Inside Job Page 4

  Brody stopped the car next to a hydrant, and pulled down the visor with its OFFICIAL POLICE INVESTIGATION sign. Both detectives got out of the car and locked the doors.

  A little Puerto Rican kid came by. “Who you guys lookin’ for?” he asked, a crazy smile on his face.

  “Your mother,” Shannon growled.

  “Hey, that ain’t nice,” the kid said, still smiling.

  Shannon looked at Brody and pointed to a tenement a few buildings down. “It’s that one right there.”

  They walked toward it, and in front was a congregation of Puerto Ricans in funny hats. They all had mustaches and smoked cigarettes. When the detectives got close and indicated that they wanted to go up the steps, the Ricans wouldn’t move.

  “S’cuse us,” Shannon said.

  The Ricans looked at each other, grinned, and still wouldn’t move.

  In a sudden lunging movement, Shannon grabbed the hat and afro hairdo of the one in front of him, and pulled hard. The man went flying toward the fender of a car parked at the curb, crashed, and fell to the pavement.

  “Who’s next?” Shannon asked.

  The Ricans got out of the way. The detectives climbed the steps and entered the building. The mailboxes were all smashed apart and it smelled of urine, shit, and chorizos. Obscenities were scrawled on the walls. Farther down the corridor a drunk or junkie was lying on some filthy newspapers. The detectives climbed to the fourth floor and apartment 22.

  “This is it,” whispered Shannon. “It faces the rear of the building. I think one of us ought to go up to the roof and come down on the fire escape, in case the scumbag tries to escape that way. I think maybe you should do that.”

  “Okay.”

  “You think you can get set in three minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Check your watch.”

  Brody looked at his watch, a Bulova Accoutron he’d bought in the P.X. at Fort Benning, Georgia. “I’m ready.”

  Shannon was looking at his own watch, a Timex he bought at Alexanders on Fordham Road. “Go ahead.”

  Brody went up the stairs two at a time. On the fifth floor landing two little girls were playing with dolls lacking limbs. Up he went to the door that led to the roof. He unlatched it and stepped onto the asphalt. The weird roofscape of the East Bronx stretched before him, crooked chimneys and sagging ledges. He moved quickly to the back of the building, climbed down the ladder to the fire escape, and descended stealthily to the fourth floor. He crouched beside the window of John Gomez’s apartment and looked at his watch. There were thirty-five seconds to go. He took out his .38. Gomez would leave in handcuffs or in an ambulance, but he wouldn’t get away.

  Brody wished he had a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t want to light one now that time had become crucial. He flashed on himself sitting in a rice paddy in Vietnam, waiting for an enemy patrol to fall into the trap laid for them. He could hear them about fifty yards away, slogging through the mud.

  There was a noise at the window. Brody braced himself. The window opened. A Rican in a dirty white tee shirt looked out.

  “Don’t move!” Brody shouted.

  The Rican ducked back into the apartment. Brody lunged forward and peered through the opening. The Rican was pointing a gun at him. Brody pulled back just as the Rican fired; the windowsill shattered in the explosion. Brody heard the sound of the door being smashed in. He looked again, saw the Rican turned toward the door. Without thinking, Brody dove through the opened window and landed on his shoulder on the floor of the apartment. The Rican looked at Brody, looked at Shannon coming through the door, and Brody was up and at him. He hit the Rican over the head with the barrel of his pistol, but the Rican managed to dodge to the side a little. The blow only glanced off his cheek. He turned his gun on Brody, but before he could pull the trigger Brody grabbed his wrist and kneed him in the balls. Shannon tackled the Rican from behind, and the three of them fell to the floor. Brody wrested the gun from the Rican’s grip and Shannon slugged him over the head with the barrel of his gun. The Rican was finished for the day.

