The James Deans (12 page)

“
Puta!
“ Ivan cursed at her. He hadn’t enjoyed being ordered around by a woman in a room full of other men.

Reyes ignored him. “Before my client answers another question, we have to know what’s on the table.”

The DA wagged his finger at her. “Counselor, Counselor, what am I going to do with you? Come, let us talk in my office.”

Reyes agreed.

Fishbein turned to Larry. “Captain McDonald, could you ask the court officer to please step in here and keep an eye on the prisoner? And why don’t you gentlemen go grab a cup of coffee. This should take about fifteen minutes.”

We took the hint. As soon as the court officer stepped inside the conference room, we retreated to the elevators. While we waited, Larry put out his right hand. Reflexively, I grabbed it with my right.

“You did it, Moe,” he said. “You fucking did it. Maybe they should’ve given you that gold shield when you found that little girl. What was her name again?”

“Marina Conseco.”

“Right. I gotta admit, it killed me to give you those damned files, but you pulled it off. Congratulations.”

“Let’s give it fifteen minutes and see, but thanks.”

Before we could get on the elevator, Fishbein stuck his head out his office door. “Gentlemen, if you please, the conference room.”

It had been a quick negotiation. Reyes had done the best she could for her client, something about a sentencing recommendation that would allow, if the judge agreed, a few of Alfonseca’s sentences to run concurrently as opposed to consecutively. As hollow victories went, this ranked in the top five. Instead of getting out a week or two before the sun went dark, Alfonseca might get out of Attica in time to enjoy a scenic vacation on a star cruiser to Alpha Centauri. Basically, he was going to die in prison.

“Mr. Prager” —Fishbein addressed me directly for the first time, waving several folded sheets of paper at me—“Ms. Reyes has informed me that this is a full confession as dictated by her client, Mr. Alfonseca, this morning at Rikers. It is alleged to detail the abduction, assault, and homicide of one Moira Heaton by Mr. Alfonseca. He will not sign it, however, unless he can describe to you the contents of these pages. I cannot by law compel you to—”

“Let’s get it over with.”

For the next half hour I had to sit and listen to Marissa Reyes recite in English the intimate details of Moira Heaton’s last hours on earth. As I did so, Ivan Alfonseca never removed his gaze from my eyes, nor did his cold expression much change. Only when he described actions which refuted the fabrications in the planted news stories did he smile that smile. He was a man who thrived on the distress and discomfort of others.

“Get this piece of shit out of here,” Fishbein ordered after Alfonseca had signed the confession, initialing each page and any minor changes.

Reyes looked sick, but no more so than the rest of us felt. As they began to lead Ivan away, he pushed toward me. “Man to man,” he said. “Man to man. No tricks.”

I ignored him because I was distracted. Something was wrong. A detail was missing, a very important detail that everyone in the room seemed to have forgotten.

“He kept souvenirs from all his victims, right?” I reminded Fishbein. “That’s why the cases against him are such slam dunks. Well, where’s the souvenir from this crime?”

The DA looked as if my breath stank of raw sewage. How dare I throw a monkey wrench into his plans for higher office? Reyes had already translated my questions to her client. Ivan laughed, bowing to me as if to say thanks for the reminder. He responded quickly, giving what sounded like a street address to his lawyer.

“He says her jewelry is hidden in a bandanna behind the boiler of the building he was living in when you arrested him.”

“Anything else, Mr. Prager?” the DA asked.

The court officer didn’t need to be told twice, and Ivan the Terrible was gone. Reyes, still a little shaken, left shortly thereafter. Fishbein was on the phone to one of his investigators, giving the person on the other end of the line the alleged location of Moira’s jewelry. When I started to head out, Larry shook his head no. We were to stay until the DA was done with us.

“So, Mr. Prager, Captain McDonald tells me you’re the one who worked this little scam,” Fishbein said as he put down the phone.

“I had help.”

“So I hear.” The DA frowned at Larry. “So I hear. And if we find the jewelry where that miscreant has indicated, this will be a very good day for all of us. Captain McDonald also tells me you’re Francis Maloney’s son-in-law.”

“I have that dubious pleasure, yes.”

“With all due respect, how is that nasty old prick?”

“The same, only more so.”

