3 Quarters (46 page)

“The dead hooker had three coins in her hand,” Bobby said. “Quarters. As in ‘three-quarters.' ”

“From the police medical pensions you've been signing like Mickey Mantle autographs,” Gleason said.

“You saw the videotape in Abrams's office,” Bobby said. “Familiar? You have one, too, don't you? The dead hooker in the St. Claire last week had three quarters in her hand. Just like the dead hooker in the Boston Sheraton where Dr. Abrams stayed two years ago. I know you were at the St. Claire that night last week. Homicide and IAB haven't put it together yet. But they will.”

“If you wait for them to build a case, forget the corruption charges,” Gleason said. “Conspiracy to murder. Time they stop countin', there'll be more bodies in your indictment than you saw in medical school.”

Perez looked at Gleason and then at Bobby in a trembling, sweaty panic. His throat clicked when he tried to swallow, and his Adam's apple rode up and down in his neck as if it were attached to a pulley.

“I didn't kill that woman,” he said.

“They got you on tape, though, don't they?” Bobby said. “In bed with her. The way they got Abrams on tape.”

“I woke up and she was there and . . .” Perez broke down.

“Actually, I might be just the guy to help you with all of this,” Gleason said, doing a sudden sales pitch.

“You think you can?” Perez asked with hope.

“I mean what did you really do?” Gleason said. “You okayed a few pension forms under terrible duress. You failed to report a homicide. But you were set up, a victim. I mean you might lose the city job. The AMA might suspend you for a year. But I can't see any jail time. I can even see immunity. If you turn state's evidence on these bastards.”

“I know what it's like being a cop in jail,” Bobby said. “No offense, but you're just not built for the showers, Doc.”

Perez considered this a moment, and it registered like a lifelong recurring nightmare. He turned to Gleason and said, “And you'll represent me?”

“You own this house?”

“Yeah,” Perez said.

“Of course I'll represent you,” Gleason said.

“I'm supposed to wear special blindfold glasses and wait on a bench . . .”

“ . . . on the corner of Avenue U and Flatbush,” Bobby said.

“How'd you know that?” Perez asked.

“Never mind,” Gleason said.

“I'm supposed to check on some woman,” Perez said.

Bobby's pulse started quickening. He and Gleason exchanged a knowing nod. “He said it was a woman?” Bobby said.

“Yes,” Perez said, checking his watch. “I'm supposed to meet him in an hour.”

J
ohn Shine's Mercedes passed them on the road out of Windy Tip as Bobby, Gleason, and Forrest Morgan sat in the Internal Affairs cop's unmarked Lumina on the shoulder of the road two hundred feet from the security gates.

Bobby dialed Patrick on the cell phone and said, “Shine is heading your way, Sonny.”

“I'm waiting, Charlie,” Patrick said to Bobby on the other end, parked two miles away in a PAL minibus outside of Kings Plaza Shopping Center. Patrick was watching the man with the dark glasses who sat alone on the bench at the bus stop across the street. In the PAL bus with Patrick was a father and son from the Coney Island projects, eager to play a little midnight basketball in Windy Tip. The kid's name was Walters. The father was a subway track worker who was even taller than his six-foot-three son.

“You really think the cops who stole my father's birthday money might be there tonight?” Walters asked Patrick.

“If the police photos you identified for me are correct,” Patrick said, “chances are very good.”

“I wanna meet these two,” the father said.

“I wanna play them,” his son said. “A little one-on-one . . .”

‘You just ID them, for me,” Patrick said.

“I can't go in there without backup, Bobby,” Morgan said as he shifted in his seat. He waited with Bobby and Gleason in his car near the gates of Windy Tip.

“I know John Shine,” Bobby said. “He's a man who refuses to lose. He'll kill Dorothea if he's trapped. I know if we wait for him to come out of the house with her, he'll lead her out first, using her as a human shield in case anyone is waiting. He'd use her as a hostage. He'd also blow her away if he had to. So we need to surprise him where he least expects us to show up.”

