Out on Spring Street again, in the blue and black shadows across from Cin-Cin, Isiah Parker doubled over. He threw up against the cyclone fence. He held the thought inside—murderer.
Less than thirty minutes later, John Stefanovitch was riding up in the same groaning warehouse elevator to view the remains of Oliver Barnwell.
Invisible men.
28
John Stefanovitch; One Police Plaza
STEFANOVITCH SPENT ALL day Saturday working by himself at One Police Plaza. He enjoyed the relative quiet and the solitude.
The Organized Crime Task Force now included more than sixty detectives cooperating in all the boroughs of New York. There were briefings every day, including a progress review with the commissioner and several precinct captains.
On Monday, visitors from Interpol, Scotland Yard, and the French Sûreté would arrive in New York. During the past week, related killings had occurred in Palermo, Amsterdam, and London, where police officials maintained that organized crime wasn’t the problem.
On Sunday morning, John Stefanovitch’s black van entered the Queens Midtown Tunnel at six-fifteen. At the end of the long, gray tunnel, beyond the sleepy rows of tollbooths, he began his ride east on the Long Island Expressway. The sky overhead was pink, rolling up into a crisp blue that was peaceful and gorgeous.
For an hour and a half, everything was right with Stefanovitch’s world. He could feel a slight tingle, an overall pleasant sensation sweeping through his body, even down into his legs.
He arrived at the outskirts of East Hampton, Long Island, at seven-fifteen. He ate a homemade sausage and cheddar cheese omelet at Gilly’s Wharfside, where he also performed his Sunday ritual of reading the Times: news, sports, theater, “The Week in Review,” books, and the magazine.
When he had been recuperating from his gunshot wounds in New York Hospital, he had read the Times cover to cover for forty-five straight Sundays. He had also read books, hundreds of them: fiction and nonfiction, more than he had read during the first thirty years of his life combined. One of his favorites, A Fan’s Notes, by Frederick Exley, was about a screwed-up high school teacher who wound up with nothing in his life except reading the Sunday Times and watching the Giants play football. Every Saturday the guy would drive forty or fifty miles away from his hometown and go on a rip-roaring toot. On Sunday it would be even more drinking, plus the Times, and the pitiful “Jints” on TV. Always in some anonymous, down-and-out tavern where nobody knew who he was. Then it was home again, home again, to teach school on Monday morning.
After his breakfast, Stefanovitch entered East Hampton proper. Soon, he was passing comfortable old houses of no great distinction, sighting the broad fairways and monster greens of the Maidstone Club Golf Course, which flanked the road on the right. The imposing bulk of the clubhouse faced the ocean like a fortress-castle.
Three quarters of a mile beyond the golf course, entrances to impressive summer estates began to appear. Long, curling driveways led to improbably small sand dunes. Behind them, sprawling beach houses were quietly settled into the earth.
The short stretch along the beach road was exhilarating. He turned up the car radio, letting it blare and become an almost physical presence. He sang along with a Tina Turner song called “Private Dancer.” He opened both front windows, and the sea breeze whipped his brown hair around his ears and across his forehead.
29
THE HOUSE HE was looking for had a modest driveway that curved gracefully at the end, to begin a turnaround. The turnaround broadened into a circle for parking cars. The house itself was dominated by weathered gray shingles with white latticing. All the window frames on the two-story house were neatly trimmed in white. Glossy, bright blue shutters were already catching sparkles of sunlight.
Stefanovitch was a little in awe. He hadn’t been properly prepared for Sarah McGinniss’s beach cottage.
She was sitting out on the back porch, waiting for him to arrive, or maybe just sitting on the porch for no reason at all.
They agreed to meet and spend Sunday wading through her confidential notes, the files on Alexandre St.-Germain, Oliver Barnwell, and John Traficante. They would try to connect the murdered crime figures with somebody on the videotapes, or perhaps someone in Sarah’s files. The change of venue to the beach house seemed like a good idea. Stefanovitch figured it was like playing a home-and-home series in sports.
A steaming mug was cradled in the lap of Sarah’s bright yellow sundress. She looked different again. Prettier, but also more carefree.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Sarah rose and came walking toward his car. Her bare, bony feet balanced on the driveway’s shiny white gravel and broken shells. The yellow sundress ballooned slightly with the sea breeze. He caught every detail.
“Morning, ma’am.” Stefanovitch smiled like a local Johnny Law. “Which way to the servants’ entrance?”
“Don’t be a wise guy, Lieutenant. After the book hit, I had a few choices—investing in shopping centers in places like Bloomington, Indiana. Or maybe something like this house. I thought the house might be a little more fun than the Stop and Shops.”
Stefanovitch nodded. His eyes continued to survey the beachfront house and property.
“I’ll show you where we’re going to work. C’mon.”
He followed her along a bleached slat walkway that led toward the oceanfront.
It was a luminous day. The air was clear, thick with salt, and the sky was the brightest blue. Gray and off-white seagulls were flapping overhead, as if someone had thrown them handfuls of bread crumbs. Somewhere down the beach, a halyard rang softly against a sailboat mast.
