Read Saints Of New York Online
Authors: R.J. Ellory
Saints Of New York (55 page)
And
as far as killing two cops were concerned, it was easy enough. Someone calls
some business in for the Task Force, John Parrish and George Buranski are
dispatched, another member of the Saints is waiting for them and that's the
whole show. The Unit has the emergency call-out on file, and whoever made that
call was smart enough to use a phone booth and pass it through the switchboard
so it couldn't be traced. So now there were two dead cops in a derelict house
near Ferris Street. Frank Parrish could only later surmise that his father and
George Buranski were the go-betweens. They had dealt with the bank crew, with the
security guard; they had made whatever arrangements were required, and they
were the ones who could have connected the job to Internal Affairs, the
Brooklyn Task Force, the head of the unit himself, Captain James Barry. So they
had to go. John Parrish and George Buranski were good officers. They would be
sorely missed. They would be buried with full honors, and their wives would
receive the pension that was due them. The last chapter was written, the book
was closed. The security guard from East Coast Mercantile, ex-cop Mitchell
Warner, so overwhelmed was he by his dereliction of duty, said failure
resulting in the death of a fellow officer, that he took his own life only
hours later. Frank
Parrish knew that Warner no more
took his own life than Richard Jackson had, no more than his own father and
George Buranski.
It had been a
business matter, all of it, and business such as this was kept in-house for the
good of everyone.
James Barry,
ex-head of the Brooklyn Organized Crime Task Force, had long-since retired. The
Task Force, at least in that unholy incarnation, had been disbanded back in
2000, but their legacy lived on. You caught sight of it every once in a while
when some old-hand mobster was dragged in. He would ask to speak to so-and-so
or such-and-such, believing still that the right word in the right ear would
see them home for fettuccine and cannolis with the grand-kids. When informed
that so-and-so or such-and- such was retired or dead, they would start to
sweat.
Frank Parrish's
legacy was a dead father, a dead mother, the ghosts of the past, a sense of
guilty conscience that he had been a part of that - at least indirectly - and
that people were dead that shouldn't have been because of John Parrish. Talking
about it with Marie Griffin had been important in more ways than one. Did he
believe that it had had some inherent therapeutic value? No more than the value
anyone would gain by talking about something. Did he believe that he had
let go?
Did he hell. He'd lived in the shadow
of John Parrish his whole life, and the shadow was still very visibly there.
Did it matter? No more than any other detail of his fucked-up life. Clare.
Robert. Caitlin. Jimmy Radick. Richard McKee and the snuff movies. He'd meant
what he'd said to Radick. If he was wrong on this one then he was going to
quit. He was not wrong. He couldn't be. Not again.
Friday dissolved
somewhere. Parrish was uncertain where it went. He and Radick talked around in
circles until lunchtime, and then they both went down to Archives to see if
there was any further evidence of Absolute Films and the work that they had
undertaken to further Jennifer's short-lived cinematic career.
Erickson gave
them unlimited access. "Knock yourselves out," he said, and left them
to it.
Parrish - no stranger
to such material - was nevertheless reminded of the very darkest edges of
human depravity and degradation. At what point did people become uncontrollably
driven to do such things to one another? And why? For sexual satisfaction?
Dominance? Power over life and death? And at what point did it become necessary
to cross the
line
...
He did not know, and neither, he believed, did anyone else.
Everyone has
thoughts - cruel, destructive, wicked, vindictive - thoughts sometimes harbored
for months and years against people whom we believe should suffer ignominy and
retribution for some wrong they have perpetrated. But these remain just
thoughts. We withhold ourselves from action, perhaps because we have our own
in-built censor; or perhaps because we believe in the fundamental balance of
all things and are concerned for the harm that might come our way if we enact
our own strains of viciousness.
But those who
did
terrible
things, thought Parrish, were only a tiny minority when measured against the
vast majority of those who only
thought.
Thought was no sin. Action, when directed against the
peace and dignity of the individual, of the society - that was the sin. It was
there in the law books. It was in the moral structure of the community. It was
woven into the very fabric of society. And yet now, here, sitting with Radick
in a basement
office of Vice
Archives, reminded of what had happened to these girls, he fixed his resolve on
his intended course of action. The single shot of Jennifer had been enough. And
perhaps Richard McKee was not guilty of all the sins of Man, but he was sure
guilty of something . . .
Guilty
enough to warrant the extraordinary measures that Parrish was going to take?
He believed so.
They'd
had enough by four, both of them. They boxed up the material that Erickson had
left and returned it to the rightful storage unit. They had only scratched the
surface.
