THE CRIME SCENE AT 2113 Eldridge was as gruesome as Tilley had expected. Even though Emergency Services had taken the survivor off to Bellevue and a half dozen detectives were covering the apartment in fingerprint dust while another squad plucked fragments of tissue from the rug with tweezers, the medical examiner had not yet arrived, so the two bodies, the man’s and the infant’s, lay exactly as they’d fallen, one in the hallway and one on the living room floor. Shotgun wounds are messy. They leave pieces of human beings in unexpected places and Tilley could not find a way to get down the hallway without squishing through a soaked, bloody carpet.
Moodrow, oblivious, plodded along, his black brogans crunching matter-of-factly on fragments of bone. He was looking for someone he could “trust,” another detective whose judgement he respected. That definitely wasn’t O’Neill or Kirkpatrick, who nodded when he came in, then turned back to their work. The reason for their curt greeting was evident as Moodrow and Tilley continued into the living room where Chief of Detectives Franklyn Goobe stood along with Leonora Higgins and Captain Epstein around the chalk-outlined body of the dead adult. As soon as Moodrow saw them, he started to turn around, but he wasn’t nearly quick enough.
“Just a second, Stanley,” a clearly harassed Epstein called.
“I hope this isn’t gonna take forever,” Moodrow said. His face was set and serious. “I really gotta stay on top of what I’m doing.”
Franklyn Goobe was an impressive individual, one of those men who receives instant respect on the basis of his appearance alone. His enemies in the job called him the “Lion Man” because of his large face and mane of snow white hair. Hair which was teased and blow-dried every day. Despite the vanity, however, Goobe, a third generation New York cop, was grudgingly admired by the department for his relentless pursuit of anyone who attacked a cop.
“Sergeant Moodrow,” he cried, offering his hand. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, nearly forever,” Moodrow returned, dodging the technicians as he moved into the center of the room. For once, standing toe-to-toe with Franklyn Goobe, Moodrow didn’t physically dominate the scene. Epstein and Higgins, wisely silent, literally stepped away from the two of them.
“You seem to be in a hurry,” Goobe observed affably.
“I am.”
“I expect that’s because you’re on your way to arrest Mr. Greenwood. Am I right?” His smile lit up the room. “Do I win the million dollars?”
Moodrow sighed impatiently. He was addressing the chief of detectives, one of the most powerful men in the New York Police Department. It was rumored that Goobe had personal files on a number of local politicians and acted as point man for the P.C. Men like Goobe are pissed off even when everything goes right. That Levander Greenwood, with his record (which was reproduced nearly every day in the tabloids), should be on the street weeks after murdering police officers, was definitely not right. It was not remotely acceptable. Though Moodrow and Tilley didn’t know it at the time, the police commissioner had also been present. He had kicked the Murphys’ butts from one end of the apartment to the other. Now it was Moodrow’s turn.
“No,” Moodrow said. “I don’t see anything before a few days. Maybe a week.”
“A week.” The Chiefs eyebrows rose in surprise. “What do you think, Ms. Higgins? Do you think it’s because we haven’t been holding up our end? Have we denied Sergeant Moodrow a search warrant or refused to authorize a wiretap? How have we failed him?”
“Sergeant Moodrow hasn’t requested anything like that, sir,” Higgins said brightly.
The added “sir,” delivered in a forthright military manner, almost brought a smile to Franklyn Goobe’s mouth. But not quite. “I already know that, really. I know that Sergeant Moodrow hasn’t been asking for anything because I’ve been going through the Sergeant’s Investigative Daily Activity Reports for a clue as to what he has been doing.”
As soon as Goobe said the word “Daily,” the whole room stopped dead. It was a doubletake worthy of a silent comedy. Not sure of what was happening, Tilley looked to Moodrow and saw the red blush as it crept up Moodrow’s neck and over his ears.
“Yes,” Goobe continued. “They’re very interesting, but somewhat confusing. Take this one dated 8/24.” He paused, looked up at Moodrow with innocent eyes. “You don’t mind my asking you about this? I’m trying to keep up with the investigation, especially now that it’s going long-term.”
Moodrow, his eyes locked with Goobe’s, shrugged in resignation. “I knew I was gonna have a bad day. This morning, when I tried to pee, my dick fell off.”
“That usually is an accurate indicator,” Goobe nodded. He held up Moodrow’s report, peered at it for a moment, then took out his glasses and put them on. “Let’s see. Have I got the pages right?” He shuffled through them for a moment and when he began to read, the apartment was as still as the dead bodies waiting for the medical examiner. Strangely, of all the cops in that room, Jim Tilley was the only one who seemed to think Moodrow’s reprimand out of place. The simple fact of death, of carnage, of blood-spattered walls, of an infant’s body growing cold on a hallway rug meant no more to the rest of them than typewriters and desks to a vice president reaming out a junior executive.
0200 hours. The Mansion coffee shop on 86th & York. I am meeting, by appointment, with sometimes transvestite informant, codename Samantha Bankhead, and have been offered information concerning a gang of drug dealers selling to a homosexual clientele on the west side docks. Informant wishes to sell information, declares self desperate for money to finance revolutionary business venture: Rectal Bikini Waxing.
“Have you seen those new swimsuits we’re expected to wear this summer?” Ms. Bankhead tells me. “Have you seen what those bastard designers have done to us? They think they own us, for shit sake. Believe me, Moodrow, when that string goes between those cheeks, there’s nothing back there at all. We might as well be naked.”
