Then I turned and
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I had spent the night drifting in and out of sleep, staring at Katy as she slept. I couldn’t get Margaret Spinelli’s words out of my head.
“We need to talk,” I said, brushing her cheek with the back of my hand.
“About what?”
“Nebraska.”
I expected puzzlement in her eyes, her too-thin lips to turn down in confusion, her brow to furrow, at least a little bit. But she seemed to understand.
“Long, flat, uneventful,” is what she said.
“Exactly.”
I pulled her close to me and for the first time in what felt like years, my wife pressed herself against me, threaded herself through my arms in that way she had of breaking down the walls between us.
“When I’m done with whatever this is about Larry, we’re dropping Sarah at Aaron and Cindy’s and we’re going to dinner.”
“Okay, Moe.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Then you better hurry and finish this up.”
D.A. Fishbein was happy to get me the name and home address of Captain Raymond Martello, the 60th Precinct’s commander. I imagined the D.A.’s mouth watering on the other end of the phone. Un-contained ambition, I thought, must be an incredible burden for a political
Fishbein also used the opportunity to inform me that he’d come up empty on another front. As far as any of his contacts knew, there was no ongoing or recent investigation into wrongdoings at my old precinct. No one, apparently, not I.A., the city, state, nor federal governments seemed the least bit interested in the 60th Precinct. That didn’t confuse me any more than usual. For me, confusion was a pre-existing and chronic condition.
Martello lived in Great River. Unlike Massapequa, Great River was not a frequent stop for folks fleeing New York City. Tucked quietly away in Suffolk County between an arboretum, a wooded state park, a golf course, and the Atlantic, it was insulated from the neon signs and strip malls that dominated so much of the local landscape. It was a lovely old hamlet with clapboard and wood shingle churches and well-appointed houses on healthy-sized plots.
Across the street from Timber Point Golf Course, Martello’s house began life as a modest L-shaped ranch. It had since grown a second floor, an attic with shed dormers, an extension, a separate three-car garage, and a fancy brick driveway. Although the work had been quite skillfully done, the original ranch house still shone through.
Ringing the bell and knocking on the door got me nowhere, and I was about to write a note to stick in the mailbox when I heard a lawnmower start up around back. I walked the curvy, bluestone path that led to the rear of the house. I figured the worst that could happen was that I would meet the Martello’s landscaper. Before I made it to the back gates, the mower crapped out.
Short, broad, fierce, and looking at his riding mower as if it had just disobeyed a direct order, Martello had C.O. written all over him. Before announcing myself, I took a moment to admire the backyard. A two-level, red cedar deck led down to a kidney-shaped swimming pool, a basketball hoop, and a brick barbecue pit. Even with all that stuff, there was half a football field’s worth of grass to mow.
“Did you prime it?” I asked by means of introduction.
He stared at me like something shit wipes off the bottom of its shoes. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Moe Prager. I used to be on the job. I was a friend of-”
“-Chief McDonald’s. He smiled with the warmth of a hacksaw. “You’re the guy that figured out what happened to John Heaton’s kid, Moira, right?”
“With Larry’s help, yeah.” I approached Martello cautiously.
“You know a lot about mowers, Prager?”
“Nah. I still live in Brooklyn. My lawn’s the size of a pillowcase, but I figured I’d say the only semi-intelligent thing I could think of.”
“Well, I primed the fucker, but you’re not far off. I think I’m outta gas. So, if the John Deere people didn’t send you, I hope you don’t mind me asking what you’re doing here.”
“I don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you about Larry Mac.”
“What about the chief?”
On the ride over, I’d worked through scenario after scenario. Not in a single one did Martello react well. Cold bastard or not, I couldn’t see any precinct command reacting well to the news that a bug had been placed in his precinct house by the department’s chief of detectives. And that was just the half of it. I couldn’t wait to see Martello’s reaction to my questioning him about Malik Jabbar’s arrest.
“What about Chief McDonald?” Martello repeated, his jaw tightening.
Reaching into my pocket, I came out with the cassette that Larry had given me a week and a lifetime ago. I made a concerted effort not to wince, steeling myself against the inevitable barrage of questions, denials, and accusations.
But instead of thunder and lightning, I got quiet resignation and a cold drink.
“I figured the tape would surface sooner or later. C’mon, I guess we better sit on the deck and talk.”
Martello offered me something stronger, but I opted for iced tea. He had a beer. I sat and sipped, waiting for him to speak. We both knew the questions. Only he knew the answers.
“My wife and the kids are away upstate, so we’re alone here,” he said. “How’s the tea?”
“Fine.”
“You’re not gonna make this easy, Prager, huh?”
“That’s sorta up to you, no? I don’t really know anything except that there’s an illegal wire in one of your interview rooms and that you obviously know it’s there. That whatever Malik Jabbar said on this tape scared the shit out of Larry, got Malik and his girlfriend murdered, and maybe even Larry too.”
“Chief McDonald, no way. That was a textbook suicide, pal.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How well you know Larry Mac, Captain?”
“Well enough. We weren’t friends or anything.”
“He strike you as the suicidal type?”
“What’s the suicidal type? Half the fucking people who commit homicide aren’t the murdering type. You push anybody hard enough and they can kill you or themselves. It’s just a matter of how much of a push and in what direction. Type is besides the point.”
“All right. Let’s say Larry killed himself. It doesn’t change the rest of it,” I said. I was doing an awful lot of talking for someone who intended to listen. “So what about the wire?”
“McDonald came to me and told me he had heard a few things, that stuff had filtered back to him about some of my detectives.”
“What kinda things?”
“Drug stuff. You know, the same old bullshit about shaking down the local dealers, protecting the bigger ones for a fee, stealing cash and drugs. Blah, blah, blah. Nothing new under the sun, right?”
“Now you’re crossing the line, pal. I’ll talk to you about McDonald, but that’s where it ends.”
“Okay, skip it. So Larry Mac comes to you and he says he’s heard some things and. .”
“And he says he don’t want a scandal involving detectives, not on his watch, not while he’s their chief.”