  Huffing and puffing, Shannon put the cuffs on the Rican. He stood up. “Let’s wait till he comes to. I don’t feel like carrying the scumbag down the stairs.” He took out his pack of cigarettes and held them out to Brody, who shook his head and hauled out his own pack. They both lit up.

  “You do good work,” Shannon said.

  “So do you.”

  They stood silently and smoked their cigarettes, looking at the greasy stove and ancient refrigerator. The Rican stirred at their feet.

  “Hi there,” said Shannon.

  “What’s goin’ on,” said the Rican.

  “You are, scumbag. You’re under arrest. You’re entitled to legal counsel and hereafter anything you say can be used against you.”

  The Rican got to his feet and wiped blood off his cheek. “ What’m I under arrest for?”

  “A little burglary on East 79th Street in Manhattan. You left enough fingerprints to sink a ship, asshole.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night.”

  “The only fingerprints I left last night were on the dishes in the restaurant where I work, and I can prove it.”

  “What time you get out of work?”

  “Two in the morning.”

  Shannon gulped, because the burglary was reported at twelve-thirty. “Ain’t you Johnny Gomez?”

  “No, I’m Bobbie Rivera.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I’ll show you my chauffer’s license.”

  “What’re you doing with a chauffer’s license?”

  “I used to drive a cab.”

  They went into a tiny room, where a bed was covered with dirty sheets. Rivera took a wallet from atop the dresser and took out the license. The name said Robert Rivera and the picture was of the man standing beside them in handcuffs and boxer shorts with piss stains on the front.

  “I told you I ain’t Gomez,” Rivera said with a cocky smile.

  “You got a permit for that gun?” Shannon asked.

  The smile vanished. “No.”

  “Too bad, scumbag. Looks like you’re going downtown anyway. It’s illegal to have a gun without a permit.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Sure you didn’t. Where’s Johnny Gomez?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He live here?”

  “He used to, but he moved.”

  “When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “How come you ran when I knocked on the door and told you I was a cop.”

  “I thought you was my girlfriend’s husband. He don’t like me too much. That’s why I got the gun.”

  Brody looked at him. “Couldn’t you see that I wasn’t your girlfriend’s husband?”

  “You look something like him.”

  “Oh for Chrissakes.”

  Shannon laughed. “While we’re here we might as well search the joint. No telling what we might find.”

  “Hey,” said Rivera, “you can’t do that.”

  “Says who?”

  “You need a search warrant.”

  “You’re my prisoner and I got a right to see anything you got, scumbag. Where do you keep the dope.”

  “I ain’t got no dope, man.”

  “Then how come your eyes look like two flying saucers on the night flight to San Juan?”

  “All Puerto Ricans got eyes like this.”

  “All the ones on dope, you mean.” Shannon moved to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and looked inside. “Touchdown,” he said, reaching in and lifting out a plastic bag of marijuana. He held it up to Brody. “Think there’s an ounce in here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do. We’ll take it downtown.” He pulled out another drawer and rustled around, throwing socks and underwear onto the floor. “Nothing here.” He pulled out another drawer, and then the last one, tipping it upside down. “Why don’t you go check the toilet for works.�
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  Brody went to the bathroom, a tiny closet that had a toilet bowl and small bathtub but no sink. It was messy and stinky, but not yet a health hazard. He left the lid on the tank behind the toilet bowl and looked inside. Only greenish water and rusty mechanical components were there. He got on his knees and looked under the bathtub and behind the toilet bowl. Nothing. In the kitchen he washed his hands, drying them on a dirty dishtowel. He looked in the refrigerator and found a bottle of pills marked Elavil, which he carried into the bedroom. “All I could find was these in the refrigerator,” Brody said.

  Shannon looked at them, then looked at Rivera. “What do you take these for?”

  “I got anxiety-depression, man. They help cheer me up.”

  “You got them on the legit?”

  “Yeah—my doctor’s name’s right on the label.”

  “Maybe you ought to take a few of them right now, because in the next few hours things are gonna happen that’ll probably make you more depressed than usual.”

