McNally's Caper (30 page)

“And spook him?” he demanded indignantly. “You think we’re nuts? We pull up a fleet of cars, and the guy’s liable to hear the traffic and come out blasting with a rifle or shotgun or whatever he’s got in that violin case of his. Why take the chance? He’s not going anywhere; we’ve got guys on foot covering the front and back.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Tear gas grenades and launchers,” he said. “It turned out no one’s equipped so we sent for them. They should be here any minute now. Probably won’t need them but as you like to say, one never knows, do one?”

Rogoff and I joined a group of cops, all smoking and chatting casually about the won-lost record of the Marlins, Florida’s new baseball team. Most of the officers, I noted, were wearing bulky bulletproof vests, either under their shirts or over. Al wasn’t and I wasn’t either. Not a comforting thought.

Finally a van from the Broward County sheriff’s office arrived. Launchers, tear gas, and stun grenades were unloaded. Rogoff left me to confer with COs from other jurisdictions. All the officers present watched and waited. Then Al turned toward them, lifted his right fist and pumped it up and down twice.

The parade got under way, moving slowly, no sirens. I followed the last car. As we approached the target the units separated, apparently following a prearranged plan. The main road, A1A, was blocked north and south of the motel. The remaining cars coasted into the lighted parking area, forming a semicircular barrier around the front door.

Sgt. Rogoff got out, followed by two officers from the Palm Beach tail car. And after them came three Pompano Beach cops. No doors were slammed. The six men formed a wedge, Al leading. I watched from the misty distance, standing beside the Miata. I wondered if I had the courage to do what those men had to do. I decided I did not.

It seemed to me a well-planned operation, and it was. But who can prepare for the unpredictable? And that’s what happened. As I watched, the motel’s front door slammed open. Timothy Cussack strode out. He was holding a long double-barreled shotgun against his hip, muzzles pointed at the approaching men.

He fired. In that misted gloom it sounded like a cannon’s roar. All six men crumpled as if an anarchist’s bomb had been rolled into their midst. I didn’t know—no one knew—if they were dead, wounded, or had hit the ground hoping to escape a blast from the second barrel.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then I began running toward the motel entrance.

I insist it was not an act of heroism; it was an act of sheer idiocy. But the sight of Al Rogoff lying prone on wet concrete maddened me. At that moment I was irrational; I admit it.

An officer, guessing my intent, moved swiftly to block my way. “He’s got a shotgun,” he yelled. “What have you got?”

“The gift of gab,” I yelled back, pushed him away, continued on.

I slowed as I walked into the lighted area, my arms raised high, palms frontward. I heard someone scream, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

Cussack swung to face me, the shotgun still held against his hip. I am not an expert but I thought it a gun ordinarily used for trapshooting or potting doves. I am neither skeet nor dove, but I had no doubt that weapon could cause me grievous injury—if not instant quietus.

“You!” Cussack said. “I knew you were bad news the first time I met you. Just too damned slick.”

I kept moving slowly toward him, arms still hoisted, until I was less than a yard away.

“Tim,” I said quietly, “give it up. There’s an army here. You can see that, can’t you? You’re an intelligent man. Take your chances with the law.”

I didn’t think him intelligent, of course. I thought him a thug—and a dangerous thug. He had expectations he could never gratify.

“My chances with the law?” he repeated scornfully. “Like the chair, you mean?”

He kept glancing at those six officers still lying quiescent. I don’t believe he realized how close I had come to him.

“But what about the woman?” I pleaded. “You still have the power to get her a reduced sentence.”

“Screw her!” he said furiously. “She’s the one who got me into—”

That’s when I made my move. You may think I have the muscle tone of linguine, but my sinews are not as flabby as you might expect.

I stepped in, chopped down, slapped the long-barreled gun aside, and grappled. I knew at once he was stronger than I—but then who isn’t? We stood swaying a moment, locked in a lovers’ embrace.

He finally flung me aside and, still holding the shotgun, swung the muzzles to point at my brisket.

I saw his eyes go vacant and thought sadly that my riotous weekend with Connie Garcia in the Bahamas was about to be put on hold—perhaps eternally.

