The Letter Writer (19 page)

“Of course.”

“And that goes double for him.” Espy jerked a thumb toward Cain without turning his head. Cain wasn't sure what was worse—feeling completely disrespected, or feeling so far out of his depth.

Espy escorted them to the room in question. The search, through a single file folder that held the membership rolls for Local 359 of the Seafood Workers Union, took all of ten minutes, and was fruitless. There was no record for a Hansch or a Schaller, either for the past month or for any month dating back as far as 1936. The man named Hal escorted them downstairs, where both sentries smirked as they handed back Cain's police-issue weapon.

“Nice pop gun, kid.”

“What would you know about it?”

He was about to say more, but a glare from Danziger warned him off. They walked away, Cain barely containing his anger. The fish market was still in full swing, and now that the sun was higher the smells were more intense. Neither man spoke until they'd gone three blocks and turned onto Pearl, where Danziger stopped and tapped a bony forefinger against Cain's chest, as if to drive home every word.

“You are never to do that again.”

“
Me
? What about you? And what the hell's a one-way guy? Some kind of crooked cop?”

“A straight shooter. An honest man. It was a compliment.”

“Only if you believe in honor among thieves. And Lizzie Louses?”

“Police patrols. It is usually the best policy to address those sorts of people in their own tongue. And your sin, if I might continue with my previous point, was in revealing the information about Haffenden. It was not something we should have shared.”

“Well, sometimes you've got to light a fire under people, and—”

“And sometimes when you light a fire the whole building goes up! With you inside of it!” Danziger's voice was raised, his eyes flaring. Cain had never seen him so angry. “You must let
me
decide what is best in our dealings with these sorts of people, Mr. Cain. If only to help you live a longer life. Yes?”

“Okay.” Cain waited a few seconds, letting him calm down. “But weren't you surprised by the way it set him off? I was.”

“It was beyond strange.”

“All that mumbo-jumbo about his patriotism, about some deal that he's not getting paid for.”

“Useful material, perhaps. But only if we learn more. Mr. Haffenden would seem to be the key. Perhaps it is a Navy secret.”

“If Haffenden was on official Navy business, I doubt he'd be doing it from that private office at the Astor.”

“I agree. This arrangement, whatever it is, does not smell any better than those wharves we just inhabited.”

“Where do we go next, then?”

“I need time to think. And perhaps a day or two for checking with a few contacts. In the meantime, you are to do nothing that might stir up these people further. Stay on the Erie, as Mr. Espy would say.”

“Lay low?”

“Good. I may yet succeed in making you bilingual.”

“Fluent in mugs, mopes, and mobs. That'll open doors.”

“We should part ways here, in case someone is following. Two are harder to keep up with than one.”

Cain, jarred by the idea, spun around to check behind them, realizing as he did so that he had no idea who or what he was looking for. What kind of tail would Espy employ? A mug in a suit? A fisherman on the take? A newsboy, even, earning an extra nickel? It might be anyone.

He turned back around to ask Danziger's advice, only to find an empty space and a view of a vast, milling crowd, placidly going about its business on a fine spring morning on Pearl Street.

AN EXHAUSTED CAIN
made it back from the fish market to the station house in time for the beginning of the day shift. He needed three cups of java to steel himself for his next leap into the unknown. That was due to occur at eleven a.m., when, based on what he'd heard from gossipy colleagues, Officers Steele and Rose of the 95 Room would head out for their daily coffee break at the Royal.

Cain went downstairs at eleven. Sure enough, the room was locked. He looked both ways in the corridor and used his duplicate key to let himself into the darkened office. He quickly relocked the door behind him, switched on the light, and checked his watch: 11:02. The earliest Steele and Rose ever returned was 11:30, or so everyone said. He had less than half an hour to get down to business.

It was a bit disconcerting, seeing the many shelves and file drawers arrayed before him, all of them stuffed to their limits. So much documentation. In Horton, police paperwork was fairly rudimentary, and the filing was uneven at best. The NYPD, however, was in many ways an edifice built upon a bewildering array of paper. Cops had to deal with roughly two hundred and fifty different forms in their daily work, which varied from the basics, like the UF-7F, a fatal accident report, to the relative obscurity of the UF-17A, a report of a burned-out street lamp.

Fortunately, from his earlier reconnaissance he knew that the index to all the files was posted on the back of the door. In addition, the trail of police paperwork following an arrest was fairly straightforward. Every arrest was reported on a UF-9 form, each of which was noted in the precinct's arrest record, which listed cases in chronological order and by serial number. The UF-9 forms were then bound in monthly volumes. Summons reports, disposition records, and other papers were also stored in the 95 Room, but Cain figured that the arrest record was the best starting point.

Scanning the index, he quickly found the shelf and binder number for the precinct's arrest record ledger. He went to the shelf, took down the big ledger, and opened it atop a worktable next to the framed fishing photos that Steele and Rose had gushed about his last time here.

