Forced Entry (37 page)

Moodrow was on the phone, trying to reach his old friend, Jim Tilley, before Betty closed the front door. It was typical of Moodrow to have contingency plans in case individuals failed him and Porky Dunlap’s apparent defection was no exception.

Rose Carillo answered the phone and then woke her husband.

“What? What? Who is it?” Jim Tilley didn’t sound especially ready to face another day.

“It’s me. Moodrow. Wake up a second. I need your help.”

“Stanley? I heard the mutts chilled your ass yesterday.”

“Very funny,” Moodrow said. “But, as a matter of fact, I escaped serious injury. Which you’re not gonna, if you don’t stop being a wiseass.”

“Hang on a second, Rose’s bringing coffee. Gee, that’s good. Not as good as sex maybe, but right up there with hitting the John after five hours staked out in a closet. Rose says to tell you she’s happy you didn’t get killed.”

“Will you stop with that shit, already,” Moodrow said. “I gotta ask you a favor and I’m getting distracted.”

“First, I have to ask
you
a question.” Tilley drained the mug before continuing. “I wanna know if you think you’re more likely or less likely to get me to do you a favor by referring to my humor as ‘that shit’?”

Moodrow responded by ignoring the remark altogether. “It looks like Dunlap’s gonna cop out on me,” he announced.

“You mean the Community Affairs Officer?” Tilley was still amused. “What’d you expect?”

“I expected,” Moodrow said honestly, “that if he didn’t come across, I could count on you. That’s because I remember you
already
offered to help.”

Tilley sighed. “Whatta ya need, Stanley?”

“Time.”

“Lemme hear the whole thing.”

“Dunlap matched one of the arsonist’s prints. Last night. Only he didn’t call me with the arsonist’s name. I mean the guy’s been calling me every time his little brain turns a half-click, but now he can’t find the phone.” Moodrow paused long enough to ease his frustration, then continued. “I’m going out to see him as soon as I finish with you and I got the feeling he’s gonna tell me it’s a police matter. When I think about it, I have to admit he’s got a point. I’m retired and this particular arsonist is wanted for a homicide. Also, Dunlap is an asshole. Now that all the boys are patting him on the back for putting down the Cohan brothers, he’ll probably wrap himself in the department. Last night, Leonora gave me the name of the president of Bolt Realty Corporation. I wanna pay him a visit this afternoon and I could use a badge to back me up.”

“No problem. I spent the last two weeks sitting on a rooftop on East Broadway. A total waste, as it turned out. The mutt was picked up at his brothers house in Boston. Anyway, the Whip says the job can’t afford overtime this month, so I have to take six days compensatory time. Yesterday was the first day and I slept it through. Now I’m awake and I’m bored. Besides, I’m not forgetting that even if you escaped serious injury, somebody tried to kill you. I wouldn’t have any objection to meeting up with that person. That’s because me and Rose love you, Stanley.”

Paul Dunlap wasn’t in his office when Stanley Moodrow arrived at the 115th Precinct; he was standing in the middle of a circle of admiring detectives, repeating the story of the Jackson Heights massacre with full gusto. Moodrow, coming into the squadroom on his way to Dunlap’s office, couldn’t help but notice the rotund Porky Dunlap as he demonstrated the various shooter’s positions he’d taken during the course of the attack.

“You come back to give a statement?”

The voice belonged to Detective Jerome Jackson, and Moodrow, though he’d forgotten all about his promise to give a written statement, could see no way to get out of it. He spent the next half hour sparring with Jackson while Dunlap studiously ignored the both of them. In the end, after Jackson’s final snotty remark, Moodrow had to approach Dunlap and ask for a moment’s time.

“Sure, Moodrow,” Dunlap said, “let’s go into my office.”

As they walked away, Dunlap threw the detectives a look, (eyebrows raised, half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth) that left no doubt that he considered Moodrow to be, at best, a ludicrous figure and, at worst, a coward. Curiously, Moodrow took no offense whatsoever. He had no intention of working with the NYPD and if it appeared that Dunlap was rejecting him, so much the better.

“I know what you’re going to ask me,” Dunlap said as soon as the door closed behind them. “And I can’t do it.”

“What’s that?” Moodrow asked innocently.

“You want to know the name of the arsonist.”

“Actually, I’d settle for knowing why you didn’t phone me last night.”

