Line Of Duty
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About this ebook
First a major Harlem drug dealer is murdered. Next, an art dealer, and then a disbarred lawyer. All shot in the head execution style. Are they connected? When suspicions arise that this might be the work of NYPD cops, Detective Lieutenant Brian Shannon and Alex Rose from the Internal Affairs Division are told to get answers fast. To make matters worse, an upcoming drug commission to be headed by an ambitious State Senator creates a political firestorm in the police department as well as City Hall. Indications are that the senator is next on the hit list. Can these murderers be stopped in time?
This is the story of politics, corruption, pervasive violence, and ultimately, the struggle of a few good men to maintain their moral character in the pressure-cooker environment of big-city police work.
Michael Grant
Michael Grant, author of the Gone series, the Messenger of Fear series, the Magnificent Twelve series, and the Front Lines trilogy, has spent much of his life on the move. Raised in a military family, he attended ten schools in five states, as well as three schools in France. Even as an adult he kept moving, and in fact he became a writer in part because it was one of the few jobs that wouldn’t tie him down. His fondest dream is to spend a year circumnavigating the globe and visiting every continent. Yes, even Antarctica. He lives in California with his wife, Katherine Applegate, with whom he cowrote the wildly popular Animorphs series. You can visit him online at www.themichaelgrant.com and follow him on Twitter @MichaelGrantBks.
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- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A thrilling story of the life as a member of the New York police department - all the grit and brutal reality involved therein.
Book preview
Line Of Duty - Michael Grant
Chapter 1
Harlem, New York City
1990
A cold November rain beat down on the dark Harlem street, rapping a staccato tattoo on battered trash-can lids and car roofs. Except for a wet, forlorn cat crouched under an abandoned Ford, vainly hoping to snare a careless rat, 128th Street was deserted.
A blue van turned onto the street and coasted down the block. It pulled to the curb and two men, one white and one black, got out. Sprinting through the rain, they ran for the entrance to a nearby apartment building.
Inside, the marble-tiled lobby smelled of pizza and fried fish. The two men got on the elevator and shook the rain off themselves as they ascended to the sixth floor. In the hallway in front of apartment 6N they paused for a moment and listened. When they were certain no one was coming, the tall black man pressed the buzzer. The sound of heavy footsteps was followed by the peephole snapping open.
Yeah?
The voice was gruff. What you want?
The second, shorter man stepped in front of the door. Police. We want to talk to you for a minute.
Let me see your damn ID cards.
The voice was petulant.
The two held their ID’s up for inspection, exchanging quick glances when they heard him unlocking the door. From the sound of the rattling chains and sliding bolts, it was clear that Tiny Leonard took great precautions against intrusion. Like most drug dealers. Tiny had a customized steel door with reinforced frames and hinges that was as strong as a bank vault.
The door swung open and an enormous black man filled the space. He wore a pair of iridescent-green slacks and a white-on-white shirt that made his dark black skin appear almost blue. Yeah?
We took down a dealer today,
the short man said. Claims he works for you.
Motherfucker,
the fat man muttered. Every time you bust some chump, you think he work for me. What do I look like? General Motors?
He turned and waddled into the living room. Following him, the tall black man signaled his partner inside and gently closed the reinforced door.
The room was decorated in early Woolworth, complete with plastic African figures, orange vinyl cushions scattered on the floor, and a fire-engine-red matador painted on black velvet. The floor in front of the stereo was littered with album covers, and on top of the color TV, which flickered soundlessly, a half-eaten sandwich and a can of beer were perched precariously on a pile of skin magazines.
Reginald Tiny
Leonard, perfectly at ease in a dirty white velvet chair, squinted up at the two men standing over him. Like most criminals who came into daily contact with the police, he was not intimidated by them. Okay, of-fi-cers, make it quick. I got a date tonight.
He tried to lace his fingers across his ample belly but his arms weren’t quite long enough and his hands slid into his lap.
The shorter man’s eyes darted to his partner. He wants us to make it quick.
He turned to Tiny. Who’d want to date a fat scumbag like you?
Tiny’s eyes narrowed and seemed to disappear into his wide face. You best watch your mouth, cop,
he said, jabbing a chunky finger at the short man. You all are here as my guests. I don’t have to take no bullshit from you. I got a good mind to make a civilian complaint against the pair of you.
