Monkey in the Middle (12 page)

Epstein pulls up in front of the Orchid Hotel some three hours later. He backs into a space marked ‘Loading Zone – No Standing' and shuts off the engine. A liveried doorman rushes up to open the door, but stops abruptly when Epstein displays his lieutenant's shield. Epstein opens his own door and gets out.

‘The security office,' he announces, ‘Marty Benderman.'

Only steps from Central Park and Lincoln Center, the Orchid Hotel is an odd duck in this part of Manhattan, a decidedly second-rate establishment in an environment dominated by four-star behemoths. The doorman's old enough to be Epstein's father. His sky-blue uniform is shiny with age and his gold-piped trousers sag at the knees. Epstein thinks that maybe it's some kind of hotel karma. The Orchid harkens back to the bad old days when this stretch of Broadway was called Needle Park.

‘Through the lobby, to the right, past the elevators.'

Epstein's about to brush by, when the doorman stops him. His smile reveals missing teeth on both sides of his mouth. ‘This ain't about me, is it?'

At another time, Epstein would be tempted to play with the man's head, maybe ask, ‘I don't know, what'd you do?' But he's already three hours late and he walks past the man without speaking.

The Orchid's security office is surprisingly modern and far better organized than OCCB's media room. Three tiers of small monitors reach into the hotel's every public space, the lobby, hallways, bar and restaurant, even the roof. A uniformed security guard sits in front of the monitors. His chair is wheeled and he slides back and forth, maybe trying to impress Billy Boyle and the Flash, who stand behind him.

‘Boss, I think we got the asshole.' Lemlem Takile hits Epstein with his thousand-watter, a smile so disarming that Epstein instinctively returns it, all memory of the nightmare traffic between his Bay Ridge home and mid-town Manhattan suddenly erased.

‘I heard that one already,' Epstein says. He wants to add something more, but Billy Boyle's dark blue eyes stop him cold. ‘Where's this guy Benderman?'

Marty Benderman's office is nicely turned-out. There's lots of dark paneling, a decent rug, even a model sail-boat on a low bookcase. But the man himself is a wreck. Thin as a rail, his hollow cheeks are some unnamed color between yellow and green. When he speaks, he holds a plastic tube to a hole in his throat and his voice sounds even worse than the computer-generated voice on the NYPD's automated phone menu.

‘I can't give you the tape. Sorry. You'll have to get a subpoena.'

Billy Boyle is quick to explain. ‘The hotel's owned by a multinational operating out of Zurich. From what Marty tells me, it takes three months to get permission to buy a broom.'

‘Four,' Benderman croaks.

Epstein shrugs. ‘What do you say we take a look?'

Shot forty minutes after Tony Maguire's death, the tape reveals a bearded man wearing a wide-brimmed fedora walking through the lobby and into the men's room. The fedora is gone when he emerges a short time later, likewise the beard, and there's a package tucked beneath his right arm. Instinctively, Epstein brings his eyes closer to the monitor on Benderman's desk.

The perp is walking with his head down and seems to be using the hotel's patrons to shield himself, but for one brief moment, as he emerges from behind a column, he's in full view of the camera. Predictably, the tape is grainy, with the man's over-exposed face an almost featureless blur. A male Caucasian, late twenties to early thirties, wearing a light-colored jacket without a visible logo. He might be anybody.

The man exits the hotel a few seconds later, but Epstein remains focused on the screen for another moment. Then he steps back. Twenty-four hours to secure and serve the subpoena, another day for the crime lab to enhance the image. Champliss and Radisson will be overjoyed.

‘You speak to the doorman?' he asks Takile.

‘Yeah, he doesn't remember the guy. Too long ago, too many people coming and going.'

Epstein nods, then heads for the hotel's lobby where he phones his contact at the Crime Scene Unit, Tina Metzenbaum. He gets her at home, a one-bedroom apartment in Jackson Heights. ‘Hey, lover,' he says. ‘Did I catch you at a bad time?'

In fact, Epstein and Tina aren't lovers and never have been. But they like to flirt and Tina says, ‘Actually, my girlfriend just left.'

‘Girlfriend?'

‘The one with the tattoos. You wanna spring for the tape?'

‘You toss in the video with the dwarf and I'll sign over my pension.'

