The Squad Room (12 page)

He hung up, beaming in spite of himself. Two moves in a day—this was great! He called Rivera in.

“Frankie, I just spoke to Hanrahan—we need to get the Coke boys and McNamara’s crew over to Sutton Place right away.”

“I’m already on it, boss—I was on the phone with Tina just now, getting the same briefing,” Rivera said excitedly. “Hey, this could be it, huh? Nothing like hard-nosed detective work to get a case solved!”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves—we don’t even know for sure if this is our victim, much less if these two guys actually followed her. But yeah, it’s great work. And Frankie,” Morrison added, his voice lowering, “let’s keep this under wraps. We don’t need Galipoli or Arndt screwing this up just yet.”

“No problem, boss. We’ll keep it close.”

Towards evening, Morrison was still riding the high of the day’s new discoveries when Garriga breezed in, alone, and asked tersely to speak with him. He waved the detective in, and without a word Garriga slumped in the chair in front of him. It was only now that Morrison saw the frustration on his face.

“What’s going on, Francisco?” Morrison asked. “You okay?”

“Sure, sure,” Garriga began abstractedly, then stopped. He looked hard at Morrison. “Look, boss, you know this isn’t something I’d ever do normally, but I can’t work with this Galipoli guy another day.”

Morrison was surprised. “Why, what happened?”

“Ah, Cap, you know I’d rather not—”

“I’m going to need to know, Detective,” Morrison insisted. Garriga blew out a long breath. “Well, it’s been all day, really. It started pretty much when we left here. I thought he should drive, so I got into the passenger side, and I was barely inside with the door closed when the fucker steps on it and speeds off. Real dick-swinging bullshit kind of stuff. So I said,
Hey, Lou, slow down, we don’t need to get in an accident,
and this guy tells me to go fuck myself.”

Morrison smiled. “Okay. So what’d you do?”

“I told him to pull the car over and get out with me, so we could settle things. I walked over between a couple of buildings, and he followed me. I tell him,
Look, man, I need to explain something to you. Nobody talks to me that way.
And this asshole, he starts trying to step to me, getting all big in my face and telling me to stop lecturing him.”

Morrison’s smile grew wider. “Let me guess. You hit him with a good solid right.”

“Two lefts
and
a right,” Garriga corrected him. He looked up quickly. “But look, Cap, it wasn’t like I knocked the guy out. I just needed him to know he needs to show me some respect.”

“It’s all right, Francisco,” Morrison laughed. “I had a feeling something like this might happen, and I knew you’d be the right man for it. How’d he take it?”

“Not good, Cap, that’s the thing. There was no apologies, no talk, no nothing—he just gets back in the car with all this rage in his face. The guy’s not right, boss. He really isn’t. We didn’t say a word to each other all day after that. Look, you know I’ll do anything for you—it’s just—is there any way you can assign him to somebody else? I just think it’s going to get ugly if we keep working together, and I don’t want that on my hands.”

“Don’t worry about it, Francisco—you’ve put in your time. I’ll figure out someone else to pair him up with.”

Garriga was noticeably relieved. “Thanks, Cap. I really appreciate it.” He rose. “I’m going to head out, if you don’t need anything—?”

“No problem. It’s been a big day, for a lot of reasons; I’m about ready to turn in too. Have a good night. Oh, and Detective?”

Garriga stopped in the doorway. “Yeah?”

Morrison smiled. “Thank you. I really mean it.”

“All in a day’s work, Cap,” Garriga laughed on his way out.

11

Bill Morrison blinked awake and rolled out of the bunk. It had been almost a week since he’d been home; thankfully, it was a situation he was used to, and he always kept extra supplies in the office.

After a quick rinse in the shower, he checked the time—just after 0700 hours. Time enough for a call with Louise Donohue and a visit to her husband’s grave before the day’s work began. Normally he would have preferred to drive out and visit Louise in person, but with the case running as it was, and with her living up in Stamford now to be closer to her family, it was a bit of a stretch.