Dunlap leaned back confidently. “Captain Serrano called me in for a talk after you left yesterday. This was
before
I matched the print. He told me in no uncertain terms that the investigation was official and civilians should be left out. He mentioned you in particular and told me that
any
leaks would come back on me: I was responsible for keeping the investigation within the job. Right after that, I matched the print.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Moodrow answered, “and I realize you gotta do what you gotta do. Remember, I was in the job, too. I just wanna know how the department’s gonna handle it. Are you putting the arson with the shooting?”

“
I’m
not doing anything.” Dunlap paused dramatically. “I’ve been appointed to the detectives; I’m going to work with the Task Force on Organized Crime. That’s why I didn’t call you. One more day and I’m out of here.”

The information came as no surprise to Moodrow. If Dunlap had had any heart, Moodrow knew, he wouldn’t have been able to spend all those years in Community Affairs. And, of course, now that Dunlap considered himself a “real cop,” he certainly wouldn’t want to tarnish his status by taking orders from Stanley Moodrow.

“So you can’t even tell me how you’re treating the case?” Moodrow asked sadly, his hands pressed between his knees.

Dunlap smiled paternally. The past sixteen hours had been the best of his life and the reversal of his relationship with Stanley Moodrow was, in some ways, the best part of it. “Look, Moodrow,” he finally said, “I don’t know that much about it. It’s not my squeal. Never was, really. But from what I understand, the arson is gonna stay in the house and the shooting’s going over to Citywide Narcotics.”

Moodrow smiled. “Thanks, Paul,” he said. “That’s the way I figure it, too. A drive-by over a drug location. Christ, we
saw
the damn dealers ourselves, right?”

“Right.” Dunlap nodded his agreement.

“And, also, I understand that Serrano’s gonna bust up the squats. Haul ’em out and seal the apartments.” Moodrow paused, but, as Dunlap’s head continued to go up and down, he started again before the sergeant had a chance to reply. “That should be the end of the problems for the Jackson Arms. My only complaint is that they should have done it a month ago. A lot of lives could have been saved.”

“A hundred percent correct,” Dunlap encouraged. “But you know how it is. It takes a ton of dynamite to get the department off its collective ass. Always has.”

They both chortled at Dunlap’s newly found cynicism. “So there’s nothing for me,” Moodrow said. “My job is basically done.”

“And you did a great job, too,” Dunlap quickly agreed. “You were the one who provided the energy to get the giant in motion, but now that it’s moving…”

Moodrow stood abruptly, extending his hand. “Paulie,” he said, “it’s been a pleasure working with you. I won’t insult you by asking you for the name of the arsonist, even though I gotta admit I bear the fucker a major grudge.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Dunlap rose to his feet as Moodrow made his way to the door. “Take care of yourself, Moodrow,” he said. “I owe you one.”

Moodrow went directly from Paul Dunlap’s office to the precinct detention cells in the basement of the One One Five. He was looking for the Precinct Attendant, an ordinary patrolman, usually a veteran, who took responsibility for prisoners, supervising detainment until a Corrections bus hauled them off to the courts for arraignment. Moodrow, a detective for more than twenty-five years before his retirement, had had the foresight to build up sources of information within the department as well as within the criminal world outside. His goal, at one time, had been to establish an informant within each precinct. He’d never fully succeeded (Staten Island, considered a foreign country by many New Yorkers, had eluded his best efforts), but the One One Five had yielded several well-placed individuals and Moodrow was looking for the best of them.

Robert McTeague was a professional Irishman who’d spent the better part of his life avoiding the twin pitfalls that seemed to plague his countrymen—booze and violence. A third generation cop, he’d come into the job for obvious reasons. Once in it, however, he’d taken great pains to keep himself away from the mainstream of policing. Using his father’s clout, he’d wormed himself into the position of Precinct Attendant (a job usually reserved for alkies or the disabled) and now rarely left the precinct during his tour. An eighteen-year veteran, he’d been at the One One Five for fifteen of those years and knew everything there was to know about his precinct.

It was still early in the day when Moodrow came up to the cell block. The unit, having been cleared an hour before by a Corrections Department bus, was completely deserted. McTeague was asleep in an ancient wooden desk chair.

“Wake up a second,” Moodrow said, shaking the patrolman gently.

