Monkey in the Middle (21 page)

‘This is for life,' she'd insisted.

Now Epstein admits she was right. The sofa and chairs, the cherry end tables, the delicately-patterned Aubusson knock-off, the wall unit holding his books, his television, his DVD and CD collections – it all works for Epstein. It works and it strengthens his resolve. Fuck Paulie Margarine. And Carter, too. The NYPD is the biggest gang in New York. The NYPD takes shit from nobody.

Yeah, right.

Epstein and Billy Boyle drive east on the nearly deserted Belt Parkway. The night has turned sharply colder and the skies have cleared. Epstein can see enough stars above the dark waters of Lower New York Bay to imagine whole constellations. Almost at the horizon, two ships stand at anchor, a freighter and an oil tanker, their superstructures ablaze with lights. A sickle moon hangs between them, point down, as though preparing to slice them in two.

‘You got vests in the trunk?' Epstein asks Billy Boyle.

‘Yeah.' Billy Boyle eases off the gas. He doesn't look at Epstein when he adds, ‘I don't like this any more than you do.'

Epstein knows the vests won't stop the bullet that took out Bruno Brunale, knows also that Carter will anticipate their wearing vests and take appropriate measures. Nevertheless, when Billy Boyle finally parks the car, Epstein puts on a vest before shrugging back into his overcoat. He's thinking he must look ridiculous, an overgrown kid in a snowsuit. But then he sees Billy Boyle and knows the truth. They look like what they are, a couple of nervous cops.

Epstein and his partner draw their weapons before Epstein rings the bell for apartment 4F. Paulie Margarine's responds immediately. ‘Yeah?'

‘It's Mr Wolf,' Epstein says. ‘And Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.'

Inside, they take the stairs, climbing the three flights. Paulie is waiting in a doorway at the end of a short corridor when they emerge. Automatically, Epstein's eyes rake the gangster, from his naked scalp to his tasseled loafers. Epstein's attempting to read Paulie's body language, but he's too slow. Before he can render a judgment, Billy Boyle closes the distance between Paulie and himself.

‘Cover the door,' he tells Epstein. Then he spins Paulie around, pushes him against the wall and frisks him.

‘Take it easy,' Paulie says. ‘I got bad knees.'

Billy Boyle's response is prompt. He lays the barrel of his Colt against the back of Paulie Margarine's head and slides his free arm around Paulie's neck. ‘You're goin' in first.'

Epstein finds himself waiting for Billy Boyle to make some kind of verbal threat.
If there's anybody inside, I'll . . .
But Paulie seems to get the idea. He allows himself to be pushed through the door, pushed from room to room, closet to closet, until Billy Boyle is satisfied. Epstein merely follows behind.

They complete their search in Jane Carter's tiny second bedroom, where her brother sleeps. The apartment is empty, thanks be to God. Epstein's breathes a well-earned sigh of relief, just as Paulie spins around and pushes Billy's gun away.

‘Enough is enough.' The gangster stares at Billy Boyle for a moment, then smiles. ‘After all, it ain't like you're a couple of honest cops. It ain't like you're only doin' ya job.'

Epstein takes charge at this point, placing himself between Billy Boyle and Paulie. He holsters his weapon, nods for Billy Boyle to follow suit, then waits patiently until Billy complies. It's time to stop doing and start thinking, past time. Still, Epstein takes one precaution. He jams a chair beneath the knob on the front door.

‘All right, Paulie, talk to me.'

‘I got good news and bad news,' Paulie says. ‘The good news is that the problem you dropped into my lap has been handled. Whatever Leonard Carter had on the two of you, he won't be talkin' it up any time soon. Whatta ya think about that?'

‘I need the body to be found.'

This is the perfect ending for Solly Epstein. If Carter's body is found, his identity will be determined by a simple fingerprint check, while a comparison of his mitochondrial DNA with the DNA recovered in Macy's will produce a match. Case closed and the bosses happy. Hip, hip, hurray.

‘You sure?' Paulie asks. ‘Because the package is scheduled to take an ocean voyage in about two hours.'

‘Can you stop it?'

‘I gotta make a phone call.'

Epstein shakes his head. ‘Maybe later. For now, let's talk about the bad news.'

‘Forget talkin'. This you gotta see.'

