The Letter Writer (4 page)

“Tell me your last name, Angela.”

“For your report, or for your black book? That is not official Polizei book, I know that for fact.”

“You sound experienced in these things.”

“You sound inexperienced. In everything.”

He smiled. “Maybe so. I'm new here.”

“Feinman,” she said, and then spelled it. “That is my last name.”

He raised his eyebrows, and she volunteered the answer.

“The owner, he is my brother.”

“So how did this place stay open, then, once the Bundists found out who owned it?”

“My brother, he pays a man, Lutz, to make change in his dokumenten, the papers. To show it is now owned by another. This Lutz, he picks out a name from the air, something solid to show it is German and from the goyim. Gerd Schultz, I think.”

“What if they ever found out about you?”

She waved her cigarette dismissively.

“Flesh is flesh. Of no matter the origin. It is only my soul that has no worth for them, but one does not fuck a soul. Besides, it is this that really makes them wild for us.” She snapped the garter on her thigh. It was banded in red, black, and gold. “The colors of the kaiser's Germany. The new code for them, now that they can no longer fly the flag with the black pretzel.”

“And you're okay with this kind of work? Whipping Hitlerites into a frenzy?”

“I do not have to like the customers, so long as they pay at the door.” She stood—she was tall, at least five foot ten. “This Sabine you speak of.”

“Yes?”

Angela looked him over and exhaled slowly. “You will not find her.”

“You say that like you know her.”

“I say it as one who knows the way human people act. She is, how you say, a needle of the haystack.”

“In. A needle
in
a haystack.”

She waved it away.

Cain wrote his name and the phone number for the station house on a blank page in his notebook and tore it out.

“Here. In case you hear anything more about Sabine. Or about any guy gone missing who was carrying a torch for her.”

“A torch?”

“In love with.” He eyed her legs for a second too long. “Or lust.”

She glanced at the paper.

“Cain. The one from the Bible who killed his brother.”

He wished people would quit bringing that up. In Horton, where everyone had a Bible, they'd been too embarrassed to mention it, there at the end anyway. She folded the page. For a moment he thought she would toss it onto the floor with the spilled popcorn and rat droppings. Instead she tucked it into the top band of her stocking, next to the garter on her right leg.

“And from your very own not-a-Polizei notebook,” she said. “How exciting for me.”

She turned and headed up the aisle, speaking over her shoulder as she ascended into darkness.

“The show begins at eight. If you are interested.”

Interested in what? he wondered. Under other circumstances, he supposed he might have been
too
interested, given her languid manner, her lack of clothing. But as his eyes adjusted to the dimness Cain had seen the vacancy and despair deep within her eyes. He found himself wishing glumly that she'd put on some clean, sensible clothes and go sleep it off. If he was interested in anything where Angela was concerned, it would be buying her a cup of coffee and a hot meal.

Cain shut his notebook and sighed, his breath clouding the dim air. He supposed Angela was right about one thing. Up here he was inexperienced in just about everything, especially insular little expat communities like Yorkville, where you'd need a local guide to make your way below the surface. Even then you'd probably never penetrate to the deeper workings. But at least now he felt pretty sure that the Sabine on the dead man's tattoo wasn't some girl back in Germany. A new lead, then, however thin.

He checked his watch. Time to get moving if he was going to make that appointment. He let himself out and walked west to the IRT at Lexington, where he took a last glance at Manhattan's Little Deutschland before heading downstairs.

AN EXPRESS TRAIN SPIT HIM OUT
several blocks south of his destination. The short walk uptown turned out to be a primer in the local geography of power.

At the lower end was La Guardia's fiefdom, City Hall, as ornately pretty as a Southern state capitol with its white columns and domed clock tower facing onto a park. From there the buildings got bigger and more imposing. The hulking office tower for the Borough of Manhattan gave way to the federal courthouse, so tall that he stopped to count the floors—twenty-seven? twenty-eight? Then came the colonnaded fortress housing the New York State Supreme Court, followed by a massive, multi-wing criminal justice center where the new DA, Frank Hogan, ruled the roost.

Finally, as Centre Street neared its terminus, there on the right was police headquarters, four stories of classical grandeur with six Corinthian columns across the front. Seated above them on a peaked roof was some sort of Lady Justice on a throne. Stone lions stood guard to either side of the front steps—appropriate, since Cain felt like a gladiator about to enter the coliseum. But he smiled when he noticed a gun shop across the street, Frank Lava's, with a sign in the shape of a giant revolver hanging out front. The six-foot barrel appeared to be aimed right at the space between the lions.

The lobby was more befitting of a grand hotel than a cop shop—marble floors, a lofty ceiling of gilded florets. Unlike the station house, where you could almost feel the bustle through the soles of your shoes, this place was hushed, giving him the idea that people arrived early and seldom left their desks until quitting time.

A uniform manned the reception desk. He eyed Cain suspiciously.

“You have an appointment?”

“So I'm told.” He showed his shield. “Detective Sergeant Cain.”

