Bodies in Winter

SEVENTEEN

The highlight of my weekend was a pair of stories in Sunday’s New York Times. I lived in a middle-income housing development on the east side of Manhattan called Rensselaer Village. My two-bedroom apartment, for which I paid $950 per month, was an inadvertent legacy from my parents who’d resided in the complex for the better part of four decades. In line with New York’s complicated rent laws, after my father and mother split for a retirement community on Long Island, I simply inherited the 800 square feet, along with the extremely low rent. Nearly identical apartments in my building now went for three grand a month.

When my parents announced that they were off to the burbs, I was living in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, and considering the possibility of relocating to Maplewood, New Jersey. Instead, I went to live in the heart of the great financial engine that drove Sheepshead Bay, Maplewood and everything else within a radius of fifty miles. I was pleased, to be sure, but still cautious. Before moving in, I had every stick of furniture removed, including the curtains on the windows, the artwork on the walls and the cabinets in the bathroom. Then I had the rooms painted, the windows washed and the floors refinished with two coats of clear polyurethane specially formulated for basketball courts.

If I’d known a priest, I’d have had an exorcism performed as well.

The two stories appeared in the Metro section. The first, and by far the larger, revealed the latest developments as related by Deputy Chief Simon Kramer in the course of a press conference. Kramer had begun the conference by announcing that the gun found by Detectives Bentibi and Corbin near the body of DuWayne Spott had been positively linked to the murder of David Lodge by the Ballistics Unit. Moreover, two prints left by Spott’s right index finger were found on the automatic’s receiver. Then he went on to confirm a pair of facts already leaked to the media: Spott died of an accidental heroin overdose and he was alone when his body was discovered.

A twist of the knife, our names appearing in the paper. The integrity of the crime scene was now guaranteed by my and Adele’s personal integrity. It was no longer possible to suggest the gun had been planted without suggesting that Adele and I had planted it.

But if the first story had the feel of a nail driven into a coffin, the second managed to at least crack the lid. It’s author, Albert Gruber, had somehow wangled a phone interview with Dr Vencel Nagy.

David Lodge, Nagy told Gruber (as he’d told me) had not been fearful as his release date approached, nor had he spoken about the possibility of assassination. Instead, though Lodge still had no clear memory of his whereabouts when Spott was murdered, he was convinced of his innocence.

The Gruber story had almost certainly been planted. At the very least, the reporter had been fed enough information about Nagy to inspire a phone call. My first thought was of Adele. They were already talking about her in the One-Sixteen. If she was blamed for the leak, the buzz would grow louder. Of course, there was also the possibility that Adele was guilty as charged. I’d left the precinct right after finishing the paperwork, my goal to avoid another lecture. Of Adele’s plans for the weekend, I knew nothing.

Mike Blair’s voice sounded in my ear at that moment. Nobody’s talkin’ about you, Harry. Everybody knows you’re a cop’s cop.

At six o’clock, too restless to stay inside, I headed over to the Y. There were people in the pool, swimming laps, and I had to share a lane with a teenage kid who kept sprinting forward as if trying to reach the end of a punishment. He splashed water in my face every time I went by.

After a choppy half-hour, the kid took off, leaving me alone with thoughts I was unable to arrange in a sequence that reached any good end. Maybe the rumors would die away. Maybe Adele would back off. Maybe we’d resume our regular duties. But the bitterness would remain, of that I was certain. David Lodge would become the part of my career I avoided thinking about.

And I knew I could take his killers down. I had no doubt whatever. The bad guys’ blitzkrieg strategy was driven by necessity. They needed DuWayne Spott in the ground and the Lodge murder closed before the various discrepancies Adele and I had uncovered were closely scrutinized. And the emergence of the wild card, Vencel Nagy, had compounded the pressure. If it wasn’t done quickly, they must have known, it wouldn’t be done at all.

I stayed at it for another forty-five minutes, but I couldn’t settle into my stroke. For once, I was unable to separate the events from the emotions they aroused. And I didn’t even know who I was angrier with, Adele or Sarney. Because they were both right. Letting David Lodge’s killers off the hook went against every instinct. On one level, I was as outraged as Adele. But that didn’t make Sarney wrong. There were definitely times when you had to watch your own ass, when you had to acknowledge your place in the greater scheme of things. Otherwise, you paid the price.

I carried that last thought through a shower and the short walk to Rensselaer Village, where I picked up the phone and called Adele. When she answered after several rings, I told her about Mike Blair’s warning, repeating it almost word for word. Her reaction was predictable.

‘What,’ she asked, her tone amused, ‘must I do to make amends?’

‘How about telling me that you didn’t plant that story in the Times.’

The question was meant to surprise her and she didn’t respond immediately. Determined not to speak first, I listened to her breathe into the phone as she weighed her answer. Of one thing I was fairly certain: she wouldn’t lie to me.

‘Everybody loves you, Corbin,’ she finally said, ‘but you have the instincts of a shark.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘Look, what I do on my own time is my own business. I don’t have to account to you. After all, you’re a “cop’s cop”.’

‘Forget it, Adele. I’m not buying into the guilt trip. I didn’t start that rumor and I’m not spreading it around.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Now, let me back up a little. You do know the story I’m talking about, right? Gruber’s story in the New York Times?’

‘I read it.’

‘Did you plant it?’

‘I don’t have to answer to you, Corbin. I’ve already said that.’

‘I’m your partner, Adele. You don’t hide something like this from your partner.’

But Adele wasn’t buying into any guilt trips, either. ‘I won’t be in next week,’ she announced. ‘I’ve got eight vacation days coming and I’ve decided to take them right away.’

‘And what if Sarney doesn’t allow you to take them?’

‘Corbin, sometimes you’re very naive. Sarney can’t wait to be rid of me.’