Bodies in Winter (11 page)

What would I do if I was one of the co-conspirators, say the man at the top of the pyramid, and I learned that Lodge was coming after me? What would I do to protect myself? What risks would I take? What level of fear would Lodge inspire, this large violent man who spent his days in Attica's weight yards?

The death of the Broom was one answer to those questions. Ellen Lodge and Pete Jarazelsky provided two more answers. Like Szarek, they were weak links, points at which a good detective places the splitting wedge before driving it home. Nobody would rely on them unless they were desperate.

‘Eva Hinckle called this morning,' Adele said, ‘to report her newly surfaced memory. She was very definite. The ski cap rode up and she saw the back of the driver's neck. He was black.'

‘Which proves what? Even if she's right?'

‘Don't you read the newspapers, Corbin? It proves that DuWayne Spott and his army of ghetto gangsters killed David Lodge.'

Lieutenant Bill Sarney was a compulsive organizer and the walls of his office were dominated by a series of cork boards. As Adele and I sat before his desk the following morning, I found myself caught up in the notes and departmental notices pinned to the boards. What struck me was that the paperwork was absolutely square to the frame and the colored pins holding them had been placed at uniform heights.

‘Alright, guys,' Sarney declared once we were seated. ‘What's up?'

‘Nothing you don't already know, lou,' I replied. ‘Our day's just gettin' started.'

Sarney's tone was supremely casual, and his face gave nothing away. ‘Ah, but that's the point, Harry. I want to know what you're going to do with your day. That's why I asked you to stop in.'

Adele handed Sarney a printed document, Ellen Lodge's phone records, which Adele had taken off the computer a few minutes before Sarney called us into his office. Two days ago, she pointed out, at 9:01 a.m., an incoming call from a pay phone was taken by someone at the Lodge residence. That didn't surprise me; as a cop's wife, Ellen Lodge would expect us to check her records. But a second, outgoing call did catch me off-guard. It was made to a cell phone at 9:06 and lasted a mere nine seconds.

‘My partner and I think,' Adele told Sarney, ‘that we should begin with another visit to Ellen Lodge. We can ask her about the second call and return her husband's personal effects at the same time.'

‘Fine,' Sarney replied without hesitation. ‘What else?'

‘Dante Russo. He was Lodge's partner on the night Spott was killed. We think he should be interviewed.'

‘You know who Russo is?' When neither of us jumped to reply, Sarney nodded once, then continued. ‘Russo is the PBA's Trustee for Brooklyn North. He knows everybody. So, please, unless you have enough evidence to secure an arrest warrant, don't get in his face.'

The Patrolman's Benevolent Association represents every uniformed cop in New York City below the rank of sergeant, some 27,000 in all. That they have clout – in city and state government as well as with the job – goes without saying. Dante Russo was a Trustee, one of only twelve. This gave him clout within the PBA.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would've made a call to an old partner now working in the personnel bureau and asked him for a peek at Russo's service file. But that wasn't going to happen here. We were going to play by the rules and that was all she wrote.

TWELVE

I
t was snowing when Adele and I left the precinct to re-interview Ellen Lodge. The snowflakes, large and virtually weightless, fell out of a pewter sky, drifting ever so slightly as they made their way to an already-covered sidewalk. The snow covered the streets and the radio cars parked at the curb as well. It softened the right angles of the shotgun tenements, gathering in the window frames, and rounded the knobby branches of Marino's Maple, planted three decades before to honor an officer slain in the line of duty.

When I finally took a step, the snow floated up, playful as baby powder, then settled back on the supple leather of my tasseled loafer where it proceeded to melt. ‘How bad is this supposed to be?' I asked Adele.

‘You didn't check the weather before you left home?'

‘I barely had time to shave.'

‘Well, don't worry, it's only a snow shower. It'll be sunny by noon.'

Adele got busy on her cell phone while I drove the few blocks to Ellen Lodge's home. Like every PBA trustee, Dante Russo would no longer wear a uniform and have no assigned duties. His job was to move from precinct to precinct, conferring with delegates, handling union-related problems as they arose.

