F Train (17 page)

One result of all these soul-searing desires was that for the first time in recent NYPD memory, common cause was made between the police and some of the demimonde—not to mention the haut monde—the dark side volunteering its anonymous two cents' worth, flooding the police and the district attorney's office with more worthless tips than they knew what to do with or wanted to be seen holding.

“Tell me, Flo,” said Cecil King, pausing to sneeze and squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“You've got a real beaut of a cold there,” Flo said.

“Grandmother of all colds. Can't seem to shake it. Now what's this on Lee Ho Fook and Reilly?”

Flo recounted the details of the extensive police search for criminal world connections to Lee Ho Fook. The district attorney asked several questions, mostly about Reilly's notes and her opinion of the decoded results.

“Flo, there's nobody in our profession I respect more than you. But you may be banging your head against a wall, on the other side of which you might find nothing but a dead-end alley.”

“Or maybe there could be something interesting.” She tried to hide a tinge of resentment at this demeaning of her work.

“Sure, Flo, it's interesting Reilly was sneaking around Chinatown, sniffing around archives, not telling his colleagues, or so we'd like to think. But it's just possible, indeed probable, Lee Ho Fook was long since vanished among one billion three hundred million people back in his home country.” The DA sneezed, honked. “He executed a man in our country. Over here, he was called a ‘leader of his people.' Over there, who knows, maybe he became the same.” Cecil King smiled, blew his nose. “Street leaders come and go, like street fashions. There's plenty of money in China now, maybe even more than in this country. Why should he bother coming back here if he can stay home and get even richer?”

“Reilly was interested in him. There had to be a damn good reason Reilly checked out those old interview transcripts.” Flo couldn't conceal the defiance in her tone, and the authority in her confidence pleased her.

“The Bureau was in a tough spot, Flo. Back then and now again. China. You kidding? We'll be allowed enough evidence maybe to swat a fly, if we're lucky. National security. We got secret courts now, criminal
and
civil, all because of national security. All it takes is the commander in chief's say-so. It's a whole new ball game we're playing.”

Cecil King persisted in what Flo viewed as defeatism, and she felt a hot wave of shame hit her as if she were fresh out of law school and just flunked her first shot at the bar exams. Irrationally
perhaps—instead
of overlooking these new realities, for being bravely blind to new truths—she blamed the late John James Reilly. She was angry at him for going off half-cocked and not leaving behind a solid solution. Depressed that his meandering trails and his schoolboy games with amateur codes were maybe no better than her and her colleagues' own conjectures. She'd trusted John James Reilly, professional special agent, to know what the hell he was doing, and maybe she was miserable now because she saw her trust seesawing. When you got right down to it, the ingredients produced such a haphazard concoction, the weird brew of John James Reilly and Lee Ho Fook and the F train corpses. No matter, and in spite of the district attorney's concern for larger, newer realities, she felt certain the basic faith she had in herself and her colleagues would be justified.

“Flo, Reilly might have disqualified himself making a play for that woman,” said the DA. “If that's what he was up to. It's possible, maybe probable. Sure, he could have been fighting on the side of truth, law, justice, patriotism, and all the time maybe he has sex on his mind, too. And you know what the Bureau thinks about sex, Flo, going right the way back to J. Edgar and his boyfriends and JFK's bimbos—up or down, take your pick, exhibit A or exhibit Z, Monica's blue dress and the great stain of shame. Sex and the Bureau, it's a great big no-no. Nobody goes there, nobody with any brains. It's dynamite, it can blow up in your face.”

8:10
P.M.

Telepathy had its faithful adherents, and although Flo Ott never considered herself a congregant in the church of the credulous, she was almost tempted to sign up when she returned to her office and found a message on her voicemail from counselor-at-law Robert J. Keating, Esq.

“Lieutenant, my client and I would like to talk to you, about some information she has that may help your investigation of that incident…the one on the F train. We can meet at any time convenient for you, if your office could please arrange a conference at the women's New York detention facility with Ms. Ella Mae Bontemps. Your discretion is appreciated. Thank you very much, Lieutenant Ott
.
”

As far as sex, crime, and bimbos were concerned, Golden Bobby's latest surprise client qualified as a world-class contender. His message certainly piqued Flo's interest, sent it soaring to lava-hot intensity, and her spirits, turning soggy after Cecil King's dampener, came alive again, vital with anticipation.