'It's
endless,' Radick said as they were exiting the building. 'We could go on
looking for ever, and maybe find nothing, and then if whoever's doing this
doesn't take another girl, or if he does but we don't know, then I guess we're
never going to find the truth.'
Parrish
- tempted then more than at any other time to tell Radick his suspicions, to
give him the name of Amanda Leycross, to tell him what he planned to do and the
action Radick should take if it all went horribly wrong - said nothing. Radick
would only try and convince him otherwise, and Parrish knew he didn't want to
be convinced. It was now no longer a question of
if,
but merely when. Tonight, tomorrow
night, sometime before Monday morning for sure. As he had told Marie Griffin,
he needed only a day or so to wrap this thing up. What he should have added was
that this thing was going to end:
one way or the
other.
But she would have asked him what he
meant, would have delved into his thoughts the way she had been doing for the
previous two and a half weeks. Seemed so much longer. Seemed like a month, two,
six. Seemed like an eternity. Things had changed. There was no question about
that.
He
now realized how much of his father he had carried with him all these years. He
realized how little he'd understood Clare or the kids, what they wanted and how
he had failed to provide it. He had begun to appreciate that existence was a
collaborative thing. It didn't work single-handedly, at least not the way he
had managed it.
He
was not so selfish as to consider that the people he knew would be better off
without him. That was so much self-pity and shallowness. That was the sort of
thing you told people when you wanted them to feel sorry for you. No, he didn't
believe that. He believed that people, in general, were better
with
him - strangers for example; he did
well with strangers. And he did well with the dead. He was dogged and
persistent enough to make someone else's death a matter of priority. The old
saw:
My day starts when your day ends.
He now believed that. The time with Marie Griffin had given him a sense of
balance, an understanding of his own small but necessary place in the woof and warp
of things. He was not wrong about the present case. He had convinced himself of
this much at least. And if he was wrong, well - as he had vowed so
unequivocally to Radick -
if
he was wrong then it wouldn't matter because he wouldn't have the job anymore.
It was that simple.
At half-past
five Parrish told Radick to call it a day.
'Only if you
will,' Radick replied.
'I
am,' Parrish said. 'I'm out of here, I've had enough. We're back on early shift
next week . . . not that shifts make a lot of difference, but it means we get
the weekend at least.'
'Man, have I
looked forward to this.'
'You got
anything planned?'
Radick
shook his head. 'Nothing particular. Eat, sleep, watch TV, eat some more, sleep
more than that. It's been a bitch of a fortnight and I really feel like I need
to recharge, you know what I mean?'
Parrish
smiled understandingly. 'I know exactly what you mean. See you Monday, Jimmy.'
'Take care,
Frank.'
Parrish
watched him leave, waited until he saw Radick's car pull away and turn down
Fulton. He knew in his bones that Jimmy would be seeing Caitlin this weekend,
and he also knew that there was nothing he could do about
it.
. .
Parrish was leaving the room when
the phone rang. He glanced at the phone, hesitated, but it was his desk, and
that meant the desk was calling up with a message. Erickson? Maybe Radick
calling from his cell phone with a final thought? Parrish stepped back and
lifted the receiver.
'Frank, that
you?'
'Yeah, what's
up?'
'You got a
priest on the way . . . sorry, I couldn't stop him.
He
asked if you were up there and I
said yes, and he was gone before I had a chance to stop him.'
'Oh
for Christ's sake—'
'Taking
the Lord's name in vain, Frank?'
Parrish
turned at the sound of voice behind him. There, in the doorway, stood Father Briley.
'I
got it,' Parrish told the desk sergeant, and he hung up.
'Father—'
he started.
Briley
raised his hands in a placatory fashion. 'Fifteen minutes,' he said. 'I just
need fifteen minutes of your time. I've been trying to reach you, but for
whatever reason my messages haven't arrived.'
Parrish
couldn't lie to the man. 'Your messages arrived, Father, I just didn't return
them.'
Briley
nodded. 'I understand that. Perhaps we didn't part on the most amicable of
terms.'
Parrish
smiled. 'Compared to the conversations me and Clare have had recently I'd say
we parted the best of friends.'
'I
need to talk about—'
'My
father?' Parrish interjected. 'I can't, Father, I really can't. I have spent
the last two weeks talking about my father with a counsellor here, and I've
kind of had enough.'
'There's
things you don't know, Frank.'
'And
I am sure, Father Briley, that there's things that you don't know either.'
