Damaged Goods (4 page)

Then he lay still for a moment, supporting his bulk with his knees and elbows, content to feel the impossible hot-wet sensation of her flesh surrounding his. He lay there until she began to move under him, drawing him deeper and deeper. He wanted her to reach out for her own orgasm, to snatch the prize like a thief reaching into a jewelry display case.

Betty, who’d been through this before, let her fingers trail over his ribs, her tongue trail over his throat; she waited until he began to tire, then reached beneath her right thigh, took his testicles in her hand, and squeezed hard enough to flip him onto his back.

The games were over, the foreplay done; they’d been with each other long enough to know it. Sweat dripped from Betty’s breasts onto Moodrow’s chest as she began to move faster, as Moodrow, eager now, rose up to meet her plunging hips. Eventually, their breathing joined as tightly as their bodies, they found a space without separation, when thought itself had drawn down to a small knot of sensation, and they exploded together.

For the next several minutes, neither spoke; they simply lay beside each other, hands clasped, and allowed the sweat coating their bodies to evaporate while they waited for the practical realities to force them into action. Betty moved first. She turned onto her side, ran the backs of her fingers over Moodrow’s cheek, then headed off to the bathroom.

When Moodrow heard the water running in the shower, he leaned back and tried to relax. He was grateful for what they’d just done, happy that he’d been able to give her what the occasion demanded. Each of them knew this separation could last for weeks, even months. The cousins, Betty and Marilyn, had been very close as children, had actually lived together for a brief time. It didn’t take a computer genius to conclude that Betty wouldn’t return as long as Marilyn needed her.

Meanwhile, the intense, throbbing pain in the back of his skull kept reminding him that no matter how good the night, he’d had a very bad day. And the worst of it was that he could easily have done what Landis Security eventually did. There were several computer companies in New York that specialized in providing information to private detectives; he’d known about them, even had a rough idea of their capabilities. But he’d stuck to the paths he’d always walked, burnt that shoe leather, just like he’d been taught by the NYPD sergeant who’d broken him in. Forty years ago.

Maybe, he thought, I should stop taking cases from people who have money. People who disappear and then open bank accounts.

Bank accounts had never been a factor when the job had him chasing down Lower East Side mutts. The mutts didn’t use credit cards, either. At least, not their
own
credit cards. Street criminals left trails of blood, not paper. You ran them down by grabbing their friends, relatives, and coconspirators. By getting information any way you could. By pleading, by trading, or by outright extortion.

Moodrow sat up, let his feet drop over the side of the bed, tried to ignore a sudden burst of pain. Computers are just machines, he told himself, and if I don’t intend to retire, I have to get with the program. It probably won’t be that hard, won’t be like that VCR, which I still can’t program. Or the clock on the microwave, which I still can’t set.

But the problem, he knew, was more basic than his failure to adjust to household technology. He simple couldn’t imagine his six-foot-six-inch frame sitting behind a desk in some adult-education course. Couldn’t imagine himself, at age sixty, raising his hand to answer a question.

“Teacher, teacher, teacher.”

He shoved himself erect, put on a light robe, and headed for the bathroom. The water in the shower had stopped running. Betty would be combing out her hair, dusting herself with powder, squeezing a line of toothpaste onto a worn, red brush. He stopped for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, and let himself think about how much he was going to miss her. They’d been together long enough to know each other’s most obnoxious habits, yet neither—at least, he
hoped
neither—had become bored, much less turned off.

The door opened abruptly and Betty, wrapped in a towel, stood in front of him. He put his arms on her shoulders, looked into her eyes, wanted to tell her to come back soon, not to go at all. But there was no point to it, nothing to be gained. She had to go; it was what he’d do in her place. Besides, on some level he knew that he, with his last relative some fifteen years dead, was actually jealous.

“You get in trouble out there,” he finally said, “you let me know. I’ll be on the next plane.”

Her broad mouth widened into an impish grin. “
You,
Stanley? In Tinseltown?”

“Hey.” He put a finger to her lips. “The kid knows how to adjust. I’ll just grab a pair of Day-Glo, spandex bicycle shorts and be on my way.”

