‘Attica,’ Sarney reminded, ‘is north of Buffalo. That’s an eight-hour drive. Each way.’
‘That’s how come we have to fly. But don’t fret, boss, we’ll pick up Lodge’s old case file and study it on the flight. We’d have to do that anyway.’
Sarney thought about it for a minute. He was going to have to get approval for the expense, an annoyance to be sure, but the trip couldn’t be avoided.
‘You really think Jarazelsky will talk to you?’ Sarney finally asked.
‘Lieutenant, I’d bet my life savings against a quarter that once you call up to Attica and make the request, Pete Jarazelsky’s gonna welcome us with open arms.’
SIX
It was after ten by the time we finished up the last of the paperwork. The re-canvas had gone better — and slower — than we expected. Altogether, we’d spoken to nineteen honest citizens, each of whom had walked along Palmetto between eight-thirty and nine. None recalled seeing two or more individuals, black or otherwise, sitting inside a red Toyota.
By now, Sarney had obtained authorization for a trip to Attica. That was the good news. The bad news was that I was flying off to Buffalo alone. David Lodge’s autopsy was scheduled for nine o’clock the following morning and Sarney wanted Adele to be there. Myself, I was more than pleased with my end of the deal, but it was strictly Bill Sarney’s call. He’d nominated Adele to witness the autopsy, then arranged for her to interview a sergeant named Merkovich who worked out of the Gang Unit at OCCB. Spott’s crew, it seemed, was still in action, led by his brother, DuWayne.
I didn’t quibble with Sarney’s decision. By this time, David Lodge was the talk of the town and Sarney wasn’t the type to leave himself uncovered. But the scheduling of the autopsy did catch my attention. Typically, homicides were autopsied several days after the event. Somebody down at One Police Plaza had given the ME’s office a nudge. The question was why, if the big dogs were in such a hurry, they hadn’t offered any help to the lowly squad detectives who’d caught the case — or taken the case away altogether.
The phone began to ring as I was buttoning my coat. I watched Adele answer, then signal me to pick up the extension.
‘Would you repeat that, Sergeant Schniederman?’ she asked.
‘I said, “You’re not gonna believe this, but we’re temporarily unable to locate your file.”’
‘The Lodge file?’
‘Yeah, that one.’
‘Could it still be at the Eight-Three?’
‘Nope, we swept out the Precinct’s closed files two years ago.’
‘How many files would that be?’
‘I didn’t count ’em, detective.’
Adele took a deep breath. ‘What I’m trying to get at, sarge, is whether the Lodge file was the only file missing.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, detective, missing was not a word I used. Unable to locate was what I actually said.’
‘Then are you unable to locate all of the Eighty-Third Precinct’s files?’
‘Not at this time.’
That was as far as we got. Efforts were being made to recover the requested file, but results could not be guaranteed. So sorry, and good night.
‘Do you know how files get swept out?’ I asked Adele once she’d hung up. ‘You ever watch the process?’ When she shook her head, I continued. ‘Four guys arrive in a van during the late tour. They empty the filing cabinets into boxes, then transport the boxes to the archives.’
‘And?’
‘And nobody checks to be sure that every file is actually there. When the files are removed, the Property Clerk gets a list of the case files that are supposed to be in the drawers, a list compiled as each case is closed, not when the files are transported.’ I shrugged into my coat, already cold. At the time, I was driving an eight-year-old Nissan with a pronounced intolerance for temperatures below ten degrees. The Sentra would take forever to warm up, assuming it started in the first place.
‘How do you know this?’ Adele asked.
‘My second year on the job, I sprained my back so bad I had trouble sitting in a patrol car for more than an hour. The lieutenant was a merciful type. He let me work in the house for a couple of months, which was how I came to supervise one of these transfers. But the point is that Lodge’s file could have been yanked while it was still at the Eight-Three.’
‘Well, I don’t see how that’s a problem.’
I buttoned my coat, taking my time about it. ‘It’s not gonna be a problem, not for us, anyway. It’s gonna be a problem for Sarney when we inform him tomorrow morning.’
‘Don’t be so hasty, Corbin.’ Adele was still seated behind her desk. ‘The prosecutors are also holding a copy of the case file. They would have gotten it when the case was being prepared for the grand jury. I have a friend in the DA’s office, somebody I know from my group. What I’ll do is call her tomorrow and ask her to speak to her supervisor. Maybe we can drop in, get a quick look-see off the record.’
‘You wanna do this before you speak to Sarney?’
Adele rose from her chair and stretched before winding a silk scarf around her neck. The flaming-red scarf matched the red of her blazer almost exactly. ‘Of course.’
‘Sarney’s worried, Adele. I can hear it in his voice.’ I pulled on my gloves. ‘That’s why he asked us not to play any games.’
Adele folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing as she gauged my resolve. For good detectives, bending the rules is a matter of instinct, and Adele’s suggestion was no big deal — certainly, we had every right to the file. But procedure required that we make a formal request through the NYPD’s Legal Bureau, then wait for the DA to comply, which might take days, or even weeks.
‘Look, partner,’ I finally said, ‘the simple truth is that Bill Sarney’s holding my marker. I owe the man.’
‘For a promotion to detective, second grade, that has yet to come through?’
I shook my head, taking care to keep my language simple. ‘I’ve been a guest in Sarney’s home. I attended the wedding of his daughter and the christening of his son. That’s why I can’t think of him as just another boss. And that’s why I’m going to honor my pledge to keep him informed.’
Adele didn’t respond right away, probably because my position caught her by surprise. ‘Alright,’ she finally said as she slid into her coat, ‘we’ll do it your way, Corbin. But time isn’t on our side here. If we don’t move quickly, the case is going to get away from us. Ellen Lodge has an agenda, and we both know it.’
I took that thought with me to the Sparkle Inn. Sparkle’s was more than the place where everybody knew my name. It was the place where everybody had, at one time or another, looked into that heart of darkness at the epicenter of a cop’s life. Fraternity and brotherhood are the words traditionally used to describe the herding instinct of cops. But it was a new age and several female detectives greeted me when I came through the door. They included, among their number, Nydia Santiago. Nydia had once described my partner as ‘Martha Stewart with a badge.’
The Sparkle’s owner, Michael Blair, had a Dewar’s and water awaiting me by the time I reached the bar. Blair was in his early fifties, a former detective from the Eight-Three who’d mortgaged his pension to buy the joint. He had pale blue eyes that darted suddenly to yours, as if he was trying to catch you in an unguarded moment. He hit me with one of those looks now.
‘I heard,’ he said as I found a stool, ‘you stumbled into the Lodge case.’
Before replying, I raised the traditional toast to Sparkle, who stood behind the bar. Sparkle was a life-size manikin constructed from papier mache. Long ago, before Blair purchased the bar, somebody had painted Sparkle’s face and hair so that she slightly resembled Marilyn Monroe, then dressed her in a sequinned gown. Lit by a spotlight mounted just ahead of her toes, Sparkle did, indeed, sparkle.
‘Bad news travels fast,’ I finally said. ‘Just as well.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I came here looking for a heads-up.’