He spoke to Francis Donohue’s widow often; and in keeping with the Chief’s last wishes, he still made it a point to visit her every month or so to make sure she was getting along all right. At least, that’s how Morrison framed it for himself, though really, the two of them had suffered through their losses together, and speaking with her was as therapeutic for him as it was for her.

The conversation over the phone with Louise was grounding and normal, exactly the sort of thing Morrison looked forward to about talking with her. Her voice bore the same weary tone his had since his son’s death, and with the same layer of comfort from the rest of the family prospering. Her kids were grown up now with families of their
own, and were doing well. Her daughter had moved out West to raise a family, and one of her two sons had recently left the force with a disability, at which Louise secretly rejoiced. Morrison told her about Claudia, and the chemistry he’d already felt with her. There was no judgment or demand for logic in Louise’s response; she understood immediately, complications and all.

When they’d talked for an hour or so, Morrison excused himself with the usual transparent excuses. He never told Louise when he was going to visit Francis’s grave, but he always suspected she knew somehow; perhaps it was his imagination, but on those days their signoffs always had a knowing undertone to them.

He had realized the night before that he’d spoken a bit flippantly in telling Garriga he’d be able to find someone else to partner with Galipoli. He now realized that the alternatives were very few. All of his senior people were already paired up in teams that worked well together; it would be crazy to interrupt that working rhythm, especially in the middle of a case like this, just to saddle one of them with a guy whose integrity he already had serious doubts about. The odd person out, he’d realized, was Tina Koreski. He wasn’t happy about putting her—of all people—with a guy like Galipoli, who he’d already heard had problems with women; but if he didn’t want Garriga losing it with the guy, he didn’t have much choice. Besides, he told himself, Tina was a strong woman, with more than enough fortitude to kick Galipoli in the ass if he got out of line with her.

On his way out, he left a note for Sergeant Rivera:
Sorry to do this to you, but I need you to tell Tina she’s going to be paired with Galipoli moving forward. She won’t be happy, but tell her I need her to do this for me. If she needs to talk to me, tell her I’ll be back later.
He thought a moment, then added,
By the way, talk to Garriga and see if he’s gotten any impression of Galipoli’s military experience. I forgot to ask him about it yesterday, and I’m curious what he thinks.

Saint Raymond’s Cemetery, in the Throgs Neck area of the Bronx, was the only Catholic cemetery in that borough. In 1932 it was used as the
meeting place between Charles Lindbergh and the kidnapper who’d taken his son, a fact on which Bill Morrison never failed to reflect during his visits there. It had been called “The Crime of the Century”—an abduction for what was at the time an enormous ransom. Despite the paying of that ransom, at this very cemetery, the kidnapper (or kidnappers, as many had suspected) had murdered the infant child anyway, and deposited his remains to be discovered six weeks later. Quite a shame—but not the only one Morrison associated with this place.

Morrison passed row after row of headstones on his way to the grave he was there to see. Massive as the cemetery was, he’d long since moved past the need for a site map. Step after step, his feet found their way automatically; and soon he stood before the familiar tombstone.

Francis P. Donohue—Loving Father, Devoted Husband, Outstanding Policeman.

Morrison stood, bowing his head in reverence for a moment of silence. Then he spoke to his friend and mentor, casually and openly, as he always did—as though the Chief were standing there with him, as, in some way, he was.

They’d graduated from the same academy class, despite Donohue being a few years older—everyone else had called him the oldest rookie on the job. Donohue had spent four years in the Navy working on submarines, then a few more as a dockhand in Boston, before the force had called him. He was a true Southie, but being unlikely to find a job in Boston, he’d started in the Stamford PD where, being unknown around town, he was scooped up immediately to work as an undercover narcotics officer. Soon he was on the statewide narc squad, working the worst streets in Hartford, Bridgeport, and New Haven.

Donohue had always hated that people thought of Connecticut simply as a quaint place full of covered bridges. He liked to remind people that where he worked, the police union had a billboard on I-95 that said
Welcome to Dodge City! Where the politicians dodge questions, and the people dodge bullets.
A lot of people thought that billboard was funny, but not Francis Donohue; he knew firsthand that they had the
crime to back it up. He’d been stabbed in Bridgeport, shot at in New Haven, almost run over in Hartford. He’d even been beaten by the police, when they didn’t realize he was an undercover.

