Cop Job (20 page)

The only bit of worthwhile news was a phone call from the female CSI I saw that day in Allison’s apartment. She told me what I already knew from Fenton, that there was no match for the assailant’s fingerprints or DNA in the CODIS database. I asked her if the DNA told her anything else.

“It was a man,” she said.

“White man? Black man? Green man?”

“Don’t know. From a mitochondrial marker perspective, race is a meaningless concept.”

“I thought DNA could tell you anything,” I said.

“I can tell you where your guy’s ancestors came from, which in America is usually a mix of everywhere, but not the color of his skin.”

“I came from a disappointed white lady and a first class son of a bitch,” I said.

“If there’s a marker for SOBs, I’m sure your guy would have had it.”

I promised her I’d keep our conversation confidential and thanked her for acting like a human being. She reminded me that most people did, which was useful for me to hear.

After what happened to Allison, my view of humanity needed all the burnishing it could get.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

G
etting to Edith Madison might have been a bit of a chore, but talking to Ross Semple, chief of the Southampton Town Police, meant simply driving over to the HQ and knocking on the door.

Metaphorically. The actual task was to knock heads with Janet Orlovsky. But nothing like that happened, because Orlovsky wasn’t there. Instead a much younger woman with the face of an elf and a voice filled with good cheer.

Her name tag said Lucille Lausanne.

I barely had a chance to ask for Ross before she was on the phone telling him I was out in reception. Seconds after that, she buzzed me in.

“He said you know where to go,” she said, her eyes bright with achievements present and future.

I did know, and got there unimpeded. Ross was waiting for me at his office door.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, after I walked in the office and found a clear spot to sit down.

“What did you do with Orlovsky?” I asked.

“She’s out on leave. At her request,” he added, making an important distinction.

“She all right?”

“Her husband left her yesterday.”

“That happens a lot around here,” I said, thinking of Joe Sullivan.

“Don’t get used to Sergeant Lausanne. She’s my new adjutant.”

“Though a nice change of pace. You gotta admit.”

He moved effortlessly through the mountains of crap on the floor and around the desk and dropped into his swivel chair. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction. I didn’t take the bait.

“Tough thing about Allison,” he said. “How’s she doing?”

“Okay. Not great. We moved her into Amanda’s.”

“Better to heal?”

“Better to keep an eye on her.”

“You think the perp will try again?” he asked.

“You don’t?”

He shrugged.

“Depends on his objectives. That he almost killed her doesn’t mean he meant to kill her.”

“Not according to the ER docs, though you might be right,” I said.

“But that’s not why you’re here,” he said. “You’re reporting progress on the snitch murders.”

“Progress might be an overstatement.”

He sat back in his broken-down chair so far I thought he might topple over.

“How ’bout that Edith,” he said. “Full of surprises.”

“You know better than me, but I guess it’s going to get messy.”

“Messy is one way of putting it. One of my key subordinates is trying to take her job.”

“I don’t know politics and I don’t care,” I said.

“You’ll care if Veckstrom becomes DA. Your file will blossom like the midsummer sun.”

“But it won’t affect you,” I said.

“You think it won’t? You’re right. You don’t know politics.”

“How come you didn’t tell me two other snitches were killed the same time as Alfie?”

“And deprive you of the joy of discovery?”

He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.

“Alfie and Joey knew each other,” I said. “Lilly probably knew Joey, maybe Alfie. More reason to think the killings are all connected.”

“
Cum hoc ergo propter hoc
.”

Basically, correlation doesn’t equal causation.

“
Lex parsimoniae
,” I countered, shorthand for “The simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

“I concede the point.”

“I don’t expect you to tell me why you wanted me and Jackie to get into this thing in the first place, but if I were a person given to speculation, which I am, I might think you’re lacking trust in your own police force.”

“That’d be a terrible thing for the chief of police, wouldn’t it?” he said, in a neutral way I could interpret however I wanted.

“It would explain the arrival of a cop who once trusted you with his life, and vice versa. Breeds a different kind of loyalty.”

