Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

Epstein waited until the two detectives were out of sight, then closed the door and walked over to the window.

“Hey, Sarge,” Moodrow said, “how ’bout takin’ off these cuffs?”

“Wait a second, Stanley, I wanna see them drive away.” He stared down at the street for a moment. “They’re going. We got a little time.” He turned back to find a grinning Stanley Moodrow.

“You’re in it now, Sarge. You’re in it up to your neck.”

“Unless I actually make the arrest, Stanley. If I make the arrest, I’m a hero.” Epstein was already turning the key in the handcuffs. “Jesus, what am I gonna tell the captain?”

“Tell him I escaped. Tell him you cuffed me with my own cuffs and I must have had a key.”

“That’s another charge against you, Stanley. And a black mark on my record. Plus, it still doesn’t explain what I was doing here in the first place.”

“Then tell him the truth. Tell him that we -meaning me and you-are gonna bring a murderer before the bar of justice.” The look of disbelief on Epstein’s face brought Moodrow up short. “Take a seat, Sarge. There’s a few things you need to know. When you hear what I got to say, you’re gonna feel a lot better.”

Moodrow took his time, detailing O’Neill’s statement and the contents of the complaint signed by Samuelson and Lieutenant Rosten. As he described Sal Patero’s confession, Epstein’s eyes began to widen. By the time Moodrow finished, the sergeant’s mouth was hanging open.

“Holy shit. Patero admitted to covering up a homicide?”

“Well, I did ask him real nice.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You must’ve halfway killed him.”

“Actually, he wasn’t that tough. He didn’t last as long as the Playtex Burglar.”

Epstein took a minute to think about it. “How come you didn’t tell me about this before?” he finally asked.

“I didn’t trust you, Sarge. It’s that simple.”

“You’re a smart kid, Stanley. With that blank face, you look like a big dumb flatfoot, but you’re smarter than hell. Why don’t you tell me what you think I should do? Being as you already know.”

“First, I take you down to my neighbor’s apartment and let you look at the evidence. Then, you go back to the house and find the captain. Tell him you’re a go-between, a negotiator. Describe the evidence. Make sure he understands that he’s not involved. Tell him that I threatened to go to the papers if you brought me in. All you did was act in the best interests of the Department. Which interests would be well served by allowing Stanley Moodrow to make a case against Jake Leibowitz.”

“I don’t know, Stanley. The captain’s got all ten fingers in Patero’s pie.”

“That’s the whole point. McElroy’s on the take. The last thing he wants is for me to go public. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. About what I want and what I don’t. You tell McElroy that I’m not out to fuck the Department. That’s not my intention at all. I have two goals here. I wanna put Luis Melenguez’s killer in the electric chair and I want to keep my job. Look, Sarge, what I’m trying for is a little offense. Pat Cohan claims to run lower Manhattan. He brags about it. So why hasn’t McElroy sent half the precinct after me? Why does Cohan have to send out detectives from Midtown North?”

“The guys are refusing, Stanley. That’s why Cohan’s reaching into other precincts.”

“Yeah? So, why didn’t McElroy assemble a squad and directly order the men to cooperate? Why didn’t he jump on their heads with both feet which is what precinct commanders always do when the boys get out of hand? I got a funny feeling that McElroy didn’t know about the coverup. I also have a feeling that McElroy has no interest in helping Pat Cohan. Look, Sarge, you make sure McElroy understands that he’s not implicated. Maybe we can isolate Cohan. Maybe McElroy will go over Cohan’s head. Whatever happens, I don’t see how we can lose. You came here to talk me into surrendering, but when you saw what I had and realized it was enough to make headlines, you decided to back off and consult your superiors. They’ll give you a fucking commendation.”

Epstein, smiling, held his hands up. “Okay, I surrender.”

“Not yet, Sarge. Because I got one more favor to ask. I was hoping you’d take the prints home with you and make the comparison yourself. Because I have to get up to see Pearse O’Malley. Before someone decides to kill him.”

It was nearly midnight as Pat Cohan drove along the Belt Parkway near Idlewild Airport in southern Queens. He could plainly hear the roar of landing airplanes. He could hear the planes a quarter of a mile away, but he could barely see the car in front of him. The warm air and the rain had had a predictable effect on the icy waters of nearby Jamaica Bay. The fog was so thick you could taste it.

Maybe that was why Joe Faci had chosen Howard Beach for their meeting. Because you couldn’t be followed in this fog. A tail would have to work in your trunk to keep up. It was definitely a night for murder. Which is exactly what Pat Cohan wanted to talk about.

Or, better, he wanted to talk about murders. Murders past, murders present and murders future. The past was two pimps and a spic named Luis Melenguez who forgot to mind his own business. The present was Steppy Accacio, dead in his own home. The future was a Jew named Leibowitz. And maybe an Irishman named O’Malley. And a cop named Moodrow.

It was unthinkable, really. Or, at least, it always had been. Killing a cop, the ultimate crime in the eyes of the NYPD. Hell, you could shoot the mayor and half the force would go out and have a beer to celebrate. But let a cop get killed and it didn’t matter if he was the dirtiest lowlife on the force. Two thousand uniformed patrolmen, accompanied by the Emerald Society bagpipers, would turn out for his funeral. The killer would not live to see a jail cell.

Pat Cohan drew a deep breath. His whole life was falling apart. There was no use pretending things were under control. His life was falling apart and he wasn’t going to get any help from the Department. From his Department. From the Department that his father and his father’s father had helped to build.

Maybe it would have been easier if the word had come from an Irishman. From someone whose family had known the pain of the Five Points and the Fourth Ward. Someone whose family had lived through cholera, diphtheria, smallpox, tuberculosis. Nobody came to help you when you needed help. Not in 1847 when his grandfather had arrived in New York. And you didn’t send for the doctor when Granny got sick. No, you nursed your own as best you could and when they died you tossed the corpse out in the street. The morgue wagon came through every morning, just before dawn, to collect the bodies.

What it made you was strong enough to fight your way out. Strong enough to elect your own mayors and councilmen. Politicians who made sure you got the best jobs. Who gave you a shot at an education. Who gave you the New York Police Department as your one special jewel.

That was why it came so hard. So hard to be summoned to the office of Deputy Chief Milton Morton. Summoned all the way from Bayside by a hooknosed sheeny with a collection of degrees that covered the wall behind his desk like flypaper. So hard to be told, in no uncertain terms, to back off, to let Stanley Moodrow pursue his investigation unimpeded.

“Do not hinder,” Morton had said. “Do not help. Do not do anything at all.”

Then he’d leaned on the desk, forming a little tent with his fingers and palms as if he was about to pray. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions here, Pat,” he’d continued. “But from everything I can gather, Stanley Moodrow is a good cop.”