A meeting with a willing Ella Mae Bontemps. Informer? Plea dealer? Desperate deceiver? Flo arranged it for first thing the next morning. Ella Mae had to be scraping together all her savings to retain Keating.

7:40
A.M.

The interview room at the New York detention facility for women smelled of fear and sweat-sour prison clothes.

Lieutenant Detective Flo Ott sat at a table facing Ella Mae Bontemps and her attorney, the golden one, Bobby Keating. No blazing bursts of jovial sunshine from Bobby this morning. The gold teeth as good as Fort Knox bullion were on limited display.

And Ella Mae Bontemps's fashion tower of power had vanished, in her place a sad brokeback of a rag doll in orange prison clothes, slumped in her chair, lusterless hair slicked to narrow skull, her face clenched like a fist, shrunken features contorted, contrite, plangent. In an odd way, Ella Mae's head appeared too big for her body, even as her excess weight, distributed mainly to bosom and behind and without the usual undergarment support, flopped around free inside her roomy new uniform. Ella Mae's long legs were curled back under her chair, and her now spaniel-like eyes, Ritalin deprived, begged for mercy.

Golden Bobby said, “With my advice and encouragement, my client has drafted—in total candor and entirely in her own words—a cooperative statement, such as we believe must be considered now with the utmost discretion and gravity. She's done this at the risk of her life, Lieutenant. And she's done it for you and for the district attorney. So I respectfully request that this be treated with sensitivity and tact.”

Seven corpses, all murder victims. As sensitive as it gets.

“Lieutenant, I'll be making formal application to the district attorney for witness protection and for immunity from prosecution in exchange for my client's invaluable cooperation. And I realize this will require, at least for practical purposes, your concurrence, of course. That's why I called you first, Lieutenant Ott.”

“Sorry, counselor, no promises at this point. Certainly not from me. You realize I can't.”

“I know, and please believe me we really appreciate your coming here. May I begin reading, Lieutenant?”

Flo nodded and sat back in her chair.

Ella Mae Bontemps folded her hands and stared at the floor.

Her attorney cleared his throat. His voice was low, his tones earnest, factual, unforced.

Written on a single legal-size sheet of paper, Ella Mae's statement rolled out.

I was aware of, but I did not participate in nor did I ever conspire in, the criminal activities conducted on and through the premises of Heights Antiques, Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn, where I was employed as store manager, merchandise buyer, and salesperson. To the best of my knowledge and recollection, these illicit activities were money laundering, fencing stolen goods and stock certificates, and above all, narcotics distribution. The late Sidney R. Davidov was a principal in all these activities. He was also his partners' main connection to the link in the distribution chain for the stolen goods and securities—and above all for the narcotics trade—that was manned by Chinese immigrants, people controlled by undocumented individuals that Sidney R. Davidov and his partners made deals with. Sidney R. Davidov didn't trust the Chinese, as even he said they were too shifty, but he thought they were good at their work, and it was either deal with them or have them as enemies. I often heard him arguing on his cellphone with a man named Xi. I believe Xi was his main Chinese contact. Sidney R. Davidov was afraid of Xi. He said Xi had killed before and would kill again. This much I can swear to under oath. The rest of my statement here is mainly sincere guesswork. I think Xi may have had something to do with killing Sidney R. Davidov, who was scared, as he said the Chinese were threatening him and they wanted a bigger piece of the business. But I thought maybe Sid was just popping too many pills again. And now it looks like Sid was maybe right all along. I swear this is everything I know about all those crimes, so help me God. I will answer any questions you have to the best of my ability and recollection and in the presence of my attorney, Robert J. Keating. Thank you.

The statement was unsigned, unattributed, purposely deniable.

And Flo suspected it would remain so, the statement at this point only a calculated feeler for an arrangement, until the proposed plea bargaining deal received the nod from District Attorney Cecil King.

“Thank you both,” Flo said, “I realize this took great courage, Ms. Bontemps, and I appreciate it, I really do. But there's a lot that has to be cleared up.”

Golden Bobby shrugged. “Sure, we understand.”

