The bell in the lobby sounded before Betty could frame a response. Three minutes later, Leonora Higgins walked into the room and stripped off her dripping raincoat.
“I ran Josie Rizzo’s name through the DHCR computer,” she said, accepting a cup of coffee. “But before I give you the result, I need to know exactly what you plan to do.”
Moodrow groaned, nearly dropped the coffeepot.
“About what?”
“About Theresa Kalkadonis.” Leonora was blunt, as always.
“If you were in my position,” he said after a moment, “what would you do?”
“Nothing, Stanley, because there’s nothing to be done.”
Leonora was wearing a navy blue suit over a white blouse. Moodrow recognized the outfit as her courtroom costume, her take-no-prisoners uniform. He smiled, trying to disarm her.
“My point exactly.”
“In that case, Stanley,” Leonora tapped the edge of the table with a crimson fingernail, “maybe I should call Jim Tilley, hand the information over to the police.”
Moodrow plopped himself down into a chair on the opposite side of the table. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair, then dropped his hand to his lap. “I was hoping you wouldn’t get a hit,” he said.
“That doesn’t answer the question.” She leaned forward, glanced at Betty. “Look, I got a call yesterday from D.E. Brecker, the DA’s personal aide. He wasn’t angry, Stanley, didn’t order me around. No, what he did was suggest, since you and I are known to be friends, that I advise you of the fact that you’re interfering with an ongoing Major Cases’ investigation.”
“How?” Moodrow kept the question simple. Not that he had any real hope of a simple answer.
“Brecker didn’t tell me that.”
“Why am I not surprised? Look, I had a visit from the FBI last night. You remember Agent Holtzmann with two
n
s? Well, Agent Holtzmann with two
n
s told me the same thing you’re telling me now. Meanwhile, I’d bet my left hand against a quarter the scumbag’s protecting Jilly Sappone.”
“I wouldn’t take the bet, Stanley. Mainly, because I don’t need an extra left hand.” Leonora’s mouth opened into a warm, genuine smile. She recited an address, 618 West Ninetieth Street, then added, “You guys see the paper today? Watch the news?”
“No,” Betty replied, “we just got up.”
“It must be nice to be part of the leisure crowd.” Leonora tossed the
New York Post
across the table. “Big fire in the Bronx last night. Enough bodies to draw the vultures away from Jilly Sappone, drive the investigation back to page twenty-three. Whatta you bet, come tomorrow, it’s not in the paper at all?”
Moodrow hesitated for a fraction of a second. “That leaves the feds in the clear. If the press isn’t looking, they can do whatever they want.”
“Not quite, Stanley.” Betty opened the refrigerator, took out three navel oranges, began to cut them into quarters. “Even if the vultures go somewhere else for their daily dose of carrion, there’s still you and Ginny Gadd to worry about. You guys would be the only remaining witnesses.”
G
ADD BEGAN TO COMPLAIN
before she was inside Moodrow’s door. “I hope you had a better morning than I did,” she announced as she pulled off her Gore-Tex jacket and shook it out in the hallway. “Because mine has been an absolute nightmare. Jesus, I hate the rain. I hate the rain and I hate the FBI.” She stopped suddenly, dropped her jacket into Moodrow’s waiting hand. “I think I’ve found out what it’s like to be a criminal. At least, part of it. Swear to God, Moodrow, I wanted to shoot that fed in the worst way.”
Moodrow stepped aside to let her pass into the apartment, then hung her jacket on a hook attached to his closet door. “Why didn’t you?
“Fear of incarceration,” she answered promptly. “Hi, Betty. “You’re just the person I’m looking for.”
The two women exchanged a quick hug, then Gadd took off for the bathroom. Betty, after a quick shake of her head, poured out three mugs of coffee, while Moodrow, who found that he couldn’t stop grinning, set milk, sugar, and a plate of oozing jelly doughnuts on the kitchen table. When Gadd reappeared a few minutes later, she bit into a doughnut, sipped at the steaming coffee, then wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. She was about to have a second go at the doughnut when Moodrow cleared his throat.
“That was a grand entrance,” he declared. “But it needs a punch line.”
Gadd held the doughnut in front of her mouth long enough to declare, “Well, the shit’s hit the fan, now. Agent Holtzmann caught me staking out the tape box.” Then she bit into the doughnut, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Actually, ‘caught’ may not be the right word. I think the bastard was following me.”
“And you didn’t spot him?”
