“Marcus had always been the people’s hero. He was living their dreams, showing them the dreams were real. I don’t know if you can understand? The people in Harlem dream a lot. They have to dream.”
“I understand some of it. I’m from out in the sticks originally. Lots of coal miners and farmers. Everybody out there lives on fantasies, too. Football and fast cars, mostly. Almost everybody wants to be someplace else, to be somebody else. Myself included.”
Parker nodded; then he went on. “When I found out what happened, how Marcus really died, I went crazy inside…I went to see the police commissioner. I bothered Captain Nicolo in Narcotics a lot. I wanted to clear Marcus’s name. I guess I needed to do it for myself as much as anything. People thought my brother was just another sports junkie. That hurt. It still hurts.”
Without hearing any more, Stefanovitch understood some of what Parker felt. There was something familiar about the detective’s frustration. When he had tried to investigate the ambush at Long Beach, he’d gotten the same kind of runaround inside the department.
“I was obsessed with my brother’s death. I stopped working on anything else. If I took another case, I’d only work it part-time. I couldn’t sleep. Stayed on my own a lot. I wouldn’t even talk to my partner about it.”
“Did anyone in the department try to help?”
“Nicolo did. In his own way, he did. He sent me to see one of the headshrinkers downtown. All I could think about was how Marcus had been murdered. How they kept increasing the junk load on him every day.”
“It’s a trick they used in the war. Over in Vietnam,” Stefanovitch said.
“I talked to a couple of junkies from the neighborhood. They told me how it felt; how my brother suffered before he died. The Grave Dancer liked to torture his victims. As you know, Alexandre St.-Germain was a butcher. A psycho.”
Isiah Parker tilted himself back on the spindly legs of the chair. He tapped out another cigarette, lighting up as he continued to speak to Stefanovitch.
“Back in February, I got called in by the chief of detectives. I was ready to talk about everything. I expected to be jived with. You know, a little tea and sympathy first. Then a reprimand that I shape up my act, or get out of the department. Fair enough. Chief of Detectives Schweitzer had been my rabbi once. Lieutenant—”
“I’m Stef. Or John, if you like.” Stefanovitch reached across his littered desk. He shook Parker’s hand. “What the hell, you know?”
“Well, it was nothing like what I expected, in Schweitzer’s office. I’m coming to the good part now. That is what I came to talk to you about.”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“The chief told me he’d heard I was having trouble since my brother’s death. He said not to worry about it. He said everything would work itself out. He’s smart, you know. He was very matter-of-fact about the whole thing. Caught me by surprise, because I was expecting something else.”
“You expected to get your ass chewed off, which you felt you partly deserved?”
“Right. Schweitzer is hard to read sometimes. At least he knows the rules of the street. Protect your ass; protect your partner’s ass. We talked a long time in his office. He listened mostly. Schweitzer’s a real good listener.”
“And you tell pretty good stories.”
“He asked me something I thought was a little strange. Schweitzer asked if I ever heard of death squads inside the department.”
Stefanovitch could feel his face flushing. “Had you?”
“Yeah. I knew about a couple times somebody authorized certain detectives to go take somebody out. I knew about death squads.”
Stefanovitch continued to nod as he listened to Isiah Parker. This was getting heavy. Everything was tracking so far. He had a feeling that Parker was telling the truth. Stefanovitch also knew about police department death squads. They existed. Death squads in the New York Police Department were for real, although he’d only heard about them being used to go after cop killers.
“Maybe two weeks later, Schweitzer met me at a hotel bar. Trumpets in the Hyatt. He insisted it be a bar. Out of the office. He seemed like he was in a good mood that night. Loosey-goosey like. We had a couple of pops standing around the bar. Then he laid out what was on his mind.”
“This is the fun part, right?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Schweitzer said he was planning to put together a squad. He had orders directly from Police Plaza. He said that a lot…He said we were in the middle of a guerrilla war with the street mobs. Nine cops had been killed in the last year. He asked me to think about that. Just to think it over. No pressure.”