“May I?” Ella Mae Bontemps's piney-woods voice was subdued, hesitant, deferential, no hog calling in the women's detention facility. An attitude of gratified compliance took over. “You see, Mr. Keating called, saying he wanted to represent me, and all the women here say he's the best there is. Moreover, I don't know anybody else. I never needed no lawyer before, except when I got divorced. And that was in Georgia, when I was just a kid, so that don't count. I hope you believe me now, Lieutenant.”

“It won't be my decision. It's entirely up to the district attorney. And the U.S. attorney. You've got federal charges in this, too. You're talking about a complex criminal enterprise. And here you're saying you know a good deal about it. For a long time. You were an accomplice.”

Golden Bobby Keating shifted his great weight, restlessly, anxiously, alert for opportunity. “Lieutenant, you check it all out. Every bit. Here, this is for you.”

He handed Flo a photocopy of Ella Mae Bontemps's handwritten, unsigned statement. “Check out everything you want. And call me anytime you like. We want to help you.”

“As long as you understand, we can't do anything about the federal charges. That's the Bureau. And the U.S. attorney.”

“Of course. And we want to build a record of cooperation for my client, a platform for trust. Starting with the Brooklyn district attorney. This F train case is as big as it gets for you, wouldn't you say?”

And getting bigger by the minute.

Ella Mae sniffled. “Lieutenant, I sure hope you understand one thing about me here, like it hasn't always been easy, my life. You see I've never had much choice. I come up the hard way. No momma, for starters. Of course, I had one, I just never knew her. She cleared out only hours after having me. And my daddy, I didn't know him none too good either. So I do hope you understand, Lieutenant, I just want to cooperate with you all I can.”

Ella Mae Bontemps was a skilled, if limited, character witness, hobbled to her own true self in the range of characters she could play with any conviction, a woman who seemed to grow more immature with each passing hour. Her sad performance now made Flo more determined than ever to get past the stage show and down to reality with Ella Mae.

8:10
A.M.

As soon as Flo was outside the women's detention facility, she called Frank Murphy.

“Get back on the streets. Get all the manpower you can to every Chinese neighborhood in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens. Get the photo of Reilly, Priester, and the waiter. Cut the couple and get an ID on the waiter. Maybe a guy called Xi.”

It seemed almost pointless, even a little funny to Frank, canvassing every Chinese bar and restaurant.

But he and his people spread themselves across the city, hour after hour, pounding out the investigation from bar to bar, restaurant to restaurant, Frank wistfully studying menus, regretting he was on duty and unable to eat his way around town, during what he called “my exploratious marching. But dogged does it.” Frank didn't believe in flash. Grabbing a perp in a blaze of glorious gunfire was strictly for absurd television shows and unreal movies.
In his heart he was not a man, but a wolf of the steppes
…forget that shit, in Frank's opinion, there were no wolves, no geniuses in NYPD homicide, only shrewd cops behind the shield, nose to the grindstone, diligence and determination key to nailing killers who usually slipped up somewhere along the line. A stray fact, a loose tongue, a partner betrayed and aggrieved, more often than not such seemingly small events revealed the truth that condemned.

Back out on the streets, no one knew from nothing, not in any New York Chinese neighborhood. With scarcely a glance at the cropped photo, heads started shaking all over again, as time after time shoulders shrugged, and work resumed at once. A thousand sphinxes without a riddle to hide.

Marty Keane's work with his list was no easier, local thugs who years before associated with convicted felon Lee Ho Fook. Remarkable really, how many people managed to die, migrate elsewhere, change their names. Others had grown incurably insane, drug-addicted, AIDS-crippled, in and out of Bellevue and light years removed from reality and memory. Several simply vanished, and those left on the list who were still living in New York, and who could be found and brought in for questioning, proved as cooperative as Frank Murphy's waiters, cooks, and bartenders, the head shakers and shoulder shruggers.

Hour after hour, everyone seemed useless.

The investigation appeared stuck on the sad double notes of Ella Mae Bontemps and an untraceable Chinese man named Xi, a Chinese name about as good a lead in New York as a tip on some guy named Joe something-or-other or a woman called Mary what's-her-face. Anonymous spite calls continued, mostly from vengeance seekers hoping to shaft an object of hate or pay back a wrongdoer or make life miserable for a dumped lover.