Moodrow was in the shower, trying to keep his bandaged head above the water, when Betty knocked on the door ten minutes later.

“You decent?” she called.

“Never!”

“Praise the Lord.” She pushed the door open, stepped inside. “Leonora called.”

Leonora Higgins, a former FBI agent who’d left the bureau to become an assistant district attorney in Manhattan, was an old friend of Moodrow’s. Not that he was in the habit of associating with FBI agents. Like most career cops, Moodrow both disliked and distrusted the Bureau. But he and Leonora Higgins had once shared a great adventure, an adventure that’d ended with her shooting him.

“She been elected mayor yet?” It was a standing joke among the three of them. Leonora had political ambitions and wasn’t afraid to admit it.

“She’s coming over, Stanley.”

“Now?” Moodrow stepped out of the shower, accepted a towel from Betty, began to dry himself. “I think we should spend the night by ourselves.”

Betty, after checking to make sure the lid was down, sat on the edge of the toilet. She liked to watch her lover perform small, mundane tasks, to observe the daily rituals. Except for a few brief weeks, they’d never lived together, but at the same time, they were rarely apart for more than a day. Neither of them could have explained the why of it; neither cared to. Both had been through enough failures to accept whatever worked.

“Leonora has a job for you.”

“A job that couldn’t wait until tomorrow afternoon?”

“What could I say, Stanley? You know the drill. She was in the neighborhood, she has to be in court all day tomorrow, it won’t take more than half an hour. I couldn’t refuse to give her thirty minutes. Besides, you need the money.”

“The money?” Moodrow snorted. “Betty, if this job isn’t pro bono, I’ll kiss your ass in Macy’s showroom window at high noon on Christmas Eve.”

Betty got up, checked her reflection in the mirror. “Damn, Stanley,” she said as she turned back to him, “for that kind of thrill, I’ll pay you myself.”

A
NY RESIDUAL ANNOYANCE MOODROW
might have been nursing vanished the minute he opened the door. Leonora Higgins was absolutely resplendent in a gold double-breasted jacket with jet-black panels on either side, a black skirt that fell to mid calf, and a scoop-necked silk blouse. Understated gold earrings complemented the amber beads worked into her long jheri curls, while a string of polished black stones—onyx, Moodrow guessed—gleamed quietly against her deep brown throat. If she hadn’t been carrying a briefcase, Moodrow would have taken her for an uptown matron come to the slums in search of a cheap thrill.

“Very nice, Leonora,” Moodrow said as she passed. “But you better dump the curls if you wanna be District Attorney. Unless you plan to campaign by scaring the ethnics. Which strategy would be a big mistake.”

All three understood the comment. It was impossible to win borough-wide office in Manhattan with the support of a single block of voters. Black candidates needed white liberals and a decent piece of the Jewish vote; white candidates had to hold their own in line while appealing to conservative Latinos, to Cubans and South Americans.

“Doesn’t matter,” Leonora said. “Morgenthau’s gonna run again.” Robert Morgenthau was the Manhattan district attorney and would continue to be until he quit or died. “But I’m only forty. I can wait.”

“Forty?” Betty stared at Leonora’s unlined face and shook her head. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Betty, to their mutual surprise, took the question seriously. “It’s more than the beauty, Leonora, though I admit I’d kill for those eyes. It’s the energy, the optimism. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you down.”

Leonora eyed Betty speculatively. “Something’s bothering you, Ms. Haluka. And, being a former FBI agent and an experienced trial lawyer, I think you want to tell me about it.”

Moodrow spent the next twenty minutes pretending to watch the Yankees pound the crap out of their ancient enemies, the Boston Red Sox, while he listened to Betty unburden herself in the kitchen. There was nothing, Moodrow knew, Leonora could say to make it better. Betty had to go through it, accept the pain, and come out the other side. He’d done it often enough in his own life, most recently eight years before when Greta Bloom, who’d been his friend and mentor for almost fifty years, had taken nine months to die of a stroke.

For Betty, of course, the process was just beginning and Moodrow knew she was now more frightened than sorrowful, that she was still hoping for a miracle, hoping some steely-eyed surgeon with the hands of a concert pianist would put Marilyn back together.

