Robert Tanenbaum: Justice Denied

Frangi made a sour face. The Bureau of Strategic Services and Intelligence, the former Red Squad, was not popular with street detectives, who considered politically motivated crime of such trivial concern that it was not worth the time and money expended on it. Besides that, B.S.S.I. did not put people on the pavement, which meant they were kibbitzers rather than helpers.

The lieutenant caught the look. “Just do it!” he said. “Okay, you got the word. I want to be kept up on this on a daily basis, follow?”

Frangi let his head loll and dangled his arms at shoulder height, miming a marionette. In a squeaky voice he said, “Hi, kids! I’m a detective. Want to play with me?”

The lieutenant shook his head and allowed himself a sour grin as he left.

Wayne said, “Movement, huh? Tell me, you think this case is gonna be a serious pain in the ass or what?”

“Well, the first movement I’m gonna make is my bowels,” replied his partner. “And after that I think we should movement the witnesses out of here before they all starve to death.”

“Yeah,” Wayne agreed, “and speaking of which, we could make a movement toward getting some lunch. Maybe the guy here could give us some veal scallopini on the arm, seeing how we brightened up his day so much. Hello, Roland.”

This last was directed toward a man who had just entered the restaurant. Both detectives smiled and greeted him warmly, because he was evidence that they would not, amid their other troubles, have to put up with a fourteen-year-old girl assistant D.A.

“You on this case, Roland? You poor bastard!” said Frangi with feeling.

Roland Hrcany, assistant D.A. in the homicide bureau, sat deliberately down on a chair and regarded the two detectives balefully. “You know what I was doing when you guys’ call came in? Do you know? I was in my bed and I was chewing on a buttock the size and firmness of a ripe cantaloupe melon and letting the juice drip into my mouth.”

“Not a voter, hey, Roland?” said Wayne.

“Correct in your surmise, Detective,” said Hrcany. “Twenty is plenty. Okay, what do we have on this abortion?”

They discussed the case, easily and humorously. They were all pros and had worked together many times before. Besides that, Roland was the most popular with the police of all the A.D.A.’s in Manhattan. It was his stock in trade, and he worked at it. He was arrogantly male in the way most cops conceived maleness: profane, violent, and a tremendous drinker. He knew hundreds of available women and had made dates for hundreds of cops, not that cops need help in that area, but the thought counted. He would also do favors for cops in line of duty, save them from embarrassment in court when they had screwed up the evidence, or make a cop look particularly good, or help cops stack up overtime for court appearances around the holidays when they needed extra cash.

But most of all there was the body. Roland Hrcany was a committed bodybuilder and weight lifter. He had twenty-five-inch biceps and a forty-four-inch chest and a nineteen-inch neck. Cops are physical people. They believe they have to dominate physically to survive. Roland was physically dominating. That he was also a very smart, aggressive lawyer, capable of grinding mutts and their candy-ass lawyers to powder in court, was just the cherry on top.

They laid out the case, respectfully, knowing that Roland would understand the fix they were in with the slicks and sympathize, and he did. Roland interviewed the witnesses and dismissed them. Frangi went to the bathroom. The patrolmen stopped guarding the entrance, and the Villa D’Este opened for business.

Frangi came back. The proprietor walked over and, smiling, offered lunch, which they accepted. His place was going to be on television, and he was happy with the world. When they had been given a huge bread basket and a round of drinks, Wayne said, “So, Roland, what do you think? A ball breaker, right?”

“Not really, Barney. I got a good feeling about this one. I think it’s gonna play right for us.” The two detectives made skeptical noises, but Roland advanced his case with undiminished confidence. “No, look: they were waiting for the guy, this Ersoy. They were parked where they knew he was going to pass at that particular time. So they knew him-”

“Not necessarily,” Frangi interrupted. “They could’ve been pros, casing him for weeks.”

“Okay, or they knew his habits, but no way they were pros. A pro who knew as much about the vic as these guys did would’ve waited by his apartment and given him three in the head from a small-caliber gun.”

“How can you say that, Roland? It’s on TV all the time: the terrorists in Europe and the Middle East hit these politicians like a fucking army: machine guns, rockets-”

“Yeah, but those people are covered by heavy security. You can’t get to them unless you blast your way through. Our guy was naked. He didn’t feel threatened at all. So, of all the times to hit someone, why pick broad daylight on a Sunday, with your car pointed down a one-way street whose only outlet is through U.N. Plaza, which practically every other weekend is loaded with cops and demonstrators. It doesn’t make sense unless it’s amateur hour.”

“He’s got a point, Joe,” said Wayne.

Frangi replied, “Okay, fine, say I buy that, what does that give us?”

“It means,” said Roland, “that either the killing comes out of his life, as usual, and the Armenian Army thing is horseshit, a dodge, or that you’re looking for a bunch of Armenian assholes sitting around a kitchen table in Brooklyn. I mean, it’s not gonna be Carlos the Jackal.”

Wayne sighed. “Yeah, well, nothing against the Armenians, but that would suit me fine. We have to start tracing through this dude’s life, we’re talking weeks, swimming upstream against this diplomat shit all the way. So I guess we have to start with the blue car and the printouts and the Armenian names. And if you’re right, they might have used their own car.”

“They might have,” Roland agreed. “But we still have to check out the vic. Did I see a safety-deposit key on that case you took off him? Yeah? People with boxes usually have more interesting lives than most. You’re going to toss his place today?”

The detectives looked nervously at each other. “Well, that’s what I meant about swimming upstream. We got a lecture about being diplomatic,” said Wayne. “The brass wants us to go through the embassy on everything.”

“Yeah, well, that’s fine for the embassy personnel and the office, but his personal place is our meat. It’s a felony investigation, not a parking ticket. If you get any heat there, call me. I’ll take it all the way up the line if I have to, and-”

He looked up, aware of a presence looming over him. It was a very tall, very black man wearing a Burberry over a gray suit and a brightly colored pillbox hat on his head. He had gold-rimmed spectacles. They all stared. The man smiled and reached into his coat. They all tensed, but he brought out only a leather card case.

“Excuse me,” the man said. “I understand you are of the police?”

“Yeah,” said Frangi. “Who’re you?”

The man passed each a large, stiff engraved card declaring him to be M. Etienne Mbor Sekoué of the Senegalese mission to the U.N. He said, “I extremely regret not coming before this, but I felt it proper to escort my sister home. She was entirely devastated by the lamentable events of this morning. It is her first visit to New York and-”

“Wait a minute, you’re a witness ?” Frangi exclaimed.

“Yes, I approached one of the officers on the street, and they directed me here.”

“Please sit down, Mr. Sekoué,” said Roland. “Tell us what you saw.” Wayne brought out his notebook and said, “Where were you when the shooting took place?”