Informant then approaches close enough to whisper. “Do you know what electrolysis costs today? Thousands! And not only that, it takes dozens of visits and sometimes the damn hair grows back anyway. I can bikini wax a tush until it’s like glass for under fifty dollars. For seventy-five I can do the legs and the chest as well. Three waxes carry you right through the season. And I’m talkin’ clean, Moodrow. I’m talkin’ ‘slippery when wet.’”
All during interview, informant continually searches faces of others in restaurant. When asked, she declares herself fearful of others stealing her idea. “I’m not as young as I look,” informant insists, “and I don’t relish the idea of dying broke. I know you can’t get by on your looks forever. Youth, alas, is not eternal, but it might be for sale. That’s why I’ve got to press ahead.” She wrings her hands pathetically. “That’s why I’ll even sell out my friends. I’m that desperate. And that sure.”
Waiter approaches and we order coffee, mine black and Ms. Bankhead’s “as sweet as you can stand.” Then informant, sensing skepticism, presses on, gripping my hand to reinforce her conviction. “Don’t think it stops there,” she declares. “Seasonal rectal bikini waxing is only the beginning. Do you know what buttock hair does to silk?” I had to admit that I didn’t. “It’s pure el destructo. Likewise for dainty synthetics and pantyhose. And as for lace…the look alone is enough to melt the wax in my tray. Once the trade realizes how much they’re getting for their money, they’ll use my services the way women bikini wax all year round to look good in lingerie. Don’t forget, we may not be able to fuck like we did in the old days, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to be attractive. And it doesn’t mean that when we dance together, if dancing is as far as we dare go, we don’t want to give our suitors a nice smooth squeeze to carry home with them. Moodrow, it’s a winner.”
Finally, I ask informant if she wants to sell me information or get me to buy stock. I explain that I don’t care if she uses the money to plug her grandmother’s asshole as long as there’s something in it for me.
“How does an ounce of cocaine every week sound to you? In the summertime, two ounces! People buy whole grams at one time!”
“You’re kidding.”
Informant looks at me with astonishment. “My integrity is my currency. Without it I am nothing.” Then she sits back in her chair. “This will be my slogan: ELECTROLYSIS IS FOREVER. WAXING IS FOR NOW. Or do you like, NOW! WHILE HE STILL CARES?”
“How much, Samantha?”
“Forty thousand to open the doors.”
“Forty large for a gram coke dealer? I’d have to say that’s a real bargain. But, see, since I don’t work that precinct, you gotta go over my head for help. In fact, you gotta go all the way to the top for that kinda money. Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp, you call the chief of detective’s office at One Police Plaza and ask for Franklyn Goobe. Tell him just what you told me. He could be your first customer.”
Pin-drop time. Not a sound from the audience of detectives. Nobody doing any work, either. Epstein looked stricken, but Higgins was proud. From her position behind Goobe, she winked at Tilley and grinned.
“I must admit, Sergeant,” Goobe finally continued, “even though I’ve leafed through hundreds of Dailies, I’ve never come across one in which the actual words were reported in such detail. You must have recorded it and then used the tape to make up your report. My congratulations, then, on your enterprise, even though, to my knowledge, Ms. Bankhead didn’t follow up on your suggestion.”
“C’mon,” Moodrow said irritably. “Why don’t you just tell me what the fuck you want.”
Goobe’s eyes narrowed and all the “politician” disappeared from his face. “I want Greenwood, you fat asshole. I want him and you spend your time writing bullshit reports when you should be working. Maybe you think you’re the Rodney Dangerfield of the NYPD, but this ain’t the time for jokes. Until you take Greenwood, I want to know exactly what you do with the time you spend on the job. Every goddamn minute. If you think I’m joking, I’ll send these fucking reports to a board of inquiry in ten minutes. I’ll have you out of the department before you manage to die on the job.”
So saying, he stepped across the body of the dead man and stalked out of the apartment, followed by Epstein and the two suits assigned to guard his body. Moodrow swayed slightly as Goobe passed him, as if he was ready to launch himself onto the district attorney. Even after Leonora placed a calming hand on his arm, he said nothing. Naturally, with the two bigshots out of the room, the other cops, as they went back to work, felt it incumbent upon themselves both to invent and to verbalize such phrases as “Oh, Samantha, would you wax my rectum, I’m going to the prom tonight” every three or four seconds.
Not surprisingly, Tilley felt instinctively protective and was actively considering punching the brains out of one particularly obnoxious detective when Moodrow, his face as blank as a pane of glass, addressed Higgins as if they were the only ones in the room.
“How bad is the survivor?” he asked.
“Might lose a leg, but they don’t think she’ll die.”
“Was she any help?”
“Only that she’s sure it was Greenwood.”
“She didn’t say what he got?”
“Heroin,” Leonora replied. She opened a manila envelope and slid its contents, four glassine envelopes filled with white powder, onto the palm of her hand. Each had the words Blue Thunder stamped on the front.
Moodrow’s eyes lit up when he saw them and Tilley instantly recalled Leonora’s analysis of Moodrow’s addiction to “justice.” Apparently, he even put it before his pride.
“How much he get, Leonora? Did he get enough?”
“She said around thirty bundles. Ten bundles in a bag. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but not less than two hundred fifty bags. Is that enough?”
“That’s plenty.”