Briley
looked down at his shoes. 'Can I sit, Frank? Can I sit down for a minute?'
'Look,
I appreciate your concern, but I really have to go—'
'Like
I said, Frank, fifteen minutes . . . fifteen minutes to let me tell you
something that your father made me swear I never would.'
Parrish
started to speak, an automatic response, and then he registered what Briley had
said, and indicated a chair. They both sat, and for a few moments they just
looked at one another in silence.
'It
started with Santos,' Briley said. 'You might not remember him. Jimmy Santos?
He would have been around when you were five, six, seven years old.'
'I
know the name,' Parrish said. 'He was a dirty cop. Armed
robbery. Got busted, did time,
came out and went to the dark side.'
'He
was the one who helped sew up the airport,' Briley said. 'He named names, had
information on which police they needed out there, and your father took money
from him to expedite those transfers.'
Parrish
shook his head. 'I don't want to hear this, Father, I really don't—'
'Yes
you do, Frank, yes you do. You just think you don't.'
'He
was a crook, okay? What more is there to know? He took money, he took bribes,
he lost paperwork and evidence, he was involved in armed robberies, Christ only
knows what. I know enough already, enough to see that he and I are so
different. . .'
'You
love your kids, Frank?'
Parrish
stopped and looked at Briley.
'You
don't need to answer that question. I know you love your kids. And your father
loved you. More than you know. More than you can imagine. He made mistakes. He
crossed the line and took some money from Jimmy Santos, and once he did that they
had him. Santos was a bad man, through and through. He could have kept his
word. He could have maintained your father's anonymity and just used him to
get the police he wanted out at the airport, but no. Jimmy Santos wanted to be
the big man. He wanted to be in everyone's good books. He told the people he
worked for about your father, and they came for him. Your father was a sergeant
in 1967. He was a good cop. He was making an impression. He took a few hundred
dollars to expedite some paperwork, but aside from that he was a good cop. He
had policing in his blood, and he was never going to do anything else. These
people saw that in him, and they saw a man rising in the ranks, someone they
could use to get cases dropped, to get evidence mislaid, to get reports lost
from files before they got to the DA—'
'What
are you saying?' Parrish asked. 'How the hell do you even know this?'
'Because
he told me, Frank. He came to me regularly, once a month, sometimes twice or
three times. A tortured man, haunted by his conscience, but left without a
choice—'
'Excuse
me, Father, but that is such bullshit. Everyone has a choice. I made mine, he
made his. His choice was to be a corrupt—'
'It
isn't a choice when it comes to the lives of your children.'
Parrish
looked back at Briley.
'Like
I said, they had him from the moment he started dealing with Santos. And Santos
gave him up to them. He went like a lamb to the slaughter. They had enough
leverage because of the money he'd already taken. Santos played him right into
their hands, and then they threatened you . . .'
Briley
left the last statement hanging in the air.
It
was seconds before it registered with Parrish, and then he slowly shook his
head. 'No,' he said. 'I don't understand why you're trying to do this. I really
don't get what's in it for you, but that is just so much horseshit. . .'
'There's
nothing in it for me,' Briley said. 'You came and saw me. I could see your
father in you. I could see you torturing yourself about something. Guilt about
your kids, about Clare,
about...
I don't know. I know a drinker when I see one. I work in a predominantly
Irish-Catholic community, Frank. Give me some credit, eh? I see a man tearing
himself to pieces about something, and I know that there's something that might
help him, and you think I'm going to hold onto that? Well, I'm sorry, Frank.
John is long gone, God rest his soul, and even though I swore to him that I
would keep my silence, it seemed to me that not knowing was perhaps more
destructive to you than knowing . . .'
'Knowing
what? Knowing what exactly?'
'That
he was not the man that you think he was. That he was not corrupt. . . well, he
was corrupt, but he was threatened. They threatened you, Frank. They didn't
threaten him, they didn't threaten your mother, they threatened
you.
If you don't do what we want, John
Parrish, we are going to kill your son. We are going to kill your only child.'
Parrish
was shaking his head. 'No,' he said. 'Fuck . . . Fuck it, no. That is something
I do not believe. You didn't live with him, Father Briley. You didn't see the
money that came in and out of the house—'
'Not
his money, Frank,
their
money. He had to hold it, him and his partner. You remember him, George
Buranski? He had three kids, three little girls. You remember them? They got to
them both, Frank, him and George, and they used them every which way they
could, and after the bank robbery, the one where that off-duty cop was killed,
they started to figure that your father's loyalty to the department might be
greater than the leverage they had over him. You were no longer a child. You
were a cop yourself by then. Your father knew you could take care of yourself.