In the past Tiny had indeed filed complaints. He’d learned it was a sure way to jam up a cop, and it was so easy it was ridiculous. All he had to do was walk into any police station in the city. Of course, he had to put up with the bad-ass looks from the chumps behind the desk, but they took the complaint anyway. Later, a sergeant or a lieutenant, looking real serious, would come to interview him. They were so polite—Yes, Mr. Leonard. No, Mr. Leonard.
Before they left they always solemnly assured him that the New York City Police Department did not condone such behavior and the officer would be dealt with. Tiny got such a kick out of the interviews that he made it a point to lodge a civilian complaint whenever he was arrested. One time he claimed he was missing money. Another time he swore the arresting officer stole his gold Rolex. To his delight, the cops investigated every one of his complaints.
He enjoyed telling the story about the time he got arrested by an inexperienced narc who forgot to give him Miranda warnings. In a loud voice he had indignantly demanded his rights. The flustered cop didn’t have his Miranda card with him, so he recited the warning from memory. Tiny listened intently as the cop stumbled through his recitation. When he’d finished. Tiny asked, Is that it?
I think so,
the cop said.
You forgot the one about the lawyer. You ain’t never gonna be no sergeant, you dumb shit,
Leonard roared as the cop blushed in embarrassment. He lodged a complaint that time too.
Tiny Leonard was afraid of many things, but cops weren’t one of them. Unlike some of the bad actors he had to deal with on the street, he knew that cops were as predictable as the sunrise. They reminded him of the chained dog he used to taunt as a kid. The frustrated animal could only go as far as his chain stretched, so Tiny would stand just beyond that point and whack it with a stick. He felt tremendous power standing only inches from the snarling, foaming dog, safe from the slashing teeth; imagining himself a great bullfighter. Cops had chains and limits too, and he experienced the same feeling of power over them.
Victor sent us,
the short man said.
What the fuck you talking about? I don’t know no Victor. You must be smokin’ some bad shit.
Tiny started to laugh at his own joke but stopped when he saw they weren’t laughing with him. He didn’t know how they knew about Victor Cabrera, but it had been a mistake allowing these two ball-breakers in. Tiny’s hooded eyes moved from the white man to the tall black. Okay, joke’s over. Get outta here before I call my lawyer.
He started to push his fat body out of the chair, but the cops didn’t move.
The taller man, who had said nothing thus far, now took his hand out of his pocket. The silencer attached to the barrel made the gun look like a high-tech toy, something from Star Wars.
Fear surged through Tiny, but just as quickly subsided as it occurred to him what they were after. It was a shakedown, and that was something he understood. He laughed nervously. Hey, bro. Best put that thing away before someone get hurt.
He took out his wallet and tossed it on the coffee table. There’s about two grand there. Take it and get out.
Unable to resist the opportunity for sarcasm, he added, If you look in the kitchen you might find some empty bottles. Why don’t you take them for the deposit, you thieving motherfuckers.
His custom-made silk shirt clung to his sweaty back. Man, he thought, am I gonna lay one big civilian complaint on these crazy bastards.
The tall man cocked the pistol and brought it up to Tiny’s fat face.
You can’t shoot me,
Tiny snarled.
He died believing that.
~~~
The telephone rang five times before DeNoto heard it over the din of typewriters, screaming complainants, and protesting suspects. Wearily, Detective Sal DeNoto picked it up, spraying ashes from the cigar in his right hand across his desk. Two-six squad, DeNoto.
Salvatore, how are you this fine evening?
It was Lieutenant Flynn, the desk officer on duty downstairs. Are you catching tonight?
DeNoto squinted through the cloud of cigar smoke to the clock on the far wall. Yeah, Loo, but only for the next twenty minutes. Can it wait?
’Fraid not. It’s a homicide.
Flynn pronounced it hamicide.
Address is 531 West 128th Street. The sergeant and the sector are already there. Crime scene has been notified and is on the way.
DeNoto angrily ground the stub of his cigar into the Volkswagen hubcap that served as an ashtray. Loo, the tour is almost over. How about we wait for—
Not this one, Salvatore. Your client’s name is Tiny Leonard.
Flynn chuckled and hung up.
DeNoto whistled as he put the phone down. Leonard, one of the biggest narcotics dealers in Harlem, had a reputation for being one mean sonofabitch. Who’d have the balls to ice Leonard on his own turf?
he said to his partner at the adjoining desk.
The other cop, intent on pecking out an arrest report with two fingers, didn’t look up. The Lord works in mysterious ways,
he said.
