2 Grand Delusion (15 page)

17

Dave was right, hypothetically it could have been anyone. But Cole was definitely the guy with the motive. To quote that famous old 70s proverb,
Follow the money
. Who benefited the most from that bullet hole in Pop's neck?

Manny Cole.

The way Dave and I estimated it, tallying up figures on a page from Madeline's phone message pad, Pop was clearing at least five hundred bucks a week from his various West Side hustles: a hundred from Zapper and Dale; a hundred apiece from his other two drug dealer tenants; a hundred from his prostitutes; and a hundred from his tenants that sold stolen goods or whatever it was they did. Add to this any cash Pop was scamming from Arcturus, plus other sleazy deals we might not be aware of, and who knows? The weekly take could easily go as high as a grand.

Which worked out to between twenty-six and fifty-two grand a year. Not bad. Since it was tax free, even the low end would just about double a Saratoga cop's regular salary.

Was it enough to kill for? I'd have to study up on Cole's finances, see if he was having trouble paying off a mortgage or something.

One thing I did know: The timing fit perfectly. One and a half months ago, according to Dave, Cole was assigned to weekend foot patrols on the West Side. And he was probably asked, either subtly or in so many words, to look the other way from Pop's tenants' activities.

So what did Cole do? No doubt he did what any red-blooded American would do: He asked for a piece.

But let's say Pop refused. Cole is outraged—hey, this is no way for one cop to treat another. So he comes at Pop again, this time
demanding
a piece. Pop again refuses, and now the tempers and testosterone get really out of hand. The two men argue, they come to blows, Pop executes one of his North Korean torture maneuvers . . .

And in the heat and hormones of the moment, Cole shoots Pop with his own gun.

Having experienced both cops' violent streaks at first hand, this scenario was easy for me to believe.

Unfortunately, believing in Cole's guilt and proving it were two very different things. I could leave this whole mass of confusion to whatever private investigator Malcolm hired, but to quote another old chestnut: If you want something done right, you better do it yourself.

Dave and I agreed that for my next move, I should get evidence that Cole took over Pop's "accounts" after Pop was killed. That would establish a murder motive for Cole.

With motive in hand, Malcolm and I could go to the chief and demand that he widen the murder investigation to include Cole as a suspect. If the chief said no, we'd threaten to air out his department's dirty linen with good old Judy at the newspaper. (Which reminded me: I better talk to her and make sure she didn't open that envelope I'd FedExed her until I gave her the okay.)

Even if the chief refused to budge, and I was put on trial, it sure would be nice to have an alternative murder theory to present to the jury. Especially if they were "poisoned."

But I'd have to do all my requisite evidence-gathering without any help from Dave. Not surprisingly, he showed zilch enthusiasm for helping me bust a fellow cop. "Come on, bro," I pleaded. "Here I set you up with Madeline, the second most beautiful woman in the world, and you still won't help me?"

"Bet your ass. I've helped you way too much already."

So I set off on my mission alone. First, though, I touched base at home. It was getting to be a routine: check in with my traumatized family to let them know Daddy is still alive and at large.

This time I'd conscientiously left Andrea a note that I was going out for a couple of hours and I'd be back before breakfast. But that still hadn't been enough to assuage my boys' fears. As I came up the stairs to our bedroom, I heard Raphael saying, "Mommy, maybe we should send out a church party"—
church party?—
and Leonardo was fretting, "Did they revoke him back to jail?"

I walked through the door calling out "Hey, guys!", and they immediately jumped all over me like starved puppies.

After we spent a half hour wrestling and tickling each other, and another half hour chowing down on the homemade waffles that they ordered me to prepare for them, Andrea and the kids piled into the minivan and headed for their various Tuesday morning destinations. Meanwhile I went to the shed in our backyard to get my bicycle, so I could head over to the
Daily Saratogian
to see Judy.

Biking to the
Daily Saratogian
turned out to be something of an adventure. Zapper's murder had brought the TV vans back in full force this morning. It must have been a slow weekend for news, because the reporters were in a surly mood. They were stubbornly insistent on getting a comment from me, holding their cameras and microphones so close they bumped into my nose. I tried to get up a head of steam on my bike so I could escape them. But they were crowding me so much that I couldn't get my wheels clear.

Finally I tried the oldest trick in the book. "Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, "if you'll all give me some room, I have a statement to make." So they all backed up a few yards to give me room—and I jammed my feet down hard on the pedals and took off. By the time they got back into their vans and started following me, I was gone.

The
Daily Saratogian
building is a block off Broadway, across the street from the police station entrance at City Hall. I practically broke out in hives as I pedaled past the entrance, but I made it by there without any cops dragging me inside and attacking me.

I quickly locked my bike and scooted inside the newspaper office, eager to get out of sight of the police station. I slipped past a couple of receptionists who were busy selecting doughnut holes from a Dunkin Donuts box, and came to Judy's corner office.

Through her plate glass window I saw Judy sitting at her desk, biting her nails as she stared fretfully at a familiar large brown envelope. She was eyeing my handwriting on the cover—
to be opened in the event
of my death
—and trying to decide whether to go ahead and open it anyway.

Finally her jittery fingers reached for the envelope clasp and pried it open. Then she closed it, then opened it again. She was desperate to look inside, but knew she'd feel like a sleaze if she did. It was fun to watch, like seeing Eve and the Apple, take two. Pandora redux.

Then at last Judy made a decision. She opened her desk drawer, flung the envelope inside, and slammed the drawer shut with an air of finality.