McTeague opened one eye, fixing it on Moodrow. The eye was red with sleep, as bloodshot as that of any Irish alcoholic though McTeague hadn’t had a drink in fifteen years. “Moodrow,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I heard you almost bought it yesterday.” A cautious man, he didn’t add the rest of the rumor—that Moodrow had performed in a cowardly manner.

“I need some information,” Moodrow said, knowing McTeague was not a man who could be coaxed with words; the patrolman responded only to the flash of money. “I want the name of the arsonist Dunlap identified last night.”

“Fifty,” McTeague announced without a moment’s hesitation.

“C’mon, McTeague, have a little fucking mercy. Didn’t you hear that I’m retired?”

“Maybe you been retired too long, Moodrow,” the attendant returned equably. “Maybe you never heard about inflation. Them days when you could flash a twenty and get the color of the commissioner’s underpants are long gone. Pay up or lemme go back to sleep.”

“You oughta be sleeping in the goddamn cell instead of out here,” Moodrow responded, counting out the money.

“The perp’s name,” McTeague began, folding the bills and stuffing them into his pocket. “Is Maurice Babbit. Served time in the Clinton Correctional Facility for an arson committed somewhere upstate. Last known address is a halfway house on West 102nd Street, but he left there about a year ago when he finished his parole. Babbit’s a white male about thirty years of age. Five foot ten inches tall, average build, blue eyes, sandy hair.”

“How the fuck you know this?” Moodrow asked, shaking his head in wonder. “The detectives are upstairs and you’re down here. You seem to know this shit before they do.”

“I fill out the reports,” McTeague announced. “I fill out the booking reports and the arraignment forms while the boys go out for coffee. Do all the fingerprinting by myself when it’s not too busy. The suits show their appreciation by keeping me informed. I think it’s a fair trade.”

Moodrow shrugged. “Maybe it is. Anything else I should know about Babbit?”

“His parole officer claims he’s a nut case. Shoulda been in the crazy house instead of the pen. The guy goes around scared shitless all day long which means you gotta be careful when you take him. Guys like that are liable to do anything.”

“And what about a picture?” Moodrow, already moving down the corridor, fired a hopeful parting shot.

“I thought you’d never ask,” McTeague responded. “It’ll cost you another twenty-five. Just fill out an envelope with your name and address. I’ll run Babbit’s sheet through the copier and mail it out tonight.”

Despite Jim Tilley’s rambling complaints about his current partner, a twenty-year man named Peter Bonomare, Moodrow was more than happy to be riding across Brooklyn with his old partner. Tilley had had the foresight to bring his own car, a 79 Buick with approximately sixteen times the leg room of Betty Haluka’s Honda, and Moodrow was luxuriating in the unaccustomed space while his partner drove from light to light on Ocean Parkway. They were headed for the foot of Nostrand Avenue, just off Shore Parkway, in Sheepshead Bay. Moodrow knew the area well: it was white and middle class, a quiet residential neighborhood populated by working couples, small-business owners, and young professionals trying to get started.

They drove all the way to Emmons Avenue, to the waters of Sheepshead Bay, before Moodrow’s antennae began to tingle. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it until Tilley pointed out 6548 Nostrand Avenue. It was right where it was supposed to be, taking up the entire east side of Nostrand, between Voorhies and Shore Parkway. The reason Moodrow hadn’t seen it was because the Longview Nursing Home didn’t seem like a place where the president of Bolt Realty could possibly reside.

“I don’t like this,” Tilley said. “We’re gonna get screwed here.”

They were treated with courtesy by the staff of the Longview Nursing Home, a small favor which made the reality of Simon Chambers a little more palatable. Louise Eller, administrator for the home, received them promptly, offering them chairs by her desk. “Yes,” she said, “we have a patient named Simon Chambers. But I don’t think you’ll be able to talk to him. Mr. Chambers had a series of strokes after he came to us and no longer communicates.”

“How long ago, Ms. Eller?” Tilley asked. “Was the stroke recent?”

“Fairly recent.” She looked down, consulting Chambers’ medical records. “He was in an automobile accident a little more than two years ago. Came to us from the hospital. The strokes occurred about fifteen months ago.”

“What about family?”

“No family. He’s an elderly widower. Childless. All his affairs are handled by an attorney named William Holtz.”