~~~
Rain lashed the windows, and DeNoto cursed softly. Just what I need,
he mumbled as he slipped into his battered raincoat. Another homicide and it’s raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock. Like I don’t have enough to keep me busy.
The other detective ripped the form out of the typewriter and scrawled his signature across the bottom. Look at the bright side, Sal. Another world-class scumbag has been scratched. With miracles like that, it’s hard to believe there are still atheists in this world.
DeNoto tugged on his raincoat belt savagely. You know, Crowley, you got some kinda sick religious streak in you.
On their way out the door, DeNoto stopped to straighten the squad room’s pathetic Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Although it was only the second week in November, Sergeant Conklin, the squad’s second whip, had put it up to brighten up this fucking hovel,
as he delicately phrased it. It hadn’t been one of Conklin’s better ideas. After getting knocked over three times by cops scuffling with unruly prisoners, the tree had developed a permanent list to port. Only seven ornaments survived, and the two light sets refused to stay lit for more than a five-minute stretch.
DeNoto regarded the tree with a jaundiced eye. What a piece of shit. When did we take it down last year?
Crowley looked over DeNoto’s shoulder. May. Remember, the lights came on three days after Christmas and we were afraid to touch it?
Yeah, that’s right. Ten bucks says the fucking tree don’t last till Christmas Eve.
~~~
DeNoto and Crowley stepped off the elevator and into the usual homicide-scene chaos. The narrow hallway was jammed with uniformed cops, ambulance attendants, Tiny Leonard’s neighbors, and even a couple of reporters who’d been monitoring the police band. Three young cops with raincoats dripping water over the filthy floor jockeyed for position at the door, hoping to get a glimpse of their first homicide victim. They should have been on patrol, but when it came to gawking at carnage and gore, cops are just as voyeuristic as the next guy.
Years before, when DeNoto was in recruit school, each rookie had to tell the class why he became a cop. The class clown got up and said he became a cop because he was tired of always getting chased away from accident scenes by cops. Now he could do the chasing and see the action at the same time. Everyone thought it was funny except the sour-balls instructor.
Watching the rookies craning to see into the apartment, DeNoto decided that his classmate’s answer had probably been closer to the truth than all the other altruistic bullshit he’d heard that day fifteen years ago.
Many of the apartment doors were opened a crack, and shadowed faces peered out. As DeNoto came closer, each door closed quickly, reminding him of fiddler crabs disappearing into sand holes on the beach. They could close their doors, but it didn’t matter. He, Crowley, or another detective would talk to them eventually. A canvass of the building and neighborhood was mandatory in a homicide investigation. Usually it produced nothing, but every once in a while it uncovered the perfect witness. Because of that one-in-a-million chance, a canvass was SOP.
DeNoto stopped about ten feet from the open door of Leonard’s apartment and ground his hissing cigar into the wet tile floor. With conscious effort he cleared his head of all distracting thoughts. He knew from experience that his first impression of the murder scene could yield valuable insights. There could be only one first
look at a crime scene. After that it was never the same. It was like that Chinese proverb: You can never enter the same river twice.
While Crowley began collecting information from the first officer on the scene, DeNoto squeezed past the rookies, nodded to the uniformed sergeant who was doing a pretty good job of keeping unnecessary people out of the apartment, and stepped through the door. Two crime-scene cops were already busy at their tasks. One snapped pictures with a beat-up camera while the other, on his hands and knees with tweezers and eyedroppers, methodically went about the business of collecting blood, hair samples, and anything else that might explain why Tiny Leonard was dead.
Cranking the film advance on his camera, the younger of the two glanced up as DeNoto came in. Sal, you catching this one?
DeNoto nodded to the kid and let his eyes sweep the room.
The homicide scene, a freeze-frame of the victim’s last moment on earth, is often paradoxically serene. The violence and furor spent, what’s left is a silent tableau of death. Tiny Leonard, now only a mountain of dead flesh, slumped in his filthy armchair with his head resting on the back, as though the effort of being murdered had exhausted him. The eyes, looking toward the stained ceiling, stared vacantly into eternity, and his pudgy, sausage-like fingers gripped the arms of the cheap chair. There was, DeNoto saw, an expensive-looking diamond pinky ring still on Leonard’s left hand. A thin ribbon of blood had trickled from the neat black hole in Leonard’s forehead and had ended in a gelatinous puddle on Leonard’s white shirt. The stench of feces hung in the air.