Fishbein understood completely. He then turned his attention to Larry, speaking in vaguely threatening generalities. A police officer, especially one in the Intelligence Division, could get in a lot of trouble for sharing files and information with unauthorized civilians. At worst, he might lose his job and pension or do time. Even the sweetest prosecutor in town would have to ensure that such an officer would have no possibility of future advancement. On the other hand, such an officer might find it very helpful to his career to have a borough district attorney as a booster and ally. I interrupted Fishbein’s rambling.

“Can I use your phone?”

The DA eyed me suspiciously. “It might be unwise to prematurely—”

“An up-and-coming prosecutor would be smart to stay and listen to my conversation,” I said, parroting Fishbein’s tone.

“Dial nine for an outside line.”

Thomas Geary answered the phone. He had regained his composure from this morning and managed not to chew my head off before asking the purpose of my call.

“I’m sitting in a conference room adjoining the office of Robert Fishbein, the district attorney for Queens County.”

Geary was unenthusiastic. “I’m well acquainted with Groucho Marx’s stunt double, Mr. Fishbein.”

“I believe he has some news for you,” I said, and handed the DA the phone.

When I did, Larry McDonald gave me the thumbs-up.

“Yes, Thomas,” Fishbein said, all the threat gone from his voice, “it’s good to speak to you again as well.”

For the next several minutes, Larry and I were treated to a somewhat skewed, if not completely inaccurate, description of the day’s events. Though the DA was quick to highlight, even exaggerate, his role, he was savvy enough not to go too far over the top. After all, he had no way of knowing how much Geary or Brightman knew. Having concluded his chat with my employer and looking rather too pleased with himself, Fishbein handed the phone back to me.

“You did well, Moe,” Geary complimented, sounding justifiably somber. “Though I am, for obvious reasons, relieved and happy at the results you have produced, I am at the same time sad for Miss Heaton’s family.”

“Watch it, Mr. Geary, you wouldn’t want me to get the impression you actually have a heart.”

“We can’t have that, can we? I must confess to having had my doubts about you, but I could not be more pleased. You and the men who helped you will be well rewarded for their efforts. I would ask only that you not share this information with anyone until I’ve had an opportunity to—”

“I understand, but there are a few people who deserve to know. They’ll keep it quiet if I ask them.”

“To this point, your judgment has proved correct. I see no reason to distrust it now. On behalf of Steven and myself, please convey my appreciation. And, Moe, please ask them to make themselves available for the next several days. There’s likely to be a lot of publicity connected to the resolution of—”

“I understand.”

“I thought you might. Thank you again.”

Larry and I waited with the DA until the call came in from the field. Though the detectives on the other end of the line could not be sure the jewelry they found was Moira Heaton’s, it was, as Ivan had said, wrapped in a bandanna and hidden behind the old boiler. I half expected Fishbein to break into song or tap-dance on the conference table. I asked Larry to make the calls to the others.

“Where
you
going?” Larry asked.

“To tell a man his daughter’s really dead.”

GLITTERS WAS DOING brisk business when I walked in. Rocky was working the door. I guess maybe Adonis was out getting his body bronzed or something. With his face so distorted by scar tissue, it was difficult to tell if the ex-pug recognized me or not. I didn’t leave it to chance.

“Hey, remember me? You tried putting your right hand through my rib cage a few nights ago before your boy took batting practice on my knees.”

“About that, John, he—”

“I don’t really give a shit, Rocky. Let’s just say you owe me one. Get John. I’ll be waiting at the bar.” “Here.”

He gave me my ten dollars back.

I didn’t have long to wait. People are usually prompt on payday, and John Heaton was no exception. Unfortunately for him, he was going to get a bonus he hadn’t counted on. When he sat down next to me, I said nothing, but continued nursing my beer. I removed two white envelopes from my jacket pocket and slid them along the bar to Heaton.

“One’s for you, the other’s for Domino.”

He had the good taste and good sense not to count it out in the open. Apparently, he still hadn’t picked up today’s papers. I ordered him a drink.

“Can’t drink while I’m on,” he said, but not in time to stop the barmaid from fixing his whiskey.

“Ever stop you while you were on the job?”

“No, but this ain’t the job. Here they’re fuckin’ serious about it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Heaton,” I said as the barmaid placed his scotch down in front of him. “They’ll make an exception today.”

He didn’t touch it. “Oh yeah, and why is that?”

“Because the guy who murdered Moira just signed a full confession.”

He froze in place. Only his face moved, and involuntarily, streams of emotions washing over his bloated red countenance so quickly I couldn’t keep up. Finally, it was just a blank mask. “What?”

