Saints Of New York

  It had been said too many times to be anything but true, but cop life was not a movie. The phone goes. There's a dead person somewhere. You find your car keys, you drive out there. Get there, no-one saw anything. No-one wants to see anything. The black-and-whites have rigged a perimeter, contained the scene. The Deputy Coroner is late. You stand for a while in the bitter cold or the aching heat. You need to piss but you can't leave. You smoke too many cigarettes. Eventually you give up waiting and walk over there with a flashlight and a pair of latex gloves. You take a look up close, you see the obvious, you look for the un- obvious. You go through the guy's pockets, or the girl's purse, or maybe if it's one of the transvestites downtown you go through his purse. You find gum, keys, a cell phone, bills, change, smokes, condoms, pens, subway tickets, bus tickets, candy wrappers, a watch. Sometimes a whistle or a can of mace, string, scraps of paper with scrawls of indelible handwriting, receipts, photos of kids, photos of husbands, wives, lovers, girlfriends, parents and friends. There is only so much to be found in the pockets of the dead.

  When the Deputy Coroner shows up you help him roll the body, note any obvious signs of wounding from bullets, knives, chains, pipes, baseball bats, boots, fists; every once in a while something melodramatic like a nail gun, a non-recoiling ball- peen hammer or a heavyweight wrench - the kind that screws up the bolts on car tires so they won't come loose on the freeway.

  Then you walk the edges. You look for beer cans, wrappers, spent casings, blood spatter, brain matter, skid marks, tire treads, escape routes, vantage points for eyewitnesses, the impact of stray gunfire in concrete walls and wooden doors. You make copious notes. You start to feel the enervating tide of disillusionment as you add another name to the dead-file.

  Under the direct aegis of the Crime Lab Director there are Supervisors, Criminalists, Scene Analysts, Firearms Specialists, Forensic Techs and Latent Print Examiners. In the Coroner's Office there are Deputy Coroners, Forensic Pathologists, Anthropologists, Toxicologists, Duplicate Testing Supervisors and the Peer Review Unit. The Firearms unit alone could determine make, model, caliber, serial number, indications of carriage and concealment, land and groove marks, striations, rifling, types of ammunition, marks from the firing pin and the breech-block face, weapon distance, the size and shape of powder particles around the entry wounds. All these things. Necessary things, important things - and futile if there was no weapon recovered, no bullet located. Futile if the deceased had been decimated with shells from a sawn-off Magnum at a range of four feet. Futile if funding cutbacks put the network out of reach.

  This was not the movies. This was real. Here the bad guy got away. Nine times out of ten you didn't even know who the bad guy was and, even when you did, he walked on a technicality. It was always a day late and a dollar short.

  Parrish was neither pessimistic nor cynical. He was pragmatic, methodical, realistic. He was not disillusioned, he was reconciled and resigned.

  Homicide was simply about the dead, and more often than not there was little justice where the dead were concerned.

  Now his concern was Rebecca, Danny Lange's sister, and why Danny would be dead in an alleyway when his kid sister had been choked to death in his rat-hole apartment. He remembered the money he'd taken from Danny's body. He dropped it into a cigar box in the lower drawer of his desk.

  First thing was the parents. Secondly, go chase up some of Danny's contacts - Lenny Hunter, Garth whatever, the other one with the bad skin who looked like someone had dragged his face through a grater and put it back all wrong.

  Parrish picked up the phone and dialed numbers he knew by heart. A stony heart - perhaps somewhat cold and unyielding - but a heart all the same.

  EIGHT

  Five o'clock he got a call to go up and see the Captain.

  Jack Haversaw was ugly as sin. What was that old saying? Face like a bulldog sucking a wasp? Jack Haversaw made that boy look pretty.

  'Sit down,' Haversaw said. 'How're you doing?'

  'I'm okay,' Parrish said.

  'How's things working out with the shrink?'

  'Only got going yesterday. She seems fine . . . easy on the eye. I think I can do some time with her.'

  'You don't have a choice, Detective. It's do or die this time. You don't wanna know how long it took me to convince Valderas not to deep-six you. And then Valderas had to convince Lieutenant Myerson. I invoked rank in the end. Enough said. Listen up, Frank. I want you here. I need you here, but the bullshit theatrics I can do without.'

