A Piece of the Action

welfare and build projects. The Puerto Ricans would vote for a communist if he promised to increase the dole.”

He was rambling now, and he knew it. It was time to cap his argument. Make that final point and hope for the best. He raised his eyes to meet his daughter’s. “You were right, in a way, Kate. It is about Stanley Moodrow. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t have made the mistake I made when I allowed him to court you. I was his rabbi, Kate. Do you know what that means?”

“Does it have something to do with the Department?”

“It has everything to do with the Department. A rabbi is a protector, a guardian angel, a mentor. Without a rabbi, there’s no way to rise up in the job. And that’s the point. In my Department, a man didn’t turn on his rabbi. He didn’t bite the hand that fed him. But it’s not my Department anymore. No, it’s gone over and it’s time for me to go over with it. What I decided to do was count my blessings. I’ve my health and enough money so I won’t be puttin’ out my hand in my old age.” He let his voice drop to a hoarse whisper. “I also have you, Kate. And the grandchildren you’ll one day give me.”

Pat Cohan wanted to examine his daughter’s face the way he’d once, long ago, examined the faces of suspects in basement interrogation rooms. But he couldn’t do that. It was a time for weakness, not strength. Besides, he wasn’t the interrogator, here; he was the suspect. So what he did was let his eyes drop to his folded hands, a sad old man facing the loss of his power.

He stayed that way for a full minute before raising his eyes. When he did he found his daughter, hands on hips, staring down at him. “What happened to Sal Patero, Daddy? Why hasn’t Sal been around? He used to be here every other day.”

“That wop is exactly what I’ve been talking about. Guineas like him don’t belong in the Department. Not my Department.” It was out before he could put a brake on his mouth. He’d had no more control over what he’d said, than over the twin scarlet roses blossoming on his cheeks.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on, Daddy?” She was turning away from him, walking back into the foyer. “How long do you expect me to be the family pet? How long do you want me to be Lassie? Every time I talk to Stanley, he tells me to grow up. He doesn’t tell me about his side of the story. He tells me to grow up.”

Pat Cohan stared at the bottom of his empty cup, then looked back at his daughter. “Are you calling me a liar, Kate?” This time the whisper wasn’t forced. His momentary anger had fled as suddenly as it had come. What he felt was close to terror.

“No, Daddy, not a liar. But I can’t take your word for it, either. I have to go find out for myself.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and Moodrow, walking up Allen Street toward his apartment, was trying to connect the events of the day. He was going to have to put the day into some kind of order if he hoped to find Jake Leibowitz. That was a given. It was funny, in a way. Initially, he’d been worried that somebody would get to Jake before he did. Now, he was afraid that Leibowitz had left the city altogether, that he might never be taken.

After four hours of cooling their heels in the hallway, he and Epstein, accompanied by Paul Maguire, had finally gotten into the Leibowitz apartment. Their search had taken almost two hours as they looked under beds, behind cabinets, inside the toilet tank. As they unrolled pairs of socks, fumbled in Jake’s silk underpants, pulled out empty drawers and flipped them over.

In the end, Moodrow had found what he was looking for in a closet not ten feet from where he’d entered the apartment. A forest of hats rested on two shelves. Beneath them, a black cashmere overcoat hung on a wooden hangar. A spatter of dark spots was just barely visible on the hem of the overcoat.

Moodrow was sure it was blood, the blood of Al O’Neill or Betty O’Neill or both. They’d been killed with knives, butchered, and there was no way Jake Leibowitz could have kept himself entirely clean. There’d be traces of blood in the car, too. Assuming they found it.

Allen Epstein had been dubious, but Paul Maguire had put his years of experience on the line.

“It’s blood, all right,” he’d said. “I’d bet my pension on it.”

“He couldn’t be that stupid,” Epstein had said.

“Maybe he didn’t see it. The coat’s black, for Christ’s sake. Besides, if it wasn’t for stupid, we wouldn’t catch any of them. Stupid is what we count on.” Maguire had carefully folded the coat before easing it into a paper bag. His movements were respectful, almost reverent, as if he was handling priestly vestments or folding the flag at sundown. “Congratulations, Stanley. Jake Leibowitz’s fat is now officially fried.”