After several years in Stamford, he’d been called by the NYPD when they were rehiring after the layoffs ended in ’79, and Morrison, a young cop at the time, had learned the investigator’s craft from him. It was Donohue who had encouraged him to study and make sergeant. It was Donohue who had impressed upon him that that was the way to chase the bad guys without doing so much grunt work, and had showed him how to keep on the right side of the brass without sacrificing integrity.

Now the man was gone, and there was no replacing him. A pang went through Morrison; for an instant it seemed as though the memories of his son and Donohue had merged. All these parts of him, lost forever—how much more of himself could he lose, and still be himself at all? How much longer could he bear to be the one left behind?

Shaking the thought off, he kissed the top of the headstone and returned to his car.

The weather wasn’t as brutal as it could be for January, especially with the windows up and the sun beating down through the windshield; but it was a shock as always to get back out after the long drive back. Morrison was scarcely out of the car, rubbing his hands together in front of the stationhouse, when he saw Tina Koreski walking up to him.

“Cap, can we talk?” she asked.

Well, no surprises there,
he thought. “Look, Tina, I know you’re not happy to have to work with this guy, but I need you to do it. It’s for the good of the team, believe me.”

She waved him off. “No, no,” she said. “I’m not going to complain, boss. I understand you’re in a tight spot with him, and I’m definitely not happy about it, but I’m a team player. I’ll do what I have to do. I just wanted to talk about it for a second.”

Morrison’s relief vanished in the strangeness of her tone. “Of course.

What’s up?”

Koreski’s expression was uncertain. “Well, you’re going to have to forgive me for saying this, but—uh—well, have you noticed how he looks at our victims’ photos?”

Morrison was surprised at this. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“I guess I didn’t either, before I was partnered up with him a bit ago,” she said, “and I know I haven’t really been around him long enough to pass judgment, but I could swear he almost looks like he enjoys seeing how they were tortured.”

“Enjoys?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve watched Medveded stare at the same photos for hours, but that’s different—you can always tell he’s bothered by what happened to these women. But not Galipoli. I swear I thought I saw him smile while we were going over the photos in there, and someone was talking about what it must have been like for the women.”

“I’ve heard he’s got a pretty sick outlook,” Morrison said, “but that’s a pretty extreme idea. Granted, I have no use for the guy, but what exactly are you saying here?”

Koreski looked embarrassed. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m passing judgment too quickly.”

“If you mean it, you can tell me, Detective. I take this kind of thing very seriously.”

“No, I’m sorry, Cap. Forget I said anything. I just—none of us like the guy, is all. But like I said, I’m a good soldier. I’m not going to complain about it.”

“Thanks, Tina. I know I can count on you. Just keep me updated, will you?”

“Of course, Cap. I will.”

12

Fifteen days had passed since the last homicide on their case when Captain Morrison got the call. His instincts had spoken again as the phone rang, and became stronger as he drove over to the scene. This, he knew with a sinking feeling, was victim number three.

Northwest corner of 63
^rd
and Third Avenue—another nice building in an upscale neighborhood. The building was beautiful, really: sixteen stories, fancy lobby, aging doorman. The victim had lived on the fourth floor.

Just outside the elevator, he met Sergeants Rivera and Simmons talking to two patrol cops.

“Well, boys, what do we have?” he asked.

Sergeant Simmons gestured toward the cops. “They tell us that one of the maintenance people had gotten a call from the Children’s Assistance Society, saying our victim hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t responding to texts, calls, or emails. The maintenance guy went up to knock on the door and found it propped open, with no one answering the knock. They aren’t allowed to enter apartments without permission, so he called the super, and the super found the victim.”

“Where are these guys now?”

“We’ve got them at the stationhouse. Medveded’s talking to them.”

“That’s good.”

One of the patrol cops jumped in. “They swore to us that they never went inside,” he said.