Once In, Never Out:Chapter Four

ONCE IN, NEVER OUT Chapter 4 Thursday, March 5th New York City Aside from whatever protocols are described in the city charter, it is generally acknowledged that the second most powerful man in New York City government is the police commissioner. It follows that if a person possesses sufficient influence, has a police-related problem, and is lucky enough to get an appointment to see the man in charge of the largest municipal police department in the world, he or she would go for anointing to the commissioner's large, fancy office on the top floor of Police Headquarters, One Police Plaza. By tradition, the PC is never one for leaving his office to visit individual civilian problems, with two exceptions. One is, of course, the mayor. The other is the Cardinal of the Archdiocese of New York, a personage who exercises enormous (but quiet) influence on New York City politics in general and on the police department in particular. So it was that, at the direction of Exception Number One, Ray Brunette was on his way to visit Exception Number Two. He had been to the cardinal's residence at Madison Avenue and East 50th Street many times before and didn't need anyone to show him the way. Since visits to the cardinal were always confidential and his trusted regular driver was on vacation, Brunette had elected to drive himself in an old, beat-up, unmarked car. He pulled into a garage on East 50th Street, a half block from the cardinal's residence, and tried to look inconspicuous as he gave the surprised attendant the keys. It was no use. In good shape, six feet tall, with his trademark straight black hair, Brunette was just too easily recognizable by anyone with a TV in New York City. "Howya doin' today, Commissioner?" the attendant asked as if Brunette parked in that garage every day. "Fine, thank you. Yourself?" "You know. Been dealing with cheapskates all day long, but what's the use complaining?" Brunette nodded sympathetically. "Yeah. Break your ass all day trying to do the right thing and what thanks do you get? Town's loaded with cheapskates, most of them driving Mercedes and BMWs." "Man, you got that shit right." With the New York formalities over, Brunette thought he was going to make it out of the garage without further fanfare. Then he noticed that the attendant had taken a disapproving interest in the unmarked car. "Mind if I ask whatcha wasting money for leaving that car here? That piece a shit's a police car, right?" "Yes, it is." "Then why? You can drop it anywhere and go about your business. Ain't nobody gonna give it no summons, even this funky old piece a shit." "Really?" Brunette asked with a straight face. "Sure. Bus stops, fire hydrants, wherever you want. Don't make no never mind." "I didn't know that." "Well, live and learn," the attendant said as he punched the ticket. "How long ya gonna be?" "Maybe an hour." "I'll have it right here, right up front. Want me to clean it up a bit for you?" "No thank you." Brunette put the garage ticket in his pocket and headed up the crowded street, but it got worse. "Hey, Commissioner! You going to see the cardinal?" he heard the attendant shout behind him. Now isn't this just wonderful? Brunette asked himself as every person within earshot focused on him. A few waved, so he forced a smile and waved back at more new old friends. * * * Like Brunette, Detective First Grade Brian McKenna of the Major Case Squad was frequently subject to the recognition factor. He was easily the NYPD's most famous detective and had been involved in many newsworthy cases over the years, so many that people he had never met before stopped him on the street to ask him how Angelita and the kids were doing. McKenna felt himself lucky in many ways: He was healthy, wasn't ugly, and generally stayed out of trouble. Being for many years the best friend of the man who would eventually become the police commissioner was another piece of luck, but it had a down side. Both men shared the same religion--the NYPD--but Brunette was always looking to refine the creed, and he used his friend as a sounding board for every new idea. So, while all McKenna wanted to do was work his cases and put bad guys in jail, he spent extra hours every day in the hated headquarters building, listening to Brunette and offering suggestions as his friend talked about the latest cost analysis, the most-recent management survey, or the projected police budget. It went with the territory and McKenna was glad to offer Brunette whatever help he could, but it was tiring and bored him to tears. Today was a welcome break in the routine. Brunette had wanted to talk over lunch about his new ideas on the promotional screening board, but the mayor suggested he have lunch with the cardinal instead. Then McKenna received an equally