“But without a fuckin' warrant?” Forrest Morgan said, looking at his watch for the third time in five minutes. It was a few minutes before 11
AM
. “There's this little thing called the Fourth Amendment, man.”

He yanked up the door handle and stepped out onto the road for air. Bobby climbed out of the front seat. Gleason got out of the rear door.

“Come on, Morgan,” a nervous Gleason said as he unzipped his pants and proceeded to urinate on the side of the road next to the Lumina. “You know the law. You can enter any premises and use the Fourth Amendment for a doormat if you're following a suspect that you know is involved in the commission of a felony. There's not a judge in Sol Diamond's Brooklyn who'd give you a search warrant. But this Shine is ready to fly the fuckin' coop. He knows the jig is up, excuse my French. But you know that when Perez enters that house, he is participating in the commission of a felony called blackmail, participating in a conspiracy called kidnapping, pension rigging, and even murder. That gives you probable cause. How many more dead bodies do you need before you justifiably move your sorry ass past the Fourth Amendment?”

An agitated Morgan looked Bobby in the eye. “I don't like this arrogant, nasty-mannered little man,” Morgan said, pointing at Gleason with disdain. “He's not only pissing me off; he's pissing on my fucking car!”

“City car,” Gleason said. “I got the jitters. I usually don't help bust people. I'm used to unbustin' 'em. But duty calls.”

“Izzy, put away your prick, will ya?” Bobby said.

Morgan paced across the deserted road, carrying his police radio in his hand, trying to make a decision.

Patrick saw Shine's Mercedes slow on Flatbush Avenue, watched it make a U-turn and park in front of the bus stop. Shine got out of his car, walked to the bench, and guided Perez into the front passenger seat. He slammed the door shut and then glided back into his car. Patrick dialed Bobby on the cell phone.

“Pickup made, Charlie,” Patrick said. “I'll wait three minutes and follow. I'll proceed to prearranged place.”

“Shine's on the way with Perez,” Bobby shouted across the road to Morgan. “This is it, babe. You have the chance to blow open the biggest three-quarters scam in NYPD history. Hundreds of dirty cops that make all the tens of thousands of good, honest, noble ones look like pieces of shit. Page one,
Daily News,
big picture.”

Morgan glared at Bobby and flapped his arms. “Don't you think I know all that shit?” he said.

“Then shit or go blind,” Gleason said.

“We have three minutes,” Bobby said. Morgan walked on the other side of the road, waving his hands, talking to himself, throwing left hooks at imaginary opponents. An urgent report crackled over his police radio, and Morgan put it to his ear and listened in glum, motionless silence and then walked quickly back toward Bobby and Gleason, his face stunned with awful surprise.

“What?” Bobby asked.

“Dunkin' Donuts go out of business, Morgan?” Gleason asked.

Morgan looked at Bobby, waving his index finger, and said, “Good thing I still had you under surveillance last night, Bobby.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“They just found Barnicle, Tuzio, Hanratty, and your first lawyer, Moira Farrell,” Morgan said. “All shot dead in her office on Court Street.”

“There goes the neighborhood,” Gleason said.

“I told you I didn't like this despicable little man,” Morgan snapped, pointing the radio at Gleason.

“Dorothea will be next,” Bobby said. “Now do we go in?”

All the old battle scars around Morgan's tired eyes appeared to converge into one final blink.

“We go in,” Morgan said.

T
wo minutes later Shine's Mercedes rolled past them on the road, heading toward the security gate of Windy Tip.

“You follow my lead, Bobby, is that a ten four?” Morgan said.

“Ten four,” Bobby said, from the passenger seat.

“What's this, fuckin'
Dragnet?”
scoffed Izzy Gleason from the backseat.

“When we get out there, Izzy,” Bobby said, “I want you to stay in the car. The last thing I need is to be worrying about you. But I want you there to make sure my ass is covered by the letter of the law.”

“We should have brought Herbie,” Gleason said.

The security guard recognized John Shine and mechanically lifted the security arm to let the Mercedes pass through the gates. Less than a minute later Forrest Morgan pulled up in his Lumina. The elderly security guard looked at Morgan and said, “Lost?”