Sleepers (40 page)

“I glanced at them as they walked by,” she said. “But I
did
see them.”

“You
glanced,”
O’Connor said, his voice hitting a higher pitch. “You didn’t
look?”

“I
saw
them,” Mrs. Salinas said.

“You
glanced
at them, Mrs. Salinas,” O’Connor said. “You
glanced
at them through the eyes of a frightened woman who may have had too much to drink.”

“Objection, your honor,” Michael said, his hands spread out in front of him, still sitting in his chair.

“No need, your honor,” O’Connor said, clearly relishing his first dance in the spotlight. “I have no further questions.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Salinas,” Judge Weisman said to the now-shaken woman. “You may step down.”

“Looks like Columbo did his homework,” Carol said.

“Today anyway,” I said, my eyes on John and Tommy, watching them wink their approval at O’Connor.

“Have you got time for lunch?” Carol asked.

“I’ll make the time,” I said.

“Where would you like to go?”

“How about the Shamrock Pub,” I said. “I hear it’s colorful.”

12

T
HE DETECTIVE IN
the front seat kept the engine running, his hands on the steering wheel, a container of coffee by his side, the lid still on. I sat in the back, opposite the driver’s side, a heavy manila envelope on my lap. Another detective sat to my left, looking out the window, watching the wind whip shreds of garbage down Little West 12th Street. The defogger was on and all four windows of the late-model sedan were open a crack, letting in thin streams of January air.

It was six-fifteen on a Sunday morning and the downtown streets were empty.

“So, you gonna show me?” the detective to my left asked, pointing down at the envelope. “Or you just gonna ride the suspense?”

His name was Nick Davenport. He was twenty-eight years old and a sergeant in the Internal Affairs Division of the New York City Police Department. It is the unit responsible for dealing with corrupt cops.

“You’ve got to agree to a couple of things first,” I said. “Then we deal.”

“Frankie, what is this shit?”

“Hear the kid out, Nick,” the detective in the front seat said. “It’ll be worth your time. Believe me.”

The detective in the front seat, Frank Magcicco, worked out of a homicide unit housed in a Brooklyn precinct. He grew up in Hell’s Kitchen and remained friendly with many of the people who lived there. He was a first grade detective with an honest name and a solid reputation. He was thirty-three years old, owned a two-family house in Queens, had two preschool children, and was married to a woman who worked part-time as a legal secretary.

He was also King Benny’s nephew.

“Okay,” Nick Davenport said. “What’s it gonna cost?”

He had a blue-eyed, boyish face hidden by a three-day stubble and an older man’s voice. He’d been on the force seven years, two as a patrolman in Harlem and two working plainclothes in Brooklyn, before making the move to I.A.D. He was cold to the fact that most cops hated anyone associated with Internal Affairs and ambitious enough to want to make captain before he hit forty. He knew the fastest way up that track was to reel in the maximum number of dirty cops in a minimum amount of time.

“I don’t want any deals cut,” I said.

“How so?” Davenport asked, shifting his body.

“You don’t offer him
anything,”
I said. “You don’t use him to finger other cops. You bring him in and you bring him down.”

“That ain’t up to me,” Nick said. “Once a case starts, a lot of other people get involved. I can’t shut ’em all out.”

“I heard you can,” I said toward Frank in the front seat. “But maybe I heard wrong. Maybe I should take this to somebody else.”

“Where’d you find this fuck?” Nick asked Frank, chuckling as he pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

“I were you, I’d do what the kid says,” Frank said, staring out through the windshield, sipping his coffee. “You make this one, you’re gonna be havin’ breakfast once a month with the commissioner.”

“Okay, Eliot Ness,” Nick said to me. “You got it. He won’t be offered any deals. No matter how much he talks, no matter who he fingers. No deals. Anything else?”

“Two more things,” I said.

“Let me hear ’em,” Nick said.

“He gets convicted, he gets state time,” I said. “I don’t want him sent to one of those cop country clubs. He’s gotta do prison time.”

“You got a real hard-on for this guy,” Nick said. “What’s your beef with him?”