The uniform glanced down at a ledger and shook his head.

“Who you here to see?”

“All they gave me was a number, room 114-B. Is that in the basement?”

The deskman raised his eyebrows at the mention of the number, and he reappraised Cain from head to toe.

“You wait right where you are.”

He picked up a black Bakelite phone, dialed a number, and turned away as he spoke: “He's here…Yes…Of course, sir.”

He hung up, looking a little edgy, then spoke sternly.

“He's on his way.”

“Who?”

The guy said nothing. But his grave expression said that it must be someone important. Thirty seconds passed in silence while the uniform kept a close watch, as if Cain might try to bolt for the exit. Brisk footsteps echoed off the marble, and Cain turned to see a slim man in a dark suit, no uniform, come to a halt twenty yards out and place his hands on his hips. Cain waited a second, then decided he was supposed to speak first.

“Hi. I'm—”

“I know who you are. This way.”

The suit pivoted smartly and headed toward a bank of elevators in the far corner. Cain had to hustle to catch up, stepping aboard just as the doors slid shut. He'd been expecting a trip to the basement, but the button for the second floor was already pushed.

“Room 114-B is upstairs?”

No answer. Maybe the number was part of some code, special appointments only. The attendant out front hadn't even asked him to sign in, which told him no one wanted any record of his visit. The elevator moaned to a halt, and the man stepped off without a word. Cain followed him down a wide hallway to an oak door with gilded lettering: “Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine.” Inside, a secretary sat at a desk guarding another door.

“Go right in,” she said, without even glancing at him. Cain did as she said.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the office. In the middle of the room was a huge walnut desk on a dark Oriental rug, so he headed that way. A few papers were stacked atop the desk next to an open file folder with Cain's name on it. There were two telephones. Behind the desk, a wide leather swivel chair, empty. Across the room, a tall, bulky man in a gray double-breasted suit stood in profile by a high window with the curtains pulled back. He was staring down at Centre Street, and he spoke without turning.

“Be seated.”

Two ladder-back chairs faced the desk. Cain took the one on the right and sat uncomfortably while keeping an eye on Valentine, who was still gazing out the window. After an awkward pause the commissioner finally made his way toward the desk, moving with the swagger of a beat cop, needing only a night stick to complete the effect. He bypassed the desk and came straight at Cain, leaning low and getting down in his face.

Lewis Valentine had narrow eyes and a small mouth which hinted at sternness, perhaps cruelty. His large ears leaned outward at the top, like they were bearing extra weight. Cain wanted to back away, but was already pressed flat against the chair.

“Before you even open your mouth, let's make one thing crystal clear.” Valentine spoke slowly, deliberately. “No matter what you might hear, or what you might think, you didn't get this job due to some political connection. You're not here because some high-hatting buff made a phone call. The day of the rabbi is over. There is no longer any room in this department for parasites and drones. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Rabbi. There it was again. Valentine straightened, but didn't back away.

“This father-in-law of yours, Harris what's-his-name.”

“Euston.”

“He's nothing to me, and nothing to this department. A two-bit Tammany hack in the legal trade, a police buff of the worst order. Throws us a few worthless tips. Kicks in a donation or two to the benevolent fund, then acts like we owe him a favor and thinks he can do whatever he damn well pleases, him and his white-shoe clients. Says ‘Jump' and some flunky for the DA says ‘How high?' so he probably thinks this department still operates the same way. Hell, he even sent you a copy of the police exam so you could cheat your way in. The sergeant's exam, too.”

“Sir?”

Valentine closed in again with alarming quickness and pressed a forefinger to Cain's chest.

“Don't act like you don't understand! I saw your test scores. You even knew to miss a few on purpose!”

Cain would have protested, except everything Valentine said was true—right down to the way Euston had advised him to answer a few questions incorrectly in order to avoid raising suspicion. It was a damned hard test, they both were, so Euston had mailed him “study copies” in advance with the correct answers marked. They'd arrived in Horton in a thick manila envelope with the letterhead of Euston's law firm, only a week before Cain moved north. A day later the train ticket and the lease to his apartment had appeared in another large corporate envelope, along with a 475-page blue clothbound volume entitled
Rules and Regulations and Manual of Procedure of the Police Department of the City of New York.
Euston had then telephoned on a scratchy connection to describe the job Cain would be filling, provided he completed the six weeks of instruction and passed the tests. Euston told him not to lose the manual because it would cost a dollar to replace it. His father-in-law had also discussed a few other topics, none of which Cain would dare mention now.

Valentine removed his finger and eased back a step, but remained standing.

“At least you couldn't fake the marksmanship test. At ninety-six you rated out as expert, which was impressive until I reviewed your recent history with firearms.”

The remark hit home, and Cain could tell Valentine knew it. He felt the color rising in his cheeks as they stared at each other in silence. The commissioner seemed to be daring him to answer, so Cain waited him out.

“All of this is my way of telling you that you are currently employed on my sufferance alone. I could fire you at any moment.”