  “I’m hip, man.”

  Shannon took the cuffs off Rivera, so he could get dressed, then locked them on again. They left the apartment and went down to the car, which had become a roosting place for Puerto Rican kids.

  “Hey, what he do?” a kid asked, pointing at Rivera.

  “Off the car,” Shannon muttered. “Get off the fucking car.”

  Brody got behind the wheel while Shannon handcuffed Rivera to the back seat. Then Shannon got in front, and Brody drove off. Forty-five minutes later he pulled into a parking spot behind Police Headquarters. Shannon took Rivera to be booked, and Brody had to bring the bag of marijuana to the Property Room. There was a different cop on duty, and Brody recognized him from the Police Academy. It was Anthony Ricci, who also had been a grunt in Vietnam.

  “Hi Ricci, how’re you doing,” Brody said, holding out his hand.

  Ricci arose behind the desk. He looked a little like the actor Al Pacino, except that Ricci was taller, heavier, and rougher looking. “What do you say, Brody?”

  “I got this fucking grass that I want to check in.”

  “Lemme weigh it.” Ricci threw it on the scale. “Less than an ounce—you’re fucked.”

  “I told my partner it was less than an ounce.”

  Ricci sat at the desk and started typing out the forms. “How do you like the Detective Division.”

  “I like it a lot.”

  Ricci whispered, “Making any money?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t go for that shit.”

  “Everybody’s on the take in this town, Brody. If you’re not, you’re crazy.”

  “Everybody’s not on the take.”

  “Well I’m not, that’s for sure. There’s nothing to take down here.”

  “You ought to get in a patrol car.”

  “I was in one and I was doing all right, but they cut down the number of patrol cars—the budget crisis again—and I got transferred down here.”

  “Tough luck, my man.”

  “I’ll get out in a few months. I got a friend in the First Dep’s office.”

  “That’s the best place to have a friend.”

  Ricci pulled the forms out of the typewriter, and Brody signed them. Ricci gave him the receipt, and Brody headed for the door.

  “See you around, Ricci.”

  Brody went up to the Booking Room and found Shannon, who was filling out some papers.

  “There was less than an ounce of grass,” Brody said, handing him the receipt.

  “You sure?”

  “We weighed it.”

  “I’ll have to change the report.” He shuffled through the pages, crossed something out, and wrote something in.

  They returned to the Nineteenth Precinct at six-thirty. Shannon went up to the office and Brody went down to the deli on the corner for sandwiches and soda pop. He returned to the office with the food, and he and Shannon ate at their desks, Shannon reading the New York Post, and Brody looking out the window at the sky, wondering what was going on with Doris in Queens.

  Inspector Le Vinson walked out of his office, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands. He was forty-two years old, lean, had thinning black hair, and a nose like a buzzard. His jacket was off and you could see his black suspenders over his white shirt, and his gun in a holster at his waist. He was considered a very dapper guy.

  “Where the fuck is everybody?” he asked in his quick snappy manner.

  “I’m here and so’s Brody,” Shannon replied through a mouth full of food.

  “How busy are you?”

  “We’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Well I’ve got something more for you, and I want you to get to work on it right away. Do you remember reading about the old lady who died last night on 63rd Street, apparently of natural causes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just got a report from the lab that says she was poisoned. Cyanide. Enough to kill ten horses. I’m surprised she didn’t taste it. Anyway, start talking to the members of her family, her servants, her friends. Get a feel for what’s going on. Tomorrow check her will—it’s at her lawyer’s office—his address is in here. Find out who had a motive to knock her off, and who was with her last. I want you to drop whatever you’re working on and get to this right now, or after you’re finished eating, because she happens to be the great aunt of the president of the City Council.”

  “Maybe he did it.”

  “Don’t be funny. As soon as you find any decent leads, let me know. Or better yet, come see me tomorrow at noon with everything you’ve got, and I’ll help you figure out what’s a lead and what isn’t. Understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good.”

