or a raid, and then I don’t hear a thing more. It started in January, the month after the Japs hit us. Ever since then, nothing. Not from the fourteenth. No results in either vice or gambling, and your job is to find out why.”
“So you want me to be your eyes and ears?”
“Hell, if that’s all I needed I’d hire a stool pigeon, or a whole roomful. You’re a
detective,
goddamn it! Build a case! Hard facts. Real evidence. Something that can stand up before a board of inquiry, or even a grand jury for this new DA, Hogan. Not that all of his people are necessarily on the straight and narrow. Follow any lead, wherever it takes you. But it started in January, so the first thing you should probably do is have a look at the paperwork.”
The arrest reports, he meant, plus the reams of other dockets and blotter items and disposition reports that cops had to fill out. All of those items ended up in the Record Room, which for reasons unknown to Cain was referred to as the “95 Room” by everyone at the station house. It was the domain of a handful of officers, the so-called 95 men, who kept the place under lock and key. Meaning that for Cain to “have a look at the paperwork” would be easier said than done.
“I just started,” Cain said. “I barely know a soul. And when I do get to know them, I might even like them.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. That’s why I’m giving you three months.”
“Three months?”
“As for the question of who you like and don’t like, I’m counting on the abilities and talents you exhibited in your previous employment to overcome those sorts of emotions.” He tapped the papers on his desk. “If your recent past shows anything, it’s that your instinct for self-preservation far exceeds any regard for the health and well-being of your colleagues. While I normally see that as detestable, in this kind of case it’s an absolute necessity.”
Cain flushed again, this time in anger.
“You’ve misread the facts of that incident.”
“Your file has already spoken for you, and was far more convincing.”
Cain stood, furious, but the words backed up in his throat. What could he do, anyway? Complain to headquarters? Valentine continued.
“Your contact here will be Lieutenant Edward Meyer, of my confidential squad. Spring seven, three-one-two-four. Memorize that number. Never try to contact me. Meyer only. If I need to see you, you’ll know it.”
“You’re misreading me, sir, and if you’d let me explain—”
“Just do the job. And if I’ve misread you, then you’d better start saving your money, because without results you’ll be out on your ass three months from now. Archer!”
The door opened. The suit who’d escorted Cain upstairs reappeared. Valentine shut the file on his desk and slid it into a drawer. He didn’t say good luck, didn’t say goodbye, and didn’t look up as Cain left the room.
Cain followed Archer to the elevators. A uniform with all sorts of stripes started to board with them, but Archer shook his head and the guy backed off. As they were reaching the ground floor, Archer pulled a handle and the car shuddered to a stop. He turned to Cain.
“Word to the wise?”
His voice was calm, but with a chilly undertone, like someone you’d hear on the radio at three in the morning and know by his tone that he sat alone in an empty, darkened studio.
“Okay.”
“And this stays here. Understood?”
Cain nodded.
“You’re not the first mug to draw one of these details, and you won’t be the last. But maybe you should know how
not
to do the job. Last September the commish called in a ’tec from up in the two-three. Good sleuth, clean as a whistle. But lazy, so Valentine figures he needs a kick in the ass. He sends him over to Brooklyn with the same marching orders.”
“And?”
Archer shook his head.
“Sat on his ass, mostly. Figured that if the brethren ever found out what he was up to that he’d end up facedown in the East
“So you want me to be your eyes and ears?”
“Hell, if that’s all I needed I’d hire a stool pigeon, or a whole roomful. You’re a
detective,
goddamn it! Build a case! Hard facts. Real evidence. Something that can stand up before a board of inquiry, or even a grand jury for this new DA, Hogan. Not that all of his people are necessarily on the straight and narrow. Follow any lead, wherever it takes you. But it started in January, so the first thing you should probably do is have a look at the paperwork.”
The arrest reports, he meant, plus the reams of other dockets and blotter items and disposition reports that cops had to fill out. All of those items ended up in the Record Room, which for reasons unknown to Cain was referred to as the “95 Room” by everyone at the station house. It was the domain of a handful of officers, the so-called 95 men, who kept the place under lock and key. Meaning that for Cain to “have a look at the paperwork” would be easier said than done.
“I just started,” Cain said. “I barely know a soul. And when I do get to know them, I might even like them.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. That’s why I’m giving you three months.”
“Three months?”
“As for the question of who you like and don’t like, I’m counting on the abilities and talents you exhibited in your previous employment to overcome those sorts of emotions.” He tapped the papers on his desk. “If your recent past shows anything, it’s that your instinct for self-preservation far exceeds any regard for the health and well-being of your colleagues. While I normally see that as detestable, in this kind of case it’s an absolute necessity.”
Cain flushed again, this time in anger.
“You’ve misread the facts of that incident.”
“Your file has already spoken for you, and was far more convincing.”
Cain stood, furious, but the words backed up in his throat. What could he do, anyway? Complain to headquarters? Valentine continued.
“Your contact here will be Lieutenant Edward Meyer, of my confidential squad. Spring seven, three-one-two-four. Memorize that number. Never try to contact me. Meyer only. If I need to see you, you’ll know it.”
“You’re misreading me, sir, and if you’d let me explain—”
“Just do the job. And if I’ve misread you, then you’d better start saving your money, because without results you’ll be out on your ass three months from now. Archer!”
The door opened. The suit who’d escorted Cain upstairs reappeared. Valentine shut the file on his desk and slid it into a drawer. He didn’t say good luck, didn’t say goodbye, and didn’t look up as Cain left the room.
Cain followed Archer to the elevators. A uniform with all sorts of stripes started to board with them, but Archer shook his head and the guy backed off. As they were reaching the ground floor, Archer pulled a handle and the car shuddered to a stop. He turned to Cain.
“Word to the wise?”
His voice was calm, but with a chilly undertone, like someone you’d hear on the radio at three in the morning and know by his tone that he sat alone in an empty, darkened studio.
“Okay.”
“And this stays here. Understood?”
Cain nodded.
“You’re not the first mug to draw one of these details, and you won’t be the last. But maybe you should know how
not
to do the job. Last September the commish called in a ’tec from up in the two-three. Good sleuth, clean as a whistle. But lazy, so Valentine figures he needs a kick in the ass. He sends him over to Brooklyn with the same marching orders.”
“And?”
Archer shook his head.
“Sat on his ass, mostly. Figured that if the brethren ever found out what he was up to that he’d end up facedown in the East
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