“You read the papers?”

“Not since—no, not in a long time.”

“Drink your drink, John.”

He did, in a gulp. I tapped the bar in front of him. The barmaid poured another. He drank. After the third, he was primed.

“It’s ugly, huh?”

“Very.”

“Tell me.”

I didn’t argue with him. He’d find out anyway. He was pretty stoic about it until I described how Alfonseca had disposed of Moira’s body in pieces off City Island. That he couldn’t bear and slammed his forehead down full force onto the bar. It split open like the skin of an overripe fruit, blood pouring down into his eyes, over his cheeks, swallowing up his tears. I told the barmaid to get Rocky. There was little doubt in my mind he’d know how to stem the flow of blood. As for the rest of it, there was nothing anyone could do to help.

I’D BEEN TO Mets games less well attended than this press conference. It seemed every media outlet in the free world had sent at least one reporter and cameraman. Some of the local TV stations sent both their police beat reporter and their political analyst. Pete Hamill and Jimmy Breslin were there too. To say there was a bit of a carnival atmosphere in the crowd would have been an understatement. On its face, this was about Moira Heaton and Ivan Alfonseca. Believing that was like believing Christ’s last supper was about the matzo.

This was many things, a sort of political smorgasbord with something for everyone. Even with all the elected officials in the room, there was enough free press and publicity to go around. Mostly, however, this was about Steven Brightman, and everyone understood as much. About five minutes after the jewelry was confirmed as having belonged to Moira, word began leaking out about Steven Brightman’s innocence. This so-called press conference was to be a coming-out party, a resurrection of sorts, the kickoff of his campaign for higher office, whatever office that might be. Maybe it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t blame Brightman.

There weren’t quite as many people onstage as in the audience. Fishbein stood at the podium, nearly buried behind a sea of microphones. Directly behind him were the mayor, the police commissioner, and Brightman and his wife. I stood in the next row between Larry McDonald, Robert Gloria, both resplendent in full-dress blues, Wit, Pete Parson, and a sad-faced Joe Spivack. Geary, as you might expect, stood in the wings. Also in the wings were John Heaton, forehead stitched and bandaged, his estranged wife, and his son. The wife and son had been flown up overnight on Geary’s private jet. Domino was nowhere in sight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DA said, tapping the mikes, “good morning. I’m going to make a brief statement to be followed by a few words from some of the people who share the platform with me today. Then we’ll take your questions.

“This is a day of mixed feelings. On a personal level, it is a profoundly sad day, while professionally, it is a uniquely satisfying one,” Fishbein continued. “As many of your organizations have today reported, this office, in league with the NYPD, the Department of Corrections, and a team of private investigators, has finally determined the whereabouts of Moira Heaton, the young woman who, at the time of her disappearance nineteen months ago, was working as an intern for State Senator Brightman.

“Unfortunately, it is my somber duty to inform you that Miss Heaton is deceased. Our hearts and deepest sympathies go out to her family and friends. And to spare her family any further grief, I shall, at this time, refrain from discussing the details surrounding her untimely death. A written statement will be released later today. What I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt is that State Senator Steven Brightman has been completely and utterly exonerated in this matter. I can state this with such confidence because the man who abducted and subsequently murdered Miss Heaton, Ivan Alfonseca, popularly known as Ivan the Terrible, is in our custody and has signed a full confession which he himself dictated to his lawyer.”

The mayor and police commissioner followed the DA. They said much the same thing as Fishbein, blowing their own horns in the process. It was just amazing. As I recall, neither man was at that meeting in Joe Spivack’s office. I guess I must’ve missed something. But now it was time for the main event as Steven Brightman, his wife standing just over his shoulder, stepped to the podium. First a buzz rippled through the press corps, and then an expectant silence. He was not smiling, nor was he morose, again displaying his talent for understanding the moment.

“There is nothing for me to rejoice in today,” he began. “As is often the case in life, when one dark cloud moves on, it is replaced by another, more sinister cloud. I would gladly take back the whispers and suspicions, the backbiting and silent accusations, which have plagued me over the last nineteen months in exchange for better news for the Heaton family. Alas, no such deal can be struck, and the Heaton family is left only to grieve.