Tina laughs on cue, then says, ‘So, what's up, Solly?'

‘The DNA thing you mentioned the other day. How did that turn out?'

‘Nix on human DNA. Not enough material. But we'll get mitochondrial DNA for sure.'

Epstein knows two things about mitochondria. They live inside human cells and they have their own DNA. But the rest of it, especially the use of mitochondrial DNA as evidence, is hazy to him.

‘Refresh me,' he says.

‘Human DNA is a mix of genes inherited from both parents, but mitochondria come entirely from the mother. You understand? Every individual in the female line inherits mitochondria with the same DNA.'

‘That could be a lot of people.'

‘Bothers and sisters, first and second cousins, aunts and uncles. But if you can eliminate family members, the odds against any two unrelated individuals sharing the same mitochondrial DNA are roughly five thousand to one.'

Sixteen

E
pstein's thinking, more and more, that Tony Maguire's killer will soon be identified. This is a big change and requires a serious adjustment to his strategy. His strategy for personal survival. But at the same time, Epstein's judgment is clouded by a swelling resentment. The incident in Macy's should never have happened. Showboating was what it was, a bush league play that elevated the perp from a bit player to public enemy number one. And what was the point? There was no rush. Maguire might have been eliminated a day or two later without any loss to the overall operation.

War is deception? Fine, but so is flying under the NYPD's (not to mention the New York media's) radar screen.

Ever dutiful nevertheless, Epstein reports the mitochondrial DNA evidence and the new video to Champliss within minutes of returning to headquarters. ‘Right now, the video's too grainy for an ID, but I'm hoping the lab rats can spruce it up. Either way, you can take it to the public.'

Champliss sniffs. To indicate disdain? Apparently not, because he says, ‘You bust this asshole, nobody's going to forget. I promise you that. Christmas? Macy's? The perp might as well have spit in the commissioner's face.'

Duty done and congratulations accepted, Epstein returns to Marty Benderman's office. He thanks Benderman, assuring him that a subpoena will be served tomorrow morning. Benderman nods once, then goes into his desk drawer for a long fat cigar. Epstein watches in disbelief, thinking that Benderman's about to jam the cigar into the hole in his throat. But the Hotel Orchid's security chief merely runs the cigar under his nose.

‘I was on the job for twenty years,' he declares. ‘If it was up to me, you'd walk out of here with the tape in your pocket.'

Epstein brings his partner home for dinner. He makes a phone call on the way, to Sofia, asking which she'd prefer, Chinese, Japanese, Italian or Indian. He's hoping she won't ask for mandongo soup, a Puerto Rican specialty that contains tripe and brains among its many dubious ingredients, and he's pleased when she announces a craving for lamb dupiaz and a roti stuffed with spiced potatoes. Sofia isn't all that happy when Billy Boyle walks through the door, nor when Epstein tells her that his day is far from done. He'll be leaving again right after dinner and won't be home until late.

‘We're this close.' He spreads his fingers an inch apart. ‘I'm hoping to wrap the case up before you go into labor. You know, feather in the cap, credit where credit is due.' He goes on to tell Sofia about the new video tape, finally adding, ‘Checking surveillance cameras around Columbus Circle was my idea.'

Billy Boyle observes this bit of braggadocio without changing expression. A veteran of the first Iraq war, he made the singular mistake of volunteering for the reserves after his discharge from the Marine Corps. He didn't complain when he was called to active duty in Iraq II, but he came home more taciturn than ever.

After dinner and coffee – Bustelo, hot and super-strong – Epstein and Billy Boyle head for Astoria, with Billy driving. This is the second time Epstein has crossed Brooklyn and the traffic isn't any lighter. From the Belt to the Gowanus to the BQE and over the Kosciusko Bridge, they have to fight for every mile. Christmas shoppers, most likely, but Epstein's thoughts are anything but charitable. And given this particular errand, maybe that's for the best.

Billy Boyle's edging Epstein's Toyota past an accident when Epstein tries to call Dave Flannery. The Flab doesn't answer and Epstein hangs up without leaving a message. There's a distinct possibility that Flannery's dead, but Epstein isn't overly concerned. Flannery was a marked man before Epstein spoke to Paulie Margarine. All the nonsense about a massacre at Toufiq's birthday party was a set-up, pure and simple. According to Epstein's long-time snitch, Fouad Birou, as well as the newly-acquired Ibrahim El-Shaer, not only is Toufiq's birthday in August, he isn't in New York. Epstein didn't know that when he confronted Paulie Margarine, but still . . .