  Parrish didn't respond. He and Haversaw went back far too many years to do foreplay.

  'So what's on your desk?'

  'Got five. Latest is this Danny Lange killing, then his sister choked to death in his apartment.'

  'And besides that?'

  'The hooker from last Tuesday, the black kid from the Tech College, and the Transit Museum guy who got pushed under the subway train.'

  'Right, right ... I forgot about him. How you doin' on this stuff?'

  'Same old, same old. The Lange murders interest me—'

  Haversaw smiled. 'No problem, Frank, just ditch the tedious ones and handle the ones that give you a hard-on.'

  'You know what I mean.'

  Haversaw rose from his chair and walked to the window. He was silent for a little while, and then he turned, put his hands in his pockets and sat against the sill. 'Got you a partner.'

  Parrish raised his eyebrows.

  'Name is Jimmy Radick.'

  'I know him. He was down in Narcotics for a while.'

  'Well, he's in Homicide as of now, and I'm assigning him to you. He knows he's with you and he's okay with it.'

  'Good for him.'

  'Don't be an asshole, Frank. Treat the guy decent, okay? Don't fuck him up for everyone else. He's got the makings of a good detective.'

  'I'll do my best,' Parrish said.

  'Your best hasn't been good enough, pal. Squad Sergeant Valderas heard that even the Divisional Commander wanted to know what the deal was with you. You know what he called you?'

  'Enlighten me?'

  'An internal enquiry just waiting to happen.'

  'I'm seeing the doctor woman, okay?'

  'And I don't wanna hear that you went and screwed her and it's all a godawful mess, huh?'

  'I ain't gonna screw her, Captain. Jesus, who the hell d'you think I am?'

  'Frank Parrish, that's who. Son of John Parrish, one of the most decorated officers this Precinct ever saw, is ever likely to see.'

  'We done, Jack?'

  'We're done, Frank. Time are you finished with the shrink tomorrow?'

  'Ten, ten-thirty.'

  'Okay. Here, eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. You, me and Jimmy Radick.'

  'You got a date.'

  Frank Parrish got up and started for the door.

  'You take care now, Frank, and take care of your new partner, you hear me?'

  Parrish raised his hand in acknowledgement and was gone.

  He still didn't have a lead on the parents. He went after Danny's known associates, found - inevitably - that numbers had been disconnected. He chased Verizon to get updates and changes. It was a ball-breaking, heartbreaking thing.

  'Have a number here for Leonard Hunter, one-three-five, that's one-three-five Grant Street. Number's no longer connected. I wanted the new one.'

  'I'm sorry, sir, that number was disconnected due to nonpayment of charges. There is no secondary number.'

  Same thing over again for Garth Fauser, and for the life of him Frank could not recall the name of the kid with the bad skin who used to hang out with Danny Lange.

  Around him the Homicide Unit was busying up. Paul Hayes, who'd handed him the Danny Lange crime scene, Bob Wheland, Mike Rhodes, Stephen Pagliaro, Stan West and Tom Engel. All Homicide dicks. Good people. And then there was Squad Sergeant Antony Valderas, hard like a hammer, ample bark, more than sufficient bite to back it up. It was a tight crew, and they gave Parrish space for maneuver, space that he needed in order to st
ay sane in this fucked-up job. Brooklyn 126th handled the better part of twenty homicides a month, and up on the board at the far end of the room the opens were marked in red, the closeds in black. Those names stayed black for twenty-four hours just to keep everyone up on the fact that they did finish a case every once in a while, and then the slate was wiped and another red went up.

  From where Frank Parrish sat he could see Daniel Kenneth Lange 09/01/08 FP*, and Rebecca Emily Lange 09/01/08 FP*. The asterisk beside his initials indicated that he was flying solo. As of tomorrow it would read FP/JR. Jimmy Radick. Frank remembered him. Remembered that he had liked him, the first impression at least. Jimmy was police family too - his father, his father before him - but they were never part of OCCB or the Brooklyn Organized Crime Task Force. He didn't have that part of the history to contend with. Reminded of his father again, Frank believed that it would do no harm to share a few of the war stories with Doctor Marie Griffin. Maybe it would exorcise a few demons, some ghosts, some memories. Maybe not. No harm in trying. Tomorrow . . .