“The rest of us, however, can take this opportunity,
should, must
take this opportunity not to grieve Moira Heaton, but to celebrate her and the thousands of selfless, dedicated young men and women like her across this great country. Moira could have gone to any number of fine law schools or to graduate school. She could have followed in her father’s footsteps and become a member of the NYPD. But Moira took the road less traveled. She chose to commit herself to the democratic process and public service. And so, as her family grieves, let us applaud her. Let us not dwell on how her life came to an end, but rather on how she lived it. Let her life stand as an example to the rest of us.” He bowed his head and took a long pause. There were dry eyes in the place, but not many.

“I have one brief thing to say in conclusion,” Brightman continued. “Many people have already taken credit for getting to the bottom of this matter. Some rightly so.” He smiled, turning and nodding at the mayor, the police commissioner, and the DA. That got a laugh from the press. “But there is one man sharing this platform with the rest of us who truly deserves the credit. He is the man who assembled the team, the man who put together the facts that led ultimately to Mr. Alfonseca’s admission of guilt. He is a former member of the NYPD and a licensed private investigator.” He turned fully around. “Moe, will you come up here please? Moses Prager, ladies and gentlemen.”

I could not move. How, I wondered, could he do this to me? Why? Pete nudged me forward so that I was going to either walk or fall. Brightman shook my hand and shoved me onto a very isolated little island.

“This was a case to me, a case I was not anxious to accept,” I said. “I am pleased to have successfully fulfilled my professional obligations, but the results are not the results I would have hoped for. I have two—no, three things to say. First, I could not have done this without the help of Y. W. Fenn, Captain Lawrence McDonald of the NYPD, Detective Robert Gloria of the NYPD, Peter Parson, NYPD retired, and Joe Spivack of Spivack and Associates. Second, on behalf of these men and myself, I wish to extend our condolences to the Heaton family. Finally, I would ask that any reward monies due me go to establishing a scholarship fund in Moira Heaton’s name at her alma mater, Fordham University. Thank you.”

The press started firing questions before I was six inches away from the podium. Thankfully, none of them were for me. A hand reached out of the crush of bodies on the platform and grabbed my forearm. It was Brightman’s. Now he was shaking my hand.

“I think maybe I was wrong about you and politics, Mr. Prager,” he said, beaming at me. “That scholarship thing was brilliant, just brilliant.” That struck me as an odd thing to say. Once a politician, always a politician, I suppose. “Well,” he went on, “I just wanted to thank you again. We’ll be seeing you and your friends this evening, correct?”

“Tonight, yes,” I said.

“Senator Brightman! Senator Brightman!” someone from the press corps called out, and he was gone.

10-9-8, LOCATED IN an old meatpacking warehouse on the Lower West Side, was the most chic, coolest restaurant in town, which, in Manhattan, meant hardly anyone knew the place existed. Once its name appeared in the papers or in
New York
magazine, it would sizzle, making money hand over fist, but it would fall precipitately from grace. Popularity is a kind of a curse in the city, the great New York paradox.

Geary had sent a limo to pick us all up. Unlike this morning’s press conference, there would be no somber pretense this evening. Tonight was about celebration, about showing gratitude for a job well done. I wasn’t going to argue the point. In spite of my past successes, circumstance had conspired to prevent me from sharing them. At last, I had completed a case with no dark secrets to keep, no personal price to pay. The tragedies were someone else’s.

We were shown into a private dining room inside what had once been a meat locker, the main design feature being stainless steel. Given Moira’s fate, it seemed an odd choice, but even that wasn’t going to upset me, not tonight. It was the usual cast of characters: Wit, Pete, Larry, Gloria, Spivack, Geary, Brightman, and me. Geary had promised a dinner at some later date, when things had settled down, that would include our families and friends.

The champagne was flowing and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. Everyone, that is, except the still rather dour-looking Joe Spivack. He had taken his failure to make the connection between Ishmail Almonte, Ivan Alfonseca, and Moira very hard and very much to heart. Not a man in the room blamed him for what had happened. Like I said before, sometimes it takes time and distance to see the things that are there to be seen. Though I wasn’t particularly fond of the ex-U.S. marshal, I couldn’t help but feel for him. I knew only too well what a case of the ifs could do to a man.

Dinner was okay, if you were fond of starvation. 10-9-8's chef’s favorite ingredient seemed to be big, mostly empty plates. Clearly, he had read too much French existentialism and wanted to make a statement about the importance and isolation of the individual in a starkly judgmental world. Who knows, maybe Camus wasn’t dead, but cooking in Manhattan.

