Ice

15

In some cities, it was called a “first appearance.” In this city, it was called an “arraignment.” However you sliced it and whatever you called it, it was the first time a person charged with a crime appeared in a courtroom before a judge.

They had talked over their strategy beforehand with the assistant district attorney assigned to the case. They knew Moore’s attorney would advise him to plead not guilty to all the charges, and whereas they were certain the dope charge would stick, they were on more tenuous ground where it came to the murders. Their fear was that they’d come up against a lenient judge who might accept Moore’s contention that Brother Anthony’s murder was committed in self-defense, and might set what he thought to be a reasonable bail for the drug offense. Even though the ballistics tests on the Smith & Wesson would not be completed until the case was presented to a grand jury sometime next week, they decided to tack on to their complaint the three additional counts of Murder One, hoping a judge would be intimidated by quantity and weight when it came time to grant or deny bail. If the gun that had killed Brother Anthony turned out to be the same gun that had fired the fatal bullets into Paco Lopez, Sally Anderson, and Marvin Edelman, they felt there was a good chance the grand jury would hand down a true bill on all four murder counts. When the case later came to trial, it would then be Moore’s word alone that would keep him from spending more time in prison than there were days on an eternal calendar. The important thing now was to make sure he did not walk out of that courthouse. They felt certain that if bail was granted, they would never see him again.

The judge hearing the case was Walking Wilbur Harris.

The court attendant, who was called a bridge in this city, sat before Harris’s bench and read off the name of the defendant, and then the charges against him. Harris looked out over his rimless spectacles and said, “Are these charges correct, officer?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Carella said.

The four of them were standing before the judge’s bench, Carella with the assistant DA, Moore with his attorney. Harris turned to Moore.

“You may have a hearing in this court,” he said, “or an adjournment for purpose of obtaining a lawyer or witnesses, or waive that hearing and let the case go to a grand jury. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Moore said.

“Is he here present?”

“I am representing the defendant,” Moore’s attorney said.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Wilcox,” Harris said. “Didn’t recognize you.”

Wilcox smiled. “Your Honor,” he said, in recognition of the recognition.

“How do you plead to these charges?” Harris asked. “First count, Criminal Possession of a controlled substance in the First Degree, contrary to penal law, Section 220.21.”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Moore said.

“Second, third, fourth, and fifth counts, Murder in the First Degree, contrary to penal law, Section 125.27.”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Moore said.

“Pending a grand jury hearing,” Wilcox said, going straight for the jugular, “may I at this time request bail for the defendant?”

“The man’s been charged with four counts of First Degree Murder!” Harris said, looking surprised.

“He acted in self-defense on the first count, Your Honor, and had nothing whatever to do with the other three murders charged.”

“Mr. Delmonico?” Harris said, turning to the ADA.

“We have good and reasonable cause to believe the same weapon was used in all four murders, Your Honor.”

“What good and reasonable cause?” Harris asked.

“Detective Carella here has ballistics reports indicating the same gun was used in the murders of Paco Lopez, Sally Anderson, and Marvin Edelman.”

“What about this other one?” Harris said. “Anthony Scalzo.”

“The man was killed—”

“The gun is now with—”

“One at a time,” Harris said.

“The man was killed in self-defense, Your Honor,” Wilcox said. “He was armed when he broke into the defendant’s apartment. There was a struggle during which my client disarmed him and shot him. In self-defense.”

“Mr. Delmonico?”

“The gun is now with Ballistics Section, Your Honor. We should have a report sometime before the grand jury hearing next week.”

“What makes you think it’s the same gun?” Harris asked.

“It’s a .38-caliber Smith and Wesson, Your Honor. That’s the make and caliber of the gun used in the previous three murders. The same gun for all three murders.”

“But you don’t know if it’s the same gun that was used in this fourth homicide.”

“Not yet, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor—,” Wilcox said.

“Your Honor—,” Delmonico said.