Sarah had set up a long wooden worktable on the first extension of the front porch. It was covered with papers, shaded by a navy blue awning.
Stefanovitch could imagine her sitting out there, writing her books.
“Where would you like to set up shop?” She spoke over the hiss of the wind. “I thought maybe that porch over there.”
“The porch looks great to me. It beats Police Plaza on a day like today. All kidding aside, this is very special.”
“All kidding aside, thank you.”
30
HE HAD READ somewhere, in one of the magazine interviews, that Sarah McGinniss was an extremely hard worker. She was supposed to be dedicated to her small son and to her writing, and she wouldn’t let anything get in the way of either.
By two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, Stefanovitch absolutely believed what he had read about her. His eyes were burning and he had a throbbing headache. His shoulders ached from too much sitting in one place.
She showed no signs of tiring, though. She had mentioned lunch once, and he feigned indifference. She had then plunged on for another hour and a half of note taking, reading lengthy court transcripts, searching through as much original background material as Stefanovitch had seen in all his past homicide investigations put together.
The street law… the crushing reality of organized crime around the world in the middle 1980s… Sarah McGinniss had done exhaustive research on all of it.
Alexandre St.-Germain was mentioned everywhere in the files:
In his early years, but as recently as the previous spring, the Grave Dancer had proven to be the most violent and vengeful of the crime lords. Behind the veneer of his good looks, his charm, St.-Germain had been a psychopath. Was that why he had been murdered? Had his methods been too extreme? Had he embarrassed or worried someone? But who? Who was calling the shots in the Midnight Club? Who had gotten more powerful than St.-Germain?
The Grave Dancer had enjoyed “wet work,” performing many of the nasty murders himself. He had taught his horrifying “lessons” all over the world.
A drug dealer, but also his two girlfriends, beheaded in Morocco. Their faces ruined. Their genitals slashed with razor blades.
Five young policemen blown to bits during their weekly card game in Los Angeles.
The two daughters of a judge in Rome kidnapp
ed from private school, then raped and murdered. A twelve- and a fourteen-year-old.
A West German hospital bombed to get to a trial lawyer.
A nightclub bombed in London, fourteen dead, eleven of them young women.
So many lessons; all of them vivid and horrible and premeditated.
That was why the street law had been so effective.
But now somebody didn’t want or need the old laws. Who could that be?
What had changed so dramatically?
Solve the murder of the Grave Dancer, and all the other mysteries would solve themselves. Stefanovitch was almost certain of it.
Meanwhile, Sarah McGinniss’s files went on and on.
When the French/Marseilles Connection had been temporarily broken, the Sicilian Mafia headed up the flow of most heroin trade into the United States. There had been incredible violence against the Italian judiciary and members of Parliament who interfered with the mob. The street law.
More than a hundred policemen, but also magistrates, had been murdered in Sicily during the past decade alone. Italy continued to have the world’s largest black economy, the economia sommersa, or submerged economy.
In recent years, the Midnight Club had opened up negotiations between the Sicilians and the Marseilles group. The Club had connected the mobs with legitimate businesses in France and Italy. An Italian labor official announced on television that it was becoming impossible to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
Stefanovitch read on through the source material:
By agreement of the international crime leadership, presumably the Club, the Colombians had cornered the cocaine pipeline into the United States. A justice minister and twelve judges were murdered in 1985 for their efforts to help control drug traffic in Colombia and Peru. Another dozen drug policemen, trained by Americans, were murdered up-country.
In November of 1985, a band of Colombian assassins had actually assaulted the Palace of Justice in Bogotá. They went to the fourth floor, where judges were hearing requests for ex-tradition of drug traffickers to the United States. The assassins killed a dozen of the judges right there. In total, 95 people were killed during the bloody siege. The street law once again.
The Yakuza, in Japan, had recently joined with the international cartel, working outside of their own country. Alexandre St.-Germain had been involved in effecting the negotiations. It represented the first time the Yakuza had ever worked with outsiders. At the same time, the Midnight Club had become heavily involved with buying and trading in the Tokyo Stock Exchange.
* * *
According to page after page of Sarah’s notes, crime was truly organizing this time.
Taiwan’s United Bamboo gang was currently operating successfully in Houston, Miami, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, the Philippines, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Hong Kong, and Japan. United Bamboo had reportedly completed an agreement with Alexandre St.-Germain, just before his death.
At about three o’clock, Stefanovitch checked his wristwatch. He finally collapsed against the back of his chair.
Sarah saw him, and she laughed. “I’m really sorry. Some hostess, right? I’m conditioned to grunt work behind a desk. Reading tomes of stuff like this. I’ll bet you’re starving. I’ve got deli food hidden away in the kitchen. Bought for just such an occasion. Where would you like to eat?”
Stefanovitch stared up at the thin streak of ocean blue, visible just over the luminous white of the sand dune.
“How about on the deck there? That looks pretty good to me. I’ll help with the food.”
“All right, sure. That’ll be great. If you’re interested, there are extra bathing suits, towels and things inside the house. I’m going to change into something myself.”
Sarah smiled at Stefanovitch.
“Please make yourself at home. Okay, Lieutenant? End of amenities.”