  Back on the phones, trying with all he possessed to remember the kid with the bad skin . . . Lucas, Leo, Lester . . . something beginning with 'L'. Louis. That was it. Louis Bryan. Frank went through his Rolodex and found the number. It worked but it rang out.

  Frank decided to make a trip down there; he spoke to the Squad Sergeant.

  'You getting anyplace on these others?' Valderas asked him.

  'The subway guy. I think that was a random. Some crackhead decided to push him for kicks. I figure he was wrong place, wrong time.'

  Valderas shook his head. 'Transit Authority are all over me like herpes. You know how many we got last quarter just across Nevis, DeKalb, Hoyt and Lawrence Street?'

  'Too fucking many, like always,' Parrish replied.

  'Mother fuckers.'

  'I'm out to see someone on the alleyway shooting.'

  'Wasn't a suicide maybe?'

  Parrish shook his head. 'ME says his crime scene was a secondary, and who the fuck shoots themselves in an alleyway?' He took out his gun, upside-downed it, held the butt in his hand with his thumb on the trigger. He put the muzzle of the gun to the uppermost part of his throat and tilted his head backwards. 'And like this? Angle's all wrong. Right side up you couldn't get your finger to the trigger.'

  'Okay, go. Call in and let Dispatch know if you're not gonna be back tonight.'

  Parrish went back to his desk and took a twenty from the cigar box.

  A little after eight Frank Parrish found Louis Bryan. His skin was even worse than he remembered it, and he was still living with his bedridden mother. Every once in a while Mother would bang on the floor upstairs and Louis would have to hurry up and tend to her needs.

  'She's bad man, real bad. Don't think she's gonna last much longer.'

  'I'm sorry, Louis.'

  'Hey man, it goes this way, you know?'

  'You heard about Danny.'

  'Sure I did.' 'You don't seem so upset.'

  Louis smiled. His teeth, those that he still possessed, were junkie-yellow. 'I don't know what to tell you. Goes with the territory. If I kept count of the ones that went down I'd lose count in a month.'

  'ODs I get,' Parrish said, 'but Danny got shot in the head.'

  'So? You think some of these motherfuckers don't carry guns? Some of these assholes would pop you for a ten-bag. You know the score, man. You been around the block.'

  'But Danny wasn't in with those kind of people, Louis, not when I last saw him.'

  'And when the fuck was that?' Louis was scratching bad. Just watching him made Parrish feel like his skin didn't fit.

  'I don't know, a year ago, eighteen months maybe.'

  'Well, nothing changes faster than things, man. Six months you can go from bad to worse to worser.'

  'What's the deal with his folks?'

  'They're dead. Been dead forever.'

  'What happened?'

  'Car crash. Both killed.'

  'How long ago?'

  Louis shook his head, turned his mouth down at the corners. 'I don't know - four, five years maybe.'

  'And his sister?'

  'What about her?'

  'You know her?'

  'Know of her, sure. Seen her coupla times. Cute looking. She don't do no skag though. Hardest thing she done is Pepsi- Cola.'

  'Not anymore.'

  Louis looked worried. 'She got done too?'

  'Yeah, she got done.'

  'Same way as Danny?'

  'Nope. She got herself strangled in Danny's apartment.'

  'Shee-it!' Louis seemed genuinely surprised. 'She was a sweet kid, real sweet. Pretty an' everything. Who the fuck woulda wanted to off her? They do her as well? Like they raped her or what?' 'I don't think so. Just killed her.'

  'That's them all gone then, ain't it? All the whole family gone. Mom, Dad, Danny and the kid sister. Shee-it, that's gotta fuckin' hurt when the whole family's gone.'

  'You know who looked after the sister?'

  'Some chick up in Williamsburg, as far as I remember. Don't know her name. Danny never really talked about it.'

  'Any idea where she went to school?'

  Louis shook his head.