“If you’re referring to Bennie Gardella, he’s here to clean up our case files. It might surprise you, seeing as how I manage my own paperwork, that it’s an area where the squad’s performance has been less than exemplary.”

I looked around his office at what you’d more fairly describe as an unregulated landfill.

“Everyone needs a good cleanup guy,” I said.

“So do you have anything interesting to share, or is this really a pleasant social visit?”

“When I talked to Bennie, he was pretty threatening. You might tell him I’m on the same side.”

“There’re no sides, Sam. Unless you count the living and the dead.”

“I don’t know the woman, but Edith doesn’t seem the type to use a shrink,” I said.

“Nobody knows what goes on in anyone else’s head. Especially a self-contained head like Edith’s. She saw it happen, you know.”

“Who?”

“Her husband. He was an accountant in the city. Until he went splat on the sidewalk outside their apartment on the Upper East Side.”

“Really.”

“Fell out the window,” he said, looking over at a window in his office, probably four feet off the ground. “Who does that anymore?”

“Jesus.”

“But the cat lived.”

I went to MIT during a period when they thought it was important for their science and engineering students to be exposed to the wider intellectual tradition, in particular philosophy and religion. This is how I ended up in a class on Zen Buddhism, which changed my perspective on reality and provided excellent preparation for these conversations with Chief Ross Semple.

“Don’t they always?” I asked.

“The cat liked to sit on a ledge outside their apartment window. It was perfectly happy out there, but Edith’s husband couldn’t bear the thought of the little kitty being within inches of certain death, so he’d lean out and grab her, and in so doing one night, leaned a little too far.”

“They make screens.”

“Not according to their super, apparently.”

“I don’t know politics, but I think her campaign will survive this,” I said.

“Me, too. Women voters will lap it up. Cat lovers all.”

There didn’t seem much point in hanging around after that, so I left and took a long, circuitous route back to the cottage on Oak Point, hoping the soothing imprecision of the Grand Prix’s ancient suspension would help calm my mind enough to have a few coherent thoughts about the dead snitches, the alien Long Island politics, architectural woodwork, and most importantly, Allison’s attacker, still out there hidden in some hole, planning God knows what.

But all I achieved was more mental chaos, more existential unease.

W
HEN
J
ACKIE
and I finally got to Edith Madison’s office, she’d flown the coop. According to Oksana Quan, it was a strategic withdrawal after issuing a statement on her emotional health. The idea was to force the media to focus on the statement by avoiding follow-up questions and the usual hectoring attempts to shove her off balance.

Jackie read it to me as we drove over there, and I had to agree, it was a nicely written defense of her personal privacy, acknowledging the importance of transparency from public officials while combining a hearty condemnation of the bastards responsible for leaking the story, and a gentle dig at unnamed people for twisting simple grief counseling into an ugly political smear.

The press, in turn, leaned more or less the same way, so it looked like an ultimate win for the Madison camp.

Oksana met us as we were about to pass through security and asked if we could take it outside instead. The day was bright, cool and breezy, so that wasn’t a hard sell. She led us over to a picnic table, giving me a chance to watch the pleasing way the wind ruffled her silky summer clothing. As we walked over the grass to the table, she slipped off her heels and tiptoed the rest of the way in bare feet.

“That sun feels great,” she said, as we settled at the table. “I’ve been virtually living in that office since the leak. I already look enough like a ghost.”

I wanted to say the afterlife suited her fine, but Jackie got in my way.

“Edith’s statement was pretty impressive,” she said. “Seems to be doing its job with the media.”

“I wrote it,” said Oksana. “With Edith, of course,” she added quickly. “And her political people, whom she isn’t ignoring for a change.”

“Any idea who leaked it?” I asked.

“No, but when we find out, my plan is to personally eviscerate him.”

“Politics can be ugly,” said Jackie.

“We’re actually here to update you and Edith on our snitch investigation,” I said. “If you can call it that.”

“I’m all ears.”

