grudgingly checked the address Euston had written down, only to report back that no one had answered their knock on the door.

Maybe he was hiding inside. Maybe Euston had faked the address, or warned off Keller, who had taken off to points unknown. Cain told the desk sergeant in Edison that it might be worth forcing entry on the next try, but short of a search warrant or something more solid he realized that wasn't likely. Nor did Cain have time to cross the river to see for himself. Captain Mulhearn had seen to that by loading him up with fresh paperwork.

At eleven a.m. Cain also gave up on those chores when a clerk from the Bureau of Criminal Identification arrived at his desk with a boxful of files on Albert Anastasia. It was quite a haul—arrest records, charge sheets, eyewitness reports, and plenty of lurid newspaper stories. Paper-clipped to a rap sheet on top was a two-year-old mug shot. Anastasia stared up at him with an “I dare you” face—intense dark eyes, a small crooked mouth, strong chin, puffy cheeks, and a broad nose that looked like it might have been broken a few times. Black wavy hair, combed straight back from a high forehead, and piled into a high ridge on the left. Reading the particulars, Cain saw that Anastasia was thirty-nine, meaning he probably still had plenty of fight in him.

“What you got there?” It was Simmons, munching on a sandwich.

“Nothing much.”

Cain closed the box. Mulhearn stood only a few desks away, inching closer by the minute. The last thing he needed was to have everyone start poking their noses in. Loose lips sink ships, and his was already taking on water. He hefted the box, carried it downstairs to an empty interview room, and began to read.

Anastasia had come to New York at seventeen on a freighter from Italy with three brothers. He took a job as a longshoreman on the Brooklyn waterfront, and within two years he had killed a man, for which he was convicted and sentenced to death. That's where his story should have ended. Instead, he won a new trial on a technicality, and by then all four witnesses had disappeared. It would become a recurring pattern, right up through last November.

In 1928 a second murder charge in Brooklyn was dropped when the witnesses vanished or clammed up. In 1931 Anastasia was named as a participant in the killing of Joe “The Boss” Masseria, which had cleared the way for the ascent of Charles “Lucky” Luciano, the very man whose attorney was now meeting with Murray Gurfein and Meyer Lansky. No one was charged. A year later Anastasia was booked for killing a man with an ice pick. No witnesses, charge dropped. The following year brought another murder charge, also dropped for the same reason.

In the mid-thirties, cops and mobsters began calling Anastasia and his pals Murder, Inc. It was an industrial-strength subsidiary of the mob, a specialty shop for which no lethal assignment was too difficult. Cain took note of its purported hangout: Midnight Rose's, a candy store on Saratoga Avenue in Brooklyn. The very place where Gerhard had watched Werner Hansch disappear into the back seat of a Packard. He also noted several references to an associate, Clarence Cohen, the fellow whose recent gambling charge had been erased in the 14th precinct, thanks to the boys in the 95 Room. He shook his head and flipped to the next page.

Anastasia's most notorious work had come during the past several years. In 1939 he arranged the murders of a rival union official and an upstart union activist. Both cases made big headlines. But his boldest stroke had occurred only five months ago, a few weeks before Pearl Harbor, when Anastasia took notice of mob guy Abe Reles. Reles was cooperating with government prosecutors in cases against Anastasia and others. The authorities, understandably worried for Reles's safety, stashed him on the sixth floor of a Coney Island hotel and posted armed guards at the door. Reles was then found dead on a rooftop a floor below his room's open window. The latest theory was that Anastasia had offered a $100,000 reward for the deed. The press wasted no time in coming up with a nickname for Reles: “The canary who could sing, but couldn't fly.”

Cain toted up the body count. Eight in all, plus dozens of other cases in which Murder, Inc. was implicated, not to mention the three dead Germans, with a fourth now living on borrowed time in some flophouse on the Bowery. He sighed and put everything back into the box.

But he also took note of one thing Anastasia
hadn't
yet done. He had never killed a cop. A small matter, perhaps, unless you were a cop. It gave Cain a measure of comfort as he contemplated how aggressively to pursue his case. It was Danziger who'd need protection. And any witnesses, of course. Gerhard, Lorenz, and probably Herman Keller as well.

