A Piece of the Action

“You’re right,” Moodrow said. “And l know it. I just got pissed for a minute. But it couldn’t hurt if Patero and Cohan …”

“Pat Cohan?” Maguire shouted.

“That’s right. Inspector Pat Cohan. Like I was saying, it couldn’t hurt if Patero and Cohan believe I’ll go to the papers. Think about it. As long as Patero and Cohan are willing to protect the shooters, nothing’s gonna happen. What I have to do is convince the bastards that an aggressive prosecution is in their own best interest. Patero and Cohan may be accessories after the fact, but they didn’t pull the trigger. They weren’t in that office when Melenguez showed up. The way I see it, my job is to put a killer in the electric chair, not reform the New York Police Department. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bluff.”

As he spoke, Moodrow began to ask himself questions. Would he be satisfied to get the killers of Luis Melenguez? Or did Patero and Cohan have to pay as well? How would he accumulate enough real evidence to convict the shooters? Forced confessions were fine for criminals like the Playtex Burglar, but judges were quick to toss them out in trials involving the death penalty. Defendants in capital cases always had lawyers who always appealed their convictions.

“What I need right now is a photograph of Santo. A photo and a last name. Which means I have to gain access to the mug books.”

“You know he’s got a record?” Maguire asked. “Suppose he’s not in there.”

“He’s there, Paul. I could smell it on him. But even if I’m wrong, I could always go with my memory and … but don’t worry about it. He’s there.”

What Moodrow was about to say, what he held back, was that he could always go with his memory and a police artist. It was the word ‘police’ that brought him up short. There were any number of artists living on the Lower East Side. They came because the neighborhood bordered fashionable Greenwich Village and because the rents were cheap. There was no reason why Moodrow couldn’t go to one of them. No reason why he couldn’t keep his business to himself.

“The books can’t leave the precinct,” Maguire said. “You’d catch a suspension for even tryin’ it.”

“What about Inzerillo?” Epstein asked. “He still the desk officer on the late tour?”

“Yeah, last I heard.”

“I think what he oughta do is get Stanley inside late at night, when it’s quiet. We could stash him in the basement, bring him the books one at a time. Inzerillo’s a decent guy. I think he’ll go along.”

“I got a better idea. I wanna send him over to the Thirteenth on Twenty-first Street. I got some friends over there. Detectives. I could just take him over, show him the books.”

Epstein shifted in his chair. He picked up his mug, found it empty and handed it to Moodrow for a refill. “It’s too risky. Half the cops in the city know Stanley’s face. It might get back to Patero. We have to get him in without being seen. The duty sergeant’s the ranking officer on the late tour. If we can get Inzerillo to cooperate-and I’m sure he’ll cooperate-we can bring Stanley through the side door. It’s not that big a deal, really.”

“No,” Maguire admitted, “it’s not such a big deal. I’ve done it myself. Sometimes with a reluctant witness, you have to guarantee they won’t get recognized. How long will it take you to set it up with Inzerillo?”

“A few days. At most.”

It was only eleven-thirty and Moodrow’s patience had already worn down to nothing. What he wanted to do was get to work. He could smell his quarry, like a hungry wolf crossing the track of a lame deer. The whole thing was going to be easy. He was sure of it. Find Santo and use him to find Luis Melenguez’s killers. What could be simpler?

But there was no way he could avoid spending the afternoon (and the evening, too, in all probability) with Kate. After all, she was coming at his request.

It wasn’t, he told himself, that he didn’t love and want her. It wasn’t that at all. But love wasn’t something you felt every minute of the day. Sometimes you were preoccupied. Sometimes you had important things to do. Sometimes you had better things to do.

Moodrow looked around his apartment, trying to imagine Kate Cohan living there. He saw a living room, two bedrooms and an eat-in kitchen. Nine hundred square feet, all furnished in solid maple. Maple was better than pine, but it was still a long way from the oak and mahogany Kate Cohan was used to. Plus, the living room carpet was threadbare. And the walls needed painting. And the windows stuck in their frames. And whenever he tried to do something about the cockroaches, they retreated to the Sawitzkys’ apartment, only to be chased back. Mrs. Sawitzky was a demon with the Flit.

What was the point? The Lower East Side of Manhattan was never going to be suburbia. No matter how many coats of paint Moodrow threw up on its walls. No matter how many gallons of insecticide he poured beneath the sink or behind the icebox. Kate would just have to live with it, because he wasn’t about to move. He wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life chasing her middle-class dreams. The price was too high. Just ask Pat Cohan.

He tried to picture Kate’s face, the spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the firm jaw and bright blue eyes. But the image that kept forcing itself into his mind was of his mother armed with a hatpin, of mounted cops urging their horses into a crowd of striking workers. He could hear the accents: Italian, Yiddish, Russian, Polish. He could hear the horse scream as the hatpin slammed home. He could hear the terrified shout of the cop as he came off the horse.

The phone rang and Moodrow, still preoccupied, was halfway to the door by the time he realized it wasn’t the doorbell. He walked back into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Stanley, it’s me.”

“Kate?” Moodrow looked up at the clock. It was almost noon. “Where are you?”

“I’m home.”

“Home?”

“In Bayside. Daddy and I had a terrible fight. I can’t come over. Daddy’s forbidden me to come over.”

What it is, Moodrow thought, is that if you’re not an adult at age twenty-two, you never will be.

“Why don’t you tell your daddy to go fuck himself.”

“Stanley, don’t use that language.”

“Because your daddy’s a crook.”

“What?” Her voice rose an octave. “How can you say that?”

“That’s why you’re living in that house in Bayside. Because your daddy’s been taking bribes for the last thirty-five years.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say. Daddy would never …”

“You’re gonna find out about it sooner or later, Kate. Pat Cohan is as crooked as they come and what he’s trying to do is have me follow in his crooked footsteps.”

“Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do?”

Moodrow took a moment to think about it. “What I want you to do is go into the bedroom, undress, and step in front of the mirror. Take a good look at yourself. What you’re gonna see is the body of a woman, not a child. And what you have to do is let your mind catch up to your body. The shit’s gonna hit the fan, Kate. It’s gonna hit real soon and your father’s got his face right in front of the blades.”

It was Kate’s turn to think about it. When she spoke again, she was in control, her voice almost cold. “Are you telling me that you, Stanley, you are going to do something to get my father in trouble?” She hesitated again. “That you’re going to put my father in jail?”

“I’m a detective, Kate, and I’m investigating a murder. Your father didn’t commit the murder, but he’s trying to cover it up. He’s impeding the investigation.”

“Can you prove this?”

“Not in a courtroom. Not yet.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Look, Kate, I didn’t set out to get your father. Things just happen. They happen and then you have to make decision. A decision about yourself. Remember Father Ryan’s penance? I’m sure it came as something of a surprise, but once he gave it out, you had to do what your conscience told you was right.