Bodies in Winter (24 page)

‘The medical examiner called it suicide,' she insisted.

‘You're clinging to a straw. The ME's finding of probable suicide was preliminary. Now that the lab reports are in, the case has been officially reopened.'

I watched Ellen react to the lies, her right knee taking a series of little hops before she brought herself under control. Momentarily, I considered firing off the best shots in my arsenal. But it was still too early and I told her the story of DuWayne Spott instead, recounting the portrait drawn by my witnesses of a hapless addict clinging to the fringes of the criminal underworld. When I finished, I asked Ellen a series of questions.

‘How do you think DuWayne Spott found out when Davy was being released from prison? How do you think he found out where Davy was going to stay? How do you think he found out when Davy was going to leave your house that morning?'

Though I paused between each question, Ellen didn't reply. Finally I asked, ‘Can you see how thin it is? I'm talking about the whole business, Ellen. It can't hold up.'

‘Is there a question here?'

In fact, there was, but as it was purely rhetorical, I simply continued on. ‘That's three murders, Ellen. Tony Szarek, DuWayne Spott, David Lodge. And then there's that phone call you made just as Davy walked out the door. You said it went to a wrong number, that you were calling a friend. Who was the friend? What number did you intend to dial?'

‘I don't even remember any more. That was weeks ago.'

‘Is that what you're prepared to tell a jury? “I dialed the wrong number. I don't remember the number I meant to dial”?' I shook my head. ‘One thing you might want to consider. Any lie told to the police can be used against you. That you didn't know Tony Szarek, for example. Or that you were kicked out of the great cop family. Strange, isn't it, that you're now sharing a financial bed with Justin Whitlock and Dante Russo? And how about your insistence that Davy told you that he'd been targeted by Clarence Spott's crew, but somehow never spoke of his innocence? I've met the prison psychiatrist, by the way. I assure you that he'll make an excellent witness when the time comes.'

But the time hadn't come, a fact of life driven home when the doorbell rang downstairs. Ellen Lodge slid forward, preparing to rise. I reached out to stop her.

‘That's my sister,' she announced. ‘We're havin' dinner together.'

I'd been startled by the bell and was still a bit disoriented, even though I'd told myself, going in, that I wouldn't get the hours I needed to break Ellen Lodge, not on the first go-round. Nevertheless, the timing was all wrong. I wanted Ellen utterly vulnerable, a prey animal exhausted by the chase, but I knew she was feeling almost giddy. The weight was off. She'd escaped. No matter that the points I'd raised still hung above her head, sharp as daggers. For now, for this minute, she'd triumphed.

‘Detective Bentibi,' I said, ‘would you let Ellen's sister know that Ellen will be momentarily delayed?'

The bell rang for a second time, a steady clang that reminded me of the fire bell at PS 34 where I'd spent six miserable years. Adele rose without a word and left the room, the sound of her steps quickly fading as she negotiated the stairs.

‘Am I under arrest?' Ellen finally asked.

‘That's a little too dramatic, don't you think? I just have one more question, anyway. A question and a suggestion.'

‘And which comes first?'

‘The question.'

‘Fire away.'

‘How could you have been stupid enough to allow yourself to become an officer at Greenpoint Carton Supply? I mean, first you have Dante Russo, who was Davy's partner when Clarence Spott was killed. Then you have Justin Whitlock, who gave Dante an alibi. Then you have Tony Szarek, who put Davy alone with the prisoner. All of them involved in Greenpoint Carton? It makes sense, in a way. But you? Ellen Lodge? What the fuck are you doing there?'

I wasn't surprised when Ellen Lodge winced. Nor was I surprised when she recovered. Under ideal circumstances, she might have broken down at that point. By connecting her finances to the very people her husband blamed for his imprisonment, I'd saddled her with a motive for his murder.

‘And what's the advice?' she asked after a minute. ‘Make a full confession?'

‘My advice is to start looking out for yourself before it's too late. In order to do that, you need to accept your vulnerability. I know Dante told you it was all over, that the case was closed. But that's not what's happening. No more than Tony Szarek's death is going down as a suicide.'

‘That's it?'