Cain flipped through the pages to January, which Valentine had cited as the month when things began to go awry. He scanned the dates and names, not sure what he was looking for until he saw “Ericson, Stanley,” who'd been charged January 17 with illegal bookmaking. Recalling that Valentine had singled out “a bookie named Ericson” as someone who inexplicably remained at large, he looked closer. Curiously, the faint remnant of an erased check mark was in the left margin next to Ericson's name. Cain noted the serial number for the case, and then consulted the index on the door for the location of the January binder of arrest reports. He grabbed it off the shelf and flipped through the pages of reports, filed by serial number, until he reached the space where Ericson's arrest report should have been filed. There was nothing.

Cain logged the serial number of the missing report in his notebook and went back to the arrest record's pages for January, this time paying special attention to the left margin. He found eleven more cases with the ghostly remnants of erased check marks out in the margin. He wrote down the name and serial number for each one, and went back to the January binder of arrest reports. The report for the first of the eleven numbers was missing. So was the second. With time limited, he decided to assume that the same would be true for the other nine. He then went back to the arrest record to search for more erased check marks in subsequent months.

He glanced at his watch: 11:18. Twelve more minutes before he had to scram. A droplet of sweat fell onto the ledger, smudging a name. He flipped through the pages for February and found at least seven erased check marks, although he was moving so fast that he might have missed a few. He saw six more for March until a notation for an arrest on March 19 stopped him. The check mark was still there, not erased. There were two more on the next page. Did that mean those arrest reports would still be in the binder for March?

He took down the March binder, rifling through it so fast that he tore a page. The checkmarked arrest report for March 19 was present and accounted for. The subject was Clarence Cohen, charged with running an illegal crap game on 41st Street. Someone had paper-clipped a short note to the report, but just as Cain began trying to decipher the handwriting he was startled by the sound of voices from the hallway.

Shutting the binder, he froze, as good as dead if anyone entered. He watched the door knob for movement as the voices passed and then faded. Cain exhaled and checked his watch: 11:27. Time to finish and get the hell out of here. He slid the arrest report binders for March and January back onto the shelves, and then the arrest record.

He put his ear to the door. All quiet. He turned the lock, shut off the light, and then flipped it back on, remembering in the nick of time that he'd left his notebook on the worktable.

“Shit!”

He grabbed it, again shut off the light, and stepped into the hallway, where he quickly locked the door and headed toward the stairs. No sooner was he under way than he heard voices approaching from the end of the hall. He didn't wait to see if it was Steele and Rose.

There was still plenty of work to do, but at least now Cain knew he was on the right track. The system seemed simple enough. Someone was checkmarking cases for special handling, presumably in exchange for bribes. Once the arrest report was disposed of, the check mark was erased.

But why not just dispose of the reports right away, rather than risk leaving a trail with the check marks and erasures? Easy, he thought. You didn't make a report disappear until the client paid for special handling. It was a ham-fisted way of doing things, and easily spotted by anyone with half a brain who could get access to the 95 Room. Then again, no one got a job in the 95 Room by being the brightest bulb in the precinct. And it was pretty easy to see why Mulhearn, and perhaps other ranking officers in the precinct, would gladly look the other way in such a scheme. Even if they weren't sharing in the payoffs, they'd be enjoying the benefits of a lowered crime rate in the precinct every time yet another arrest report disappeared. Crude, but effective, and probably foolproof as long as the precinct followed its own rules of keeping all its records under lock and key. Copies of the arrest reports weren't sent to headquarters until the end of the month, and by then all the ones getting special handling in the 14th would have disappeared.

As Cain entered the squad room, the name from the March 19 arrest report snagged in his memory. Clarence Cohen. He opened his notebook and walked over to the lineup of wanted posters. There he was, Clarence Cohen, listed among the “known associates” of Mendy Weiss, the suspect from Murder, Inc. Whoever had engineered this scheme was helping an associate of one of the city's most notorious criminal enterprises.

That gave rise to another thought. Anyone willing to help murderers might also have a murderer's services at his disposal. Money wasn't the only means of bribery. Cain swallowed hard. He reached into his pocket and fingered the duplicate key as if it were a rabbit's foot, hoping its charm didn't wear off anytime soon. On his next trip to the 95 Room, he'd better not cut it so close.

Cain was so shaken by his findings that he could only eat one of the piroshki that Zharkov brought him an hour later in a greasy paper bag. Maybe this kind of scam was inevitable, he thought, especially once a department started putting so much reliance on record-keeping. Fortunately for him, these early practitioners seemed to be working at it with Stone Age tools. But that would change. Send the cavemen like Maloney off to jail and the next bunch would come at it with sharper tools that left fewer traces.

He spent the rest of his afternoon muddling through his own paperwork in an exhausted daze. Captain Mulhearn then rounded out his day by dispatching him to the furthest corner of the third district, way up on West 83rd Street, in search of a witness in one of Simmons's cases, a fellow who turned out to be out of town.