important summons. Chipmunk had something on his mind and wanted to see him. Perfect, McKenna thought, because he and Angelita had a problem and she had been urging him to bring it to the uncannily influential Chipmunk's attention. Chipmunk was proclaimed by many to be the world's greatest bartender, but he was more than that. He was an old friend of both Brunette and McKenna and knew everybody who was anybody in law enforcement circles in town. Whatever was happening in the NYPD, the FBI, and the DEA, he knew who was up and on the fast track and who was on the way down and out. He knew, but he didn't say, and he could be counted on to keep a confidence. It all happened at Churchill's on Third Avenue and East 73rd Street, the English-style pub where Chipmunk worked. Serving good food in adequate portions at moderate prices, Churchill's was the place where cops and reporters got together and talked over the problems in their day, their week, their lives. Complaints were aired, chiefs were bludgeoned, editors were trashed, contracts were made, and reporters could learn more there on any crime story than they ever could by hanging around station houses or the courts. However, by tradition, Churchill's was sanctuary. Nothing said there in confidence would ever appear in print. * * * Thursdays were the slowest days of the week in the restaurant business, so Churchill's wasn't crowded when McKenna walked in and took a seat at the end of the bar nearest the door. At the far end were seated two men McKenna knew: a detective from the 19th Squad and an FBI agent assigned to the JFK Airport Task Force. Chipmunk was presiding over their conversation and all acknowledged McKenna's presence with a wave or a nod. It was a few minutes before Chipmunk was able to disengage himself from the conversation and come down the bar to McKenna. As usual, before getting down to business the Chipmunk amenities had to be observed. He anointed McKenna with a kiss on the forehead before he opened a bottle of O'Doul's nonalcoholic beer and poured him half a glass. For himself, Chip took a bottle of something clear and potent from the rack and poured a stiff shot. Both men raised their glasses and Chip gave his toast to all airmen downed, soldiers killed in battle, and sailors lost at sea. Not a word was spoken until the glasses were empty. Then Chip had his usual questions concerning Angelita and the kids, a matter of special concern to him since he was godfather to one of the new arrivals. It was just what McKenna wanted to discuss with Chip. Janine was two years old and a constant delight, but the twins were driving Angelita and him crazy. Sean and Shane were four months old and never slept at the same time. Both were colicky, throwing up almost everything they ate after loud crying fits. Worse, each was allergic to the other's formula, a fact that had taken McKenna, Angelita, and their pediatrician a long and trying month to discover. They weren't the only ones suffering. The McKenna family was living in a suite at the Gramercy Park Hotel, an arrangement Angelita had wanted to maintain for another year. The hotel was adjacent to Manhattan's only private park, a one-square-block, fenced-in tranquil oasis in the hectic city. As a hotel resident, Angelita was entitled to a key to the park and she loved taking the kids there, but the manager had politely suggested that maybe it was time for them to move on. Nobody on their floor was getting much sleep, so McKenna was spending a great deal of his time unsuccessfully searching for a three bedroom co-op. The co-op boards were the problem. Included as part of their screening process for prospective new owners was a family interview; invariably one of the boys would start wailing while McKenna was struggling to convince the board what wonderful, quiet residents they would be. "Thanks for coming, but sorry and good-bye ," was all he and Angelita had heard so far over the screams of the twins. "Give me a little time and maybe I'll be able to come up with something for you," Chip said after listening to McKenna's litany of woe. "That would be kind of you." "Can't guarantee anything, you understand. Remember I'm just a bartender." McKenna was relieved to hear that. It was Chip's usual disclaimer before he used his influence, contacted Lord-knows-who, and arranged some miracle. "Sure, Chip. I know. You're just a bartender." "How's work going?" Chip asked. "Not bad. Doing mostly note-passers. Easy stuff, but kind of boring." "And no glory?" Chip asked, knowing the arrangement. The Major Case Squad got the bank robbery cases where a note was passed to the teller but no weapon was shown. The Joint Bank Robbery Task Force, composed of NYC detectives and FBI agents, took the real bank robberies. "No, your other pals get the glory." "Ready