Reversible Error (25 page)

Hrcany made a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, I'll call you. Meanwhile, you keep in touch if you learn anything else in the same line."

After Schick had left, Hrcany sat awhile in thought, occupying himself by lifting the front of his desk off the floor, in a series of slow curls, stretching the fabric of his shirt across his coconut-hard biceps until it creaked. Hrcany considered himself Karp's friend, as friends were counted in his bleak view of human nature at the New York D.A.'s office: someone you could depend on most of the time and who would probably apologize if he screwed you unusually hard.

Hrcany, in fact, admired Karp, and the people that Hrcany admired comprised a very small club. Karp was the only criminal lawyer in the D.A.'s office that Hrcany considered his peer, and perhaps, if he were to be completely honest, something more than a peer-the best.

His admiration was, however, crusted with just the faintest patina of contempt; Karp was a great lawyer, sure, but after all, something of a Boy Scout, not enough of a street fighter. There was the problem. That Karp had not told him about what he was running with Booth and Fulton, that he had, as it now appeared, maneuvered, manipulated, Hrcany out of the drug task force so that he could put a raw know-nothing in there and thus become free to play whatever game he was playing, disturbed Hrcany more than he was willing to admit. It struck him at the heart of his own self-esteem-his status as resident master of dirty pool.

He did not, of course, wish to hurt Karp in any way. Karp was a buddy. But if someone flicked you with a wet towel in the locker room, you had to flick him back. Hrcany reached for the phone.

He dialed the number of the Twenty-eighth Precinct and talked briefly. Then he hung up and dialed the Thirty-second. He talked with two cops there. An interesting picture started to emerge. He made a few more calls. Hrcany knew cops. More to the point, he had stuff on a lot of cops, small stuff, most of it, but enough, in the atmosphere of paranoia that had affected the NYPD after the Knapp corruption scandals, to give Hrcany a way to get information that few men outside the department were able to acquire.

After the fourth call, he stretched, again flexed his collection of large muscles, and studied the yellow sheets of legal bond he had covered with notes. His technique had been simple. What about this Fulton, I hear he's real dirty. You heard that too? I hear you used to hang around with him. No? Good. Who's he hanging with, then?

Hrcany knew that the famous Blue Wall had its little chinks and cracks. Cops would not rat on a brother officer, but while one of them was under serious investigation they liked to keep their distance, maintain a discreet separation from the diseased member of the pack, especially off-duty. Even those under suspicion knew this, and it was considered good form for them to restrict their contacts during the active phase of an investigation.

Hrcany also knew that if Fulton was involved in the drug-lord killings, he had not worked alone. Either someone in his command had helped him or he had gone outside, which would have been a smarter move. Still, he was surprised at what he had learned. You had to admire the guy's balls. Who had Fulton been seen with repeatedly over the past few weeks? Who were his new drinking buddies? The very cops who represented the department on the drug-killings task force: Manning and Amalfi.

So, were they setting Fulton up? Were they running their own investigation? Another call, this time to police headquarters to a deputy chief in Internal Affairs, who owed Hrcany a favor. More and more curious. Manning and Amalfi were not investigating Fulton. In fact, despite the persistent rumors about Fulton, there was no active investigation of him going on at all. The deputy chief hinted darkly that this was on orders from way upstairs. From whom? The chief declined to say.

That was OK. Karp's close relationship with the chief of detectives was well-known. An obvious cover-up. The only remaining puzzle was the business with the tape in the park. Why would Fulton and Karp be making a tape with Tecumseh Booth? He thought for five minutes. Ah, that was it! Now it all made sense. He picked up the phone to make another call, then reconsidered and put it back again. What he had to do couldn't be done on the phone. Karp rubbed his eyes and looked up from the thick case file that Marlene had assembled on the panty-hose rapist who had graduated to murderer. He now had a name: Alan Meissner, a nice Jewish boy from the Bronx, no less. A college graduate, a mid-level executive with the phone company, nice to his mom, a real shock for the neighbors. Meissner's hobby and chief outside interest was, needless to say, amateur theatrics.