Paulie leads the two cops into the kitchen. He grabs the handle of the freezer door, pauses for effect, then yanks it open. Paulie has arranged Thorpe's hands so that his thumbs appear to be plugging his ears. He's pulled Thorpe's tongue out as well, and forced the man's lips into a wide grin.

Epstein is shocked into virtual immobility. Forget the crime scenes and the mutilated bodies that underlie his professional life. It's as if he's never seen a corpse in his life. For a long moment, he doesn't even recognize Paulie's little touches. He's not surprised, though, when he figures it out. Not by his reaction, or the mocking expression, or by Carter's appearance in the doorway. Carter's holding a shotgun pointed midway between Epstein's and Billy Boyle's faces.

Never give up your gun – you give up your gun, you're gonna die for sure. This is a cop maxim that Billy Boyle has apparently internalized, because his hand disappears beneath his coat an instant before Paulie Margarine drives a well-aimed frying pan into the back of his head.

Billy hits the floor hard. He rolls on to his back and moans. Paulie follows him down, reaching beneath Billy's coat to retrieve his Colt. A moment later, Paulie's holding Epstein's Glock as well. Epstein doesn't protest. But he doesn't wilt, either. He feels as if he's finally come to the end of a long journey, every step of which was laid out in advance. It's not the ending he hoped for, but he's still relieved.

‘How'd you do it?' he asks Carter.

‘Do what?'

‘Get into the apartment.'

‘I rappelled from the roof to a bedroom window. One I knew would go up without making a noise. I knew that because I oiled the track a few hours ago.'

Carter motions Epstein to join him in the doorway. Together, they watch Paulie Margarine secure an unresisting Billy Boyle with several rolls of duct tape. ‘This is killing my knees,' Paulie tells Carter at one point. But he doesn't stop, encircling Billy Boyle from his ankles to his shoulders before finally hauling himself up. Then he drives his foot into Billy Boyle's gut.

‘Put a gun to my head, you cocksucker? Like I'm a fuckin' punk on the street?'

Carter steps between Billy Boyle and Paulie, as Epstein did a few minutes before. He hands the shotgun to Paulie and says, ‘Business before pleasure.'

Paulie nods, then turns to Epstein. ‘In the living room, on the couch. I want you to sit on your hands in the middle of the couch and I want you to cross your feet at the ankles.'

Epstein tells himself, even as he moves forward, that this might be his last, best chance. He and Paulie are alone in the living room and Paulie has the shotgun pointed at the body armor covering his chest. Will that body armor stop a shotgun blast? Epstein's only sure it'll do a better job than his head. He's sure, too, that once he sinks into the cushions on the couch, he'll be out of options. The only problem is that Paulie's too experienced to be taken by surprise. He's hanging back a good six feet and the shotgun's an autoloader, which means a second shot will follow the first by maybe half a second.

‘Something you might wanna consider,' Paulie says. ‘If it was up to me, you'd already be dead.'

Epstein sinks into the couch, his hands sliding between the cushions. Helpless, he watches Carter drag Billy into the living room, then return to the kitchen. A moment later, Carter returns. He's carrying a black trash bag which he places beneath Billy Boyle's head. The better, obviously, to handle the upcoming mess.

Twenty-Six

C
arter retrieves the shotgun before sitting on a chair opposite Epstein. He seems perfectly relaxed. When Billy Boyle attempts to spit on him, but comes up dry, he smiles a genuinely amused smile. Paulie stands off to the side, holding Billy's automatic in his right hand. He stares at Billy Boyle with an intensity Epstein instinctively associates with lust. Meanwhile, Billy can't keep his mouth shut.

‘Fuck you,' he shouts. ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you . . .'

‘Stop being an asshole,' Carter finally says. ‘When Thorpe made his pitch, you could have said no. But not only did you take the money, you tried to kill me twice, even though I warned you after the first attempt. Now you have to accept the consequences.'

But Sergeant Boyle's in no mood to philosophize. He strains against his bonds, hopelessly as it turns out. The duct tape shows no sign of giving way, or even loosening. It's more like Billy Boyle's a spoiled brat throwing a temper tantrum in his playpen. All that anger, it has to go somewhere. Billy Boyle doesn't stop fighting until his face is scarlet and his hair matted with sweat. To Epstein, he looks as if he's about to pass out.

‘Lieutenant Epstein?'

