The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [81]
“He’s deciding how he wants to handle our little disturbance. He’s been harassed before. He’s waiting for something. Some mistake he thinks we’ll make.”
“It’s almost like he knows what mistake we’re going to make.”
“Maybe he does. He’s been here before.”
“I also think he’s trying to keep his nose clean. He’s playing the maligned and completely misunderstood businessman.”
“That could be. It would explain a few things.”
Both Stefanovitch and Parker knew that the New York police practiced more illegal harassment than had ever been reported anywhere by the media. There were major and minor tactics. Stefanovitch had seen senior detectives putting sugar in the gas tank of a mobster’s Cadillac. He’d watched oil rags being stuffed up the exhaust pipe of a pimp’s Caddie Seville parked in Times Square. Cops knew that most wise guys would tear up a parking or moving violation ticket, but the computers kept extensive records. With a well-placed phone call, any detective could get a scofflaw drug dealer’s car towed to the city garage. The result was incredible bureaucratic red tape, and frustration, and occasionally a hot-headed mistake.
In the area of more serious harassment, the city’s environmental agencies always cooperated with Police Plaza. They could shut down a mob-owned factory for violations, or a favorite restaurant in Little Italy because of flies, rodent droppings in the kitchen, faulty ventilation, even improper signage in the bathrooms. Then there was every policeman’s best friend, the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. The special conspiracy law was aimed directly at organized crime. The RICO Act permitted officers legally to seize a suspect’s bank accounts, automobiles, speedboats, even a house or place of business, which was precisely what they were doing to St.-Germain.
At the parking lot entrance, Stefanovitch and Parker stopped and shook hands. They renewed the emotional pact made a few days earlier in Stefanovitch’s office. Both of them were used to long surveillance stints. This looked like it might be a beaut.
Stefanovitch avoided saying what was going through his mind: Watch your ass going home.
“Good night, Isiah,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be our day.”
Parker’s face was well defined in the moonlight. There was something reassuring about his physical presence. “I like working with you, Stefanovitch. I’ll never forget you grabbing that motherfucker out of his limousine.”
Stefanovitch liked working with Parker so far, too. Isiah understood that this was about getting Alexandre St.-Germain, snaring the Grave Dancer, no matter what happened to either of them.
The two policemen finally separated. They made their way into private compartments of darkness and mystery.
78
Sarah McGinniss and John Stefanovitch;
East Sixty-sixth Street
SARAH AND SAM were like an old married couple sometimes, a late-1980s version of the Odd Couple.
For a good fifteen minutes that night, the two of them discussed the alternatives for dinner. They finally decided on Ray’s Famous Pizza, a bottle of apple cider, homemade toll-house cookies, and a Spielberg movie called Goonies.
They didn’t watch much of the movie, because they started gabbing about the trip upstate with Roger. Sam asked Sarah whether she and his dad were ever going to get together again. As gently as she could, she told Sam probably not. He seemed to accept that.
Sarah had to keep biting her tongue as she listened to Sam’s stories about his two weeks with his father. Roger had given in to every whim Sam had, refusing to set any limits. He had been perfectly awful.
“He’s sure a great guy,” Sarah said as she tucked Sam in around ten. She was really biting her tongue now. “He loves you a lot, Sam.” Which was probably true. Who wouldn’t love Sam?
He was so vulnerable. Sam’s eyes looked so sad.
“What’s the problem, Sam?”
“Dad loves me,” Sam finally began to answer. “I love him, too. But Mom—”
“I’m right here.” Sarah leaned forward.