“It was raining, Moodrow, raining hard.” She waved the question away. “And maybe he was only making a pickup. Maybe I’m being too paranoid. Either way, that tape I copied yesterday is the first, last, and only.”
“Did he accuse you directly?” Betty asked. Her sharp black eyes were glittering. “Of stealing the tape?”
“Yes.”
Gadd shook her head. “Holtzmann didn’t mention the tape at all, though he had to know what I was doing. Instead, he asked me about an old friend of ours, Carlo Sappone.”
“Well, the chickens are coming home.” Betty folded her hands and laid them on the table. “Did he threaten you?”
“Absolutely. The man was anything but subtle. He told me that if I didn’t lay off, he’d offer to protect Carlo in return for his testimony.”
“Protect Carlo from whom?” Betty asked.
“He didn’t actually say, but I’m assuming Carmine Stettecase.” Gadd looked over at Moodrow. “I don’t think it matters all that much.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” Betty took a breath. “What did you tell him, Ginny? How did you respond?” Her calm tone masked a lawyer’s concern for an unpredictable client.
“I told him if he didn’t take a hike, I’d get my partner to slap him around.”
Moodrow started to laugh, then caught a glimpse of Betty’s stern expression and covered his mouth with his hand.
“Maybe I’ll do that,” he mused. “Take his badge and his gun and shove them up his ass.” He looked directly into Betty’s eyes. “Because this prick, this Holtzmann with two
n
s, is getting me more and more pissed off as time goes on.”
“Stanley, look …”
“I don’t
want
to look, Betty. This mutt is responsible for getting Sappone out of prison. I know he’s protecting Sappone even as we speak. Now, he threatens to put me and Gadd in jail for the crime of trying to save a child’s life. I swear to Christ, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this is one dog that needs a serious beating.”
Gadd raised her mug. “I’ll drink to that.”
After a brief hesitation, Betty raised her own mug and drank. “Just keep one thing in mind, boys and girls, needing and receiving are two different sides of the coin. The risks, here, are genuine.” She waited long enough for the message to sink in, then continued. “Now, Ginny, what did you
really
tell the agent?”
“I said, ‘Message received,’ then walked away. Call it a Mexican standoff.”
Moodrow shook his head. “He was bluffing you, Gadd. If Holtzmann had Carlo in his pocket, he would have dragged you down to FBI headquarters, made a big production out of it. What I think is that he’s scared, really scared. Remember, he could have waited for you to go into the box, then arrested you.”
“Why didn’t he?” Betty asked.
“Because,” Gadd declared, “we, meaning Moodrow and myself, are holding all the cards. Maybe a week from now, the day after they takes Carmine, it’ll be different.” She turned to Moodrow. “We get a hit on that housing computer?”
“As a matter of fact,” Moodrow announced, “they, meaning Betty and an ex-FBI agent named Leonora Higgins, did. An apartment on West Ninetieth Street leased to Ms. Josefina Rizzo.”
Gadd jerked up straight. “Then why are we sitting around with jelly on our chins?”
“Because there’s no rush,” Moodrow declared. “Jilly Sappone’s not there. He
couldn’t
be.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Moodrow giggled. “Not so sure that I plan to go unarmed,” he admitted.
It took Moodrow and Gadd more than an hour to cover the five miles between Moodrow’s Lower East Side apartment and West Ninetieth Street. The Chevrolet, slow to start under the best of conditions, had gone through its own battery and most of a nearby Pontiac’s before it finally coughed its way to life. A grateful Moodrow had given the lot attendant, Walberto, a ten-dollar bill, then run head-on into an FDR Drive packed with traffic. By that time, both he and Gadd had taken the hint. New York, a city of endless frustration under the best of circumstances, was about to snatch another piece of their collective adrenals.
“Think of it as a test.” Moodrow had gestured at the surrounding traffic. “All these people trapped behind their windshield wipers. Peering out through the grease smears.”
“A test of what?”
“Well, when I was in Catholic School the nuns used to tell us that calamity and suffering, especially when they happen to good people, are God’s way of testing the faithful.” He paused to flip on the heater, turn it to defrost in an effort to clear the foggy windows. “See, what I was thinking was maybe there’s a junior-apprentice god in charge of New York. Maybe the frustration is a way of testing our worthiness to live here. I mean, let’s face it, Gadd, everybody wants to take a bite out of the Big Apple. The only problem is that most of the time it’s the Big Apple taking a bite out of us. You can’t tell me it doesn’t need theological justification.”