DeNoto scowled, and his eyes swept the room once again. Hey, Friedman, you want to be a detective. Notice anything unusual?
The crime-scene photographer looked around. He’d taken more than a dozen pictures since they’d arrived five minutes earlier, but he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Nope. The usual regulation murder scene.
DeNoto eyed the wallet flipped open on the coffee table and the beer can and sandwich on the TV. Carefully avoiding a small puddle of blood at Leonard’s feet, he stepped in for a closer look at the body. Someone came in here and snuffed Tiny while he sat there peacefully in his chair looking like the goddamned Lincoln Memorial.
Friedman took a second look around the room. You’re right, Sal. Not a thing out of place. What’s it mean?
DeNoto moved away to inspect the bedroom. How should I know, Friedman? What do I look like, a detective or something?
Chapter 2
Brian Shannon’s cramped office on the thirteenth floor of One Police Plaza resembled the bottom of a hamster cage. Every available flat surface was covered with precariously stacked piles of NYPD reports and folders. Pinned to the walls were charts whose blue, red, and black jagged lines tracked the ebb and flow of major crimes in the city.
A cigarette dangling from his lips. Shannon sat with his feet up on the desk and squinted at the sixty-one. The Complaint Report—or sixty-one,
as the old-timers called it—was the basic workhorse form in the department. Its companion, the Complaint Follow-Up, or DD5, which detectives used to record additional information, was the next most important form. Shannon’s desk was littered with sixty-ones and DD5's from the previous twenty-four hours.
He read the Leonard Complaint Report again, then dialed the Two-six squad. Lieutenant Shannon, Chief of Detectives Office. Is DeNoto still there?
A tired voice came on the line. DeNoto here.
Shannon glanced at the wall clock. He knew the detective had been working nonstop since he’d caught
the homicide nine hours ago. The SOP was to stay with a homicide while witnesses and leads, if any, were fresh. If the initial investigation determined that the case was going nowhere, things settled back to normal and the homicide became just one more for the overworked detective to solve. It was early in the case. DeNoto would still be digging for witnesses.
I just read the Leonard sixty-one. It doesn’t say much. Got anything else yet?
Not a hell of a lot, Loo.
All lieutenants were called Loo. This one’s kind of wacky. Tiny was a major dealer up here. I figured he got hit in a dispute over drugs, but from what we’re hearing from people on the street, it wasn’t a mob hit. Right now there’s nothing to explain it, but the junkies up here are shitting Hershey bars. We’ve been rousting dealers all over Harlem, and the junkies are having a real tough time copping a buy this morning. The inconsiderate bastard who hit Tiny really fucked up business around here.
What about the Medical Examiner?
Just the preliminary—death by bullet hole in the head.
Drug ingestion?
The autopsy will tell, but I doubt it. Tiny didn’t use the shit, he only sold it.
DeNoto paused. There was one thing...
Yeah?
The scene wasn’t disturbed at all—no furniture knocked over, nothing spilled, nothing missing. His wallet was on the table with twenty-six hundred bucks in it. Tiny had a rep as a violent dude. What I can’t figure is how he got his brains blown out without making a fuss. I’ve never seen such a neat homicide scene. It’s really weird.
Shannon agreed: it was weird. He didn’t tell the detective that the M.O. was exactly like another homicide sixty-one he had tucked in his drawer. DeNoto, let me know if you come up with anything else.
Okay. Hey, Loo, I don’t usually get calls from the Chief of Detectives Office about routine homicides. There anything special I should know about this case?
Shannon wished he knew the answer to that question. Naw, I’m just trying to decide which chart Tiny belongs on.
He hung up.
Shannon unlocked his drawer, took out a folder and reread the other sixty-one again. Then he gathered up his papers, lit another cigarette and went to see Bennett.
~~~
Deputy Chief Hugo Bennett, six-foot-four and close to three hundred pounds, was the Executive Officer of the Detective Bureau. It was the considered opinion of everyone in the bureau that Chief Bennett—or Baby Huey,
as he was irreverently called—was the sloppiest dressed and most accident-prone man alive. His one lumpy blue suit looked like he stored apples in the pockets, and the huge knot in his tie ensured that it would reach no more than midway down his enormous stomach. He usually wore scuffed brown shoes with his blue suit, and when he was feeling particularly adventurous, white socks. The rumpled man-mountain was topped off with a large crop of unruly red hair that looked like it had been combed with a Weedwacker. All in all, Bennett’s general appearance suggested he was dressed by a committee of palsied blind men. His notorious garb was especially onerous to detectives who prided themselves on dressing and looking the part of a detective. There wasn’t a cop in the bureau who didn’t have at least one horror story concerning yet another example of Baby Huey’s lack of sartorial sophistication.