“Just a minute here,” Harris said. “Mr. Wilcox?”

“Your Honor,” Wilcox said, “there is no ballistics evidence that would link the gun used in the previous murders with the shooting that took place in my client’s apartment yesterday. But even if there did exist such evidence, it’s our contention that the gun belonged to Anthony Scalzo and not my client.”

“Mr. Delmonico?”

“Your Honor,” Delmonico said, “we feel such evidence will be forthcoming. In any event, given the gravity of the charges before you, I respectfully submit that the granting of bail would be inadvisable in this case.”

“Yes, well, that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” Harris said.

“Yes, Your Honor, of course.”

“Bail is granted in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars,” Harris said.

“We are prepared to meet that bail, Your Honor,” Wilcox said.

“Very well, remand the defendant.”

“May I have a few words with my client?” Wilcox asked.

“Take him aside. Next case.”

As the bridge read off the name of the next defendant and the charges against him, Carella watched Wilcox in whispered conversation with Moore. Wilcox was a good lawyer, Carella knew he’d have discussed with Moore beforehand the amount of bail he thought he could meet. All they had to come up with now was $10,000 in cash and collateral for the rest, easy enough when you owned twenty-five carats of diamonds worth a cool $300,000. Or would Wilcox simply phone Moore’s mother in Miami and ask her to wire him a mere $100,000? Either way, Moore would spend a relaxed day in custody at either the Municipal House of Detention crosstown on Daley Street, or else in the Parsons Island Jail in the middle of the river Dix. By nightfall, he’d be out on the street again. He watched as they led Moore out. He watched as Wilcox exchanged a few words with the bail bondsman. He rarely thought in Italian, but the words La comedia é finita crossed his mind. He walked to the back of the courtroom, where Delmonico and Meyer were waiting.

“I told you,” Meyer said. “There ain’t no justice in this world.”

But maybe there was, after all.

There was hardly any packing left to do.

He had done most of his packing yesterday afternoon before he’d been interrupted by the man in the monk’s habit, whose name he now knew was Anthony Scalzo. Nothing had changed. He still planned to get out of here as soon as possible, out of the city and the state for sure, maybe out of the country as well. The only difference now was that his mother would be out the $100,000 she’d provided for his bail, a small enough price to pay for his freedom; anyway, he planned to pay her back as soon as he got settled someplace.

As he took his toilet articles from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he replayed the little session with the mastermind sleuths of the 87th Precinct, four of them sitting there playing cat and mouse with him, each and every one of them knowing they didn’t have a chance in hell of getting him on those three murders unless he decided to fall to his knees in confession. He was tempted — almost, but not quite — to forget all about running, take his chances with a jury instead. They’d buy his plea of self-defense, and he’d end up spending a little time — maybe two years — in prison on the drug charge. But he supposed there was no such thing as a little time in prison; any time in prison was a lot of time. Better to do it this way. Jump bail, get out of the country, use the diamonds — but, ah, what a waste. Two years of medical school, what a waste. He wondered what his father would have said if he was still alive. Well, Dad, he thought, I saw my opportunity and I grabbed it. It would’ve all worked out fine, I’d have had the money and my medical degree besides, nobody the wiser, nobody hurt, Dad, if only...

The one person I thought I could trust.

Sally.

Would I have written to her otherwise?