“Then do it.”

“What?”
Valentine's body went rigid.

“Fire me, then. Get it over with.”

Valentine again closed the gap between them.

“If you don't want this job, then that's exactly what I'll do!”

Cain stood, his anger getting the best of him. They were face to face now, inches apart, and he could tell that Valentine could hardly believe it. The commissioner didn't budge, but Cain thought he saw a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, so he seized the advantage and spoke first.

“I haven't worked this job long enough to know if I want it. I
need
it, that's for sure. Without it I don't eat. But frankly, the way I'm feeling I can take it or leave it when it comes to food, drink, and sleep. If I didn't have a bad leg I'd be in the Army by now, someplace where I could forget all about my ‘history with firearms,' as you put it. So maybe you should just skip the bullshit and say what it is you want from me. Sir.”

Valentine eyed him carefully, the two of them breathing heavily. Cain could smell his aftershave, bringing to mind a barber with a straight razor and the need to stay perfectly still.

“For starters, I want you to back off and sit down.”

Cain nodded, their foreheads practically bumping. Then he sat. This time Valentine didn't close the gap.

“Let me tell you something about this department that you, in your towering ignorance and sense of privilege, probably had no idea about. We're an educated force now. The new officers, anyway, and that's the one damn thing you have going for you, your college degree. But don't believe for even a second that you're any smarter than anyone else you came aboard with, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This job you took so cavalierly. Do you have any idea how many men took the police exam last time we offered it?”

“No, sir.”

“Thirty thousand. Know how many slots those thirty thousand were competing for?”

“No, sir.”

“Twelve hundred. And now, even with a war on, these jobs are in such demand that St. John's, Fordham, NYU, and City College—
all
of them!—are offering courses in police procedure. You can be damn sure that every goddamn patrolman in that station house of yours knows one thing about you, and it's that you're a sergeant and they're not, which means you're making six hundred a year more than them. And until they pass the next sergeant's exam they'll hold that over your head like a noose, and unless you demonstrate to me that you can do the job, then I'm all for letting them hang you by that noose for as long as they like. You got that?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Then let's get down to business, which starts with the real reason you were hired.
My
reason, not some political parasite's. For one thing, I'm losing men to every goddamn branch of the Armed Forces. I'm more than a thousand officers down from what I'm budgeted for, at a time when order and security matter more than ever. So when a chance arose to hire someone outside the usual channels, I took it. So there's that.”

“Okay.”

“But mostly I hired you for one assignment. A job for an outsider, someone with no ties to this city or, more to the point, no history of working for the parasitic sons of bitches of the old machine. Which is why any interests of your goddamn father-in-law had better be cleared from your mind from this point forward. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he ever asks you for a favor—for himself or for any of his goddamn Tammany friends—you're to tell him no and notify me straightaway. Better still, don't speak with him at all. And, by the way, next time one of those bed bugs from the newspapers asks you about a case, you're to refer him to regulation one sixty-one, which you damn well should've known but probably didn't because it wasn't on your copy of the exam. It's
my
rule, and it forbids police officers from speaking in any official capacity to the press.”

Cain blushed. Sam Willett must have printed his name in this morning's
Daily News.
Cain hadn't yet had the nerve to check.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then. Listen up. This assignment is confidential, and you'll be carrying it out in addition to your regular duties.”

Cain nodded. Longer hours coming. And by the sound of it, perhaps some danger and aggravation. So be it.

“When Mayor La Guardia put me in charge, my first mission as head of this department was reform. An end to the old ways. No more rabbis, no more bullshit influence from the Tammany rabble or anyone else. No more getting busted down to uniform because you wouldn't do favors for the ward bosses—which happened to me twice, goddamn it! When I took over, the biggest dens of loafers and hacks were the detective division and the goddamn plainclothesmen in vice. I busted more than a hundred of them down or out of the ranks. I also brought back the DD-64, to hold all those bastards accountable for every working hour of every working day.”

Cain was already well acquainted with the DD-64—a hated bit of paperwork in which every detective had to keep an account of his daily activities and turn it in at the end of every quarter. It was a pain in the ass, and, for some, an exercise in creative writing. Not that he was about to tell Valentine. Not that he would have been able to. The man was on a roll, pacing back and forth behind his desk and moving his hands like a Baptist in the pulpit.

“In my first six years alone I dismissed three hundred policemen, rebuked four thousand, and otherwise disciplined more than eight thousand. And a goddamn great many of those were either detectives or part of the plainclothes bureau, caught up in all that gambling and vice. But the work of reform is never done. And, right now, whenever I sniff the air around Manhattan the biggest stench always seems to be coming out of the fourteenth precinct. The Tenderloin's part of the problem, of course, or what's left of it. Not to mention the floating crap games. Hell, there's a bookie named Ericson who's been running his racket there for years, completely unimpeded no matter how many times I put out the word to get his ass. Far as I can tell, up in the fourteenth favors are still getting done for all the wrong people, and for all the wrong reasons.”