But under that disheveled, disorganized, accident-prone exterior was the sharpest, shrewdest, don’t-give-me-any-bullshit administrator in the department. Bennett had come on the job before a high school diploma was required. But even with his eighth-grade education, he was a better administrator than most of the young college-educated paper pushers in Headquarters. He had a talent for writing reports in police-amatic razzle-dazzle that brought tears of joy to the eyes of his bureaucratic superiors. He could make a weather report sound like an innovative community-relations program.
~~~
He was busy mopping up the coffee he’d just spilled when Shannon came in. Jeez, what a mess! Goddamn cup just fell over. What’s up?
I’m not sure. Chief. I got a couple of homicides that look a little strange.
Bennett dabbed at the soggy blotter, but only succeeded in spreading the puddle to the rest of the desk. A thread of coffee dribbled onto his tie. Most homicides are strange. What makes these different?
Last night a big-time drug dealer named Tiny Leonard was murdered in Harlem. No robbery, no struggle, no apparent motive. He was shot in the head execution style. Two weeks ago
—Shannon opened his folder and read from the sixty-one—Nelson Marbridge, male, fifty-two, was shot in the head execution style. Again no motive, and nothing taken from his Park Avenue apartment.
He looked up. The same M.O.—one shot to the head—was used in both homicides, but there doesn’t appear to be a motive for either one.
Bennett gave up mopping his desk and sat back. Any connection between the two men?
Negative. Marbridge was an art dealer. They traveled in very different circles.
What about weapons?
Different guns.
What do you think?
It may be just a coincidence, but I’ve got this hunch they’re connected. They’re just too similar.
Are there any more?
I checked back to the beginning of the year. There’s a couple that we know are mob-related, but only these two with the same M.O.
Bennett tossed the soggy napkin into the wastebasket, leaving a trail of brown drip spots across the typed reports in his in-basket. You’ll do anything to get out of this felony project, won’t you. Shannon?
I won’t lie, Chief. I think this project sucks. What’s the point? All I’m gonna find is that crime in this city is getting worse. We already know that. I feel like I’m trying to prove that birds fly.
Bennett rested his elbows on the wet blotter. I know how you feel, but things are heating up in this city. There’s an election coming up next year, and that guy Pickett has really been sticking it to us in the press.
Pickett’s just another loudmouth politician looking for some free publicity.
It’s not that simple. You know the scuttlebutt. The mayor may take a shot at running for governor. If that happens, the P.C. may run for mayor. Either way, a lot of careers are on the line here. The only way to muzzle Pickett is to be out in front of him on crime issues. That’s why the P.C. personally mandated the project, and that’s why I brought you up here. You’re one of the few men in the bureau who can count more than twenty numbers without opening your fly. I’ve known some tough men in this department who are afraid of nothing except some simple arithmetic.
Bennett’s face reddened as he launched into his favorite tirade. If it wasn’t for those goddamn graph questions they always put on promotional exams
—his fist struck the desk perilously close to the coffee container—a lot of good detectives would be bosses today! With your accounting background, there isn’t another boss in the bureau who can handle this project as well as you.
But I’m a squad commander,
Shannon protested, not a bean counter. There are plenty of guys who can do this.
But not in the bureau. You know Larson—he doesn’t like outsiders doing our work.
Larson would never know. He’s not around long enough to know what’s going on.
It was a well-known fact that Timothy J. Larson was an absentee Chief of Detectives who spent most of his time with politicians, and anyone else who could further his career. His greatest pleasure was seeing his picture in the Daily News, arm draped around a prominent person. He left the day-to- day bureau operation to Hugo Bennett.
Bennett sighed and reached for what remained of his coffee. Listen, Brian, I know how you feel. How long have you been up here?
Five weeks.
How much more time do you need?
Three or four weeks.
As soon as this project is finished, you go back to your squad. Swear to God.
Shannon saw there was no point in continuing the discussion. He was going to be stuck here until the felony project was completed. Okay, boss, but what if there is something to these homicides?
Forget it,
Bennett snapped.
