Cop Job (5 page)

He’d been chewed up by something over in Iraq, costing an eye, an ear, and two fingers on his left hand. Anything else, I wouldn’t know. I never asked and he never told.

“Yo, Sam,” he said as I approached. “I wondered when I’d see you.”

“Hi, Jimmy,” I said, and nodded to the other guys. They all nodded back.

“Pretty fucked up,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah. What do you know?”

“What I read in the papers. And what I told Joe Sullivan. The guy didn’t have any enemies outside of the ones in his head, and nothing was really much different lately. Not that I really knew. We were cool, but I didn’t, like, hang with him all that much. Not like you.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know anything either,” I said. “Though somebody took a baseball bat to my rear window the other night. After I was asking around about Alfie.”

I scanned the other guys, who took on that “Hey, it wasn’t me” look.

“That old Grand Prix?” said Jimmy. “That’s just wrong.”

“I’m not happy about it, but I owe ’em a favor,” I said.

“How so?”

“It tells me the people who killed him are here. So I probably don’t have to go looking elsewhere. Not yet anyway.”

“With all due respect, Sam,” said one of Jimmy’s friends, “who the hell around here would do something like that?”

“You think you know everybody?” another asked. “You don’t know all them wetbacks.”

He was referring to the Latino day laborers who congregated around the 7-Eleven every morning hoping to get a cash gig on a landscaping crew, or bull work on one of the monster construction sites around the East End. Since the real estate bust, there were a lot fewer of them to incite ethnic and economic hostility, but it was still there.

“Sam don’t like that kinda talk,” one of the other guys said.

“Well fucking excuse me,” said the offending party, a young guy called Jaybo Flynn who stuck to Watruss like an extra appendage. Everyone assumed Jaybo was Jimmy’s cousin or nephew, but I knew the kid’s mother from high school. A classic pretty girl gone to seed, her only relation to Jimmy was living next door and needing some backup after her husband disappeared. Jimmy gave Jaybo a job in his restaurant and it turned out Jaybo was a pretty good cook, and well suited to the restaurant life. So by then he was managing the place and all Jimmy had to do was show up at the bar and convert the profits into free drinks.

“I don’t like it, either,” said Jimmy, glowering at Jaybo and putting a stop to further bigotry, at least for the time being.

I gently moved Jimmy out of the crowd so I could ask a touchier question.

“Apparently they can’t find Alfie’s next of kin. The medical examiner has his body up there in Riverhead in the cooler, but he needs to figure out what to do with it.”

“Alfie’s an orphan,” he said, after a strangely long pause, as if reluctant to share the information. “I don’t know what that means now that he’s dead. But I’m pretty sure the VA will see to an honorable burial. Alfie was a soldier in good standing when he left the service. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’d appreciate it. And let me know if you hear anything at all about the murder,” I said. “Tell Sullivan, but tell me, too.”

“Sure, Sam,” said Jimmy. “We want to get the bastards as much as you.”

“That’s what I keep hearing,” I said.

It’s not that they didn’t. It was just human nature to quickly forget about a tragedy soon after it happens. The impulse was to turn away and allow the needs of the present to provide cover for natural apathy and indifference.

I had the opposite problem.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

I
spent the next two days spreading the word around any of the joints, job sites, and social gatherings that could spread the word further. I had a simple message: know anything about Alfie’s murder, tell me and tell the cops.

In two days, certain segments of Southampton society would be fully canvassed: the regular locals, the Latinos, documented and otherwise, and the people from Up Island who drove in and out every day to work.

Other segments would be oblivious. The professionals—doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, retailers from the city—jewelers, antique dealers, art dealers. And the rich they served. I had a different strategy for getting to them.

“Did you ever have sex with that reporter from the
Times
who did a story on you?” I asked Jackie, when she answered her phone.

“No. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“So he might still be interested.”

“You’re suggesting if I
had
slept with him, he’d have lost interest in me?”

“We need him to write about Alfie Aldergreen,” I said.

