Lee Vance: The Garden of Betrayal

I thought he might grab me from behind and try to bounce me off a wall, but Wayland’s new breed of cop evidently stuck to verbal intimidation. He speed-walked past me to regain his position of leadership, jaw clenched and face flushed.

Ellison’s office was at the end of the corridor. He was on the phone, so Wayland and I took seats in an anteroom with an unoccupied secretarial station, a long row of file cabinets, and a view of the East River. The chairs were hard plastic. Wayland was fidgety, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders as though he could hardly wait to have at me. A light winked out on the secretary’s phone, and Wayland popped to his feet.

“After you,” he snarled.

The interior space was large and dark, the only light from a green-shaded desk lamp. The chief sat behind his desk in shirt sleeves, cuffs rolled up and tie pulled down. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s stood at his elbow, a half-full glass beside it. He picked up a folder and tossed it toward me.

“Read and sign.”

“Read and sign what?” I asked, lifting the folder from the desk.

“Official statements by Detective Kinnard and former Detective Goo about certain events transpiring at the LaGuardia Motor Court today. Your signature confirms your agreement with their recollections.”

Wayland grabbed the folder from me before I could open it.

“This is wrong, Chief. Wallace has to make his own statement first.”

“You shut the fuck up, Lieutenant,” Ellison roared, supporting himself on his knuckles as he half-rose from his seat. “Do something useful for a change. Go get Kinnard.”

Wayland looked stunned. I was less surprised, because I had a better notion of who Ellison had been on the phone with. I took the folder from Wayland’s unresisting hand, scanning the contents as he slunk away. Reggie and Joe had said what they’d agreed to say. I lifted a pen from the chief’s desk without asking and signed a brief declaration at the bottom of both statements, affirming that they were true to the best of my knowledge. Ellison was busy pouring himself another drink when I looked up. He didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. Reggie joined us a minute later, Wayland skulking behind.

“Joe okay?” I asked quietly.

“At the hospital, resting,” Reggie answered. “He’s going to be fine.”

“Enough,” Ellison rumbled, looking at Reggie. I had the impression that he was struggling mightily not to explode again. “Back in the four-one, Irish, when you and me were probies, Sergeant Wyszynski taught us three rules about getting by in the department. You remember?”

“Do what you’re told, don’t run your mouth to citizens, and never fuck with the brass.”

Ellison knocked back a slug of whiskey from his glass and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“You broke all three rules on this one. And much as it galls me to say it-because I dearly hate being fucked with-you’re going to get a pass. I’m going to buy the bullshit story you and your ex-partner told me, and I’m going to figure out how to put the best possible spin on it so everyone comes out smelling like a rose. You go back to looking for missing people, Belko goes back to fishing, and Mr. Wallace goes back to whatever the fuck he does when his friends aren’t getting killed. But only if you all swear to keep your mouths shut, now and forever.” He pointed a stout forefinger at Reggie. “Agreed?”

Reggie nodded guardedly. Wayland, behind him, looked as if he might spontaneously combust. The chief turned his gaze on me.

“And you. I heard from the mayor that he got four phone calls about you tonight, inside of an hour. One from a prominent local businessman, one from our esteemed governor, one from our junior senator, and one from ‘an influential foreign ambassador.’ I’m a little curious about that last category. I heard about guys getting skyhooked out of the shit by all kinds of people, but never by ‘an influential foreign ambassador.’”

I shrugged. Walter and Shimon had both been busy on my behalf, as promised. Ellison glared at me a moment, as if he might demand some further explanation, but I kept quiet, and he let it go.

“Live and learn, I suppose. You’re not planning to write a book about all this at some point, are you, Mr. Wallace?”

“No.”

“Or get yourself a guest shot on Larry King Live?”

“No.”

“Or whisper into a well in the middle of the woods at midnight when you’re a hundred years old?”

“No.”

“Good. Because the mayor and I reviewed that possibility, and we agreed on certain contingencies. So, if I hear one echo of one word from that well…” He shook his head and smiled, communicating the pleasure he’d take in punishing any indiscretion I might commit.

“You won’t.”

“Okay, then.” Ellison lifted his glass and used it to make the sign of the cross in Reggie’s direction. “Go with God, Irish, and take the Jonah with you. Talk to Belko, make sure he’s on board. And know this. You give me the tiniest excuse at any point in the future-the tiniest fucking excuse-and I will crush you like a bug. There’s no room in this department for a detective with a wild hair. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The chief polished off his whiskey and then looked at Wayland.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “don’t just stand there. Open the door.”

Reggie and I didn’t say anything until we were outside. He pulled out his cigarettes and offered me the pack.

“Thanks, but one every twenty years is my limit.”

“I enjoyed that,” he said, tipping his head toward the building behind us as he lit up. “I haven’t seen Ellison get bent over in a long time.”

“Being political cuts both ways. You worried about retaliation?”

“Nah. Open secret that he failed his last physical with a bad ticker. They’ll give him a big send-off at the next Academy graduation. I can stay clean for six months.” He buttoned his coat. “Come on. My car’s over on Madison. We’ll buy a bottle of Jameson and go visit Joe in the hospital. You can tell us both how you fixed the mayor. He’ll get a kick out of that.”

Shimon’s truck was parked across the street. I glanced at it and then back at Reggie.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“You need to get home? I’ll run you up to the hotel first, and we can talk on the way.”

“No,” I said. “It’s over.”

He took another hit from his cigarette, staring at me.

“Over, over? Or over for me and you?”

“Over for me and you.”

“You promised to keep me in the loop,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where you’ve been the last couple of hours, or who you’ve been talking to, but if you’re getting ready to do something crazy, you have to talk it through with me first.”

“I wish I could,” I said, feeling bad about not being able to confide in him. “I’m more grateful to you than I can ever say, but the situation’s changed.”

“You gave me your word.”

“And I’ll keep it if you want me to. But I’m involved in stuff now that you can’t be involved in, with people you can’t know. You have to believe that I’m thinking about your best interests here, Reggie. I don’t want to compromise you.”

I must have glanced toward the truck again involuntarily, because he turned his head and followed my gaze. Ten seconds ticked past. He put his cigarette in his mouth and turned up his collar.

“I read about Rashid in the afternoon paper,” he said. “Some kind of Israeli spy, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Which tells me something about the guys who saved our bacon this afternoon, and about the identity of the ‘influential foreign ambassador’ who called the mayor on your behalf, right?”