What he still couldn't figure was why Anastasia would have involved himself in a plot to burn the
Normandie.
Yes, he had been born in Italy. But, as Danziger had said, mob guys despised Mussolini.

Cain resealed the box for delivery back to the Bureau of Criminal Identification. Just as he returned to his desk, Mulhearn dropped off yet another case for him to work on. At the next desk over, Yuri Zharkov smiled ruefully.

“Look on the bright side,” Zharkov said. “It's time for lunch, and you look like you could use a break.”

“I could use about ten of 'em.”

“There's a Russian joint not far from here. My treat, if you're interested. The food's top notch and the vodka's homemade. A shot or two might change your whole outlook.”

Cain was tempted.

“What I really need to do is head uptown. Or even over to Jersey, if only I could swing a car for the afternoon.”

“Just so happens I can take care of that as well. I've got use of a radio car for the rest of the day. And, well, maybe after lunch…?”

“Now that you put it that way, a little borscht and vodka would really hit the spot. But how'd you manage a car?”

“Let's just say Mulhearn owes me. Which means he won't make a peep even if he sees you walking out the door with me. When we're done, I'll run you across the river.”

“Lead the way.”

The patrol car was parked right out front, a '41 Plymouth with a black body and a white roof.

“Nice wheels.”

“Only the best when your captain wants you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Care to say what you've got on him?”

“Then it wouldn't be a secret.”

Cain laughed, but wondered what Zharkov might be willing to hush up in exchange for a few favors. Zharkov drove uptown. They got hung up in heavy traffic near Times Square before Zharkov invoked a little policeman's privilege by blaring the siren to clear a path. Half a block later he turned up an alley behind a row of stout buildings along Broadway.

“Where the hell's this Russian place?”

“Dead ahead.”

Zharkov braked sharply and pulled alongside a loading dock where laundry carts were piled with sheets and towels. Four men in cheap suits and fedoras came sprinting out an open cargo bay and hopped down into the alley, surrounding the car. Zharkov kept his hands on the wheel and his foot on the brake, even as one of the men opened the passenger door.

“What the hell, Yuri?”

Cain reached for his sidearm, but Zharkov beat him to it.

“It's for your own good.”

Hands grabbed Cain and pulled him into the alley.

“Is that what you say to all of them?” he asked.

Zharkov wouldn't look at him. He just waited for the door to close and drove away.

Two men had Cain by the arms, one on either side. The other two walked in front and behind. He tried once to wiggle free, but couldn't shake their grip. But they didn't hit him, didn't threaten him. Nor did they look particularly like mob guys. They were clean-shaven and had short haircuts, and their suits looked straight off the rack, like the kind you might buy on a government salary.

“Is this some kind of shakedown?”

“Relax, fella. Right now you're safer than Fort Knox.”

They hauled him up the steps of the loading dock and took him down a hallway and through a big kitchen, where men in white smocks were washing dishes. They came out the other side into a corridor where a service elevator stood with its doors open, ready to roll. They went up a floor, to the mezzanine, and when the doors opened Cain saw that they were in the Hotel Astor. They rounded a corner and he knew exactly where he was: just outside the offices of the Executives Association of Greater New York, where Naval Intelligence officer “Red” Haffenden presided over whatever private operation he'd cooked up with his mob buddies. Doomed or not, Cain at least felt like he was on the verge of learning something.

They entered an office where a neatly dressed middle-aged woman sat behind a desk. She stood and knocked on the door of an adjoining room before sticking her head inside.

“He's here, sir. They have him.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” a man answered. “Bring him in. And please hold all calls.”

“Yes, sir.”

She turned and nodded. The two men marched Cain forward, although by now his curiosity was piqued enough that he would have gone voluntarily. He entered a narrow room with a long table where six men were seated. The man who presumably was Haffenden stood from a chair at the far end. He wore a full dress Navy uniform with a star and three stripes on each sleeve. Murray Gurfein and his boss, DA Frank Hogan, were seated on the right side, opposite three men on the left whom Cain didn't recognize, although he was pretty sure that Socks Lanza was the third one down.