“Mr. Moodrow?” Betty was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were moist, her mascara smeared. “The doctor will see you now.”

Moodrow let her pass without saying a word. He waited until the door to their bedroom closed behind her, then entered the kitchen and sat down.

“I know I came at a bad time,” Leonora began.

“This is true.”

Leonora flashed a dazzling smile; a shake of her head rattled the beads worked into her braided hair. “Stanley, you’re a prick.”

“This is also true,” Moodrow conceded. He spun on the chair, took a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet behind him, poured three fingers of bourbon into a glass. “Actually, I gotta thank you. Betty needed to talk about her troubles and what I am, I guess, is good for other things.”

“That’s not true.”

Moodrow waved her off. “For now, it’s true.” He sipped at his drink, let the smoky liquid sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “I don’t wanna be abrupt, Leonora, but as you can see, I got other things on my mind. So, as they say in the hood, whassup?”

“Maybe I ought to come back tomorrow. This is fairly complicated.”

“Leonora, you wouldn’t be sitting here if I was the one who picked up the phone. Meanwhile, Betty invited you, so I can’t very well kick you out.” He spun the glass on the table, looked down at his hands. “Maybe your timing wasn’t so bad, after all. Right now, I’m lookin’ for work.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. You might change your mind before I’m finished.” Higgins took a folder out of her briefcase, laid it on the table. “As you know, for the last several years I’ve been working as an unofficial liaison between the shelters for battered women and the Manhattan DA’s office. I help get orders of protection, push the cops to look for the husbands, talk to sentencing judges. It’s strictly voluntary, of course. I do it on my own time.”

“For the brownie points?” Moodrow couldn’t help interrupting.

“That’s part of it,” Higgins admitted, “but it’s also something I believe in. Most of the women I see have been in abusive relationships for years. They really don’t believe that law enforcement is on their side. Maybe that’s because they all have stories about cops looking the other way.” She paused for a moment to stare into Moodrow’s eyes.

“There’s two sides to that story,” Moodrow responded evenly. “The other side starts with assaulted women who swear out complaints, then don’t show up to testify. I’ve had women attack me when I went to arrest their husbands. Women beaten so bad they should be in a hospital coming off a couch to jump on my back. Most cops, male or female, become cynical after a while. Just like the victims.”

Leonora put her briefcase on the floor. “I didn’t come here to argue, Stanley. Let’s say my job is to confront that cynicism, to encourage both sides.”

“I’ll drink to that.” He raised his glass, drained it, waited a moment for the alcohol to wash through his body before continuing. “And I thank you for not asking what happened to my head.”

“If you’re referring to that bandage on the back of your skull, I was hoping you’d tell me on your own.”

“No chance. I’ve been to confession three times in the last four hours and my sins, as they say, have been forgiven. Let’s get down to business.”

Higgins picked up the file, glanced at it briefly. “Two days ago, the Department of Corrections released a prisoner serving fifteen to life for murder. Seven or eight hours later, this prisoner turned up on the Lower East Side with a partner. They held up a plumbing supply store on Ludlow Street, then went to the apartment of the prisoner’s ex-wife where they assaulted the wife, sexually and physically, then kidnapped the wife’s four-year-old daughter. The wife is in Kings County Hospital. She’s conscious and she wants her child back.”

“Is that where I come in? You want me to find the kid?” Moodrow’s head had finally stopped hurting.

“I don’t think that’s the question you want to ask.”

“You’re right.” Moodrow read Leonora’s expression as a mix of determination and curiosity, her gaze as the gaze of a born prosecutor. The political wanna-be had vanished. “The question I want to ask is real simple. Why
me?
Why not the cops? Why not your old buddies at the Federal Bureau of Incompetence?”

Leonora leaned over the table. “I came to you, Stanley, because, with one exception, you know all the parties. You know the wife, the child, and the perp. You know all their friends and all their associates.”

“Spill it.”

“The wife’s name is Ann Kalkadonis, the daughter’s name is Theresa-Marie, the ex-husband’s name is …”

“Jilly Sappone.” Moodrow noted Leonora’s quick grin. Her large, even teeth reminded him of a closed trap. “How long was he in prison?”