“Yeah, no pressure except now you know somebody at Police Plaza wants to shoot it out with organized crime. No pressure. Just go out and commit a few harmless homicides with some other vigilante cops.”
Parker smiled and seemed to enjoy Stefanovitch’s sense of irony.
“The third time we met, it was up in Mamaroneck. This time it was at the house of Deputy Commissioner Mackey. Beautiful old house. Mackey was very intense and serious. He raised ethical considerations. But he showed us a lot of hard evidence. How many cops had been killed for breaking the street law. He said there was nothing the department could do legally. The mob was using guerrilla tactics, then hiding behind the court system with their expensive lawyers. There was no way the department could win. The mob kills a cop, maybe even a judge, a certain witness, anybody they want to kill. If we can make any kind of case, they hire the best lawyers and get themselves off.”
“Did it get any higher than Schweitzer and Mackey?”
“There was another meeting the next week. This meeting’s up in Westchester, too. I get introduced to the rest of the team. Detective Jimmy Burke is former Vietnam and Manhattan South Vice. Detective Aurelio Rodriquez is from Queens Narcotics. His partner had been killed a few months before. I knew Aurelio. He wanted a little vengeance, just like me. The three of us were told that Commissioner Sugarman approved of the special unit himself. It almost sounded like it was Sugarman’s plan.”
Stefanovitch could feel a cold spot forming in his stomach. “This was a verbal approval from Commissioner Sugarman?”
“That’s right. You got it. Mackey used a lot of the police commissioner’s own words. He was trying to make us more comfortable. After that, we met only with Mackey. He’d give us the specific targets. Alexandre St.-Germain. Traficante. Ollie Barnwell. Everything was very organized. We even kept a surveillance log before and after the hits. We recorded our time on undercover.”
“Do you still have the surveillance log?” Stefanovitch was beginning to make a few written notes. “You did keep the log, Isiah?”
Parker smiled. “Sure I kept the surveillance log. It’s in a safety deposit box. A girlfriend of mine has the key. Just in case I ever get into an accident, in case something unfortunate happens. I never completely trusted my partners, especially Burke.”
Stefanovitch rubbed his forehead, then his eyes. He believed what he was hearing—he just couldn’t believe he was hearing it.
“I met with Mackey one more time. This was almost two weeks ago,” Parker said. “He told me about Atlantic City.”
“Did you keep a surveillance log on the meeting? Do you have a record of the meeting?” Stefanovitch’s heart was starting to beat faster. They were getting into what really mattered.
“The last meeting with Deputy Commissioner Mackey… I was wired. I wired myself. Like I said, I was very uncomfortable.”
“Jesus Christ. You wired yourself for a meet with Charlie Mackey?”
“The tape is in the safety deposit box I told you about. Safe and sound.”
“I’m beginning to see how you got all those narcotics arrests. Tell me more about Atlantic City. Everything there is to tell.”
There was silence as Parker lit up another cigarette. The detective seemed to be taking stock of what he had gone over, maybe what he hadn’t gone over yet.
“We were supposed to
check into separate hotels in Atlantic City. I was in Trump’s. Burke stayed at Bally’s, Aurelio Rodriquez was at Resorts.”
Parker told about the chaos and confusion after the shootings at Trump’s. “I saw you outside on the boardwalk. I also think I saw Deputy Commissioner Mackey in the crowd. Some coincidence, huh?”
“Then Burke tried to kill me. Burke was waiting for me near my car…
“Rodriquez had already been murdered. The vigilante cops, right. Somebody pimped us. Somebody set us up, Lieutenant. I’m not even sure who. Mackey and Burke? The commissioner himself?”
“What are you doing now, Isiah?”
“I’ve been checking on my good buddy Burke over the past few days. Pulling some favors with a few friends. As it turns out, Burke met St.-Germain in Southeast Asia. He worked for him there. One other thing you should know. It’s the reason I came to see you, Lieutenant.”