Shannon had touched on a sore point. The ability to identify similar crime patterns was still the weakest link in the bureau. With more than fifteen hundred murders investigated by scores of detectives every year, it was a logistical nightmare. Without a coordinated reporting system, there was always the chance that crimes with similar M.O.’s might not be linked—especially if they occurred in different boroughs.
Bennett fought constantly with Larson about revamping inter-bureau communications. In the past the bureau had gotten burned for failing to recognize crime patterns, and Bennett didn’t want it to happen again. He wanted to centralize the bureau, set up a computer network that would help identify crime patterns and M.O.’s. But Larson, who was too busy campaigning for Police Commissioner, wouldn’t sit still long enough to listen.
In a more conciliatory tone, Bennett said, Let me think about it, Brian. In the meantime, if you find another one, let me know.
As Shannon rose to leave, the Executive Officer swung his arm across the desk and knocked the cup over again. The coffee still in the cup flooded the desk and dribbled onto his lap. Goddamn it!
he muttered and grabbed for another napkin.
~~~
Back in his office, Shannon adjusted the vertical blinds and watched a red tugboat pull a sand-laden barge down the East River. By the time it disappeared under the Brooklyn Bridge, he’d made up his mind. The hell with Bennett and the felony project. He’d do a little checking into these cases on his own.
Behind him the door opened slowly. A slightly built young man with an enormous mustache slipped quietly into the tiny office. "Perdone me, senor. Mi—"
Shannon, still looking out the window, said, Cut the wetback bullshit, Velez. You’re two hours late.
I know, boss, but the subways in the Bronx are a disgrace—
Bullshit.
The lieutenant sat down. What’s your excuse this time?
Velez hung his head and his mustache seemed to droop even more. Okay, I tried to get out of her apartment, but she wouldn’t let me go! She’s a bitch, man. A real bitch! Boss, you should see the body on this lady. I’m telling you...
Words failed him, and he stood there shaking his head.
Shannon lit his fifth cigarette of the morning. Someday her husband is going to come home early and use your gun to give you another asshole.
Velez winced and grabbed his crotch. "Jesus, Loo. Don’t say that. Madre mia!"
Shannon watched the carefree young officer turn on the computer and arrange his work for the day. Most of the time he was an overgrown kid, but when he sat down at the computer, he was transformed. Velez had to be the smartest Puerto Rican in New York City. He was certainly the smartest cop—white, black, brown, or yellow—in the police department. A graduate of Bronx High School of Science, he had gone to MIT on a computer- science scholarship. While there, he baffled professors and fellow students alike with his uncanny mathematical talents and analytical mind. At the same time he infuriated them with his I-don’t-give-a-shit street attitude. After a year, to the satisfaction of all concerned, he dropped out. He came back to the city and took the test for the police department. At the Academy he racked up the highest marks ever recorded, while simultaneously receiving more demerits than any rookie in recent memory.
The word of his mathematical skills spread, and before Velez graduated from the Academy, he had offers to work in every major administrative division in the department. But he turned them down. He wanted to be a real cop.
This flippant reproach of the administrative corps so infuriated the Chief of Personnel that he sputtered, Fuck that little spic. He wants to be a real cop? I’ll show him real cop.
And so Probationary Police Officer Luis Velez, shield number 5612, was assigned to the infamous Four-four
precinct in the Bronx—probably the closest thing to Dodge City in the twentieth century. Among its many distinctions, the Four-four boasted the highest homicide rate in the city.
Velez loved it. He made arrests, traded shots with felons, and screwed every foxy chick within reach. If even half of what Velez said about his sex life was true, he had to have the stamina of a water buffalo. When Shannon found out about Velez’s computer talents, he knew he wanted him for the project. The negotiations, however, were not easy. Velez was having far too much fun fighting crime in the Bronx. Shannon appealed to his love of computers: You’ll design and write your own programs.’’ No reaction. Finally he appealed to his basic instincts:
I’ll cut you loose two hours early every day." It was the first time Shannon was to see Velez’s patented weasel grin; a grin sincere and mocking at the same time. The final item in their verbal agreement was that Shannon had to swear on his mother’s grave—never mind that she wasn’t dead yet—to send Velez back to the Four-four as soon as the project was over. The Chief of Personnel would never have understood that.
Today, watching him across the confines of the cluttered office, Shannon asked, Luis, why did you come on the job?