‘No, I want you to realize that you're in danger, that another murder doesn't mean anything at this point, that you're the weakest link in the chain, that you can't protect yourself.'

‘And the cops will protect me?' She waved off my confirming nod. ‘Protect me in return for exactly what, detective? For a full confession? Well, excuse me if I point out that we're goin' around in circles.'

The breeze suddenly died out and the curtains dropped into place before the window. Ellen was running a finger over the raised edges of a small embroidered rose on the arm of her chair. Though she refused to look at me, I could feel the anger and resentment building again. I had maybe ten seconds before the dam burst.

‘It all depends on how it happened,' I explained. ‘If you didn't know Davy was gonna be clipped when you made that phone call, if maybe you thought he was just gonna be spoken to, then you're a double victim. You lost your husband and you were set up to take the heat for his murder. Hell, you might even escape prosecution altogether.'

Ellen shot to her feet and pushed past me. I let her go, satisfied that I'd done the best I could under difficult circumstances. I was still congratulating myself when she marched back across the room, stopping two feet away from my chest. Ellen was a small woman and she had to crane her head back to glare up at me. She wasn't intimidated, though. She was pissed.

‘Tell me something, detective. You know what Davy was like on the street. You've listened to all the stories. So, do you think David Lodge kept his hands to himself when he came home at night?' She pointed at a small, crescent-shaped scar partially concealed by the hair covering her right temple. ‘I got scars from Davy. I got a shoulder that dislocates once a month. I got fractured ribs. And don't tell me I should've walked out, not unless you know what the barrel of a gun tastes like.' She grinned, a parting of her lips not far removed from a snarl. ‘Do you know what gun metal tastes like? Do you? It's sour, detective, and it makes your fillings tingle.'

By this time, she was jabbing me with her finger. I didn't protest. The interview was over and I knew the effort would cost her in the long run. Besides, I wasn't the good guy here. By targeting Ellen Lodge, I was definitely putting her life at risk.

‘I was seventeen when I met Davy. He was twenty-three and already a cop. I felt so safe in his arms, like nothing bad could ever happen to me. Stupid, right? We weren't even married a year before he started hitting the bottle and hitting me, too. Answer me this, detective, what's the penalty for enslavement? What's the penalty for taking someone's whole life away from them? Wasn't I entitled to the same dreams as anybody else?'

She stopped there, her whole body quivering with tension. When I didn't respond, she said, ‘As far as I'm concerned, David Lodge got exactly what he deserved. No matter who actually killed him.'

THIRTY-ONE

A
dele waited patiently while I checked the car, smacking my palm against the windows, opening doors then jumping back. If she thought my display of anxiety amusing, she kept it to herself, entering the car without hesitation when I gave the all-clear. Though it was past dark, the temperature seemed to be rising and I kept the window lowered as I pulled away from the curb.

‘You don't have to do this,' I said. ‘You know that, right?'

‘It was my suggestion.'

‘True enough, but you still don't have to.'

She turned to face me, the smile on her face, as far as I could tell, entirely genuine. Adele was looking forward to the encounter and I wasn't really surprised. We were going to Sparkle's, to confront the lies being spread by the PBA. And though the odds against either of us gaining from the confrontation were very steep, Adele's need for combat was very strong.

Our grand entrance, ten minutes later, was electric. Every eye turned in Adele's direction; Sparkle, herself, appeared to pay homage. It was a little before six, prime time for cop bars, and Sparkle's was fairly crowded. Nydia Santiago was there, along with her main girlfriends, squeezed around a small table against the far wall. At the sight of Adele's damaged face, Nydia's expression hardened and she drew a breath sharp enough to hear across the room. Women cops are very sensitive to the physical dangers that go along with the job. Hardly shocking when they're the most likely to be among the injured if things get out of control on the street.

Far more numerous, the male cops reacted less dramatically. They appraised Adele, their looks vaguely suspicious, then turned to me with reproachful eyes. I was their friend and I'd not only thrown them a curve, I'd greased the ball.

Most human beings have a set of rules they hold dear and cops are no different. The first cop rule is silence. Thou shalt not speak ill of another cop, not to an outsider, not under any circumstances. Call it the blue wall of silence; call it
omerta
, NYPD style.