Karp yawned and went back to reading. He had not slept well during the past week; he never did when Marlene and he were having a period of excruciating and loveless politeness. He wondered yet again whether this was it, a preview of the next thirty years or so. He was missing something, he knew, Marlene wanted something from him, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He just hoped that she'd tell him, lay it out so he could play by the rules henceforth.

Back to the file. It was a good case, he thought. Despite her extracurricular ditziness, Marlene was a first-class prosecutor. She had marshaled the rape victims one by one, and each had picked Meissner out of a lineup. They had searched his apartment after the arrest and found the elements of all the disguises he had used: wigs, makeup, contact lenses, and the lifts he had used to manipulate his height. They had found a little address book with the names and addresses of the victims-including the murder victim-written down in Meissner's hand. They had played a tape recording of Meissner's voice for Seth Allman, and he had identified it as the voice he had talked to at the time of the murder.

All good stuff and all properly warranted. It would hold up. But the core of the case, of course, was the panty hose. Five women, all standing up individually in court and describing how their rapist had wrapped panty hose around their heads, when combined with the crime-scene photos of Ellen Wagner's punctured body and wrapped head, would be devastating to the defense. The law called it "a common scheme, plan, or design," and Karp knew that it was particularly convincing to juries. Juries might not know much, but they understood things they could recognize in themselves. They all knew what a habit was, and a lot of them knew what an obsession was.

He started to call Marlene, to have her stop by and discuss some of the details, to tell her she had done a good job. But he put the phone down. He couldn't face her across a desk. Instead, he signed the transmittal letter as bureau chief and tossed the package in the tray for the district attorney. With Bloom's signature on it-a matter of form-Marlene would take the case before the grand jury, who would bring in an indictment-also a matter of form. Karp yawned again and picked up the next case file. Sid Amalfi lived in a respectable Queens neighborhood made up of large two-story houses on maple-lined streets. It was inhabited largely by mid-level civil servants and skilled workers and was nearly crime-free. Amalfi's house had a late-model white Caddy in the garage and a big Bayliner inboard on a trailer parked on the street outside. A little unusual for that neighborhood, but not altogether unknown; guys gambled on sports and out at Aqueduct, and people got lucky. After all, there had to be some winners, right? Amalfi, however, also had a condo at Queen Cay in the Bahamas, with a boat floating in front of it that didn't fit on a trailer. This was not only unusual, but impossible, which was why it was recorded in his brother-in-law's name.

It was eight and just getting dark when Amalfi pulled his battered cop Plymouth into his driveway. He was still nervous about how this thing with Fulton was going to play out. He was the nervous one; he had a family and a lot more to lose. Manning was the cool one, and although Amalfi had difficulty admitting it to himself, also the leader of their scam. Things had changed in the job, but Amalfi still had problems taking orders from a black guy. And now there was this other dinge in on the thing.

He locked the car and walked across his lawn, carefully stepping on the fieldstones placed there. A couple more jobs-another fifty large-and he would have enough to hand in his tin and get out, never have to worry about money again, the kids provided for, fish all day, drink all night…

A car door slammed on the quiet street. He heard footsteps behind him and his stomach jumped. He was starting to reach for the pistol under his arm when he recognized the first of the two men coming up the path as Roland Hrcany. The other man was a thin fellow with a heavy jaw. Amalfi didn't recognize him, but knew that he was a cop.

Hrcany said, "Detective Amalfi, we'd like to speak with you."

"What's this about, Hrcany? I'm off-duty." Amalfi looked inquiringly at the other man, who took an ID card from his jacket and flashed it. "Sergeant Waldbaum, Internal Affairs," he said.

Amalfi held out his hands and forced a smile onto his unwilling face. "Hey, guys, what is this? You gotta come to my home, at night?"

"We thought it was advisable. The fewer people aware of this at this point, the better," said Hrcany.

"Aware of what?" said Amalfi. "Am I under some kind of investigation?"

"The investigation is over, Amalfi," said Hrcany. "We got the tape."

Amalfi's face twitched involuntarily. "What tape is that?"

