A Piece of the Action

precinct, the Seventh. And my bust. Who are you?”

“I’m Donnelly,” the short one said. “And this is Wittstein. We’re from Midtown North. We got a warrant for a cop named Moodrow. I take it this is him.”

“What about it?” Epstein asked.

The two detectives looked at each other. The obvious (though unasked) question was how do you arrest someone who’s already under arrest? Especially when you, yourself, have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“And why is it,” Epstein continued, “that two suits from Midtown North come all the way down to the Seventh to make an arrest for a routine assault that didn’t occur in their precinct? How is it that you even know there’s a warrant out for Detective Stanley Moodrow? Who sent you down here? Who put the warrant in your hand?”

“Wait a second, Sarge,” Wittstein said. The tips of his ears glowed red. “You got no right to question us.”

“Wrong,” Epstein said. “I outrank the both of you. Unless one of you passed the sergeant’s exam. The fact that you’re wearing a cheap suit and a spotted tie doesn’t mean squat. I outrank every detective in the job.”

“That’s just technical,” Wittstein hissed.

“Technical? I could order you off the scene, but I’m not gonna do that. In fact, even though it’s my bust and two dicks from Midtown North are trying to take it away from me, I’m gonna let you accompany me down to the house so I can book this vicious criminal. While we’re there, maybe I can get you an appointment to see the captain. He’s a busy man, the captain, but I think he’ll wanna know what two precinct detectives from Midtown North are doing on the Lower East Side. I think the captain’ll give us a little personal time.”

“We have a right to make an arrest anywhere in the city.” Wittstein was livid. “Who the fuck are you to tell us where to operate?”

“Because it never happens innocently,” Epstein ignored the challenge. “Never. You’re down here because someone sent you. Someone who didn’t trust Captain John McElroy, Commander of the Seventh Precinct, to get the job done.”

Wittstein started to respond, but Donnelly waved him off. “All right, Sarge, you’re holding all the cards. Me and Wittstein, we’re just following orders. The lieutenant asked us to come over and knock on the door. We didn’t expect to find anyone, because the lieutenant also told us the suspect was long gone. That’s how come we didn’t bring backup. Now, me and Wittstein, we’re goin’ back up to Midtown North and tell the lieutenant that Sergeant Allen Epstein put the suspect under arrest before we arrived on the scene. And you could forget about draggin’ us down to the Seventh. Unless you plan to shoot us in the back.”

Epstein waited until the two detectives were out of sight, then closed the door and walked over to the window.

“Hey, Sarge,” Moodrow said, “how ’bout takin’ off these cuffs?”

“Wait a second, Stanley, I wanna see them drive away.” He stared down at the street for a moment. “They’re going. We got a little time.” He turned back to find a grinning Stanley Moodrow.

“You’re in it now, Sarge. You’re in it up to your neck.”

“Unless I actually make the arrest, Stanley. If I make the arrest, I’m a hero.” Epstein was already turning the key in the handcuffs. “Jesus, what am I gonna tell the captain?”

“Tell him I escaped. Tell him you cuffed me with my own cuffs and I must have had a key.”

“That’s another charge against you, Stanley. And a black mark on my record. Plus, it still doesn’t explain what I was doing here in the first place.”

“Then tell him the truth. Tell him that we-meaning me and you-are gonna bring a murderer before the bar of justice.” The look of disbelief on Epstein’s face brought Moodrow up short. “Take a seat, Sarge. There’s a few things you need to know. When you hear what I got to say, you’re gonna feel a lot better.”

Moodrow took his time, detailing O’Neill’s statement and the contents of the complaint signed by Samuelson and Lieutenant Rosten. As he described Sal Patero’s confession, Epstein’s eyes began to widen. By the time Moodrow finished, the sergeant’s mouth was hanging open.

“Holy shit. Patero admitted to covering up a homicide?”

“Well, I did ask him real nice.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You must’ve halfway killed him.”

“Actually, he wasn’t that tough. He didn’t last as long as the Playtex Burglar.”

Epstein took a minute to think about it. “How come you didn’t tell me about this before?” he finally asked.

“I didn’t trust you, Sarge. It’s that simple.”

“You’re a smart kid, Stanley. With that blank face, you look like a big dumb flatfoot, but you’re smarter than hell. Why don’t you tell me what you think I should do? Being as you already know.”

“First, I take you down to my neighbor’s apartment and let you look at the evidence. Then, you go back to the house and find the captain. Tell him you’re a go-between, a negotiator. Describe the evidence. Make sure he understands that he’s not involved. Tell him that I threatened to go to the papers if you brought me in. All you did was act in the best interests of the Department. Which interests would be well served by allowing Stanley Moodrow to make a case against Jake Leibowitz.”

“I don’t know, Stanley. The captain’s got all ten fingers in Patero’s pie.”

“That’s the whole point. McElroy’s on the take. The last thing he wants is for me to go public. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. About what I want and what I don’t. You tell McElroy that I’m not out to fuck the Department. That’s not my intention at all. I have two goals here. I wanna put Luis Melenguez’s killer in the electric chair and I want to keep my job. Look, Sarge, what I’m trying for is a little offense. Pat Cohan claims to run lower Manhattan. He brags about it. So why hasn’t McElroy sent half the precinct after me? Why does Cohan have to send out detectives from Midtown North?”

“The guys are refusing, Stanley. That’s why Cohan’s reaching into other precincts.”

“Yeah? So, why didn’t McElroy assemble a squad and directly order the men to cooperate? Why didn’t he jump on their heads with both feet which is what precinct commanders always do when the boys get out of hand? I got a funny feeling that McElroy didn’t know about the coverup. I also have a feeling that McElroy has no interest in helping Pat Cohan. Look, Sarge, you make sure McElroy understands that he’s not implicated. Maybe we can isolate Cohan. Maybe McElroy will go over Cohan’s head. Whatever happens, I don’t see how we can lose. You came here to talk me into surrendering, but when you saw what I had and realized it was enough to make headlines, you decided to back off and consult your superiors. They’ll give you a fucking commendation.”

Epstein, smiling, held his hands up. “Okay, I surrender.”

“Not yet, Sarge. Because I got one more favor to ask. I was hoping you’d take the prints home with you and make the comparison yourself. Because I have to get up to see Pearse O’Malley. Before someone decides to kill him.”

Twenty-six

It was nearly midnight as Pat Cohan drove along the Belt Parkway near Idlewild Airport in southern Queens. He could plainly hear the roar of landing airplanes. He could hear the planes a quarter of a mile away, but he could barely see the car in front of him. The warm air and the rain had had a predictable effect on the icy waters of nearby Jamaica Bay. The fog was so thick you could taste it.

Maybe that was why Joe Faci had chosen Howard Beach for their meeting. Because you couldn’t be followed in this fog. A tail would have to work in your trunk to keep up. It was definitely a night for murder. Which is exactly what Pat Cohan wanted to talk about.

Or, better, he wanted to talk about murders. Murders past, murders present and murders future. The past was two pimps and a spic named Luis Melenguez who forgot to mind his own business. The present was Steppy Accacio, dead in his own home. The future was a Jew named Leibowitz. And maybe an Irishman named O’Malley.