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “You wanna hear it or not?”

“I can’t wait,” Nick said.

“It’s simple,” I said. “Nobody knows who fed you the information. How you got it. How you found it. And I mean
nobody.”

“How
did
you get it?”

“It fell into my lap,” I said. “Just like it’s falling into yours.”

“That it?” Davenport asked, tossing his cigarette out through the crack in the window. “That’s all you want?”

“That’s all I want,” I said.

Davenport stared at me for a few moments and then turned to look back outside. One hand rubbed the stubble on his face, one foot shook nervously back and forth.

“You okay with this, Frank?” he asked the detective in the front seat.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” Frank said, watching him in the rearview mirror.

“Okay, Mr. Ness,” Davenport said, putting out his hand. “You and me got ourselves a deal.”

I handed him the thick envelope. Inside was the file that Michael had given me on former Wilkinson guard Adam Styler, plus additional information dug up in the past three months by King Benny and Fat Mancho.

“Christ almighty!” Davenport said, sorting through the material. “You got everything in here but a confession.”

“I thought I’d leave that to you,” I said. “And my preference is that you beat it out of him.”

“Dates, times, phone numbers,” Davenport said, his eyes wide, a smile spread across his face. “Get a load of this, Frankie, there’s even surveillance photos. This piece of shit’s pulling in about five grand a month. Rippin’ off pushers. Has been for about three years.”

“More like four,” I said.

“He ain’t gonna see five,” Davenport said. “I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Do you have enough to get a conviction?” I asked.

“That ain’t up to me, kid,” Davenport said. “That’s up to a jury.”

“Then show the jury this,” I said.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. In it was a snubnose .44 revolver and three spent shells.

“Whatta ya got there, Ness?” Davenport asked, taking the bag.

“Three weeks ago the body of a drug dealer named Indian Red Lopez was found in an alley in Jackson Heights,” I said. “There were three bullets in his head and nothing in his pockets.”

“I’m with you so far,” Davenport said.

“That’s the gun that killed him,” I said. “Those are the shells.”

“And what’s behind door number three?” Davenport asked.

“The prints on the gun belong to Adam Styler,” I said.

“Do me a favor, would ya, Ness?” Davenport said, putting the gun in his pocket.

“What?”

“I ever make it onto your shit list, give me a call,” he said. “Give me a chance to apologize.”

“You’ll find a woman’s name and phone number in the folder,” I said. “Pay her a visit. Her English isn’t too good. But it’s good enough to tell you she saw Adam Styler put the gun to Lopez’s head and pull the trigger.”

Davenport lit a fresh cigarette, folding the spent match in his hand. He put Styler’s folder back together and slid it into the envelope.

“I’ll take it from here, Ness,” Davenport said, putting out his hand. “You did your part.”

“You need anything else, Frank knows how to reach me,” I said, shaking hands.

“Want us to drop you off anywhere?” Frank asked, turning to face me.

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I’ll get out here.”

“Say hello for me,” Frank said.

“I will,” I said, opening the car door. “And thanks, Frank. Thanks for all your help.”

“Take care of yourself, kid,” Frank said, winking at me as I got out of the car. “Water gets choppy out your way.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, leaving the car and closing the door behind me.

“Hey, Ness,” Davenport said, sliding over to where I had been sitting and rolling down the window.

“What?” I said, standing by the curb.

“You ever think of becoming a cop?” he asked, smiling.

“And leave the good guys?” I said with a laugh. “Never happen.”

13

B
Y THE END
of the first week of the trial, Michael had done all that could be expected of an assistant district attorney seeking a conviction in the murder case of People vs. Reilly and Marcano. He had presented a detailed drawing of the interior of the Shamrock Pub, giving the jury a picture to go along with the verbal scenario. He had a replica made to scale, with little wax figures representing the patrons and employees. He then showed the jury how it was possible for two wax figures to walk into the pub, sit at a bar, have a few drinks, move to the rear booth, shoot dead another wax figure, and leave the pub without a problem.

He just never put faces on the two wax figures.