And these people got scared that John Parrish and George Buranski knew too
much, that they might finally turn them over, and . . . well, that's when they
killed them, Frank. Gunned them down in the street like dogs.'
Parrish
felt sick. Light-headed. He wanted a drink. He
needed
a drink, and he wanted to be elsewhere.
He was in a state of shock and confusion, and he did
not
want to listen to this, could not at
this moment deal with it. This was not the truth,
could
not be the truth. His father was a bad
man, a corrupt man . . . This was a certainty that could never be taken away.
'He
told me everything, Frank. I saw him three days before he was killed. That was
the last time I spoke to him, and then I was there to administer last rites,
and I delivered his funeral, remember? And I said what I said, and I looked at
the picture they had of him up there near the coffin, and I believe I was the
only one who understood what had really happened to your father.'
'So
why now? Why tell me this now? Why not tell me five years ago, ten years ago?'
'Because
he made me promise. Your father made me promise that I would never say a word
to you.'
'Why?
Why would he do that?'
'To
protect you. For the very same reason that he did all those things for all
those
years ...
to protect you.'
'From
what? What the hell did he have to protect me from?'
'From
yourself, Frank.' Briley paused, leaned forward. 'You ever hear the old saying
about vengeance? That if you head out for vengeance you should dig two graves?'
'Yes,
I've heard that.'
'He
knew you could get to these people. He knew you could find out who Santos
worked with all those years ago, find out whatever you wanted. You were right
there, a cop just like him, and anything you needed to know about the Task
Force and the OCCB was right in front of you. He didn't want you to know
because he didn't want you to spend your life trying to get back at them. He
knew that if you went down that road you'd be dead in a fortnight.'
Parrish
was shaking his head. 'This is too much. I cannot. . . Jesus Christ, this
doesn't make sense . . .'
'Makes
perfect sense, son. John was not the man you thought he was. He was your
father, first and foremost he was your father, and though he made some very bad
decisions, he also decided never to put you in harm's way. He knew he was
wrong. He knew what he'd done was no good, but he kept his word as a father.
That was one of the last things he said to me. He said that if the truth ever
came out then at least he kept his integrity as a father.'
Parrish
stood up, his jaw set, his expression inscrutable. 'I need you to leave now,'
he said quietly. 'I have work to do. I have things I need to be doing—'
'Frank,
seriously—'
'Enough,'
Parrish interjected. 'Please, Father, I've heard enough. I don't want to hear
any more. He was not who you think he was. He was dangerous. He was fucking
crazy. That's the truth, and you won't convince me otherwise—'
Briley
stood up. 'Frank, listen to me—'
'No,
Father. I've done all the listening I want to. I need you to leave now. I
really do.'
Briley
was silent for a moment, hurt and disappointment in his eyes, and perhaps a
sense of failure that he had not accomplished what he intended.
'I
wanted you to know so you would stop killing yourself with guilt,' he said.
'There is nothing for you to be guilty about. Your father did what he did for
you.'
Parrish
looked down. He spoke without raising his head. 'I'll not ask you again,
Father. Out of respect for you I will not throw you out of the building, but
one of us is leaving the room right now and I think it should be you.'
'Very
well, Frank,' Briley said. 'I am sorry for all of this. Perhaps I should have
told you earlier . . .'He shook his head. 'I believe I knew your father better
than anyone, and he was not the man you think he was . . .'
Parrish
looked up. He said nothing. His eyes were like flint, hard.
Briley
nodded, then turned and left the room.
Frank
Parrish stood where he was for a good five minutes, his breathing shallow, a
fist of emotion in his throat, his heart racing, a thin line of sweat beneath
his hairline.
He
willed himself to move, he willed himself to forget all that Briley had said,
but he was seething with tension, with conflict, with a sense of betrayal, and
he felt rage boiling up inside him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply,
again and again, forced himself to focus on what he was about to do. Focus on
that and nothing more. He had something to do. Something important. Something
right. Something positive. He had already spent too long delving into his own
past, his own thoughts. And where had it gotten him? Nowhere. He had broken
things apart to look inside, and the only result had been more damage. With
Caitlin, with Clare, with Radick. How long could he go on apologizing for his
own existence? How long could he go on saying sorry for everything that came
out of his mouth? Wasn't it time just to trust his intuition, his own sense of
certainty, and to do something about what had happened? People were dying.
Children were dying. Someone had to stop it, and it had to stop now.