Epstein glances at his watch as Billy Boyle eases the Toyota into a parking space before a non-descript apartment house on Newton Avenue. Eight stories of grimy yellow brick, the building occupies most of the block. Epstein knows, even before the super let's them in, that he'll find two elevators, one on either side of the building, and two stairways. He leads Billy Boyle up one of these stairways, to the third floor and apartment 3G. A handwritten sign greets them:
Jerry, I'm in the basement, in the laundry room. Come down and I'll give you the key. Carter.

Billy Boyle grunts. Pleased to know that Carter resides at this address? Or annoyed because the man isn't home? Epstein isn't sure. He looks down at the far end of the hall where three kids play with a toy fire truck. Their laughter echoes in the confined space and Carter watches them for a moment, thinking that this is their time, three days before Christmas. They seem barely able to contain themselves, which is most likely why they were encouraged to play in the hall.

‘What I'll do is go down to the basement, see if he's there,' Epstein says.

‘We should both go,' Boyle responds. ‘We're not talkin' about some pussy here.' For Billy Boyle, this is almost a speech.

‘There are two elevators and two sets of stairs. Suppose we pass him? Suppose one of those kids tells him that two strangers were knockin' on his door? We lose the element of surprise, we got nothin'.'

‘Then let me go.'

Epstein shakes his head. He's hoping to keep the initial contact low-key. ‘Wait here. If I need you, I'll speed-dial your cell. You hear it ring and there's nobody on the other end, come running.'

Billy Boyle's grunt is lost on Epstein, who heads for the stairs, the elevator being too noisy. He descends slowly, flight by flight, until he finds himself in a huge storage area. Furniture, trunks, suitcases, rugs, bicycles and small appliances heaped to shoulder height in no apparent order. A narrow aisle leads past this chaos to an open doorway at the other end of the building. From where he stands, Epstein can see a pair of washing machines, one of them vibrating rapidly. But there's no one in view.

Despite his low-key intentions, Epstein brings his hand to the weapon beneath his unbuttoned coat and starts off down the aisle, his eyes moving from the laundry room ahead to the junk on his right. Except for the odd cockroach, his search uncovers no threat, and he's close to relaxed as he passes the halfway point. But then the lights go out and the basement is plunged into a darkness as profound as the one that greeted Jonah in the belly of the beast. The fear that seizes Epstein by the throat is equally profound. He reaches out to touch the wall on his left and takes a step before remembering to draw his weapon. Ahead, the washing machine suddenly begins to fill and the sound of the water flowing into the tub is loud enough to be an onrushing flood.

Time becomes physical for Epstein, the seconds weighed down by gravity. He doesn't see his life pass before his eyes, not yet. But when he feels the point of Carter's knife against his throat and Carter's hand settles over his own hand, the one holding his weapon, Epstein is unable to suppress a tiny moan. He gives up his gun without a fight and submits to a pat down that uncovers his badge. At no point does the knife at his throat even waver.

‘How do you know Thorpe?'

Epstein's left hand is already in his coat pocket, cupped around his cell phone. All he need do is press the little button and Billy Boyle will ride to the rescue. But Epstein's afraid. He hears Sofia's voice, as clearly as if she were present. ‘
La familia.
I can't just throw that off.'

No, you can't, he thinks. You have to at least make an effort. ‘My partner was in Iraq. That's where he met Thorpe.'

‘What did he do in Iraq?'

‘I don't know. He doesn't talk about it.'

‘Where is he now?'

‘Standing in front of your door.'

‘That doesn't give us much time.'

Epstein wants to take a deep breath, but he knows that would be a tell. He has to remain calm, matter-of-fact, though he feels as if his bladder is about to explode. The man holding a knife to his throat has executed five men. At the very least.

‘You wouldn't consider taking that knife away from my throat?' he asks.

‘No, I wouldn't.'

‘For Christ's sake, man, we came to give you a heads-up. We have video tape of you leaving the Orchid Hotel. Plus, you left mitochondrial DNA on a display counter in Macy's. You have to move on.'