She went off to change and to fix lunch. As instructed, Stefanovitch showed himself around the spacious and open downstairs of the beach house.
He found a changing area with a selection of cabana jackets and swimsuits, a couple of them obviously for Sarah’s little boy, Sam. He appreciated the way Sarah hadn’t found it necessary to show him around, or to tend to him too much. The single largest complaint about being “handicapped” was people always trying to “help”—except when you really needed it.
31
FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER he went inside, Stefanovitch had commandeered a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a well-worn, kelly green T-shirt that said “Boston Celtics.” He imagined he looked like a typical New York cop, summering on the Irish Riviera. Well, not exactly typical.
He came down the walkway to the deck overlooking the sand dunes. For a couple of minutes, he just watched the surf gently rise and fall in the distance. Then he went back to the house and returned to the deck with plates and silver for lunch. He was making himself useful, which had always been his way, but which since the shooting had become a psychological necessity.
Eventually, he heard Sarah coming from the house. He swung around to see her carrying a tray with lunch.
Sarah had a slender, very sexy body. She was wearing a simple black one-piece. She’d let her hair down, combed it out, and pinned it behind one ear with a cherry red barrette.
“That’s a pretty suit” was as far as he would let himself go. Intense confusion clouded his mind.
The two of them were comfortable enough with one another to be fairly quiet as they ate their lunch. Eventually, Sarah talked about her little boy. Listening to her, Stefanovitch got the sense that everything wasn’t quite resolved between Sarah and her former husband. He didn’t push her on it. He didn’t have a book to write, after all. He didn’t have an excuse to ask a lot of personal questions.
As he finished off an overstuffed crabmeat salad sandwich, he noticed that Sarah was gazing out to sea, momentarily off in her own private world.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked her. “You’re not already working again, are you?”
Sarah shifted her face out of profile. There was a softness that appeared sometimes; it understated her intelligence, and made her very approachable.
“Not really. No. Can I ask you a serious question?… There I go again. Another one of my famous probing questions.”
“No, it’s all right.”
Sarah set down the last portion of her salad. “Will you tell me about your legs? Only if you feel comfortable talking about it. You still have some feeling in them, don’t you?”
“More than I want to sometimes,” Stefanovitch said and smiled faintly. “There’s an operation I could try. I’ve been told the chances are eight in ten I’d wind up paralyzed from the neck down. I don’t think I like the odds. My doctor, actually about three different specialists, doesn’t like the odds at all. It’s not a real-world possibility. But I do have some feeling, yes.”
They were both quiet for a moment, perched amid the dunes under the clear, blue sky. Sarah looked over at Stefanovitch again. He was so different from what she’d sensed that first morning at Police Plaza. He had this aura about him, something special. If anything, his being in the wheelchair increased it.
She had the intuitive feeling that she had crossed some barrier he’d set up between himself and the outer world. She was becoming curious about what he’d been like before the accident.
“It’s as hot as the Mets were last year,” Sarah finally said. It was the kind of silly thing she might have remarked to Sam. It made her think that maybe she hadn’t been spending enough time around adults lately.
Her eyes traveled down toward the water, which looked cold and inviting.
“The ocean’s something I don’t think I could handle,” Stefanovitch said. “I couldn’t get this chair down there through all that sand. You go ahead. I’ll amuse myself up here.”
“Mr. Self-sufficient,” she lightly mocked him. She stood up on the creaking wooden deck. Finally, Sarah began to trot down toward the shimmering blue sea.
&
nbsp; She provides a nice view from the back, Stefanovitch thought as she bobbed away. California girls. The little touch with the red barrette was the best part. Well, one of the best parts.
He would have been lying to himself not to admit that he was captivated. He was. But he cut it off there. Fantasies in that direction were too painful and ridiculous. He cursed softly, but he let it go.
He kept his eyes on her all the way down to the sea, every step.
32
THE SUN CREATED millions of perfect jewels on the ocean surface. The line of surf was like a delicate white lace collar.
Sarah broke the white lace with a nearly perfect dive. It made his heart grab in spite of his commonsense resolve just a moment before. She was so “regular” and just plain good to be around. He couldn’t imagine anybody leaving her, as her husband apparently had done.
Around four-thirty, the two of them got back to work. They agreed to cover the remaining files before calling it a day.
As he watched her jot down several notes, Stefanovitch began to understand why Sarah McGinniss had become a successful journalist and author. She was single-minded, and absolutely driven by her work, at least by the writing of The Club. Sarah also seemed immune to the danger attached to writing her book.
Late afternoon breezes off the ocean arrived in refreshing swells for the next hour or so. Stefanovitch thought that he hadn’t felt so sandy, so windblown, so good, in years.
He had completely lost track of time, and was surprised to look up and see that night had fallen. His watch said nine.
“You’ve really got yourself a beautiful spot here.” He finally spoke. He moved away from the worktable, up closer to the porch railing with its view of the sea.
Sarah came over and sat on the whitewashed rail beside him. Her profile, difficult to ignore in any lighting, was alluring against the moon and the night sky.
“I still can’t get it into my head that this is actually my place. The house. This little vantage point on sun and sea.”