The silence rule, like all hard-and-fast rules, works better if you don't examine it too closely. By displaying Adele's injuries, we were forcing the cops in the room to open their eyes and they clearly didn't like what they saw.

I followed Adele to the end of the bar where five feet of rail miraculously cleared at our approach. Mike Blair, his expression grim, poured a Dewar's for me, then asked Adele what she was having.

‘A screwdriver,' she announced, ‘and a straw to drink it with.'

‘The straw was overly dramatic,' I said as Mike went off to make Adele's drink. ‘You had a cup of coffee before we left the apartment. I don't remember anything about a straw.'

When Mike Blair returned with Adele's drink, I raised my glass to Sparkle, who beamed down approvingly, then let my eyes sweep the room. Everybody in the bar knew me, but nobody wanted to look in my direction. Not even my good buddy Jack Petro, who refused to make eye contact until I finally called his name and waved him over.

Jack came reluctantly, his conflicted loyalties apparent in his worried look. Which came first? Loyalty to the job? Or loyalty to your best cop buddy? A toughie, no doubt.

‘Harry, Adele,' he said without offering his hand to either of us. ‘How's it goin'?'

‘Not too bad.' I finished my scotch and signaled for another. When Mike Blair carried the bottle to where we stood, I told him, ‘Hang out for a minute, Mike. Adele's got something she wants to tell you.'

Adele launched into her statement before either man could object. ‘David Lodge was a cop. A little on the rough side, but no worse than hundreds of cops who go out on the job every day. He was set up to take the fall for Clarence Spott's death and he was murdered upon discovering the truth.' She paused to sip at her drink, pulling the orange juice and vodka up through the straw before placing the glass on the bar. ‘When you thought David Lodge's killer was a black pimp, you were ready to form a lynch mob. Now I'm telling you that his killers are cops and you turn your backs. I think you are pathetic.'

As overkill was Adele's standard mode of communication, I wasn't surprised by the punch line. But Jack Petro flinched as though slapped, while Mike Blair stood open-mouthed, the Dewar's bottle cradled against his chest. Petro finally broke the silence.

‘This ain't right,' he said to me, echoing Ellen Lodge.

‘What isn't right, Jack? Taking down cop killers? Is that what's not right?' I was much taller than Jack, and in far better shape. When I stepped in close to him, though I hadn't meant to intimidate, he took a step back. ‘The story's gonna come out, no matter what happens to me or my partner, and when it does the job's collective eyes are gonna be blacker than Adele's. That means that you, Jack Petro, when you're out on the street, are gonna feel the public's contempt, you and every other cop. But that's not my fault and it's not my partner's.'

‘What are you telling me, Harry, that you suddenly got religion? Because me and you, we go back a long way and I don't recall you wearin' a halo in the past.'

The question caught me off-guard, a quick jab slipped beneath my glove. But Jack had it backwards. If I'd known what was coming when I got out of bed on the morning David Lodge was murdered, I'd have pulled up the covers and gone back to sleep. As it was, I'd been more than ready to pass the moral buck to my superiors. True, Adele hadn't put a gun to my head, but she'd definitely set the example. I would never have found the courage to butt heads with the job if she hadn't been out there. Nor, truth to tell, would I have gotten very far without the files she'd gathered on her own.

I didn't explain any of that to Jack or Mike, but my attitude softened. ‘Adele got lucky,' I said. ‘Someone came out of her building as she was being attacked and her assailant ran away. But suppose he hadn't been interrupted? What do you think might have happened?' I shook my head. ‘It won't work, Jack. Even if you truly believe the world is better off without the Spott brothers, you can't justify the attack on Adele, not unless you're prepared to stop thinking of yourself as a good guy.'

‘The “good guy” was a little weak, Corbin,' Adele said as we crossed the bar and pushed through the door.

I took a quick glance over my shoulder.
Bye-bye, Sparkle
. ‘I've known Jack for a long time. Trust me, once you get past the cynical attitude, he's a romantic. The rest of them, too. They think they're on the side of the angels.'