Thought I could trust her. Told me we didn’t have to sell off all the stuff right away, we could — well, listen, who knew anything at all about cocaine? Babe in the woods down there in Miami, Portoles leading me by the hand, I will make you rich, amigo, for saving my son. Tested the stuff for me, I didn’t even know enough to do that. Paying fifty thousand a key, never thought to ask if it was real cocaine. Cobalt thiocyanate. Blue reaction. What’d he say? The brighter the blue, the better the girl. Referring to the coke. Called it girl. Best pure you can find, he told me. Yours now. Mine. Sally’s, too, sort of. Told me we could hold back two kilos, ounce them out, she knew somebody uptown who’d be interested, somebody who would put them on to other customers. Knew more about cocaine than I’ll ever know. Said she’d been shooting it even before it got fashionable, while she was studying dance in London, used to share what she called Cocaine Fucks with an oboe player she was living with. Shared those with her friend uptown, too, but who knew that at the time? Trusted her. One thing you should never trust is a woman in bed. Spread any woman’s legs, and secrets fly out of her like butterflies. Told him everything. Told him about our little cache, the two keys of cocaine we were milking. Our insurance, she called them. Sure.

He zipped up his toilet kit and carried it to the open suitcase in the bedroom. He stood looking down into the suitcase, as though he’d forgotten something. The gun? Funny how you became accustomed to having a gun around, accustomed to using it. Police property now, evidence tag on it, a lot of good it would do them once they realized he’d packed his tent, twenty-five carats worth of diamonds to turn into cash anywhere in the world. Still, if only...

If only she hadn’t shared our secret with him, if only he hadn’t come to me, slimy little Puerto Rican bastard, wanting a piece of the action, demanding a piece of the action, threatening to go to the police if I didn’t cut him in on a bigger piece of the pie, those dwindling two keys, greedy little bastard. Give away a piece of what I’d taken the risk for? Said he knew I had diamonds hidden someplace in the apartment, said he wanted those, too, otherwise he’d go to the cops. Said he had proof, said he knew where he could get proof. The letter, of course, she’d kept the letter. And I’d trusted her. So what was I supposed to do? Spend time in prison because Sally had babbled to the wrong lover, Sally in the heat of passion had — God, she was good in bed! Dancers, Jesus!

Bought the gun two days after he paid me his little visit. Contacted the guy I’d sold the six keys to, told him I needed a gun. Easy, he said. Cost me $200. Never used a gun in my life before then. Never even held one in my hand. Wanted to be a surgeon one day, good hands, steady, ah, well. Knew where he lived, hell, she used to deliver to him every Sunday, didn’t know she was also delivering pussy and secrets, waited for him outside his building, followed him, shot him. Easy. Killed him.

But then, you know, you start thinking, you know, you start thinking you’ve got to protect it. Not the coke, not the diamonds, but all of it. The future. I did want to be a doctor, Dad, I wasn’t just walking through it, you know, I was busting my ass, just the way you wanted me to, Doctor Timothy Moore, that’s who I wanted to be! So it had to be protected, you see, and if she’d told Lopez, then she couldn’t be trusted anymore, could she? And how long would it have taken her to realize that I was the one who’d killed that greedy little spic? How long before she herself went to the police? No, I had to — the radio, he thought. That’s what I’m forgetting. The radio.

He went into the living room, where the radio was still sitting alongside the telephone, picked up the radio, held it in the palm of his hand, and looked at it almost fondly. So simple, he thought. No way anyone in a million years could have connected the murder of a small-time coke dealer — well, Sally of course, Sally would have realized sooner or later. Which was why I had to, to, to do the same thing to her, you see. But with her, they’d find a connection. With her, they’d begin asking me questions — well, they did ask me questions, didn’t they? So I needed protection, the radio, needed someone to say I’d been talking to him on the phone and he’d heard my radio going, good old Karl, solid as a rock, make a good doctor one day. Took the phone off the hook before I left the house, called him from a phone booth, radio going, called him twice before I killed her, waiting for her, late as usual, called him again after I killed her, when I got home, kept calling him, radio going each time, good old reliable Karl.