In an effort to let the heat out, Gadd rolled down her window slightly, thereby letting in the rain. “Fine,” she said, adjusting the hood of her jacket to cover the side of her face, “but what I need to know is how you
pass
the test?”
Moodrow slapped the steering wheel as a Federal Express delivery van cut in front of him. “You pass by taking the bullshit.” He turned to her. “I’m serious, Gadd. If you stay, you pass.”
They were on Forty-second Street, inching their way crosstown along with much of the FDR Drive traffic, making a few car lengths on each green light. The rain drummed on the roof and steamed on the hood of their car, raising a filmy gray curtain between their little capsule and all the capsules around them. The office towers lining both sides of Forty-second Street rose into the mist, their rooflines disappearing altogether. Even the textured, salmon pink brick of the old GE Building loomed cold and gray, its sharp edges indistinct, reduced to simple, overwhelming mass.
Once they passed Lexington Avenue, Moodrow, knowing there were no left turns between Lexington and Ninth Avenue on the west side, cut into the left lane with every intention of staying put. As traffic strategies go, it was decent enough. Or it would have been if the cabbies weren’t jammed up in front of Grand Central Station and the Hyatt Hotel, forcing every other vehicle, including the buses, to pull off the same maneuver.
“You see that guy?” Gadd pointed to a thoroughly enraged, thoroughly soaked traffic agent. He was waving a soggy ticket book at an indifferent cabdriver.
“Yeah, I see him.”
“That’s how you survive in New York.”
“By screaming and shouting?”
“No, by seeing how bad off the other guy is.”
Moodrow nodded agreement, muttered, “Thank God for the homeless.”
The traffic didn’t break up until they turned north on Tenth Avenue, some forty minutes later. It was only then, when the pressure had lifted, that Moodrow introduced a topic of conversation sure to be painful.
“What I wanna do,” he said evenly, “is throw back whatever we find up there to Jim Tilley and Leonora Higgins, let them run it back to the detectives and the DA’s office.”
His statement produced the expected explosion. Gadd turned to him, her eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. “You telling me you wanna cover your ass?”
“It’s partly that.”
“Partly?”
“Yeah, and it’s partly the fact that I was a cop for thirty-five years. The job’s not the enemy here.”
“Is there any other
partly
?” Her voice was sharp, her sarcasm more than evident. “Before I rip the ears off your skull.”
Moodrow looked at her for a minute, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He tried to remember the last time he’d liked someone as much as he liked Ginny Gadd, finally decided that only Jim Tilley could wear those shoes.
“There may come a time,” he patiently explained, “when we need the job for some favor. It’s gonna be a lot easier to get that favor if the cops are in our debt.” He held up a finger. “Think about this: If Sappone isn’t there, what we’re giving them costs us exactly nothing. Meanwhile, if we step aside, don’t try to take credit, it’s a gold star for the dicks assigned to the case. One thing cops do is pay off on their markers.”
Gadd nodded reluctant agreement. “Yeah,” she admitted, “that part of it is true enough. But if we find something in the apartment, something that leads to Jilly Sappone, all bets are off. I want Sappone for myself.”
Moodrow let it go at that. The traffic was moving quickly now, vehicles darting left and right like kids in a lunchtime playground. Just ahead, on the east side of the avenue, Lincoln Center, its milky stonework dulled by the continuing rain, showed its rear end to a low-rise housing project across the street, the juxtaposition defining the essential New York dichotomy.
“Time to get ready,” he muttered.
“Say that again?”
“I don’t think there’s one chance in a thousand that Sappone’s in that apartment. Meanwhile, if I was squeezing any harder, the edges of my asshole’d weld themselves together.”
Gadd looked at him for a moment before replying. “Yeah, I hear ya, Moodrow.” She took her S&W out of her purse, checked the cylinder, then slid it beneath her jacket. “‘Be prepared,’ right.”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind.” Moodrow shifted his weight to one side and withdrew a small automatic from his coat pocket. The butt, trigger guard, and most of the barrel were covered with surgical tape. “Look,” he said, “if we do run into Sappone, there’s a chance …” He took a breath, started over. “We’re not gonna have a lotta time to think it out. It could be we’ll misinterpret Sappone’s motives, do something stupid. If that should happen, I’m gonna put this piece on the floor next to his hand, give the cops an excuse to cut us some slack. Or maybe a lawyer an excuse to give to a jury.”