He had the crime scene photos blown up, with Nokes’s riddled corpse surrounded by two plates of jelled food and a cold cup of coffee, then displayed them for the jury. He had a forensics expert detail the make and caliber of the gun that killed Nokes and encouraged the coroner to drone on about the bloody manner of his death.

He just never had a weapon, the murder weapon, to show them.

The officers at the scene all testified as to what they found when they first arrived at the Shamrock Pub on the night of the shooting. They ran through the statements Dresented to them by those Dresent. Michael then
brought on the detectives assigned to the case, two veteran cops who combined those statements with other information they gathered to bring in John Reilly and Thomas Marcano.

He just never gave the jury a motive for the murder.

Michael kept to the plan, a plan that called for the action to stay simple.

He had left doubt in the minds of the jury. He had given them dozens of facts, but no weapon, no motive and, more important, no prints that would put John and Tommy at the scene that night. The gloves they wore helped some. Jerry the bartender quietly took care of the rest. Michael had brought two eyewitnesses to the stand, but both were shaky and one, David Carson, had his back to the shooting and saw nothing but leather jackets and blurred faces come in and out of the Shamrock Pub.

Danny O’Connor did his part as well, asking the questions he was told to ask and occasionally throwing in pertinent queries of his own. His sloppy attire and lack of finesse played well with the working-class jury Michael had helped to select. He came off as a seasoned pro, a ruffled man of the people who had seen his share of victories and defeats. He talked to them and never lectured, but always made time, when the moment called for it, for a touch of Irish drama.

Michael had been right. Danny O’Connor was perfect.

At two-thirty
P.M
., a half hour before the close of the Friday session, Michael Sullivan prepared to announce the final witness in his prosecution of case docket number 778462. Judge Weisman asked him to hold the witness until Monday morning, as Michael knew he would. He agreed and wished both the judge and jury a pleasant weekend, then sat down, the first part of his job nearly finished.

He looked about five years older than he did when he
and I met on that rainy night nearly four months earlier. The tension of his task, the hours we were all keeping, the uncertainty about the outcome, all weighed heavy. If the plan worked, it would be everyone’s success. If it failed, the fault would fall to Michael.

We still didn’t know if we had Father Bobby locked in as a witness and wouldn’t know until he walked into that courtroom. We decided it would be best for him to deal directly with O’Connor and not risk being seen talking to either me or Carol. If Father Bobby were to take the stand, we wanted it to be as late into the trial as possible, allowing the impact of his testimony to stay with the jury as they headed into the deliberation room.

Father Bobby Carillo, a priest with the best outside jump shot on the West Side, remained the key to a plan that called for all involved to get away with murder.

14

K
ING
B
ENNY STOOD
in front of his club, hands folded at his back, eyes staring straight ahead. Three of his men huddled close by, stamping their feet against the cold. The door to the club remained open, the lilting sound of Doris Day singing “Que Sera, Sera” easing its way onto the street.

It was King Benny’s favorite song.

“I see you’ve still got a thing for Doris Day,” I said, coming up next to him.

“She’s a good woman,” King Benny said.

“You like her movies?” I asked.

“I don’t go to movies,” King Benny said. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.”

We crossed 11th Avenue and walked down 52nd Street. I kept my head down and my collar up, the wind blowing hard, the air now cutting sharp as ice. King Benny was, as usual, dressed in black shirt, slacks, and jacket. His hair was slicked back and his bum leg dragged, but he walked with a slight jaunt and seemed not to notice the weather.

“This guy Addison,” King Benny said. “The one works for the mayor.”

“I know him,” I said.

King Benny went after Henry Addison with a vengeance. It went beyond mere business. King Benny took Henry Addison and made it personal. He knew that he was part of a young, well-to-do crowd that paid lots of money for sex parties with little boys. It didn’t take King Benny long to find out who supplied those boys and how much their bodies were worth. The East Side pimp with the street name of Radio gave up everything—names, dates, videotapes, and photos. Enough material to cost Henry Addison a cushy city job that was handed to him by a friend in the mayor’s office.