It ended very nicely. A deputy inspector whose name I’ve long forgotten approached Adele and me, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake. He told us that we’d done a great job, but the case was going over to a special unit in the Chief of Detectives Office. We should return to our squad, write whatever fives were necessary to cover the day’s events, then copy the entire Lodge file and place the copy on Sarney’s desk. Forthwith.
Sarney was waiting for us when we arrived and he was smiling. I told him about the second tip, the one that had carried us to Spott’s resting place. He listened carefully before also congratulating us.
‘You guys have a few days coming,’ he told us, ‘and I want you to take them. I don’t expect to see either one of you before Monday. Capisch?’
When I began to write up my fives a few hours later, the interviews of Ellen Lodge and Dante Russo seemed part of some ancient history I’d discarded long before. I can’t say I hadn’t expected this sort of an ending, or that I didn’t feel relieved to have concluded the business without having to inform on my partner. But there was a bitterness as well and I couldn’t get the taste of it out of my mouth.
Mike Blair had a drink waiting for me before I reached the bar. When I chugged it down, he refilled my glass without me having to ask. ‘It’s goin’ bad, right?’ he said. ‘The Lodge thing?’
‘I’m done with it,’ I explained. ‘The case’s gonna be run from the Puzzle Palace. What I think they’ll do — if they haven’t already done it — is put the murder on DuWayne Spott, then hunt for a second shooter among his associates.’
‘That’s good you’re getting clear of it. Because I’ve been hearing things.’ Blair’s eyes jumped to mine, a quick penetrating glance designed to catch me off-guard.
‘Like what?’
He leaned out over the bar. ‘Nobody’s talkin’ against you, Harry. Everybody knows you’re a cop’s cop. But your partner? The word out there is that she has a hard-on for the job.’
I might have debated the logic of the charge, given Adele’s gender, or I might have defended her, but I didn’t do either. Instead, halfway through a third scotch, I carried my drink to Linus Potter’s table and sat down without being invited.
With Potter, you had to get past the gargantuan shoulders and the tiny head and the buzz cut before you could see what he really looked like. Far from raging, his blue eyes were slanted at the corners and a little sad, while his mouth, beneath a thick brown mustache, was free of tension. The impression I got was of a man who knew his life might have gone in a different direction if not for circumstances beyond his control.
‘Tell me about Lieutenant Justin Whitlock,’ I asked. ‘What happened to him?’
Potter laughed, then let his eyes drop to the table. I think he was waiting for me to go away, but I simply held my ground, as I had at our first discussion. Gradually, his eyes came up. This time, they appeared amused.
‘Whitlock, one day he calls Dave into his office. He tells Dave that complaints are comin’ from all over the house and nobody wants to ride with him. So Dave, what he does is throw a tantrum, figuring he can intimidate Whitlock. He tosses his chair, kicks the waste basket, slams his hand on Whitlock’s desk.’ Potter laughed again, a deep chuckle that rumbled in his chest. ‘And it works. Would ya believe that? Instead of puttin’ the asshole on suspension, Whitlock teams Dave up with Dante Russo, one bad deed leading to another, if you take my meaning.’
I pushed my chair back, started to get to my feet, then sat back down. ‘Lemme ask you somethin’ serious, Potter, if you don’t mind?’
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded.
‘I got two things on my mind. First, my shoes are ruined from the snow and my feet are freezing. Second, the Broom, he didn’t commit suicide. And what I can’t figure out is which one is bothering me the most.’
Potter was still laughing when I walked out of Sparkle’s a moment later.
SEVENTEEN
The highlight of my weekend was a pair of stories in Sunday’s New York Times. I lived in a middle-income housing development on the east side of Manhattan called Rensselaer Village. My two-bedroom apartment, for which I paid $950 per month, was an inadvertent legacy from my parents who’d resided in the complex for the better part of four decades. In line with New York’s complicated rent laws, after my father and mother split for a retirement community on Long Island, I simply inherited the 800 square feet, along with the extremely low rent. Nearly identical apartments in my building now went for three grand a month.
When my parents announced that they were off to the burbs, I was living in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, and considering the possibility of relocating to Maplewood, New Jersey. Instead, I went to live in the heart of the great financial engine that drove Sheepshead Bay, Maplewood and everything else within a radius of fifty miles. I was pleased, to be sure, but still cautious. Before moving in, I had every stick of furniture removed, including the curtains on the windows, the artwork on the walls and the cabinets in the bathroom. Then I had the rooms painted, the windows washed and the floors refinished with two coats of clear polyurethane specially formulated for basketball courts.
If I’d known a priest, I’d have had an exorcism performed as well.
The two stories appeared in the Metro section. The first, and by far the larger, revealed the latest developments as related by Deputy Chief Simon Kramer in the course of a press conference. Kramer had begun the conference by announcing that the gun found by Detectives Bentibi and Corbin near the body of DuWayne Spott had been positively linked to the murder of David Lodge by the Ballistics Unit. Moreover, two prints left by Spott’s right index finger were found on the automatic’s receiver. Then he went on to confirm a pair of facts already leaked to the media: Spott died of an accidental heroin overdose and he was alone when his body was discovered.
A twist of the knife, our names appearing in the paper. The integrity of the crime scene was now guaranteed by my and Adele’s personal integrity. It was no longer possible to suggest the gun had been planted without suggesting that Adele and I had planted it.
But if the first story had the feel of a nail driven into a coffin, the second managed to at least crack the lid. It’s author, Albert Gruber, had somehow wangled a phone interview with Dr Vencel Nagy.
David Lodge, Nagy told Gruber (as he’d told me) had not been fearful as his release date approached, nor had he spoken about the possibility of assassination. Instead, though Lodge still had no clear memory of his whereabouts when Spott was murdered, he was convinced of his innocence.
The Gruber story had almost certainly been planted. At the very least, the reporter had been fed enough information about Nagy to inspire a phone call. My first thought was of Adele. They were already talking about her in the One-Sixteen. If she was blamed for the leak, the buzz would grow louder. Of course, there was also the possibility that Adele was guilty as charged. I’d left the precinct right after finishing the paperwork, my goal to avoid another lecture. Of Adele’s plans for the weekend, I knew nothing.
Mike Blair’s voice sounded in my ear at that moment. Nobody’s talkin’ about you, Harry. Everybody knows you’re a cop’s cop.
At six o’clock, too restless to stay inside, I headed over to the Y. There were people in the pool, swimming laps, and I had to share a lane with a teenage kid who kept sprinting forward as if trying to reach the end of a punishment. He splashed water in my face every time I went by.