Robert Knightly - Bodies in Winter

The anger of my superiors, I decided, was nothing more than vanity. In their world, communication flowed in one direction only, from higher to lower. Pissant detectives, like myself, were supposed to take orders and keep their mouths shut. My failure to do so was not only a challenge to their authority but an affront to their dignity as well. The saddest part was that, if asked, each of these ranking officers would claim that their primary concern was to protect the Department. But what they were really protecting was their own asses. That was made clear ten minutes later when Flaherty summoned me into Sarney’s office.

Inspector Clark cleared his throat as I entered. ‘I want those tapes,’ he said, ‘and any copies you may have made.’

‘What are you going to do with them?’ I asked.

‘None of your goddamned business.’ Clark’s hair was ghostly white and extremely fine. He wore it pasted flat against his skull, an affectation that drew attention to his shaggy eyebrows and oversized, horn-rimmed glasses. The rap on him was that he was a self-important ass who’d kill for a promotion to deputy chief.

‘Did you hear what I said, detective?’

‘Inspector,’ I said, ‘as I already told the lieutenant, I don’t have the tapes. My partner has them.’ I raised my arms. ‘But if you wanna search me, I’m willing to give consent.’

‘I don’t need to hear that smart mouth. Where’s your partner?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Clark made an attempt to stare me down, but I simply absorbed the wrath pouring from his blue eyes. It was a little late in the game for intimidation. Finally, he said, ‘I’m putting you on suspension. Place your badge and your weapon on the desk.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘Conduct unbecoming an officer.’

‘And what conduct would that be?’

Clark leaned toward me, his little twisty mouth arranging itself in a smile. ‘If you don’t put your badge and weapon on that desk, and I mean right the fuck now, you’re gonna find yourself in a cell next to Ellen Lodge.’

And what could I say to that? I took out the billfold holding my badge and ID, laid it on Sarney’s desk, then followed the billfold with my Glock. Though I felt naked and exposed without the badge, surrendering the weapon didn’t bother me at all. That was because I had a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 snugged into a holster attached to my ankle. This was one outcome I’d been anticipating for days.

‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ I said. ‘The investigating part is over. I’ve gone as far as I have to.’

‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

I responded by turning my back, then opening the door to reveal Ted Savio huddled with Adele Bentibi and Assistant District Attorney Ginnette Lansky. For a moment, I was as shocked as anybody in the room, but then Adele glanced up to flash a smile I knew well. She’d won again.

Lansky was well turned out in a brown leather coat that fell to mid-calf, a pair of suede boots and an orange scarf that hung open. She was standing with her hands in the pockets of her coat when I opened the door, her lips moving rapidly as she communicated some urgent message to Theodore Savio.

‘Mother of God,’ Clark whispered, ‘what have you done now?’

I was pretty certain the ‘you’ referred to Harry Corbin, but I didn’t react. Ms. Lansky was walking directly toward me and I stepped aside to let her into the office before returning to my desk. Then Ted Savio went off to advise his client, leaving me alone with Adele. She took my hand and squeezed it. I returned the pressure before asking, ‘Bad news for the widow?’

‘Mixed news.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, she’s going to be arrested, Corbin, and she’ll have to spend the night in jail. But if she survives, the judge will release her tomorrow morning on her own recognizance. At the prosecution’s request, of course.’

‘Of course.’ I was captivated by Adele’s exuberance. She was as happy as I’d ever seen her.

‘It was Ginnette’s idea, but I have to admit it’s brilliant.’ Adele put her left hand on her hip. Her right was still cradled by the sling. ‘Accused felons, if they’re incarcerated, have to be indicted within a hundred and twenty hours of arrest. But if they’re not incarcerated, the grand jury can investigate for months before delivering an indictment. And there’s no limit on what the grand jury can investigate, either.’

The news was so good that my initial reaction was to pick it apart. How, I wanted to know, could Adele be sure the DA, possibly in league with the NYPD, wouldn’t bury the investigation? Especially in light of the fact that grand jury proceedings are secret.

The answer was simple enough. Ellen Lodge’s arrest would be made public on the following morning. At the press conference, District Attorney Kenneth Alessio would announce that the grand jury charged with indicting Ellen Lodge would investigate every aspect of the case, from Clarence Spott’s murder seven years before, to Dante Russo’s disappearance. The only issue still to be resolved was whether the task force to be established would include NYPD personnel or be staffed entirely by the DA’s own investigators.

Does it hurt now? Does it hurt now?

An hour later, when Bill Sarney returned my gun and badge, I was so high, I thought I’d explode.

If it weren’t for the rat, Adele and I would have been inside the Nissan when the RAV-4, screened by the falling snow, pulled away from the curb with its headlights off. If it wasn’t for the rat, I would certainly have been preoccupied — starting the Nissan in cold weather was a challenge that required my complete attention. If it weren’t for the rat, Adele would have been inside the car, facing forward, her view restricted by the wiper blades running across the windshield.

Trapped in a small enclosed space? With no warning? Time to sing your death song.

But we weren’t inside the Nissan when the RAV-4 pulled away from the curb. Instead, having cleared the windows of snow and opened the door, I was circling the car, pounding on the roof, the hood and the windows. Just in case some mischievous co-worker had decided to play a little joke on me. The unattended Nissan had been parked a couple of blocks from the precinct for nearly four hours.

Adele was standing by the passenger’s door when I finally got to the trunk, watching me with apparent amusement. Then she glanced over my shoulder toward the end of the block and her eyes narrowed.

‘Heads up, Corbin,’ she said as she slipped her right arm out of the sling. ‘I think we’re gonna have company.’

I spun around to find the silver SUV a half-block away, its tires spinning in several inches of frozen slush despite the four-wheel drive. On the passenger side, the head, shoulders and right arm of a man extended through the fully open window. Though the snow was falling pretty hard and I couldn’t see his hand clearly, I was fairly certain the object he clutched was not a wallet. Nevertheless, though I drew my Glock and laid the sights on the center of his face, I did not fire my weapon until fired upon. Nor did I seek cover. I simply stood there, ignoring the wet, wind-driven snow in my face, muzzle flashes that lit the falling lines of snow with the intensity of a strobe, the SUV itself, which fishtailed back-and-forth, passing within a few feet of my body before describing a complete circle, then finally crashing into a mini-van parked near the corner.

The whole business took no more than a few seconds. I’d fired my weapon six times as the vehicle approached, then passed me, carefully re-sighting after each shot. All the while, I was aware of Adele’s. 40 caliber AMT firing behind me. That she continued to pull the trigger after the man shooting at us abruptly stopped was reassuring. True, the RAV-4 had been fishtailing from side to side, but there was still the chance that one of the bullets pegged in our general direction had found its mark.