‘Huh?' Epstein looks up to find Carter smiling.

‘Last time we met, I told you not to return. Do you remember that conversation?'

‘Yeah,' Epstein admits, ‘I recall.'

‘So, what happened?'

‘Look . . .'

‘Didn't you tell me your wife was pregnant?'

‘Yeah, I did.'

‘Was that true?'

‘Yes . . .'

‘Do you know how hard it is for a kid to grow up without a father? Do you have any idea?' Carter pauses, but Epstein doesn't reply, though he himself was raised without a father. After a moment, Carter adds, ‘You have to say something. This is your chance.'

‘Say something?' Epstein's tempted to laugh out loud. ‘All right, how about this. If you let me go, you'll never hear from me again. Cross my heart and hope to die. Catholic fucking honor.'

Paulie Marginella grins, revealing yellow teeth and a coated tongue. ‘Ya believe this jerk's got an attitude?' he asks Carter. ‘I mean, here's a cop, swore an oath to uphold the laws of the land, then peddled confidential information to a murderer. And when that didn't work out, he sent another murderer, yours truly, to kill the first murderer. Now he comes across with an attitude.' Paulie nudges Billy Boyle with the toe of his shoe. ‘See, that's what I hate about cops. The arrogance. They got one set of rules for themselves and another set for everybody else. They think their shit don't stink, even when they got diarrhea.'

But Carter's not listening to his partner. ‘I believe you,' he tells Epstein. ‘If I let you go, I think you'll get the message this time.'

Epstein's heart takes a little jump. Does this mean he can afford to hope? Suddenly, Epstein realizes that it's about much more than his wife and son-to-be, about more than home, hearth and career. Every cell is his body is screaming the same message. Solly Epstein wants to live.

But then Carter adds, ‘Of course, that's what I thought the first time.'

‘What do want me to do, beg?'

‘It ain't a question of what we want right now,' Paulie chimes in, ‘because right now I could make you suck my dick. The issue is what you're gonna do later on. If there is a later on, which I keep tellin' my associate is unnecessary, not to mention stupid.'

‘How can I prove what I'll do in the future? It's impossible.'

‘Not true, Lieutenant,' Carter says. ‘You're not out of options yet.'

Epstein looks from Carter to Paulie. They're playing him, the two of them. Good cop, bad cop. The effect is disconcerting, but unless Carter's a sadist – and Epstein doesn't think he is – there has to be a point. Epstein decides to plead his case.

‘What we were thinking, originally, was that you'd eventually be identified,' he explains. ‘That's not true any more. The DNA evidence we recovered in Macy's was only good for mitochondrial DNA, and the images on the surveillance tape at the Orchid Hotel were too faint to enhance. Look in the pocket of my coat. I have a sketch created by one of our artists. It doesn't look anything like you.'

‘Throw me the coat.'

Though Carter doesn't bother to raise the shotgun from his lap, Epstein moves slowly and carefully. He tosses the coat to Carter, who removes the sketch, unfolds it and laughs out loud. Paulie takes a quick look, then he laughs, too. ‘You look scarier than me,' he tells his partner.

Carter ignores the remark. ‘Last time we met, you told me that you were trying to kill me because I was about to be arrested. So, what's your excuse this time? If I was free and clear, why did you send Paulie after me?'

There's a two-word answer to this question: Billy Boyle. Epstein wants to say the words, as he wants to survive, but he finds himself struck dumb. It's one thing to sell the badge, another to rat on your partner.

‘Nothing to say?' Carter asks. ‘Well, don't worry your head, because I already know the answer. You, Lieutenant Epstein, you're like the dog who jumped into the swimming pool. Damn, but that water looked good. Only now you don't know how to get out. You're tired and you're drowning and you can't find the steps. Not without help.'

Carter pauses for a moment, then gestures to Billy Boyle. ‘Tape his mouth, Paulie.'

Billy Boyle resists when Paulie tries to gag him. He twists his face away and jerks back and forth like a trapped snake, cursing Paulie with every breath. Although Paulie smacks him in the ear with the Browning, he continues to fight, and Paulie has to hit him again before he settles down. Billy Boyle's not unconscious, though. He's laying on the rug, staring up at his mentor, his rabbi, his hook. He's looking right into Solly Epstein's eyes when Paulie runs a strip of tape over his mouth and around his head.