Parker paused for a few seconds. John Stefanovitch waited for him to start again.
“I think that Jimmy Burke might be the one who killed your partner, Kupchek. I think some of the men who originally ambushed you at Long Beach were New York City cops.”
64
Sarah McGinniss; The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel
MADNESS WAS BEGINNING to take over her world. Sarah couldn’t stop thinking that way, because it happened to be the truth.
She was running, actually running, inside the formal and elegant Park Avenue entrance to the Waldorf-Astoria. Then she was rushing up the double-wide marble staircase. Finally Sarah entered the plush, floral-carpeted lobby, which extended a full city block to Lexington Avenue.
As her eyes focused on the scene, she selected sharply delineated objects and surfaces to concentrate on: a gilded sign for the Hilton Room; the entryway to the famous Empire Room, where café society had once danced to Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman; a cocktail lounge called Peacock Alley. The hotel’s interior was undeniably rich, but also harmonious. It blended various marbles, stones, friezes, matched woods, and marquetry panels.
Somehow, the Waldorf seemed almost perfect for what was about to happen. It was the hotel of kings and presidents, wasn’t it? Maybe it ought to be the hotel for the highest intrigues as well.
She had to find Stefanovitch.
He’d called her at home, but she’d been out taking Sam to school. The message he’d left said there was going to be some kind of announcement about Alexandre St.-Germain at the Waldorf. Stef didn’t know any more than that yet. No one did. The message was so unexpected that as soon as she heard it, Sarah rushed to the midtown hotel. Now where was he?
She was feeling numb as she stood in the Waldorf, trying to catch her breath. Her face was flushed. Her neck tingled.
Finally she spotted him, down past Peacock Alley on the far right side of the lobby. He was spiffed up: wearing a car coat; a shirt and tie. He looked good, and was catching a lot of passing stares.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” she said as she hurried up to Stefanovitch. Even as she spoke, Sarah realized how hurt she’d been in Pennsylvania. She hadn’t understood how much until that moment.
He sensed it. “It’s real hard for me to apologize,” he said. “But I’m sorry. I should have tried to explain, but I’m not sure I understand what happened myself. I am sorry, Sarah.”
His hand brushed the sleeve of her dress. The slightest physical contact was made, but it seemed more than that to Sarah. Something about the strangeness of the relationship made all this incredibly intense to her.
Sarah looked into his eyes, but didn’t say anything. She knew this wasn’t the place or time.
“After this is over, we should talk. Sometime soon.” Her face quickly shifted away from Stefanovitch, those haunting brown eyes. “Do you know where we’re going? Where is all this supposed to happen?”
“The Duke of Windsor Room. It’s up on the fourth floor. A lot of movers and shakers are already there. I did some scouting before you got here.”
“Well… let’s go join everybody,” Sarah said. “See what this is all about.”
65
MORE THAN A hundred reporters, all kinds, from television networks, from newspapers and magazines around the world, were already gathered in the formal room. Everyone who was anyone was there: the American networks, the BBC, CBC, Iron Curtain services; representatives from all over Latin America. There were gold moiré draperies everywhere. The walls were covered in gold damask. Several of the sofas and chairs were Chippendale.
Sarah recognized a few of the newspeople, colleagues and acquaintances. This was going to be a huge story. Possibly, it would be the biggest story yet. And it was breaking right here in the Waldorf’s very civilized Duke of Windsor Room.
A cluster of microphones jutted from a stern podium set before rows of upholstered chairs. Alongside the podium, Sarah saw a man she knew, a high-powered New York lawyer named Morton James. She figured that James’s law firm must be orchestrating everything. The idea angered her. Morton James belonged to a group described as “New York’s greediest.” He was definitely another class of criminal: pin-striped collar; blue blood; black heart.