I whispered to Pete, who passed it down, that I’d treat them all to their choice of a roast beef sandwich at Brennan & Carr’s or hot dogs at Nathan’s. The world knew Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island, but only Brooklynites knew about Brennan & Carr’s. It was situated at the strategic crossroads of Avenue U and Nostrand Avenue, and you could smell the roasting meat for blocks around. They’d slice you a hefty mound of buttery soft beef and then dip the bun in the rotisserie drippings. The sandwich fairly melted in your mouth. You just sort of chewed out of habit.

Following dessert—smaller portions on bigger plates—we all split into groups of twos and threes, chatting, smoking contraband cigars, drinking port or cognac. The taste of the earthy, sweet cigar made Joe Spivack smile in spite of himself. It seemed to me he was transported back to his time in South Florida when he was a part of the big agency and the spotlight shone a little less brightly on an individual’s mistakes. I didn’t approach him for fear of breaking the spell. All the alcohol was getting to me, and I excused myself in an attempt to find a bathroom among the meat lockers.

When I got back from the bathroom, they’d all returned to their seats and Geary was giving a little thank-you speech to the boys. He wasn’t quite the speaker his protégé was, but few were. He was just full of compliments for everyone and asked that each of us speak with him privately before leaving. That was the Crocus Valley in him. We were going to get our Christmas bonuses, but not in a gauche, public display.

Then Brightman stepped up to speak. He hesitated, allowing enough time for the waiter to fill our fresh champagne flutes with Dom Pérignon. When the waiter left, Brightman did not launch into one of his inspirational talks. He asked simply that we raise our glasses.

“Gentlemen. To Moe Prager. A man who will go a long way for an expensive meal.”

“Here. Here,” Larry seconded.

“Expensive, yes,” I said, raising my glass, “but hardly a meal.”

Even Geary laughed. The champagne, wonderfully cool and yeasty, went down easily.

“I’ve done enough public speaking today for several lifetimes,” I said. “Good luck to Thomas Geary and Steven Brightman. Again, thank you all.”

When I sat back down I noticed one of my business cards where the flute had sat before I raised it. I flipped it over.

The handwriting was, as near as I could tell, the same as on the first card. Though the syntax had improved, the general theme remained consistent. Someone, a man most probably in this room, was not so fond of Steven Brightman as he pretended. I slid the card into my wallet to keep the first limerick company. Maybe someday I’d look into the authorship, but not tonight.

Geary called an end to the evening’s proceedings. He and his boy thanked us again, individually, as was the plan. Brightman, of course, disappeared when the envelopes were passed out. I went last of all.

“ ‘Thank you’ loses all meaning after a while, don’t you agree?” Geary offered, shaking my hand with a genuine firmness I had not expected. “One day you may be able to say that you had a large part in turning this state, maybe the country, around.”

“Please, I’m already a little nauseous. Don’t make it worse. I just did a job and I got lucky and had a lot of help.”

“You see,” he said, smiling smugly, “never underestimate luck.”

“Never.”

He handed me an envelope. “Open it at home, please. As you requested, Steven has made arrangements for the reward money to be placed in a scholarship fund in Moira’s name. I have added a matching check to that amount, and Steven has promised to set up a charity to continue adding to the scholarship. Strangely, Moe, it has been a pleasure knowing you. You’re not at all what I’d been led to believe.”

“Talk about a Jewish compliment.”

“Yes, well, things don’t always come out quite how you mean them. Please, if you ever need a favor …”

I left it at that.

None of us spoke much in the limo. To a man we were pretty well beat and several times drunk by any legal standard. Though we all kept our envelopes unopened, I noticed we all patted our jacket pockets with regularity to make sure they hadn’t disappeared. No one seemed inclined to take me up on my offer of free food, and the limo emptied out one man at a time, until only Larry and I were left.

I asked the driver to pass by Brennan & Carr’s before dropping me at home. I didn’t get out. The place was closed, the spits had long since stopped spinning, but the aroma of the roasting meat had so thoroughly basted the air that my mouth still watered. It seemed every stray dog in the neighborhood had the same reaction. We must have been quite a sight, a long black limo stuffed into the tiny parking lot surrounded by a pack of hopeful strays. The back door opened and someone tossed out scraps to the dogs. Just then, Larry patted his envelope. It was time to move on, I told the driver. My appetite was gone.