I told her most of what I told Ross Semple, which wasn’t much, in particular leaving out mention of Bennie Gardella. I knew that was the type of info the women were most keenly interested in, but something told me to keep that card tucked out of sight.

“So you really have nothing to report,” said Oksana.

Jackie rose to our defense.

“It might look that way, because we think your central thesis is flawed,” she said.

Since we hadn’t discussed this in advance, Oksana and I were both keenly interested in what she meant.

“In order to believe that the police had anything to do with the deaths of Alfie, Lilly Fremouth, or Joey Wentworth,” said Jackie, “you have to disregard everything you know about the people involved. To think that Ross Semple, Joe Sullivan, or even Lionel Veckstrom could possibly commit or condone murdering their own confidential informants is beyond the pale.”

“There are other cops,” said Oksana.

“True, which is why we’re still looking in that direction,” said Jackie, “but this emphasis on the cops could be diverting us from the real culprits.”

Oksana sat silently with her hands in her lap, in a near parody of a woman deciding if she should give voice to her internal thoughts. I knew then what Jackie was up to.

“We’re willing to run with any decent theory, but there’s no basis here,” I said. “If it’s political, then we won’t be of much help.”

Oksana probably hated hearing that, but you wouldn’t know it from her blank affect.

“Joey Wentworth didn’t die immediately from his wounds,” she said. “We were able to have what you might call a death bed interview.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” said Jackie.

Oksana let her eyes drift over to Jackie as if reluctantly noticing she was sitting at the same table with us.

“I’d rather not say,” she said.

“And?” I asked.

Oksana sighed in a way that made her sound almost girlish, surprisingly.

“Joey said he was sitting in his truck waiting for a meet. With a representative of the Southampton Town Police.”

“Lionel Veckstrom,” said Jackie. “He was assigned to Joey.”

Oksana seemed a little unsettled at that, until it registered that she’d given us the CI file.

“Normally, yes. But not that night. Joey said his information couldn’t be trusted with anyone but top, top management. Because it had to do with the cops themselves.”

It was our turn to be a little unsettled.

“Ross Semple?” Jackie asked, incredulity dripping from her voice.

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Oksana. “Ridiculous, right? So I asked him point blank, and yes I was there for the interview. Wentworth said he didn’t see the shooter. Just saw a shape. But the greater point is that no one else should have known about the meet. And by the way, every crazy story you ever heard about Semple’s time in homicide in the city is an understatement.”

I didn’t often see Jackie at a loss for words. I would have marveled more if I weren’t so much at a loss myself.

Just to make the moment more unsettling, Jackie’s cell phone started to ring. After looking at the caller, she jumped up with a gush of apologies and ran off with the thing stuck to her ear. Oksana huffed.

“I guess people have their priorities,” she said.

“Jackie’s are usually in the right place,” I said.

Oksana gave the slightest hint of a shrug and sought a more comfortable position on the picnic bench. The result displayed about another six inches of naked leg, pale and smoothly muscular.

“What do you care, as long as you have that Anselma person,” she said.

“Her name is Amanda, and I care plenty about Jackie. Though I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Sounds complicated.”

She shifted again, this time causing one of those ghostly legs to run hard up against mine. I held my ground.

“It’s not complicated at all,” I said, looking over at where Jackie was chattering into her cell phone, “if you believe in faith and loyalty. You know something about that, working for Edith Madison.”

She moved closer to me to emphasize what she wanted to say.

“I would do anything for Edith,” she said. “There’s never been a more noble woman.”

I believed her, distracted though I was by the smell of her platinum hair, now close enough to flutter across my face and get stuck in my three-day stubble of beard.

“Glad that’s settled,” I said.

“Nothing’s settled,” she said, leaning even closer in. “Anything can happen. Even the most surprising things. If you have the imagination. You do have an imagination, don’t you, Sam?”

Luckily Jackie picked that moment to come back to the picnic table, stuffing the phone into her pocket and begging forgiveness. Oksana put a little air between us, though she held her gaze to mine as she went back to her story.