The Midnight Club. The words played like a familiar tune inside her head. There was something uncomfortable about this juxtaposition: the ornate Waldorf-Astoria meeting room—and what was about to happen here. What was about to happen here? What did Morton James have to announce to the press?
In his inimitable way, Stefanovitch was clearing a path through the reporters, plowing down the right side aisle. He found two seats halfway to the podium.
It was almost eleven-thirty, the time scheduled for the press conference. Nothing had happened yet. Reporters continued to file into the hotel room.
A clique of lawyers from James’s firm was congregated around a silver coffee urn, a very expensive-looking samovar. Sarah felt as if she were attending some kind of stockholders’ corporate bash. It was a disturbing notion. Everything felt expertly orchestrated; everything was purposely expensive; so right, so respectable; so utterly reprehensible under the circumstances.
The lawyer Morton James was standing behind the podium and all the protruding microphones. What a pompous and self-satisfied creep. What a fine example of pond scum on the surface of life.
“Good morning,” he announced in a voice that was too silky-smooth and mellifluous, too pleasant by half. “I would like to thank you all for coming to this press conference.”
Press conference? Is that what this is? Sarah thought to herself. She had to smile.
At that moment, Alexandre St.-Germain appeared from behind thickset oak doors at the front of the formal meeting room.
66
STEFANOVITCH FELT HIS stomach drop. His heart began to pound so loud he thought others around him could hear it. The killer he had been tracking for almost five years was walking toward the speaker’s dais.
The Grave Dancer wore a conservative business suit, not unlike that of his Park Avenue attorney. His hair was slicked back, making his face more severe than ever. The Grave Dancer was back; and he looked as if he belonged inside the elegant Waldorf meeting room.
Alexandre St.-Germain stepped behind the microphone. He seemed very comfortable and completely relaxed. Sarah suddenly felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
Stefanovitch touched her arm. It was like electricity, live current being fed into an even stronger current. She wondered what this was like for him, being in the same room with St.-Germain.
“I have prepared some remarks which should help to explain my sudden, much-publicized disappearance several weeks ago,” Alexandre St.-Germain began in a strong, clear voice.
“On that evening, I received word that because of certain of my financial interests in Europe and the United States, an attempt would be made on my life. I was taken away from New York before a tragic shooting occurred here. A precaution, which turned out to be a necessity. My company’s security team saved my life. I was transported to Kennedy Airport. It was felt that I would be safe
r at my home near Nice. We are all too aware of the assassination attempts against business leaders during the last few years.
“When I reached my destination in France, I learned about the tragic developments in New York. At the time, it was felt that I should remain in seclusion, until more was known about the attack.
“I discovered that two of the European corporations in which I own a substantial interest, Ferro and Maldo-Scotti Industries, had been infiltrated by members of a crime syndicate that has had dealings with leftist terrorists. Yesterday, the Sûreté arrested several men in connection with the attempt on my life. I am satisfied that my personal safety is assured, and so, I have returned to resume my business in New York.”
At that moment, Alexandre St.-Germain discovered Stefanovitch in the audience. He glanced at Stef and the look was unbearably cold and detached. In an instant, he let Stefanovitch know how insignificant he was. I have returned to resume my business in New York. You mean nothing.
“Simultaneous with this announcement,” St.-Germain went on, “another meeting is being held in Europe, releasing all of the information there…my company’s full security arrangements. Everything you need to know for your stories.
“Because of the notoriety the case has received, it was felt that such unusual steps were justified, and in fact necessary… I would gladly answer any of your questions now.”
At the conclusion of his prepared statement, Alexandre St.-Germain smoothly handled questions without any assistance from his lawyers. He gained confidence as he spoke, becoming almost glib on the podium.
He could easily have been mistaken for a high-level executive from a major corporation. He had been expertly coached and prepared for the morning’s meeting. Sarah sensed that he was actually winning the group over. They were starting to laugh at his clever jokes, appreciating his style, which was sophisticated and urbane.