  'And you think Danny would have—'

  Louis' eyes widened. 'Danny? No fuckin' way man. He loved that girl. Far as he was concerned she's walkin' on water. Said she was gonna be a model, you know? Me, I figure you gotta be five eight, five nine minimum to do that catwalk shit, but Danny wouldn't have it. She's gonna be a catwalk model and she gonna get herself all Calvin Kleined up an' earn some serious money. He's shootin' for the high-life, the penthouse suite, you know? He's a fuckin' dreamer man, but I don't say nothin'. You take away someone's dream, even if they's real foolish, and you take away their hope.'

  'When did you last see him?'

  Louis thought for a moment. 'What day we got? Tuesday . . . ? I seen him Sunday afternoon, maybe four, five o'clock.'

  'Where?'

  'His place. We did a smoke or two together. I didn't stay long, had some business to attend to.'

  'And his sister?'

  'She wasn't there, man. Didn't see her.'

  'Did he say where she was?'

  'Nope. He didn't say nothin' and I didn't ask.'

  'And you haven't heard word around of what happened? Anything at all. Someone shooting their mouth off? Someone bringing it up in conversation?'

  Louis shook his head. 'I don't make these things my business, man. You don't go lookin' for it then it ain't gonna find you, know what I mean?'

  'Okay, Louis, okay. You keep an ear and an eye out for me, okay? You hear anything you give me a call.' Parrish took the twenty and gave it to Louis. Louis took it. 'An ear and an eye I can do.' Louis showed Parrish to the door just as Momma started banging on the floor again.

  NINE

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2008

  'Frank, I need you here on time. Twenty minutes and I have I another appointment.'

  'That'll work fine, 'cause I have an appointment in fifteen.'

  'Seriously, I need you here on time. We can't get anywhere in fifteen minutes.'

  'So what do you want? You want me to stay or go?'

  'Stay. Sit down. We'll make a start. You were going to think about discussing your father.'

  'I did think about it.'

  'So are you willing to talk about him?'

  'Where are you from, Doctor Marie?'

  'I can't see what that has to do with anything.'

  'Humor me.'

  'Originally I'm from Chicago.'

  'Another good gangster town, eh? So how long have you been in New York?'

  'Three years this Christmas.'

  'You know a lot about it?'

  'Why?'

  'Well, New York is a union town. Always has been, always will be. Democrats generally. Only exception was when they brought in Giuliani, who turned Republican in the Eighties. He served his time with the US Attorney's Office for the Southern District, became US
Attorney himself, the big boss of the hot sauce, and then he was Mayor from January 1994 to December 2001.'

  'I remember him from the 9/11 attacks.'

  'Right. And you remember when he ran for the Senate, and then the White House? He was a tough guy, big heart, but up against more internal shit than he ever bargained for.'

  'In what way?'

  'Hell, Marie, you have to understand the nature of the city, some of its history, to really appreciate what happened. What's still happening.'

  'I've got time.'

  'You really wanna hear this shit?'

  'I want to hear about your father. That's really what I want to hear about, Frank.'

  'Well, if you want to hear about John Parrish then you have to hear all about the Saints of New York.'

  'The who?'

  'The Saints of New York. That's what they called themselves, bunch of egotistical assholes.'

  'So who were they? The only thing I hear about your father is how many decorations he got, how he and his colleagues helped break the back of Mafia control in the city.'

  'The truth and what you hear are never the same thing in this business, believe me. The Fulton Fish Market, the Javits Convention Center, waste haulage, the garment industry, the construction business . . . hell, they were into everything. Organized crime was so much a part of this city that no-one thought they could ever be separated. But that's what the OCCB and the Strike Forces and the Feds tried to do, and to a degree they succeeded. But even in their finest hour there was still so much internal corruption, so much money passing hands, that no-one ever really knew who was clean and who wasn't.'

  'And your father?'

  'You really want to know about him, then we'll have to begin at the beginning.'

  'Then do that, Frank.'

  'Well, okay, here we go. New York City. You got the five boroughs, okay? Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn and Staten Island. We have one New York Police Department, but each borough has its own DA. Then there's the Department of Justice, and they have US Attorney's Offices in every federal judicial district in the country. There are two districts in New York, the Southern in Manhattan and the East in Brooklyn. The