“It’s possible a reporter could be interested in a story I brought him for reasons
other
than a chance at sexual favors,” she said.

“Hey, how you do it is up to you. I just think it would serve the cause if something showed up in the
Times
.”

“You can be such a jackass.”

“But not all the time.”

“Unbelievable,” she said, and hung up on me.

I
USED
up the rest of the day in my basement shop putting the final touches on Frank’s built-in unit and drawing up a detailed plan for the next round—a hemispherical china cabinet.

“Why do they want that?” I’d asked Frank. “Cost a fortune and adds a lot of wasted space.”

“They have a fortune and ten thousand square feet to store the other dishes.”

“I guess if it was rectangular, anyone could do it,” I said.

“You’re the custom woodworker, Sam. Can’t get any more custom than a hemispherical china cabinet.”

“Don’t suppose you know how to do all those curves.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t need you,” he said.

“Good point. Logical, even.”

“I’m a regular fucking Aristotle, man. You know that.”

Luckily, I had a secret weapon. My girlfriend, Amanda, a builder herself with a knack for sourcing exotic building materials. She claimed it was all on the Internet, but I knew it was her clever, clever ways.

As a result, I had a stack of catalogs on my drawing table from manufacturers who made products designed specifically for making things like curved cabinets. The choices were astonishingly extensive, as if the whole world needed curvy cabinetry. So what at first looked like an impossible mission was turning into a piece of cake. My biggest challenge would be to keep the myth of struggle and strife fresh in Frank’s mind.

I
WAS
about to cash it in for the evening when the phone in my pocket vibrated. My Luddite ways aside, I’d given in to cell phones. While I wasn’t keen on people calling me whenever the hell they liked, I liked being able to call them.

“We have a situation,” said Jackie.

“Give me a headline.”

“We’re being summoned. I need you to agree before you hear who’s doing the summoning.”

“I’m not going to do that,” I said.

“Yes, you are. I can’t go through all the wrangling. It’s too late at night.”

“Okay, I agree.”

“Edith Madison.”

“No fucking way.”

“You agreed.”

Edith Madison was the Suffolk County district attorney. She once tried to put me away for murder. And even after the real guy confessed, I had firsthand knowledge that she still thought I was guilty. If not of that crime, undoubtedly some other.

“I take it back,” I said to Jackie.

“You can’t. The only reason the DA’s office leaves you alone is they’re too busy with easier cases. That doesn’t mean they won’t come after you like the psychotic goblins they are if you give them a reason to.”

“What does she want?”

“I don’t know. Consider it a good thing she called me first, your so-called lawyer. She wants us both in her office tomorrow. You’re going to do this, Sam, so let’s skip all the song and dance. Just pretend you’re a reasonable person and say okay.”

She was right. There was no point in resisting a foregone conclusion.

“Okay. What time?” I asked.

“I get nervous when you give in too easily.”

“What should I wear?” I asked. “They’d tell you if this was an arrest, right?”

“It’s not an arrest. That’s Ross’s job.”

“In that case, I’m thinking blue blazer. Fresh khakis. My MIT tie.”

“That’s fine. Just leave your attitude at home,” said Jackie.

“I’ll follow your lead.”

“I said leave
your
attitude at home. My attitude’s a different story.”

The next morning she picked me up in her Volvo station wagon. I had two buckets of coffee, as she knew I would. She once supplied cigarettes for the road trips, but we’d both given them up, regrettable but necessary. You could still notice the faint smell of tobacco in her car, which made it all the harder to repress the nasty habit.

I compensated by telling her about my bashed-in window and conversations with Jimmy Watruss and other local luminaries.

“The window thing bothers me,” she said.

“Nah, it’s good,” I said, repeating what I told Watruss. “Much better they know I’m on their ass. Helps shake them loose.”

“Why do you say ‘they’?”

“There were no wheelchair tracks leading up to the breakwater on Hawk’s Pond. Alfie was carried. That means at least two people.”

“So you like being bait?” she asked.