Epstein had continued to be skeptical, even when they’d found more dark stains on the seam of the right arm, even when they’d found spatters on the brim of a black fedora. He’d refused to surrender his disbelief until they were standing in one of the M.E.’s labs and a white-coated technician officially pronounced the stains to be bloodstains.

“We still don’t know the blood came from Al or Betty O’Neill,” he’d insisted.

By that time Moodrow had grown tired of it. Epstein, sergeant or not, was a patrolman, not a detective. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) understand. There were times when you knew where it was going, when you could feel the energy racing through the wires and you either raced along with it or got left behind. Permanently.

“Sarge,” he’d said, “what I’d like you to do is go back into the house and see how the search for Jake is being organized. I’d like to know what Rosten’s doing, if anything. Paul and I will interview Sarah Leibowitz.”

“Look, Stanley, you can’t order me around. I know you like to have things your own way, but you’re gonna have to wait until you pass the lieutenant’s exam before you start telling me what to do.”

Moodrow had grinned, holding up his hands defensively. “Easy, Sarge. I’m not trying to take anything away from you. But you have to admit that investigations are for detectives. Paul and I have legitimate reasons for questioning Sarah Leibowitz. Nobody’ll challenge our authority. I’m afraid that Rosten’s gonna try to fix it so Jake never sees the inside of a jail cell. You can talk to the beat cops in the Seventh. I don’t know if we can do anything about it, but if there’s an all-out hunt for Jake Leibowitz, it’d be nice if we knew about it.”

Epstein had snorted his disapproval, then driven off to the precinct while Moodrow and Maguire headed up to Bellevue Hospital where Sarah Leibowitz, half her head covered with gauze, rested in a private room. She began to moan as soon as she saw the two detectives.

“Mrs. Leibowitz,” Moodrow had begun, “I’m Detective …”

Coming over, he and Maguire had carefully worked out their strategy. Sarah Leibowitz was not going to be charged with any crime in connection with the death of Santo Silesi, so they had no leverage on that end. If they couldn’t appeal to Sarah Leibowitz’s conscience, they’d explain that the only certainty here was Jake’s eventual capture. If he resisted, he’d be shot down like a dog. Plus (as Santo Silesi had ably demonstrated) the mob was after him and they’d have no mercy at all. The best thing Jake could do was surrender quietly.

It’d seemed like a decent approach to both detectives: prod the worried mother with promises of protection for her son, appeal to her motherly instincts. What could be simpler? In Sarah Leibowitz’s presence, however, their strategy had evaporated like morning mist under an August sun. Before Moodrow could finish introducing himself, the Leibowitz moan had turned into a howl that brought doctors and nurses running. Sarah Leibowitz, having suffered a serious head injury, had to be kept quiet. She wasn’t up to an interview, much less an interrogation. So sorry, but it would just have to wait.

Moodrow and Maguire had retreated to Maguire’s car, then decided to separate. Maguire had to go into the precinct. The Silesi shooting was his responsibility and he wanted to make sure the paperwork was in order before he wrote his own reports. Moodrow had accepted a ride to Houston Street, then, in the time-honored tradition of stymied detectives everywhere, had begun to pound the pavement.

He’d made mental notes as he worked the bars and the small bookie joints, as he stopped numbers runners on the street and interrupted the shylocks working the lofts and factories. The message he’d projected had been the same to one and all: the heat was coming down. There would be no “business as usual,” not while Jake Leibowitz was on the loose. Their best move was to give Jake up before the raids began.

“How come I never seen you before?” Sam Gelardi, a low-level bookie had asked.

Moodrow, ignoring the question, had jammed his index finger into Gelardi’s chest. “Do yourself a favor,” he’d hissed, “if ya kill the bastard, leave his body where it can be found. If he disappears, I’m gonna make it my personal business to run you off the Lower East Side.”