It was at that moment that Sgt. Al Rogoff, still lying facedown, propped himself up on his elbows and, sighting his service revolver steadily in both hands, put four shots into Timothy Cussack’s chest, firing rapidly. (Later it was discovered the four bullet holes were so close they could have been covered by a small saucer.)

Cussack was smashed back. I stepped in swiftly to snatch the shotgun from his grasp. He went down slowly. I leaned over him. He looked up at me with a dimming stare. I think he wanted to say something but it was too late.

Al Rogoff climbed shakily to his feet. I was expecting thanks for my intervention. But he glared at me.

“Moron!” he shouted.

C
LEANING UP THAT MESS
seemed to take forever. Three cops had been hit by the initial shotgun blast, two with minor wounds, one seriously. He was treated by paramedics and then taken away in the ambulance. The other two were given first aid before being assisted to a squad car for the trip to a hospital. The corpse of Timothy Cussack remained temporarily sprawled in a bloodied puddle.

While all this was going on, crime scene tape was strung and police photographers moved in to record everything. Rogoff and four other officers went into the motel to search Cussack’s room. I remained outside, pacing up and down, smoking furiously and waiting for my flood of adrenaline to subside.

The sergeant finally returned. He was in a snarly mood.

“If you had done what you promised and stayed out of it, they’d have made Swiss cheese out of the guy. He was standing in a lighted area and there were plenty of shooters out there, including a couple of snipers.”

“Al, I—”

“But, oh no, you had to interfere and almost got blown away. What in God’s name were you thinking of?”

“Al, I—”

“How could I ever explain to your father why his son got iced during a police shoot-out? Let alone what the newspapers and TV clowns would say. Did you stop to—”

“Oh, shut up,” I said. “I admit I acted like an imbecile but at the moment it seemed the right thing to do. It turned out okay, didn’t it?”

“No, it didn’t,” he said. “I was hoping to take the bozo alive. I figured he’d plea-bargain and implicate the woman. Too late now.”

“Did you find anything in his room that could help?”

“Maybe. We found almost five thousand in cash. Fifty-dollar bills.”

I was astonished. “Where do you suppose he got that?”

Al gave me his cynical cops’ grin. “Down payment,” he said. He paused a moment, then drew a deep breath. It was hard for him to say it but he did. “Thanks, Archy,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “How long are you going to be tied up here?”

“Hours,” he said. “Why don’t you hang around and we’ll grab breakfast somewhere. On me.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

It did take hours. It was past eight o’clock Tuesday morning before Al could break free. We breakfasted in a joint that looked like a Ptomaine Palace, but the food turned out to be excellent: fresh and flavorful. We were both famished and gorged on OJ, ham steaks, grits, home fries, toasted bagels, and enough black coffee to float the Staten Island ferry—if he’s still around.

We finished that feast and Al picked up the tab, as promised. We went out to our cars.

“Look,” the sergeant said, “you had a nice few hours’ sleep. I didn’t but I can keep going awhile. What say we pick her up before she learns about what happened to Cussack.”

“Suits me,” I said. “Just the two of us?”

“Sure. I really don’t think we’ll need a SWAT team, do you?”

As we drove northward the sun burned off a morning fog, and by the time we arrived at the Trojan Stables the sky was so clear you could glimpse a pale crescent moon in the west. The horse farm was bustling with several riders trying the low hurdles. I spotted Sylvia Forsythe, sans helmet, trying to coax an enormous gray nag to walk with a mincing gait. I was happy to see she had exchanged her harpsichord for a stallion.

Mrs. Constance Forsythe was nowhere to be seen. A stable lad was walking by lugging an English saddle and Rogoff stopped him.

“Is the owner around?” he asked.

The boy eyeballed Al’s uniform with some alarm. “In the barn, sir,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

We headed there.

“Let me take it first,” the sergeant said. “I want to shake her. Then you start with your charm routine.”

“Bad cop-good cop,” I observed.

“Something like that,” he agreed.

Mrs. Constance was supervising the mucking out of several stalls. The air was choked with dust and the odor was pungent—to say the least. I know there are people who relish the scent of manure. There are also people who enjoy boiled cabbage. Include me out.