Velez pried the lid off his coffee container and dumped three packets of sugar in before answering. I dunno. I had enough of school. There was nothing else they could teach me that I wanted to know, so I quit.
But why the police department?
It was either the P.D. or the French Foreign Legion. I took the P.D. because I get to go home every night and I don’t have to go AWOL.
What’s your I.Q.?
I dunno. One thirty? Something like that.
One sixty-seven. The highest in the department. Shannon had looked it up in his personnel folder. He came to a decision. Luis, I have something I need analyzed.
Velez’s eyes lit up. A challenge. Anything unusual stimulated him. Sure. What have you got?
Shannon briefed him on the two homicides. I want to know if there’s a correlation between them.
Velez became thoughtful. In computer circles there’s a term—GIGO— garbage in, garbage out. What kind of data you got?
Just the sixty-ones and the DD5’s.
That won’t tell us much.
What do you suggest?
Let’s get everything we can—M.E. reports, rap sheets, arrest reports, the works. If the correlation you’re looking for isn’t evident now, you’re gonna need a lot more data for comparison.
Shannon reluctantly agreed. He was hoping to keep this simple, but Velez was right. If there was a link between the Marbridge and Leonard homicides, it was buried somewhere in the mass of material collected by the investigating officers. Okay, we’ll do it. By the way, what I want to do has to be done in addition to the felony project. And I don’t want anyone to know what we’re doing. Deal?
"You got it, boss. I’ll take the shit home and work on it if I have to.’’
You live in the South Bronx and you have a computer in your apartment? Aren’t you afraid of someone ripping it off?
Naw, the dumb bastards who burglarize my neighborhood will think it’s a TV, and when they can’t get a picture, they’ll think it’s busted and leave it alone.
Chapter 3
As soon as Brian Shannon turned into his driveway, the tension from the long, tedious trip began to drain from him. Driving fifty miles every day in stop-and-go traffic in cold and heat on the Long Island Expressway, one of the world’s worst highways, was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. And his ’74 Volkswagen Rabbit—a mechanical nightmare—was no help. Lately he’d been experiencing strange electrical problems. Sometimes the engine wouldn’t start, while at other times it would suddenly die while he was on the expressway with cars whizzing by at sixty miles an hour. This car doesn’t need a mechanic, he thought as he yanked the door open, it needs an exorcist.
It was at times like this when the same nagging question popped into his head: Why in God’s name did I move all the way out to Smithtown? Of course he knew the rational answer; to make a better life for his wife and daughter.
Like thousands of other young newlyweds born and raised in the crowded tenements of the city, Brian and Eileen Shannon migrated east to Long Island in the sixties looking for a home in a paradise of quarter-acre lots and pseudo-colonial homes with stately pillars in front—a suburban Tara. The only thing missing was Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler standing at the front door.
Smooth-talking real estate salesmen emphasized that here was a place you could let your children play outside without fear of crime or traffic. Plenty of room, big houses, low taxes, and good schools were also part of the allure. But all that soon changed. It wasn’t long before the poisons that infected the city slowly oozed all the way out to paradise. Property taxes skyrocketed as harried officials built more schools to keep up with the burgeoning population. Houses sprang up on every available lot; the open spaces began to close in.
Then came the oil embargo, and Rhett and Scarlett discovered it was expensive to heat even a modest Tara. Some cops, part of this early migration, were caught in such a squeeze between their soaring oil bills and static salaries that they sometimes found it necessary to take sick days because they couldn’t afford to gas up their cars.
On top of everything else, crime—the main reason for leaving the city—found its way into the cul-de-sacs and tree-lined streets of suburbia. In a few short years these suburbanites were dismayed to find themselves surrounded by most of the problems they thought they’d left behind, except that now they were fifty miles farther from work.
Eileen was just finishing up in the kitchen when Brian came in. One look at him and she knew he was in a bad mood. She kissed him and massaged the back of his neck, still tight with tension. Have a bad day, Junebug?
The pet name, which she only used when they were alone, was a result of their first meeting. Eileen Duffy had been a nurse at Lincoln Hospital, and her first sight of Brian was when he came slamming through the doors into the emergency room with a bloodied, handcuffed man in tow. Brian’s uniform was covered with blood and she thought he’d been shot. But it turned out that the man in handcuffs had killed another in a knife fight, and Brian, who’d tried to break up the fight, had gotten their blood all over him. From his solemn demeanor, it was obvious Brian was a rookie. His shiny leather gear was so new it squeaked. It was love at first sight.