He carried the radio back into the bedroom, and put it in the open suitcase. Anything else? he wondered. Anything I’m forgetting? So easy to forget things when you’re, when you, when you start something like this, all the things you have to do to protect it, keep your eye on the main goal, never mind the money, I wanted to be a doctor! Almost forgot about Edelman, last link in the chain, remembered him later. Suppose some IRS agent examined his books, wanted to know where he’d sold those diamonds, twenty-five carats, $300,000 in cash, who’d you sell them to, who? Tie me in with that kind of money, cops would be around asking more questions, where’d you get that kind of money, no. Had to protect myself. Had to kill him. Like the others. So I could be a doctor one day. Like my father.

He closed the suitcase.

So, he thought.

He looked around the apartment.

That’s it, he thought.

He picked up the suitcase, walked out of the bedroom, and out of the apartment, and down the steps to the street.

She was waiting for him in the small dark entrance lobby downstairs.

She said only, “The opera ain’t over,” and he frowned and started to walk past her, taking her for a crazy bag lady or something, this city was full of lunatics, surprised when he saw the open straight razor in her hand, shocked when he realized she was coming at him with the razor, terrified when he saw his own blood pouring from the open wound in his throat. He clutched for his throat. Blood gushed onto his hands. He said, “I’m sorry,” but he was dead before he could say the word “Dad.”

The call from Fort Phyllis did not come until Saturday morning. There was only one notorious homosexual cruising street in the entire precinct that surrounded Ramsey University and the neighboring Quarter, but the cops of the 5th Precinct nonetheless called their turf Fort Phyllis. The man phoning was a detective/3rd grade named Dawson. He asked to speak to Detective Carella.

“This is Dawson,” he said, “5th Squad.”

“What can I do for you?” Carella asked.

“We caught a homicide last night, slashing in a hallway on Chelsea Place. Guy named Timothy Moore.”

“What?” Carella said.

“Yeah,” Dawson said. “Reason I’m calling, Charlie Nichols here was in court yesterday while you were arraigning this guy, he figured maybe you ought to know about it. Figured maybe this ties in with the homicides you were investigating. The ones you charged this guy Moore with.”

“How?” Carella said.

“Well, I don’t know how,” Dawson said. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

“A slashing, you said?”

“Yeah. Ear to ear. Nice job.”

He thought fleetingly of Judite Quadrado.

“Any leads?” he asked.

“None so far,” Dawson said. “No witnesses, nothing. Guy had a bag of diamonds in his suitcase. Was he out on bail or something?”

“Yes,” Carella said.

“Looks like he was maybe skipping, huh?”

“Looks that way,” Carella said.

“So what do you want us to do about this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You want us to turn this over to you, or what?”

Here we go again, Carella thought.

“Well, let me see what the lieutenant thinks,” he said.

“Maybe you charged the wrong guy, you know what I mean?” Dawson said. “I mean, Charlie told me it was four counts of Murder One.”

“That’s what it was,” Carella said.

“So maybe somebody else did it, is all I’m saying,” Dawson said. “The four murders. Maybe it wasn’t this guy Moore at all.”

“It was Moore,” Carella said flatly.

“Anyway,” Dawson said, and the line went silent.

“I’ll talk to the lieutenant,” Carella said.

“Sure, let me know,” Dawson said, and hung up.

The squadroom was very quiet for a Saturday morning. Carella rose from his desk and walked to the water cooler. Standing near the windows streaming wintry sunlight, he sipped at the water in the paper cup, and then crumpled the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. He went to the lieutenant’s door and knocked on it.

“Come!” Byrnes shouted.

He went into the lieutenant’s office, and closed the door behind him. He told the lieutenant that he’d just had a call from Fort Phyllis. He told the lieutenant that someone had slit Timothy Moore’s throat in the hallway of his building last night, and that there were no witnesses and no leads, and the cops down there wanted to know what to do about it, whether they should turn this over to the Eight-Seven or what?

Byrnes listened very carefully. He was thoughtfully silent for a long time. Then he said, “No witnesses, huh?”

“None,” Carella said.

“The 5th Squad, huh?”

“Yes.”

“We got enough headaches,” Byrnes said.

“Let their mothers worry.”