She was wearing jodhpurs and her usual stained riding jacket. But her white T-shirt was fresh, and I thought she had recently had her hair done. It appeared groomed and burnished in the speckled sunlight streaming through skylights. And she carried a crop as if it were a scepter.

She turned as we approached. “Well, well,” she said, inspecting us, “two nonpaying visitors. I’m underwhelmed.”

Rogoff wasted no time. “Mrs. Forsythe,” he said stonily, “about five hours ago Timothy Cussack was shot to death while attempting to escape arrest for the murder of your husband.”

If he intended that bald statement to shake her, he failed miserably; she was unshakable. I’ve told you she was a strong woman. Her only visible reaction was a tightening of the jaw, teeth clenched, a muscle ticking under her chin. She recovered quickly.

“Hard to believe,” she said. “But Timmy was always a wild one.”

“He was,” Al said. “We also have evidence that you were implicated in the crime. That it was committed at your instigation, your urging, and that you, in fact, paid Cussack to murder your husband.”

She picked up immediately on the key word. “Evidence?” she said sharply. “What evidence?”

“That you sold and pawned items of property removed from your home without the knowledge or permission of your late husband. That you used those funds to lure Timothy Cussack into joining your conspiracy. That he bought a new car with money you supplied. And that, finally, you gave him five thousand dollars as a down payment for the homicide. A withdrawal from your personal checking account attests to that.”

Most of what Rogoff said was b.s., of course. He had not yet proved she had paid for Cussack’s Taurus wagon nor had he uncovered a withdrawal from her checking account of five thousand dollars. He was running a bluff, and it didn’t work.

“Are you wired?” she asked.

“Am I what, ma’am?” Al asked, startled.

“I watch TV crime shows,” she said impatiently. “Are you equipped with a tape recorder?”

“No, I am not. Do you wish to search me?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll take your word for it. Now take my word. It is true I removed property from our home because I needed the money to keep the Trojan Stables operating. Expenses are horrendous, and I simply didn’t want Griswold to know how much I was spending. Surely you don’t expect to convict me of the theft of property owned by a married couple; it was as much mine as his. And it’s true I paid Timmy Cussack extra from time to time because he was our most valuable instructor. The clients, mostly women and young girls, just loved him. But as for hiring him to kill my husband, that’s garbage! Complete garbage!”

Rogoff sighed. “Will you be willing to accompany me to headquarters, Mrs. Forsythe, and sign a statement of what you have told us?”

“Is this an arrest?” she demanded.

“No, it is not,” he said. “Just a voluntary action on your part to help us clear up this matter. You may have an attorney present if you wish.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” she said. “What I’ve told you is the truth, and I’m willing to swear to it. Now would you mind leaving me alone with Archy for a few moments? I’d like to speak to him privately.”

The sergeant hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I’ll wait outside for you,” he said. “I have a car.”

He glanced at me, turned, and marched out of the barn, leaving me to face that redoubtable woman. She watched him go.

“Stupid man,” she said.

I made no reply.

She moved closer to me. “I don’t suppose your father would like to represent me,” she said. It was more of a statement than a question.

“It’s not what he’d
like
to do,” I said tactfully. “It’s a problem of conflict of interest. After all, he is the executor of your late husband’s estate. But I’m sure if you have need of a reputable attorney, he could recommend someone.”

“Yes,” she said, staring at me thoughtfully, “ask him to do that, will you? In spite of what I told that odious cop, I may want to have a smart lawyer on my side.”

The odor of manure in that vaulted space was so acrid that my eyes began to water. She noticed my discomfort and grinned. “The stink getting to you?” she inquired maliciously.

“Somewhat,” I acknowledged.

“I happen to like it,” she said. “Earthy. Primitive. God, what a stiff he was!”

At first I thought she was referring to Sgt. Al Rogoff. Then, to my horror, I realized she was speaking of Griswold Forsythe II, recently deceased.

“A stiff!” she repeated. “A mean, stingy old man. No juice in him.”

I was offended.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum.

“Others may think differently,” I said.

She tried to appear amused but couldn’t quite hide her hurt. “Nora Bledsoe, you mean?” she said. “He was screwing her from the day he moved her in. She could have him, with my blessings. He was a lousy lover.”