He had handcuffed the man to a radiator and sat down to write in his memo book. Eileen stood over him with her clipboard. "Name and command?’’ she said curtly.
"Shannon. Four-one.’’
"Patient’s name?’’
He’s not a patient,
he said grimly, still not looking up. He’s a prisoner.
Prisoner’s name,
she repeated, trying not to laugh.
Brian fumbled through the prisoner’s wallet looking for ID. Junebug Jenkins,
he read from a crumpled driver’s license. One twenty Tremont—
Junebug!
Yeah,
Brian said in growing annoyance, that’s what it says.
He looked up and saw her for the first time; his frown dissolved into a smile and he started to laugh too. And together, as though they were the only people in the world, they laughed at their own private joke, oblivious to the moaning, bleeding victims of South Bronx mayhem surrounding them. They didn’t see the forlorn man handcuffed to the radiator, they didn’t see the child coming out of a treatment room proudly displaying a brand-new cast on her arm to a weeping mother. They saw only each other.
After that night, whenever she was working, Brian would manage to find some poor soul in need of medical attention and drag him into the emergency room. His sudden interest in the health and welfare of the citizens of the South Bronx didn’t go unnoticed by the other cops in his squad. Ignoring their jibes, he’d bring in the sick, the lame, and the injured, and she’d whisper in his ear, What have you got tonight, Junebug?
One year later they were married. Brian had wanted to invite Junebug Jenkins to the wedding, but he was doing a fifteen to twenty in Attica and was, regrettably, unavailable.
Brian looked over her shoulder toward the stove. Anything to eat?
We already ate. I was expecting you hours ago.
Yeah, I’m sorry. Something came up, and by the time I left, I got caught in a world-class traffic jam on Delancey Street.
He opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Took almost an hour just to get to the Williamsburg Bridge. I thought the damn thing had finally fallen into the river.
She pushed him away from the refrigerator. Get away before you break something. I have some sauce left over. Want me to make you some spaghetti?
Yours or make-believe?
Mine, of course. Since when have I ever served you tomato sauce from a can?
Never, my love,
he said, grabbing her from behind. I don’t understand how an Irish girl learned to make such terrific Italian food.
Did you marry me for my sauce?
Nope.
He slipped his hands up and over her breasts and gave her a playful squeeze. I married you for these.
She smacked his hand. Stop it. Not in the kitchen. Do you want the spaghetti or not?
Okay.
He sat down at the kitchen table and flipped through Newsday. Where’s Kathy?
I thought this headquarters assignment meant you’d be home on time for dinner every night.
Something always comes up and—
You mean you always look for something to come up. My husband, ace detective, can’t even relax with a cushy job.
Cushy job my ass. I’m drowning in a sea of paper, and guess what I’ve discovered so far? Crime in New York City is increasing. Surprise, surprise.
Eileen set a place in front of him. I’m impressed. Maybe you should retire and become a crime consultant.
Yeah, I could charge a thousand bucks a day to tell them crime is on the rise. What a crock.
Speaking of retirement—
Please, Eileen, not again. I don’t want to talk about it now.
You never want to talk about it.
She stirred the congealed sauce and in a softer voice said, It’s time, Brian. You said you’d retire when you got your time.
Let’s not get into that again.
Before she could respond, Kathy came barging into the kitchen. Hi, guys.
Brian looked up from the paper at his daughter. Her face, under all that teased hair, was a carbon copy of Eileen’s when his wife was younger. At seventeen Kathy had reached that twilight age that drove parents to distraction. One minute she was a little girl padding around the house in an old bathrobe and enormous, furry bear-feet slippers; the next minute she was dressed like someone twice her age and begging her mother for the loan of her best pearls.
She gave her father a peck on the cheek, and her overpowering perfume made him sneeze.
Daddy, I think I’m going to sing the solo at the Christmas concert. Mr. Dutton says it’s between Marie Rubino and me, but I think Mr. Dutton likes me better.
The sunny smile faded. Dad,
she said sternly, you have got to come to this concert. Okay? Promise?
Okay, okay. I promise.
Good. Gotta go, gang. Melissa and I are going to the mall.
Dressed like that?
Brian eyed her mini. The skirt was at least five inches too short.
Oh, Daddy. You’re so old-fashioned. You think anyone who wears a skirt above the knees is a hooker.
"Hooker? Brian looked at Eileen.
Where does she get