They were in Damascus in 1840 when things again came to a head. A Capuchin monk and his servant disappeared. A Jewish barber was tortured until he admitted the men were murdered because their blood was needed for Jewish rituals. More Jews were then arrested and tortured until the Ottomans, at the request of the British and French governments, ordered the surviving Jewish prisoners released.
But the Damascus Affair was only the first of many similar persecutions that finally drove the Bentibis (by then, Adele was speaking of her actual family) out of the Islamic world. They’d gone to Belgium first, in 1948, then come to New York, settling along the southern end of Main Street in the Queens neighborhood of Flushing. Adele was the youngest child of the youngest child to make that journey.
We were outside by the time I realized that Adele had answered my second question in her own way. Her voice hadn’t betrayed a hint of self-pity when she told her tale. Nevertheless, I now understood that, for Adele Bentibi, the job was about justice.
And I understood something else, as well. I’d spoken to a number of cops, including Jack Petro, about my intention to seek another partner and it had almost certainly gotten back to Adele. In the family-like atmosphere of a New York City precinct house, secrets are rarely kept for any length of time. So, why had Adele, ordinarily so closed, suddenly confided in me? What message was she sending? I played with both questions before I decided that revealing herself was Adele’s way of asking me to continue the partnership. Partners, after all, tell each other everything.
It was hot on the street, especially in contrast to the heavily air-conditioned restaurant, and foggy as well. As I stood out on the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets, the fog settled around my face and throat, hot and slick, like the breath of an animal. Adele was standing in front of me, her face turned up, her dark and slanted eyes for once soft and vulnerable. I stared down into those eyes for a long moment, the urge to take her into my arms, to taste her mouth, nearly overwhelming. And I was almost certain she’d respond, that I wouldn’t be rejected. Adele was leaning forward, her weight on the balls of her feet, as if about to sprint, and she continued to stare into my eyes until I finally chickened out.
‘Goodnight, partner,’ I said, making a feeble attempt to keep my tone casual. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Corbin,’ Adele said as I approached her desk, ‘look at these. Tell me if you see what I see.’
I watched Adele lay eight crime scene photos, in two rows of four, on my desk.
‘Am I allowed to hang up my coat first?’
‘Of course.’
The detective squad at the One-Sixteen covered most of the second floor of a three-story brick building on Catalpa Avenue. The layout was simple enough: a large room broken by the lieutenant’s office, a door leading to a corridor, a corridor leading past three interview rooms. There were ten desks in the main room, set back-to-back. They were all in use when the squad was fully staffed, but times were tough and the NYPD, once 42,000 cops strong, was down to 35,000 and still shrinking. Our own little squad had been making do with eight detectives for almost a year.
When I came back to my desk, I settled down immediately. The photos were of Anthony Szarek as the Crime Scene Unit had found him two weeks before. The Broom was lying on his back, with his head propped up on pillows. A trail of spatter led from his left temple, across the bed and the floor, to a wall about eight feet away. The spatter caught my attention first, and I studied a series of photos depicting the blood trail closely, but found nothing out of place. I turned, then, to a close-up of the contact wound an inch from Szarek’s right ear. The starburst pattern was similar to the one I’d observed on Lodge and perfectly consistent with suicide.
‘Was he drunk?’ I asked without raising my eyes.
‘Very good. The Broom’s blood-alcohol level was. 32 when the trigger was pulled.’
‘That’s drunk enough to be unconscious.’
‘Yes, it is.’
My gaze finally settled on the only photo I’d yet to consider. This one had been taken to illustrate the position of a. 38 caliber revolver, a Smith amp; Wesson, relative to Szarek’s hand and body. The weapon, a few inches from his fingers, was not out of place, and my eyes drifted eventually to his fingers, following them over his hand and wrist, then along his arm to the sleeve of his white T-shirt. It’s what I didn’t see that finally grabbed my attention.
When a bullet is fired into human flesh, small drops of blood and minute bits of tissue are propelled backward, in the direction from which the bullet came. If the Broom had been holding the gun to his head, there should have been blowback on his hand, his wrist, the T-shirt. But there wasn’t, at least none I could see.
‘Anybody test for blood?’ I finally asked Adele. ‘On Szarek’s right hand and wrist?’
‘The assistant medical examiner who performed the autopsy. It was negative.’
‘What about gunpowder residue and nitrates?’
‘Those tests were also negative.’
The information was designed to set off alarm bells. No blowback? OK, I could live with that. No residue? I could live with that as well, though my suspicions would be aroused. But the absence of any physical evidence demonstrating that Szarek held the gun to his own head was a red flag that could not be dismissed.
I gathered the photos and passed them to Adele. ‘Two questions. First, how’d you get the photos? Second, did Lieutenant Bill Sarney authorize us to investigate Szarek’s death?’
‘I got the photos and the reports from a friend of a friend at the 94^th Precinct. The lead detective on the case, by the way, was a lazy asshole named Mark Winnman. Mark was happy to go along when the medical examiner reported manner of death as probable suicide.’
‘Did you bring up the lab findings with Detective Winnman?’
‘I did, and guess what? By the time the reports came in two weeks later, the case was closed. Winnman, he didn’t even read them.’
‘Just stuck ’em in the file and forgot about ’em? That how it went?’ When Adele responded with an amused smile, I continued. ‘But you didn’t answer the other question, partner. Did you tell Sarney you were gonna check out Szarek’s death before you did it?’
She shook her head.
‘How about afterwards?’
‘Afterwards, yes. I brought the photos and the lab reports to his attention.’
‘And how did he react?’
‘Badly.’
I took a moment to get my temper under control, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that partnering was a one-way street for Adele. ‘So what’s it gonna be?’ I finally asked. ‘Games all the way down the line? Because you’re acting here as if I don’t exist.’ I silenced her reply with a wave of my hand. ‘What you do reflects on me. I can’t say it any plainer than that. Your consequences are my consequences.’
Adele looked at me for a moment, her eyes progressively hardening, and I realized that her thirst for justice would always come before her loyalty to Harry Corbin. An instant later her words confirmed that insight.
‘Feel free to disown me,’ she declared, ‘whenever you find it convenient. In the meantime, are you ready for dinner? Because I’ve been waiting for you since five o’clock.’
But I wasn’t ready, not quite. I took three DD5s from my desk drawer, one each for Beauchamp, Jarazelsky and Dr Nagy, then wrote up meticulous summaries of each of their interviews. When I was finished, I carried them directly to Bill Sarney’s office. Sarney and I had reached a point in our relationship where, at least in private, I called him by his first name.
I took a chair without asking permission, careful to keep my tone casual as I summarized the fives I tossed on his desk. If Sarney wanted to raise the issue of Szarek’s case file, he’d have to do it himself.
He didn’t wait long, only until I shut up a few minutes later. ‘What’s going on with you, Harry?’ he asked. ‘Why would you expand your investigation to include an ex-cop who committed suicide without telling me in advance? You couldn’t have thought I’d be OK with that.’
Adele’s consequences were mine, just as I’d predicted, but I might have tried to shed them by disowning her. Hey, Bill, I’m not her father. What she does on her own time is her own business. I can’t be with her twenty-four hours a day. Instead, I made a promise I couldn’t keep. I told Sarney that it wouldn’t happen again.
‘I need some idea of where this is going, Bill. Otherwise, me and Adele, we have no choice. We have to follow wherever the trail leads. You can see that, right?’