"The tape, Amalfi," snapped Hrcany. "Booth's tape. Fulton's tape. It's over. The drug-pusher killings. We know the whole story. The only question is, who's gonna take the fall?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Hrcany," Amalfi said, fighting to keep his voice level and conversational, fighting the bubble of panic souring the back of his throat. "And I don't have to listen to goddamn insinuations on my own front walk. You want to charge me with something, go ahead, but I want my lawyer and my PBA rep standing next to me when you do."

Hrcany smiled unpleasantly. "Fine, Sid. You want to play it that way, it's OK by me. But let me tell you something-the others are going to walk on this. Fulton and Manning are laughing at you right now. Figure it out, asshole! Two brothers, the game is falling apart-who the fuck you think they're gonna pin it on? One of them? Think again! Tapes can be edited, you know. Coupla days maybe, they'll find you with one in the ear, and a tape from old Tecumseh saying you and him did all those jobs."

Amalfi shouted, "I don't have to listen to this horseshit," then spun around and stalked up his walk to his front door. He slammed it behind him, and then ran, knees trembling, to the downstairs bathroom, where he knelt, retching for a good ten minutes.

Amalfi knew what Hrcany was doing, had done it himself a thousand times. Break up the group; sow distrust; the first step in cracking a gang. The problem was, it didn't matter that Amalfi knew what was going on; the thing still worked.

Hrcany and Waldbaum walked back to their car, got in, and sat in silence. Hrcany lit a small cigar and contemplated the glowing tip as deep twilight fell on Queens.

"What the fuck was that all about?" Waldbaum asked.

"It's funny. When I walked up that path I didn't know shit. Now I know just about all I need to. He's dirty. God, is he dirty! He's in it with Fulton. And Manning too, of course."

"What, they've been shooting these pushers?"

"Yeah," said Hrcany, "so it seems. But I don't know that, since I haven't heard the tape."

Waldbaum's jaw dropped. "You were bluffing?"

"Yeah, but he bought it," answered Hrcany.

"I didn't see much there, Roland. He looked pretty good."

"I saw his eyes, Joe. He looked bad. He's heard about the tape and it scares the shit out of him. All the schmuck had to do was look puzzled and act friendly and say he was working Fulton because the rumor mill said he was involved. Then we would've been dead in the water. I mean, it would've been a hell of a lot more plausible than believing he was in with Fulton."

Waldbaum nodded. It made a kind of crazy sense. "So what now?"

"Nothing, tonight. Let him cook for a while. The next time we roust him out, he'll be done."

"Shit, Roland, if you're right, this is the biggest thing going and I'm hanging out by my shorts here," said Waldbaum. "I can't fucking accuse a cop of murder without clearance from the unit captain."

"As I recall," said Hrcany, "you didn't accuse him of anything. Neither did I. I just said we had a tape and that he was gonna get set up."

"But we don't have a tape. We don't even know what's on the fucking tape."

"Yeah, we do. Look, what else could it be? Karp knows Fulton is dirty, so he figures a way to protect him. He gets Fulton to tape Booth telling his story."

"What good's that gonna do Fulton?"

"I don't know exactly, but trust me: if Karp's involved, you can bet it's clever. Maybe they'll doctor the tape some way. Even better, they give Booth a script exculpating Fulton. Maybe other people are involved. Karp's game has to be stopping the killings, getting the heat off his friend. I mean, once they stop, that's it-nobody gives a rat's ass a bunch of pushers got killed, as long as they don't keep rubbing our faces in it. So the tape could be a threat-Fulton telling his boys, they got Us, time to close up the store."

"But you don't know any of this for sure," Waldbaum observed.

"No, I don't," Hrcany said grimly. "That's why we need a fucking tape of our own." "How was the grand jury?" asked Karp.

"It was grand, as advertised," Marlene replied. "No problem with the indictment. We arraign this coming Tuesday." They were in the loft, sitting side by side on the couch, eating pizza off the coffee-table door, and watching the news on TV with the volume turned almost all the way down. They were not interested in the news from anyplace else but each other, but this had been delayed for technical reasons. The air had not cleared between them; rather it lay like a chill and sticky mist, permitting the passage only of polite conversation.