for something different? Still boring, but different?" Here it comes, McKenna thought. "Sure, what is it?" "A missing person case." "Chip, I'm not in Missing Persons. I'm in Major Case, remember?" "Makes no difference. This is about to become a major missing person case and you're going to be assigned to it." "How do you know that?" McKenna asked, then instantly regretted the question. Chip just knew , every time, but would never reveal a source. McKenna expected nothing more than an innocent-but-reproachful look in reply to his question, but this time Chip deigned to answer. "Because Ray's having lunch with the cardinal right now. His Eminence is laying out the problem for Ray and he's going to ask that you be assigned. Naturally, Ray's gonna agree." Now how would Chip know that? was the first silly question that popped into McKenna's mind. I thought I was the only one who knew about the visit to the cardinal. Then he remembered the time Chipmunk had brought him and Angelita to a big-shot FBI retirement dinner. Angelita had been a little miffed, thinking that Chip's table was too far from the dais where Ray, the FBI brass, and all the politicians were seated. Then the cardinal had arrived and took his seat between Angelita and Chipmunk, and she still hadn't stopped talking about it. So instead McKenna asked, "Why would the cardinal want me assigned?" "Because somebody heard about it, through a friend, and then somebody suggested to the cardinal, through channels, that you were the one to handle it." So Chip assigned this case to me, McKenna realized. Good enough. "Tell me about it." "There's an Irish girl named Meaghan Maher who works at Jameson's. She's been missing since February 19th. Had a fight with her boyfriend and she's gone without a trace. She's a pretty little thing, maybe a bit on the wild side." "You mean a little bit on the loose side?" "That wouldn't be possible. Her brother's a priest." Sure it's possible, McKenna thought, but kept that to himself. Ray Donovan, the manager of Jameson's, was another good friend of Chip's. "Her brother wouldn't happen to know the cardinal, would he?" "Matter of fact, he's serving one year as the cardinal's aide. He's on some sort of transfer program from his order in Ireland." "Is she legal?" "Not exactly. She's got a green card, though, and it's not a bad job. Even the number's good." McKenna understood. Without illegal aliens to work long hours and exercise charm at slightly lower-than-legal wages, the entire New York restaurant industry would collapse. The first to fold would be the Irish pubs scattered throughout every Manhattan neighborhood south of 96th Street. Current legal immigration quotas from Ireland were much lower than that necessary to round out the staffs at the Irish pubs, but that didn't stop the prospective bartenders, waiters, and waitresses from abandoning the Emerald Isle and heading for the Bright Lights. There were paper requirements to be circumvented since Immigration had begun cracking down on restaurant owners who hired people without alien registration cards stamped with a work permit. Most of the newly arrived Irish obtained one in a hurry and the more resourceful among them got two, just in case. McKenna knew Chipmunk was telling him that the green card was a forgery, but that somewhere there was a legal Meaghan Maher who had a card with the same number. Such a card was an expensive item, so Missing Meaghan Maher was a girl with foresight and backing. McKenna saw Chip's fingerprints on that one. "Where does she live?" "Somebody got her a studio apartment in my building. A sublet deal," Chipmunk answered, deadpan. "Lucky, huh?" "She's a nice, hard-working girl from a good family. She deserved a little luck" was as far as Chipmunk was going to go on that subject. "Has it been reported to the 19th Squad?" "Her boyfriend reported it on February 23rd." "Four days after she disappeared? Why'd he wait so long?" "He's not exactly legal, either." That shouldn't be a problem, McKenna and just about every illegal alien in the city knew. According to a mayoral executive order, city agencies are prohibited from informing INS about illegal aliens who apply for assistance or are victims of crimes. "I take it he's not too bright." "Not a real dummy, but certainly not the sharpest knife in the drawer." "Who caught the case." "Walsh." So Chipmunk's arranged a conference, McKenna realized. Greg Walsh was the old-time detective sitting at the end of the bar. McKenna considered him to be a good man and a competent investigator. "And?" "He worked on it, but the case doesn't fall within the guidelines for further investigation. On the surface, it looks like a voluntary disappearance with no evidence of foul play. Walsh did what he could and came up blank." Chipmunk gave the barest nod to the end of the bar and Walsh ambled over. He was dressed in a expensive three-piece suit in the 19th Squad fashion and had a case folder in his hand. After the handshake and the pleasantries, Walsh reported. "The boyfriend calls himself Chris O'Malley. Nice kid, pretty distraught and a little emotional. Bit of a bruiser, works as a bouncer at O'Flannagan's. Surprised the piss outta me when he started blubbering right in the squad office." "You don't think he had anything to do with Meaghan's disappearance?" "If there is any dirty business here, no, I wouldn't classify O'Malley as a suspect. He came clean with me, even made a statement that's not in his best interests. They got into quite a tiff at her place a few days before she disappeared. He wound up smacking her." "Any injury?" "Just to him. He had the good sense to apologize right away and thought he had her soothed over. They climbed under the sheets to make it official and then he took a little snooze. Woke up kinda sudden when she clocked him with the vacuum cleaner." "She hit him with a vacuum cleaner?" "Yeah, can you believe it? I guess it was the heaviest thing she could find and still swing. Took out his uppers and loosened his molars." "What happened then?" "Says he smartened up quick. Apologized for putting his face in the way while she was trying to vacuum and went to the NYU clinic to get some stitches in his gums and some Darvon for the pain." "And that was the last time he saw her?" "Last time anybody saw her, far as I can tell." "What was the fight about?" "Serious stuff. They both were starting vacation together on Thursday, February 19th. They were supposed to hang around town for a couple of days, partying it up a bit, and then head to Florida to spend the rest of the week in the sun. Then O'Malley changed the plan and had a little surprise for her. He'd booked them to Ireland instead." "And she didn't like that?" "You kidding? She'd been working out for months, bought new bathing suits, had her legs waxed, and spent a fortune at the tanning parlor. This girl was ready for the sun, not the rain. But that wasn't her main concern. O'Malley wanted to bring her back to meet his parents." "I guess she wasn't ready for commitment," McKenna guessed. "I guess not, especially since somebody told me that O'Malley wasn't the only one in the picture." "Who's the other guy?" "Nobody knows." "Not even somebody?" McKenna asked, stealing a glance at Chipmunk. "Not even somebody," Walsh said. "Not yet, anyway." "What else you do?" "Checked the hospitals and morgues, put out an NCIC alarm nationwide, asked around at Jameson's and all the Irish bars O'Malley says she liked. Got nowhere." "Talk to Ray Donovan?" "Sure. He's the one makes me think there's something to this. Says he wasn't too worried until she didn't show up after her vacation. Says she's a little wild, but real reliable. Never missed a day in the two years she was working for him. Never even late without a phone call and a good excuse." "So now he's worried?" "Real worried. Turns out his family knows her family back in the Old Sod and he's getting some pressure." And applying some pressure, besides, McKenna thought. Chip and Donovan go back a long way together. "You talk to her family?" "Called me every day until Justin closed the case. He went out on a limb and let me work it for a week." McKenna wasn't surprised. The rules stated that the precinct detective squad would work on a missing person case for only three days. If the subject wasn't a minor, wasn't mentally unbalanced, wasn't the suspected victim of a drowning, or if no evidence of foul play was uncovered, then the rules clearly stated that case would be classified as a voluntary disappearance and closed after the three days. If any of the mitigating factors were present, the case would be sent to the Missing Persons Squad downtown for further investigation. McKenna knew Lt. Justin Peters, the 19th Detective Squad commander, and had always recognized that he would go out on a limb and bend the rules whenever he thought necessary. Keeping a missing persons case open and a squad detective assigned for a full week would have required a lot of lies on paper from Justin, a task he excelled at and maybe even relished. "So what happened then?" "Somebody called Justin and whispered something about extraordinary connections in this case. He reopened it and sent it to the Missing Persons Squad with a suggestion they work hard on it." "Who's got it there?" "Swaggart." "Swaggart? I don't know him." "You wouldn't. He's a real zero and a boob to boot. He's been hiding out down there as long as I can remember." "So how come Swaggart's got it?" "I can't say for sure, but I think it's the old Peters-Mosley thing." Of course it is, McKenna thought. The feud between Justin Peters and Lt. George Mosley, the CO of the Missing Persons Squad, was old and legendary. It had begun when Mosley was overheard telling some chief at a cocktail party that those 19th Squad detectives were nothing but a bunch of prima donnas in three-piece suits and hands adorned with diamond-studded pinky rings. Naturally, Mosley's impromptu and ill-advised remark had found its way to Justin's ears before the party had ended and he had called Mosley, at home, the next day. Reportedly, Justin's response went something like, "Sure my detectives are prima donnas, but they deserve to be. After all, it's the 19th Squad. We cover Manhattan's politically important and very prestigious Upper East Side, and nobody pops into my squad by accident. They work hard to get here and they have to be good and work hard to stay here. As for the three-piece suits, of course. I'd throw them out if they showed up to work in anything else. And the diamond-studded pinky rings? Well, maybe." Justin had ended the terse conversation by demanding a public apology. Mosley had unwisely balked and so it had begun. Justin never missed an opportunity to throw a few darts Mosley's way, characterizing the Missing Persons Squad as a bunch of lazy, empty suits who were hidden, sheltered, and nourished by a big-mouth, incompetent lieutenant who wasn't smart enough or man enough to clean his own house and sweep out the trash that festered and flourished there. And so Mosley suffered, continuously. Everyone knew that Mosley wasn't in the same league as a political heavyweight like Justin Peters and all wondered why Justin didn't just squeeze the life out of Mosley and get it over with already. The more astute among them finally figured out that Mosley had become Justin's hobby, like a cat playing with a mouse for hours before it tired of the game and finally bit the helpless little thing's head off. This case might finally end it, McKenna thought as he imagined the scenario. A case comes to Mosley from the 19th Squad, a case that, according to the rules, should have been closed. Adding insult to injury, attached to the case is a suggestion from Justin that it be thoroughly investigated. Now what would Mosley do? Why nothing, of course, McKenna realized, nothing taking the shape of Mosley assigning the case to the laziest and most useless detective he could find. Justin has finally tired of the game, McKenna realized. The cagey squad commander suspected there was something to this case when he bent the rules and kept Walsh on it. Then he sent it to Mosley with his suggestion, knowing what Dopey's reaction would be. The case goes bad, young ecclesiastically connected Meaghan Maher turns up kidnapped or murdered, and Ray chops off Mosley's head. Game, set, match to Justin. Then a slightly disconcerting thought hit McKenna: He realized he was carrying the axe for Justin. Oh, well. Good-bye Lieutenant Mosley. Not nice knowing you. "You got any pictures of Meaghan?" he asked Walsh. "Plenty." Walsh reached into his case folder, took out an envelope full of photos, and passed them to McKenna. A quick pass through them told McKenna that Meaghan was a very pretty girl with some fire in her eyes and that the photos came from O'Malley. He was in a few of the shots with her and Walsh was right--he was large enough to be classified a bruiser, but to McKenna he looked like a big teddy bear. From the way O'Malley was looking at Meaghan in two of the photos, the big guy was lost in love for that red-headed little girl. "Did you check her apartment?" McKenna asked. "Yeah, gave it a good toss." "O'Malley give you the key?" "No, she never gave him one." "Then how? The super?" "He only had one of the keys, but this girl is real careful. She's got three locks on her door, and the two she put on are real tough ones." "Then somebody hooked you up with a locksmith?" McKenna guessed. The indignant look that crossed Walsh's face told McKenna he was wrong. "Hey, I don't need somebody for everything, you know. I hooked myself up with a locksmith. Guy's good, but it still took him twenty minutes to get in." "How long to get out?" "No time. Left those tough ones unlocked and I took the key from the super." Walsh reached into his pocket and passed McKenna a key. "How did the place look?" "Neat and clean." "Clothes?" "Plenty of clothes in the closet, underwear in the drawers, nightie under her pillow." "Bathing suits?" "Three. Two new ones, still have the tags on them." "Luggage?" "Four suitcases. Two new, two of them old and kinda beat up." "Any pets?" "Not even a goldfish." "She have any credit cards?" "Victoria's Secret." "No Visa or MasterCard?" "O'Malley says no." Delicate question coming up, McKenna thought. Getting credit information is illegal without a court order, and a judge wouldn't issue one in a voluntary disappearance case. However, a good detective willing to bend the law wouldn't need a court order to scam his way past any credit bureau. "What do you say, Greg? Does Meaghan have a Visa or MasterCard?" Walsh looked him straight in the eye. "I say no. This Meaghan Maher doesn't have a Visa or a MasterCard under the date of birth on her phony green card. The real Meaghan Maher with that INS number does, but she lives in Brooklyn." "Does our Meaghan have any bank accounts?" "She's got a checking account at Chemical under her green card date of birth. Balance of ninety-two dollars and change. Last check was her rent check, seven hundred and fifty dollars, presented to the bank for payment on February 22nd." "When was her rent due?" "March 1st." "Know if she ever paid that early before?" "Sure I do. Talked to the woman she's subletting from. She says only once in the two years she's been there. Usually Meaghan's a week late getting her the rent." McKenna noticed that the FBI agent, Timmy Rembijas, had been staring down the bar at them. Timmy had been in the FBI's JFK Task Force for so long that he had earned the nickname Timmy JFK. "What's Timmy's role in this?" McKenna asked Walsh. "He's in a better position than me when it comes to dealing with the airlines. You know how they are about divulging their passenger lists without a court order." "Yeah, I do, but I guess somebody asked him to check around. Unofficially, of course." "Somebody did. From February 19th to yesterday there hasn't been a Meaghan Maher booked on a flight outta any of the New York airports." Well, that accounts for the federal presence on Chipmunk's intramural team effort, McKenna thought. "Anything else?" "Nothing. Now you know what I know." "Everything except what your gut feeling is on this." "Same as yours is gonna be after you snoop around and look at it a while. Talk to everybody who knows her, and they'll all tell you that Meaghan Maher being gone doesn't make sense. She's a little wild, but she's level-headed and responsible. Besides that, she's close to her family and always kept in touch." "You think she's dead?" "Yeah. Hate to say it, but she's either dead or in some real serious trouble," Walsh said, then dropped the case folder in front of McKenna on the bar. "Good luck. Call me if you need anything else," Walsh said, then turned and walked back down the bar. McKenna turned his attention back to Chipmunk. Somebody hadn't said a word during the whole conversation and McKenna had noticed that Chipmunk had looked bored through most of it. Nothing Walsh had said had been news to Chip. "Well, you ready to fill me in on Boyfriend Number Two?" "What makes you think I know anything about him?" "Chip, I know you twenty years. The whole time Walsh was talking, that blank look you're so good at left your face only once. It was when he told me about Number Two." "You know I was gonna tell you anyway, don't you?" "Of course." "His name is Owen and he's probably in the military." "Last name?" "I don't know. Seen him a few times, but only met him once." "Tell me about it." "About six months ago I was at home and I ran out of smokes. I decided to go out and get some, but as I'm going down the stairs I meet Meaghan going up. She's arm-in-arm with this guy and giggling up a storm. Having a good time and about to have a great time, I assumed." "What time was this at?" "Maybe three AM. Meaghan's surprised to see me, but she's brassy and she trusts me enough to introduce me to Owen. He's clean-cut, in shape, and squared away. Even had his shoes spit-shined. Then he sticks out his hand and says, `Very pleased to meet you, sir.' That clinched it, he's a good trooper in my book." "No other conversation?" "No, but I could see by the way Meaghan was holding on to Owen that she really liked him." "You ever see him again?" "Twice. Once in the stairwell and once in front of the building. Always in the wee hours." "When was the last time?" "Around Christmas." "Any further conversation?" "No, we'd just pass and wave to each other." "Ever talk to Meaghan about him." "Nope. That's not my place." "You told Walsh about this?" "Just that I saw her with another guy once or twice." "You didn't give him a name?" "No." "Or tell him that he was in the military?" "No." "Why's that?" McKenna asked. "Because I could see that Meaghan wanted to keep Owen a secret from everybody she knows. That means the people at Jameson's, that means her brother the priest, and that certainly means O'Malley. Walsh reports to too many people and word gets around. You report to only Ray." Another reason I'm here, McKenna thought. I can see where this is heading. "I guess Meaghan figured that Owen wouldn't play too well to the folks back home." "I'd say she's right. Meaghan's secret pal Owen is as black as my shoe."