Adele's first call went to PBA headquarters where she was told that Russo still worked out of the Eight-Three and she should contact the desk lieutenant. From the desk lieutenant, she was shuttled to the precinct's executive officer, then to the community affairs officer, before Dante Russo finally came on the phone.

I half-expected Russo to make some excuse – if he wished, he could stall us for weeks – but after a brief conversation Adele hung up.

‘So, that's that,' she said. ‘Officer Russo will receive us at eleven.'

‘Guess he's not afraid of us.'

‘Must be the Jarazelsky interview.'

Adele was referring to a phone call Pete Jarazelsky had made from prison the night before. The call was to Christian Barrett, a talk-radio host who'd once declared that high rates of infant mortality among black and Latino Americans was God's way of cleansing the ghettos. Ever the good soldier, Jarazelsky told Barrett that fear of assassination by former associates of Clarence Spott, including his brother, DuWayne, had been uppermost in David Lodge's mind on the day he walked out of prison.

The story was too big to be contained, coming as it did after Ellen Lodge's
New York Times
interview. Every station had run with it on the morning news, every newspaper as well.

‘We're being out-flanked,' Adele observed as I pulled to the curb in front of Ellen Lodge's house. ‘You know that.'

‘I know it's worse than that. The final nail in DuWayne Spott's coffin is about to be hammered home.'

‘And after that you're off the hook?'

‘I was never on the hook, Adele, because I never took the bait. You want to do justice. I know that, partner. And I'm even willing to admit there's nothing more satisfying in life than closing a cell door behind a violent predator. But crime goes on. Like death and taxes.'

I managed to get my left foot out of the car before Adele spoke up. ‘The detectives are small and the job is big. Know thy place.'

‘That's right, Adele. In the real world, the cockroach never crushes the shoe.'

‘The cockroach just crawls into its hole.'

Funny thing about partners. After a while, they get to know each other so well, they even know when to shut up. That I wasn't going to get in the last word was a foregone conclusion.

I expected to find Ellen Lodge frantically coping with her toddlers, but there were no children in the rooms through which she led us, only games and mats and tiny tables stacked against the walls as though awaiting collection. Which, in fact, they were.

‘The parents pulled their kids,' she told us. ‘After what happened, you can't fault 'em. I'm waitin' for Goodwill to come and pick up the junk.'

Though her tone was edged with defiance, Ellen Lodge's gray eyes seemed weary to me, weary and disappointed. I wondered if she'd expected her husband's death to lift a burden, only to find the weight on her shoulders increased many times. I wondered, too, if I might take advantage of her vulnerable state, if I might exploit her misery. Sarney had ordered us to go easy on Dante Russo. He hadn't said anything about Ellen Lodge. She was in play.

Ellen led us across the lower floor of the house, then up a staircase to a sitting room where she dropped into an armchair. The chair and a matching couch were upholstered in an elaborate pattern of intersecting vines and blossoms. The colors were vivid, especially the scarlet roses which matched the ruffled curtains on the bay window. I stood there for a moment, taking it in, before deciding that the room was far too bright for Ellen Lodge. It was a room that spoke to the woman she wished to be. Or, perhaps, to a woman she once was.

Adele and I took seats on opposite ends of the couch. I was going to conduct the interview and I didn't want my subject distracted. First, I took Ellen Lodge over old ground. Had any memories surfaced? Anything about her husband's immediate plans? Anything from his letters? How about his demeanor when he left the house?

The last question finally brought a response more complex than a simple shake of the head. In her
Times
interview she'd described her husband as ‘wired'.

‘Well, I don't know exactly. I mean he, like, ran upstairs, grabbed his coat and tore outta here, so you gotta figure somethin' was botherin' him.'

I might have reminded her that her original description of David Lodge's movements didn't include running, grabbing or tearing, but I let it go. Instead, I asked about the phone call that inspired her husband's agitation. Again, she told me that she hadn't recognized the voice, that she was only sure it belonged to a man who didn't have a foreign accent.

‘I was in such a rush. You know, with the kids. I wasn't payin' that much attention. In fact, for all I know, the guy coulda been black.'

Score one for Ellen Lodge.

‘You told us the call to your husband came in around nine o'clock,' I continued. ‘How close to nine would that be?'

