Omerta - Mario Puzo [98]
“Do not arrest them under any circumstances,” the director told him. “Everything would come out in the media, and we’d be a joke. And don’t fool with Nicole Aprile unless you have the goods on her. Keep everything top secret, and we’ll see what happens tomorrow night. Guards at your house have been alerted, and your family is already being moved out as we speak. Now put Bill on the phone. He’ll run the ambush operation.”
“Sir, that should be my job,” Cilke protested.
“You’ll help with the planning,” the director said, “but under no circumstance will you take part in the tactical operation. The Bureau operates under very strict rules of engagement to avoid unnecessary violence. You would be suspect if things go bad. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Cilke understood perfectly.
CHAPTER 12
AFTER A MONTH in the hospital Aspinella Washington was released but still had to heal sufficiently for the insertion of an artificial eye. A splendid physical specimen, her body seemed to assemble itself around her injuries. True, her left foot dragged a little, and her eye socket looked hideous. But she wore a square green eye patch instead of black, and the dark green accentuated the beauty of her mocha skin. She reported back to work wearing a costume of black trousers, a green pullover shirt, and a green leather coat. When she looked at herself in the mirror she thought herself a striking figure.
Though she was on medical leave she would sometimes go in to the Detective Bureau headquarters and help in interrogations. Her injury gave her a sense of liberation—she felt like she could do anything, and she stretched her power.
On her first interrogation there were two suspects, an unusual pair in that one was white and one was black. The white suspect, about thirty, was immediately frightened of her. But the black partner was delighted by the tall beautiful woman with the green eye patch and the cold level stare. This was one cool sister.
“Holy shit,” he cried out, his face happy. It was his first bust, he had no criminal record, and he really didn’t know he was in serious trouble. He and his partner had broken into a home, tied up the husband and wife, and then looted the house. They had been laid low by an informant. The black kid was still wearing the house owner’s Rolex watch. He said cheerily to Aspinella, without malice, indeed in a voice of admiration, “Hey, Captain Kidd, you gonna make us walk the plank?”
The other detectives in the room smirked at this foolishness. But Aspinella didn’t respond. The kid was in handcuffs and couldn’t ward off her blow. Snakelike, her truncheon crashed against his face, breaking his nose and splitting his cheekbone. He didn’t go down; his knees sagged, and he gave her a reproachful look. His face was a mess of blood. Then his legs folded and he toppled to the ground. For the next ten minutes Aspinella beat him unmercifully. As if from a fresh spring, blood started to flow from the boy’s ears.
“Jesus,” one of the detectives said, “how the hell do we question him now?”
“I didn’t want to talk to him,” Aspinella said. “I want to talk to this guy.” She pointed her truncheon to the white suspect. “Zeke, right? I want to talk to you, Zeke.” She took him roughly by the shoulder and threw him into a chair facing her desk. He stared at her, terrified. She realized her eye patch had slipped to one side and that Zeke was staring into that empty orb. She reached up and adjusted the patch to cover her milky socket.
“Zeke,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully. I want to save time here. I want to know how you got this kid into this. How you got into this. Understand? Are you going to cooperate?”
Zeke had turned very pale. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“OK,” Aspinella said to another detective. “Get that kid into the medical ward and send down the video people to take Zeke’s confession of his own free will.”
As they were setting up the monitors, Aspinella said to Zeke, “Who fenced your goods?