“Detective Sergeant Cain, I'm Lieutenant Commander Haffenden, U.S. Naval Intelligence, although I believe you already knew that. All the more reason we need to confer with you. Be seated.”

Cain sat at the opposite end. His escorts left the room.

“I believe you're already acquainted with Mr. Hogan and Mr. Gurfein, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cain felt like he'd been called before a military tribunal, with Haffenden preparing to present evidence. Beneath the table he wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.

“The first of these gentlemen to my right is Mr. Joseph Lanza. I understand you attempted to visit him under some sort of cockamamie fake name.”

A frowning Lanza nodded to drive home the point.

“To Mr. Lanza's right is Mr. Moses Polakoff, who is here this afternoon on behalf of his client, Mr. Charles Luciano.”

“Soon to be residing at Great Meadows prison, correct?” Cain couldn't resist. If they were going to muzzle him, strong-arm him, or worse, he at least wanted to get in a few shots. Haffenden waited a beat, as if controlling his temper.

“He is. Although that is privileged information, Detective Cain, and it would be best for all concerned if you were not to repeat it outside this room. In fact, this is probably a good time to remind you that everything you'll be hearing is privileged information. Top secret. We'll be asking you to sign an FBI confidentiality agreement once we're done. On second thought, let's take care of that now, shall we, Frank?”

Hogan nodded, and Gurfein slid forward a legal-sized page of small print on an FBI letterhead, with his full name typed beneath a blank line for his signature.

“Should I even bother to read it?”

“Only if you want to waste our time,” Hogan said. “It's boilerplate.”

Cain nodded. The man to his immediate left, an exquisitely dressed fellow sitting on what Cain already thought of as the mob side of the table, offered him the use of a sleek and expensive-looking fountain pen. He had big ears, dark eyebrows, and intense narrow-set eyes that seemed to take your measure in an instant.

“Thank you,” Cain said. “I don't believe we've been introduced.”

“I'm sure Red will correct that oversight shortly. First things first.”

Cain took the pen, warm from its resting place inside the man's shirt pocket, and signed the document. The scratching of the nib against paper was the only sound in the room. Cain started to hand back the pen. Then, thinking better of it, he dropped it into his pocket. This drew an enigmatic smile from the pen's owner. Gurfein took the document and handed it to Hogan, who locked it in a briefcase.

“Let's hope the rest of our business this afternoon proceeds as smoothly,” Haffenden said. “Now I'd like you to meet Mr. Meyer Lansky, whose pen you just stole.”

The others laughed uncomfortably. Cain managed a weak smile, which seemed to please Lansky a great deal. Cain met his gaze and tried not to waver. The Little Man, that's what Danziger had called him. Maybe Cain would've recognized him if everyone had been standing.

“Very well,” Haffenden said. “Let's get down to business.”

Lanza took the opportunity to glare at Cain once again. Lansky merely nodded, which somehow bothered him more. Hogan and Gurfein were preoccupied with their notes, and Polakoff was already glancing at his watch.

“Detective Cain, we've invited you here today—”

“
Invited
me, sir?”

This drew another round of uneasy laughter, but Haffenden wasn't amused.

“Let's not get hung up on logistics,” he said. “You're here by whatever means because your work has become a nuisance and, frankly, a danger to an ongoing operation vital to our national security, a highly sensitive intelligence arrangement involving the cooperation of every man in this room, and quite a few of their associates.”

“Criminal associates, you mean.”

“Call them what you will, but in this instance they are acting legally and with the full consent of local and federal authorities.”

“Doing what?”

“Finally, a relevant question. They are acting as our eyes and ears, sir, all along the waterfront. From Manhattan to Brooklyn and on over to Jersey, at every shipyard and loading dock, and aboard every fishing smack. When they're out on the water, they're watching for submarines, or for anyone aiding and abetting them. They're listening for signs of treason, or sabotage, or any loose talk that might tip the enemy to our shipping schedules. Call it unorthodox, I'm fine with that. But these people have power with the unions and clout on the wharves, and for the duration of this war I'm happy and even honored to have them on our side. Agreed, gentlemen?”