‘Within a few minutes either way.'

I opened my jacket, plucked Ellen's phone records from the inner pocket, then carried them over to her chair. When I knelt down, my face was within arm's length of hers. ‘Would this be the call, this one at 9:01?'

‘I'd say so.'

‘Now what about this one at 9:06? It went to a cell phone and lasted only a few seconds. I was wondering what that call was about.'

Lying to somebody on the other side of the room is one thing; lying to somebody two feet away is another. Though Ellen managed to deliver her lines, she couldn't look me in the eye.

‘I was callin' a girlfriend,' she declared, ‘but I got a wrong number. I didn't have the time to re-dial.'

I returned to my seat on the couch, then took a moment to re-fold the document and slide it into my jacket pocket. I was stalling for time as I tried to decide whether or not to go in hard. When I looked up, Ellen Lodge was staring at me.

‘So,' I said, ‘the girlfriend you were trying to reach, her number must have been very similar to the number you called, right?'

I watched her stiffen and knew any direct assault on her story would result in a display of defiance; that I'd only strengthen her resolve. Thus, when she told me she couldn't recall her friend's number offhand, that she'd have to look it up, I simply changed the subject.

‘You remember Tony Szarek, the cop they called the Broom?' I asked. ‘He was gonna testify that he left your husband alone with Clarence Spott.'

‘Sure, how could I forget? What about him?'

‘Szarek's dead. Two weeks ago. The medical examiner said “probable suicide”, only there wasn't any note. But then again, Szarek's blood alcohol level was four times the legal limit, so maybe he was too drunk to hold a pencil. Or maybe he was passed out. Of course, if he was passed out it's hard to see how he could shoot himself, but you never know. The Broom, he put your husband alone with the prisoner. I tell ya, when I heard he was dead, I took it hard. He was the first guy I wanted to talk with, Ellen. After you, of course.'

I glanced at Adele, then nodded. She took a manila envelope from her bag and passed it over. The envelope contained David Lodge's personal effects, but I didn't open it right away. Instead, I held it in my lap as I continued to address Ellen.

‘You know what I keep thinking?'

‘No, what?'

‘I keep thinking that if your husband believed he was innocent, a conversation with Tony Szarek would have been prominent on his to-do list. Definitely.' I paused long enough to laugh and shake my head. ‘Imagine a guy like David Lodge confronting a miserable drunk like Tony Szarek. How long before the Broom rolled over? An hour? A minute? A second?'

Ellen Lodge folded her arms across her chest. ‘What's this have to do with me?'

‘Probably nothing,' I admitted, ‘but did you know your husband was friendly with the prison psychiatrist?'

Ellen ran the fingers of her right hand through her short hair, her eyes closing momentarily as she reviewed her options.

‘No,' she finally said, ‘I didn't.'

‘Funny your husband never mentioned it in his letters, because David used to work in the shrink's office and they were pretty tight. Anyway, the shrink's name is Vencel Nagy and he claims that your husband left prison fully intending to prove his innocence. And not only didn't he fear revenge, he never even mentioned DuWayne Spott's name.'

I stood up and approached Ellen Lodge again, only this time I remained standing. At six-three, I towered over her.

‘You put yourself out front when you lied to me and my partner,' I told her matter-of-factly. ‘And when you lied to the
New York Times
. Now, maybe everything'll go smoothly; maybe the nightmare will just fade away. But if it doesn't, if there are a few potholes down the road, you gotta figure someone's gonna come lookin' for Ellen Lodge the way they came lookin' for the Broom.'

I took a business card from my shirt pocket and dropped it in her lap. ‘My cell phone number's on the card.'

By this time Adele was standing in the doorway. I took a step toward her, then turned around.

‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot. We just came by to return your husband's personal effects.' I reached into the manila envelope, took out David Lodge's wallet and placed it on a table to Ellen's left. ‘One wallet.' Then I dipped into the envelope again. ‘One Department of Correctional Services photo ID.' Then again. ‘One appointment card with a parole officer named Paris Blake.' Then again. ‘Twenty-two dollars in bills.' Then again. ‘One treasured photograph.'