By then he was wrung out and hungry, and almost desperately in need of the humble comforts of home. He also felt like a lousy dad. Miss Eileen had been on the job for only a few days, and already he was asking her to care for Olivia for loads of extra hours. That morning she'd had to catch a bus well before dawn, and, as if that wasn't bad enough, Cain hadn't been around to see Olivia off for her first day at her new school. His daughter hadn't been at all thrilled about the idea of heading off to a strange classroom full of unfamiliar faces.

He made his way wearily through the crowds on the subway platform for the ride downtown. Finally reaching his stop, he rushed up from the tunnel only to end up with his face practically pressed against the backs of two women just in front, close enough to smell the damp wool of their skirts, the laundered cotton of their blouses. Behind him, two brisk men in suits pressed closer as the people in front of him made way for an onrush of people coming down the steps. For a moment everyone came to a halt. Cain, breathless and confined, flashed on Danziger's account from the day before, with its haunting tales of crowded boxcars, human cattle struggling to survive.

Finally the crowd surged upward again, and he spilled into the open air with a palpable sense of release before colliding with a newsboy who shouted in his face.

“Watch where you're going, mister!”

Other faces came at him too fast to process—an older woman with an elegant strand of pearls, a down-and-outer smelling of urine, a grocer in his smock, brow gleaming with perspiration as he swept the sidewalk in front of his store. Then, from out of the blue, he sensed eyes upon him, just as he'd done the day before while walking with Olivia. The eerie sensation triggered a rush of blood to the brain, a heightened awareness. Once again he felt a cold spot like a target in the middle of his back.

He stopped abruptly, causing two people to bump him from behind. He wheeled around almost drunkenly, looking in several directions at once, but saw nothing suspicious. No Archer. No Maloney or Steele or Rose. No thugs belonging to Espy and Lanza. The list of would-be stalkers was growing longer by the day. Maybe that in itself was enough to trigger these episodes.

Cain maintained his watchful pose a moment longer. A gust of steam from a hot dog wagon blew through him like a spirit, but no one seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to him, aside from the frowning pedestrians forced to weave around him on the sidewalk.

Nerves, then. Or exhaustion. Had to be. Yet, he still felt a deep sense of relief as he reached his building, where the big door swung open courtesy of Pete, the night doorman.

“Evening, Mr. Cain. I've been asked to inform you that your daughter and Miss Eileen are at the park, and will soon return.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

He took the steps two at a time, trying to outrun something he still couldn't identify. Closing the door behind him, he finally experienced the relief of solitude. Deep breath, with sweat cooling on his back. He went to the refrigerator, opened a bottle of beer, and swallowed greedily as he stood in the kitchen. Noises filtered in through the window—a police whistle, a car horn, the mumbling hubbub of the crowd. Not peace, really, but the best he could do under the circumstances. He would've gladly paid a few dollars to hear the lullaby of crickets, the fluted call of a wood thrush, with a whiff of honeysuckle for good measure.

Or maybe what he needed instead was a sympathetic ear, a warm body. He picked up the phone, dialed the number. A woman with a heavy accent answered, and it took a few tries to get her to understand who he was asking for on the communal phone. Moments later, Beryl answered.

“I've been meaning to get back in touch,” he said. “I've been hoping you don't think my house is too crowded for a return visit.”

“As long as Olivia doesn't mind.”

“Oh, I think she'll like you. Although, well…”

“You're not so sure about the sleeping arrangements?”

He was glad she couldn't see him blush. He hadn't intended to cross into that territory, or not now, but he should have known Beryl would get right to the point.

“You can always visit me here, you know. I'm wouldn't be upset if you didn't stay for the night.”

“Mostly I just wanted to talk about my day.”

“The way you sound, it must have been pretty terrible.”

“Pretty strange, that's for sure. And way too long.”

“Would you like to meet for a drink?”

Behind him, the doorknob rattled. Olivia's footsteps clattered across the floor. He turned with an awkward smile, then melted when he saw her eager face. What was he doing, acting like a sneak on the phone? His daughter was home from her first day of school, no doubt with her own tales to tell. Olivia launched herself toward him, and he had to set the receiver on the kitchen table in order to catch her in his arms. She smelled like grass stains and playground sand, more of a little girl than an adolescent, at least for the moment.

“Hello? Are you there?”

Beryl's voice called faintly from the receiver. Olivia turned alertly toward the phone.

“Is that Mommy?”

“No, sweetie. A friend.”

“Oh.”

Her face fell.

Eileen, standing by the door, lowered her head. Cain picked up the receiver.

“Something's come up.”

“So I heard. I should let you go.”

He'd handled that poorly. “I guess that…” he began, trying to choose the right words until he realized the line was dead. He turned to see Eileen watching him closely, and wondered how long it would be before Harris Euston knew everything that had just happened.

“The girl's had a bite to eat, sir, begging your pardon. Wasn't sure when you'd be arriving, so I figured it was safer that way.”

“Thanks, Eileen. And how was the park?”