  Inspector Levinson returned to his office. Brody and Shannon looked at each other and shrugged. They finished their sandwiches, pulled themselves together, and left to interview the maid of the old lady who had been poisoned.

  Chapter Five

  Shortly after midnight, Brody strolled into the Dublin Pub, a singles bar on Third Avenue, for a few snorts. He and Shannon had called it a day a half hour before, and Shannon had left for his home on Long Island.

  The Dublin was a popular hangout for professional athletes, especially baseball and football players, cops, and underworld figures involved in the world of sports. On the distaff side, there were the women who worked as airline stewardesses, receptionists, and models— jobs where good looks counted more than good sense. These women came to the Dublin because they were interested in athletes, cops, and hoodlums. Whenever a skinny guy with glasses and no hair wandered in by mistake, everybody treated him as though he had leprosy.

  Brody walked past the bar, where people turned to shake his hand or slap him on the back. Women smiled at him and cigarette smoke swirled all around. The Rolling Stones were screaming out of the jukebox. He headed toward a table in a corner, sat, and when the waitress came, he ordered a mug of Guinness Stout and the hamburger platter.

  The Dublin was crowded, as was usual this time of night. Men were arguing with each other or telling jokes, men and women were telling lies to each other, and couples danced wherever they happened to be, for there was no dance floor in the Dublin. It was noisy and the dim lighting had a reddish glow. The waitress brought the stout and hamburger.

  While Brody was eating, a pretty blonde whom he vaguely recognized sat down next to him, a highball in her hand. She gave him the evil eye, even though she was smiling, and he prepared himself for the worst.

  “Hi Brody,” she said, slurring the words a bit. She wore a tight sweater that showed her big breasts to fine advantage.

  “Hi.”

  “Bet you forgot my name.”

  “Sharon?”

  “Marion.”

  “I was close.”

  “You were not close. You know, Brody, it’s not nice to tell a girl you’re going to call her, and then not call.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

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nbsp; “You weren’t too busy to spend all night and half of a day with me in my apartment.”

  “That was different.”

  “I called you at your office at least once a day for two weeks, but you never even had the decency to return my call.”

  “I said I’ve been very busy.”

  “Oh bullshit. You didn’t mean a damn thing you ever said to me. You’re like the rest of the guys who come in here. You’ll say anything to get into a girl’s pants.”

  “If you know that, then why do you keep coming here?”

  “I must be a masochist.”

  “You’re getting what you want, so stop complaining. Can I buy you a drink?”

  She looked at her empty glass. “Sure.”

  Brody raised his hand, and after a while the waitress came over. He ordered another highball for Marion, and a double shot of Jack Daniels with a water back for himself.

  “Mind if I join you-all?” It was Buddy DeFranco, good-looking and sleek-headed, reputed to be a capo with the Gambino family in Brooklyn.

  “Sure, sit down,” Brody said.

  DeFranco sat beside Marion. “You cops always get the best girls,” he said, looking at Marion.

  She smiled appreciatively at DeFranco. “He doesn’t think I’m so hot.”

  “What do you expect from a dumb cop?”

  Brody grinned. “Listen to this guy,” he told Marion. “He knows what he’s talking about.”

  “I hear they’re gonna start laying off cops,” De-Franco said.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “In the paper.”

  Marion snorted. “If they lay you off, Brody, don’t come to me for a handout.”

  “If I did, I know you wouldn’t turn me down.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “If you find yourself out of work,” DeFranco said, “come out to see me in Brooklyn. I might have something for you.”

  “I thought you only hired Italians.”

  “No, we’re an equal opportunity employer.” De-Franco threw back his head and laughed.

  “I don’t think they’ll lay me off. If worse comes to worse, they might flop me back to uniform, but that wouldn’t be so bad. A lot of girls go crazy when they see a blue bag.” He gave Marion the elbow.