“Time is of the essence,” I said. “You know that. Every day that goes by it gets harder to piece these things together. People leave town, evidence disappears, memories fade, cops get waylaid by other crimes. Since we don’t know who these people are, we can’t go to them. They have to come to us.”

“Glad you said ‘us.’ I wouldn’t want to feel left out.”

“Just keep that Glock loaded and within reach.”

T
HE
DA’s office was in Hauppauge, a town toward the western end of Suffolk County. I’d been there before, under more explicitly lousy circumstances, so I couldn’t say it was a pleasant homecoming. The security guys at the front desk had me empty my pockets. They also made the mistake of asking Jackie to dump out her duffel bag of a purse.

“Jesus Christ, lady,” one of them said, “did you leave anything at home?”

“The name’s Attorney Swaitkowski, bub. Close associate of DA Madison.”

“You don’t think she needs that stapler and solar-powered battery charger?” I asked.

Since neither of us had anything more lethal than my Swiss Army knife, which they retained, we got through. We were met on the third floor by an administrative civil servant wearing the requisite dour expression and frumpy clothes. A standard that failed to extend to the upper echelons, as demonstrated by Oksana Quan, the assistant district attorney and the DA’s right arm, who picked up our procession along the way.

“Very nice to see you again,” she said, shaking our hands. “Edith will join us in a few minutes.”

I doubted she was glad to see us, though in a way, I was glad to see her. While there was no better put-together female than Amanda Anselma, Oksana came in a close second—with about a twelve-year advantage over Amanda in the youth department. Her choice of formfitting skirt, dark pumps and ostensibly modest white blouse made the most of her natural gifts. And though I’m not as big on blondes as some people, her version was so light and ephemeral, more platinum than gold. And indescribably beautiful.

At our last encounter we stood side by side while the judge dismissed the murder case against me, at the prosecutor’s recommendation. I couldn’t help but recall a faint note of disappointment in Oksana’s voice as she asked the court to let me go, but maybe that was just my imagination.

“Can I get you coffee, water?” she asked, after ushering us into a threadbare, but still stately, oak-paneled conference room.

“Water, please,” said Jackie.

“What do you have in the way of vodka?” I asked.

Jackie swatted me on the arm. Oksana showed something I hadn’t seen before. The glimmer of a smile.

“That’s okay,” she said to Jackie, before leaving us alone. “I remember.”

I sat down, put my hands in my lap and closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see Jackie glowering at me.

We sat in silence until Jackie said, “Harry wants to get married. What do you think?”

I opened my eyes. Jackie was still glowering, though now for a different reason.

“Don’t do it,” I said.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“So why’d you ask me?”

“I’m stupid. Or crazy. Or both.”

“Has he been married before?” I asked.

“No.”

“There you go. Doesn’t know any better.”

I closed my eyes again and tried to get more comfortable in my seat.

“My husband died,” she said. “Not the same as your divorce.”

“Would you still be married if he hadn’t?”

“I’m not sure.”

“There’s your answer.”

“Harry’s different. I’m actually in love with him. He’s good, and kind, and patient as Job. And he likes me as is. You don’t know how rare that is.”

I opened my eyes again and looked at her.

“I like you as is,” I said.

“I know. Which is why you’re my only friend.”

“You have other friends. Dayna Red is your friend. So is Father Dent.”

“Don’t complicate things,” she said. “The point is, I don’t want to have children.”

“This is something much better taken up with your other friends, like Dayna Red and Father Dent.”

“Harry doesn’t care if we have kids or not. So no pressure there. We make about the same amount of money, so that’s off the table. We spend all our free time together. And did I mention he’s a very big person?”

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you can stop saying it.”

“I’m saying I feel safe around him. That’s a big deal in my line of work. He’s already saved my life at least twice. What else does a guy have to do?” she said, in a plaintive way I didn’t like. So I gave her the same advice I gave my daughter, since she made the mistake of asking.

“He can show some real courage and let you stay single like you want to,” I said.

She stopped scowling, but took up tapping the surface of the conference table with her pen.