9:20
A.M.

When a different kind of call came into Flo's office, intern Krish Krishnaswami had the luck to handle it.

“He sounded Russian,” Krish said.

“You sure?” said Flo.

“Maybe not a hundred percent, the guy whispered fast. Said there's a Chinese businessman named Xi, works as headwaiter at an Asian place called the Dragonfly. But he actually owns the place. In Carroll Gardens, here in Brooklyn. Xi is an illegal, runs dealers, shylocks, he's got a whole network of prostitutes. Quick with his fists. And sometimes…he may be armed.”

“Swell combination,” Frank said. “Russian knows him and wants to screw him. People smuggling. Rich honcho named Xi. I've never been to the Dragonfly. Mostly in Carroll Gardens, you got Italian places. Murals of Mount Etna erupting. Gondolas in Venice. Red sauce country all the years I've been going there since I was a kid. Now it's kind of like the United Nations. The beauty of diversity.”

“And Davidov, Reilly, and Marie Priester,” Flo said. “They all got on the train at Carroll Street. Krish, find out if the Dragonfly does a dim sum early lunch, mid-morning. If they do, book a table for three, in the name of Kelly. And Marty, get the block surrounded. Let's pray it's a sometime when he's not armed.”

10:38
A.M.

Flo regarded the English version of the dim sum menu in the window of the Dragonfly restaurant.

“Just look like you're starving, Frank.”

“Easy. Check those dumplings, we could work our way through every dish they got here. Class Asian and who'd have guessed, right in Carroll Gardens.”

While Flo, Frank, and Marty Keane were outside examining the lengthy bill of fare, waiting right around the corners at either end of the block were four unmarked cars, each with four plainclothes officers.

The three homicide detectives entered the cocktail lounge. So far, they were the only customers between breakfast and lunch. The room was quiet, except for the soft sounds of piped-in music, vaguely Asian. Behind the bar, between a pair of carved red dragons, hung a photograph of the president of the United States shaking hands with the president of the People's Republic of China.

A man was polishing bar glasses. The only server in sight, he was in his mid-thirties, about six feet tall, sinewy,
expressionless.
He worked with deliberation, and when he saw three early guests approaching, he raised his eyes questioningly. “Here for dim sum?”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “We called. Kelly.”

“We're ready to start,” the glass polisher said. “Sit where you like. It'll take a couple of minutes.”

“We can wait,” Frank said. “But not too long. I'm starved.”

“No, not too long,” the tall man said, coming out from behind the bar.

Flo studied the man's face. To her practiced eye, he appeared to resemble no one more closely than Lee Ho Fook. She was certain Frank and Marty were reaching the same conclusion, when Frank turned to her and she nodded.

“Tell me something,” Frank said to the man. From his jacket pocket, Frank withdrew and unfolded the picture of Lee Ho Fook. He extended the photograph. “You ever see this guy?” he said, his stone-steady finger tapping the subject's pictured face.

The man leaned forward. He shot a glance at the photo and ran for the door.

He was out in the street, the sidewalk slick with ice, and he was in his shirtsleeves, running and sliding, heading in the direction of the F train station at Carroll Street, just as Frank was out the door right behind him.

“Don't run!” Frank shouted. “Stop. You're under arrest, Lee.”

Flo was on her phone, signaling police vehicles at both ends of the block. Cars appeared at once and plainclothes officers were out on the pavement, weapons drawn, but unable to fire, because they faced each other and the three homicide detectives now in the street outside the Dragonfly.

Frank called out again, “Lee, stop!”

And it was stop or get crushed between police vehicles converging from each end of the block, cars on the sidewalks and in the street, a wall of heavy metal slowly squeezing in on their target. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Trapped in a relentless vise, as bad as getting trapped in a subway tunnel.

Lee Ho Fook slowed. He turned to face Frank.

“Drop to your knees, Lee. Hands on head.”

As Lee Ho Fook's knees hit the sidewalk, two cops grabbed him and threw him down. For the few seconds it took to accomplish this, the prisoner looked up at Flo, his eyes as lacking in expression as a pair of onyx marbles. He lay with his cheek pressed to the icy pavement, hands cuffed behind his back, his body shaking violently, the back of his neck clamped in the tight grip of Frank's huge hands.