So Judy had actually managed to resist temptation. Eve and Pandora would have been impressed—

But then Judy opened the drawer back up and took the envelope out again. She fiddled with the clasp and chewed at her bottom lip so hard I was afraid it would bleed, as she went through her agonized mental convolutions all over again. I took pity on her and opened the door quietly. "Hi, there," I said.

"Aauuh!"
she screamed, jumping startled out of her chair. "Jesus H.," she said reproachfully as she caught her breath, "don't give me a heart attack."

"Just wanted to let you know I'm not dead," I said, gesturing at the envelope.

"Jake, how could you
do
this to me? I'm a newspaperman, for God's sake—"

"You mean newspaper
woman
."

"You can't expect me to just sit on something like this and not even
read
it."

I sat down. "Actually, if I were you, I'd stick that envelope in my bottom drawer and not mention it to anyone. Two people have been killed already."

She gulped and hid the envelope away. "Thanks for the tip."

"Jude, I'm sorry to get you involved, but I really need you to do some things for me."

She eyed me dubiously. "Like what?"

Ignoring her lack of zeal, I plowed on. "There's a nine-year-old kid I know who might need an emergency place to stay. He's a good kid. You think you could play hostess, just for a little while?"

I was counting that Judy's soft spot for needy kids, which I knew about from her work with the Literacy Volunteers, would cause her to say yes. And I was right. "I guess so," she said grudgingly. "Who's the kid?"

"I'd rather not say right now. But I'll let you know. The second thing is, I'm looking for photographs of Pop Doyle and a cop named Manny Cole."

"Yeah, I know Cole. What's he got to do with this?"

"I'll tell you when I'm ready. And while you're at it, I need a list of addresses for all the properties Pop owned on the West Side. I'd go to City Hall for the info myself, but I break into a cold sweat whenever I go near the place."

"Jake, what are you up to
now?
Does Andrea know?"

I stood up. "Enough questions, okay? Look, I know you think I'm a killer, but how about helping me anyway, just for old times' sake."

Judy stood up too, gazing at me steadily. "I'm not sure you're a killer, but you're definitely a damn fool. Stay here," she told me, and went out. Half an hour later she came back with the photographs, along with addresses for the seven slummy houses that Pop owned. She also had addresses for three other West Side buildings that Pop owned a piece of: the Grand Hotel and two light industrial buildings.

"And here's a whole bunch of other stuff too, like partnership and incorporation papers," Judy said, handing them over to me. "I was talking to the lady in the city clerk's office, and somehow she figured out you were the person I was getting stuff for, and she got real helpful all of a sudden. She said to say hi."

That must be the gray-haired lady who'd gotten me the records for 107 Elm on the day of the zoning hearing. Between her and Dave's mom, I seemed to have a way with older women. I should mention that to Malcolm when it came time to pick a jury.

I shuffled randomly through the various papers, not expecting to find anything useful, when something caught my eye: the list of partners for the purchase of the Grand Hotel building. I did a serious double take.

The partners included Paul "Pop" Doyle; John Walsh, the chief; William Foxwell, the lieutenant; Douglas Beach, a.k.a. Young Crewcut; a couple of names I didn't recognize—

And
Dave Mackerel
.

My friendly neighborhood cop.

What the hell was going on here? I thought Dave hated these guys, especially Pop.

"Is something wrong?" Judy asked me, registering the bafflement on my face.

I didn't answer. My mind was racing. Dave had told me about Pop's real estate holdings, but he never mentioned the Grand Hotel. And he certainly never mentioned that he and Pop were partners. Why had he hidden that?

And what else was he hiding? I thought back to when Pop was still alive and I asked Dave to help me fight him, but he refused. Was it because Dave, as the only cop who lived on the West Side, was getting a piece of Pop's action himself?

I must have looked pale or something, because Judy asked me, "Jake, do you need to sit down?"

I shook my head and stared unseeing at the partnership papers, trying to get a grip. What exactly was I suspecting Dave of? After all, he had been helping me this whole time . . . hadn't he?

Actually, no, he hadn't. He was the guy who busted me in the first place. And come to think of it, when Pop got shot in the backyard of 107 at one
a.m
., Dave suddenly appeared out of nowhere—even though he'd told me once that he slept in the rear of his house and never heard noises from 107.

An icy feeling spread through me. I had to face it. I was suspecting Dave of murder.

But what would be his motive? Did Pop rip him off somehow in their dealings? Or had Dave killed Pop in a moment of blinding fury because Pop was beating the crap out of him?

But then why had he played along with me all this time, instead of just feeding me to the wolves? Maybe his good buddy routine was just a camouflage. Had he just been
acting
helpful, to keep me from suspecting him of murder?

Judy interrupted my frenzied thoughts. "Listen, I do need to get back to work soon. I have a meeting . . ."

I came back to myself. "Sure, Judy, thanks. Appreciate your help." I walked out of her office, still dazed.

As I headed down the steps of the
Daily Saratogian
and started to unlock my bike, two cops came out of the police station laughing. I tried to put on my bike helmet before they recognized me, but they glanced over just in time, and their laughter died. They gave me hard stares, and then one of them took out his nightstick and started tapping his hand with it, trying to unnerve me.

He succeeded. My hands shook so badly I couldn't unlock my Master lock. I did the combination three times, but I must have been getting the numbers wrong somehow, because it wouldn't open no matter how hard I yanked at it.

The cops watched me struggling helplessly with my lock and began laughing again. The one with the nightstick jeered, "Need some help, pal?" and the other one slapped his thigh and screeched like a hyena, as if it was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard.