“It’s O’Rourke’s case, Chief.”
“I’m not sending a rookie in there. That would be complete disrespect of the Benzigers’ stature in this community.”
“O’Rourke isn’t a rookie.”
“Christ’s sake, he just got his gold. Harold Benziger is a force in this town. He gets a lieutenant to bring him the bad news. His secretary says she can’t reach him, but he’ll be at his home at seven tonight.”
It was eight thirty by the time Cardozo pushed Melissa Hatfield’s doorbell.
“You’ve changed the color scheme,” he said.
“I’m trying to.”
Melissa Hatfield invited him in and offered him a drink.
“Melissa, would you mind sitting down?”
“Sure.” She didn’t sit. “What is it?”
“Who was Brian Hatfield?”
After what seemed a long time, though it might have been only ten seconds, she said, “Brian was my brother.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He died.”
Cardozo looked in her eyes. “Dr. William Tiffany was treating him in the Vanderbilt Pavilion, am I right?”
Melissa’s teeth came down over her lower lip.
“You thought you recognized Jodie Downs’s photograph. You said he reminded you of someone you’d seen in an elevator. Someone you’d seen regularly but couldn’t place. Later you backed away from that. Said you’d made a mistake. I think you did place his face. I think Jodie Downs was an outpatient in the same program as your brother. I think you saw Jodie in that elevator regularly when you went to visit Brian.”
She reacted as if she were living in slow motion. She moved to one of the windows, stood with her hands resting on the air-conditioning unit.
“I was ashamed,” she said.
“Ashamed that your brother had AIDS?”
Melissa dropped her head. “There are people who get ashamed. They can’t help it. And then they have to be ashamed of being ashamed. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
For a long moment the room was hushed.
“Jodie Downs was ashamed,” she said softly. “You know what he told me his name was? John Halley. That’s how he happened to be in Brian’s group. F to L. Imagine being ashamed that you’re dying, having to pretend you’re someone else, that the person with your name would never have a disease like that.”
“Was Brian ashamed?”
“Brian wasn’t ashamed, not of AIDS, not of anything. He was Gay Lib militant and triumphant. Right to the end. I tried to be like him. Every evening I’d go and sit by the bed and pretend it was all right, that dying was just part of life and if he wanted to accept it that was just great. We read Kübler-Ross together, and when his eyesight went I read it to him and he held my hand. Oh, Brian was a real champ at acceptance. But I couldn’t accept it. I still can’t.”
She looked up at him. “I could use a drink. What about you?”
A sense of her isolation engulfed him.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have a date with a judge and I’m late.”
“What do you expect me to do about it?” Webbing out from Jerry Brandon’s red-rimmed eyes were the fine lines of overwork.
“Tell them,” Cardozo said.
“AIDS is already endemic in the prison system.”
“Tell them anyway.”
Brandon moved the long extendable arm of the lamp out of the way and sat at his desk. He lifted the phone and dialed. In a minute he was talking chummily to a prison doctor and all of him was in motion—his bony head, his big shoulders, his square jaw.
“You’ve got an inmate up there by the name of Claude Loring, L-O-R-I-N-G as in George. He ought to be tested for AIDS.”
It must have been a long reply, because Brandon listened for over three minutes. “You’re sure? When?” His eyes flicked up at Cardozo’s and he picked up a ballpoint and began scribbling quickly. “Thanks.”
Brandon hung up the phone and stared at Cardozo. “Vince, this is going to surprise you.”
“I’m never surprised.”
“Claude Loring’s not in prison.”
Cardozo sat forward. “What the hell happened to him?”
“It seems to be a very long story. I couldn’t get all of it. The governor commuted Loring’s sentence a week ago.”
Cardozo’s stomach was getting tight. “On what grounds?”
“Compassionate medical.”
“For AIDS?”
Brandon shook his head. “Loring’s mother is sick. He’s her sole support.”
Cardozo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. When he moved his head the room seemed to tip. “How could the governor fall for that bullshit?”
“Rumor is a lot of heavyweights interceded for Loring. He must be one popular guy.”
“Who interceded?”
“It’s just rumor. The archdiocese of New York—some real estate moguls by the names of Nat Chamberlain and Harold Benziger—Cyrus Hastings, president of Citichem Bank. Know any of them?”
“No—and neither does Loring.”
“Why the hell did you make the deal with Morgenstern?” Cardozo said. “Now we’ve got a killer loose, skipping around spreading AIDS.”
District Attorney Alfred Spaulding rose, crossed the office, and closed the door. He returned to his desk and gazed imperturbably at Cardozo. “To clear the Downs case we had to deal with Morgenstern; he happened to be defending the accused.”
“Who the hell wasn’t he defending?” The words came hurtling out of Cardozo’s throat. “I questioned the dealer who sold the mask, Morgenstern’s associate rushed in, you can’t do this to our client. I questioned the doorman who was running coke in the building, Morgenstern’s associate rushed in, you can’t do this to our client. I arrested the killer, Morgenstern came rushing in, you can’t do this to my client. Morgenstern was wired in to this from the very start, before we even knew who the dead man was. He would have defended the hooker on the ninth floor if we’d accused her of farting. Ted Morgenstern was ready to defend anyone connected in any way with this killing. Why? Who paid him? You’re going to tell me this was pro bono, this coverup, this fix?”
“What the hell are you calling a fix?”
“The director of Citichem bank and the Catholic archdiocese of New York and the two guys who own every building in Manhattan that Donald Trump doesn’t—they all petition the governor to commute Loring’s sentence. You think that comes free? You think those people even know who Claude Loring is? Ted Morgenstern was calling in favors. He’s represented the archdiocese against the city, he’s represented Citichem against the city, he’s represented Benziger and Chamberlain before the zoning commission. Those are major call-ins. For a punk. Doesn’t that even make you curious?”
“Vince, we’ve talked about this.”
“Let’s talk some more.”
“The case is closed. A guy was killed, we caught his killer. My curiosity stops there. In case you haven’t heard, this city isn’t exactly operating in the black. If we can clear a case without coming to trial that’s a saving. Yes I did a deal, and I saved time and money. It was in line with city policy and I’m not ashamed of it.”
“There’s more to it than that, Al. Three weeks after Judge Davenport imposed the sentence he signed a piece of paper suspending it. No publicity, nothing in the papers.”
Either Spalding already knew or he was doing a good job of not showing surprise. “Judges have the discretion to suspend sentences.”
“Jesus, wake up. We’re deep in the valley of the shadow of dollars. Whithersoever Counselor Morgenstern walks, money goes. You know it and you’re still dealing with him, and I’m not just talking plea bargain.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
Cardozo was staring at Alfred Spaulding, thinking about power—about the people who owned it and the things they chose to do with it. “What the hell do I need to accuse you of—you fucking admitted it when you phoned and told me to stop hassling Morgenstern’s friends. His friends are killers, Al. You gotta know it. You’re not a dumb man. Not dumb that way.”