Chapter 5
The conversation with Doherty and Sullivan played over and over in Maher’s head as he drove home. Sure, he owed Doherty a great deal, but not this. What I agreed to do? The guy whacked fifteen people and they want me to fuck his wife? Are they crazy? Am I crazy?
Maher crossed the Third Avenue Bridge into the Bronx and glanced in the rearview mirror at Manhattan, which was now a river away, an isolated island. Although flowing water was merely a physical barrier, one that could be easily crossed, Maher had traversed a psychological perimeter as well. Having had time to think about it, he decided he couldn’t do what Doherty and Sullivan had asked.
The phone was ringing when he entered his apartment. Doherty, no doubt. Calling up to apply some pressure, to make sure I don’t back out. Maher rehearsed his speech for a couple of rings: “I’m sorry, Sergeant Doherty, but I can’t do this. I’ll do something else, but not this.” Maher grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Kevin, how’s it going?” It was Brian Molese.
“Brian?!” Maher was surprised to hear from him.
“I was home on furlough a couple of days ago,” Molese continued. “I tried to call you but there was no answer.”
“You see the yard? I cleaned it up.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” There was a long pause. Then: “That bitch! That fucking fat bitch!”
The intensity of Molese’s rage made Maher shudder.
“She’s spending all the money. There won’t be any left by the time I get out.”
Molese was hyperventilating, gasping in noisy rales. Moments passed as Maher listened to a madman breathe. Finally….
“Hey, Kevin,” Molese said, his voice suddenly calm. “What are you doing still living up there in the Bronx?” The abrupt change in tone was frightening. Molese’s mind was moving like a water bug trapped in a rain puddle, darting erratically along the surface of sanity.
“The Bronx is okay,” Maher answered.
“Come on, man, you said you’d move out to Jersey. With Alice.”
“I said I’d thing about it.”
Molese’s voice changed once again, this time to desperation: “You gotta do this for me. You understand? Please, Kevin. The minute I get out, I’ll get you some money.”
“I’m working Brian, ”Maher said. “I got a job as a doorman. I don’t need any money.”
“Kevin listen to me. I’ve been transferred to Taconic. I’m on my way home, man. This is the last stop before they process me out. It’ll just be for a few months, okay? You can keep an eye on the house and that fat fucking wife of mine. You can do that for me, can’t you, Kevin?”
Maher didn’t respond.
“Move into the fucking house, will you?” Molese screamed.
Then, except for Molese’s heavy breathing, there was silence. Finally, Maher sighed. “Okay, Brian.”
Maher hung up the receiver and rubber his eyes. Doherty. Sullivan. Molese. Everyone wants me to move into that house. And then the word “fate” popped into Maher’s mind. Maybe that’s what was at work here. The unseen forces of destiny wanted him at 24 Sanford Road, Fair Lawn, New Jersey. There seemed to be no way to avoid it.
Maher parked in the driveway of 24 Sanford Road and entered the house. Alice, as always, was happy to see him.
“I hope you’re staying for a couple of days,” Alice trilled. She hugged him tightly. Alice always made Maher feel welcome.
“I talked to Brian,” Maher said.
Alice’s body went rigid. She was obsessed with Brian Molese. In love, perhaps. Either way, the mention of his name concentrated her mind.
“What did he say?” Alice asked. “Did he say he missed me?”
“Sure, Alice,” Maher said with a smile. “He can’t wait to get out and come home.”
Alice beamed. And Maher’s dislike for Molese edged toward hatred.
“Alice,” Maher began, “Brian thought it might be a good idea if I moved in until he got out.”
Beth entered the room.
“Did you hear that, Beth?” Alice bubbled. “Kevin is coming to live with us for awhile. Isn’t that wonderful?”
And so it was that in August 1975, Maher took up residence at 24 Sanford Road.
From the moment Maher moved into the house, he was strangely paralyzed. By fear. By uncertainty. By the moral implications of it all. As each day went by, Maher grew more fond of Beth Eschert. And Beth Eschert’s feelings for Maher seemed to intensify. She had gone from eye contact to body contact, brushing against him often, touching him when they talked. There was an undeniable attraction between them. But more than that, there were the primal urges. Maher was a young man who had spent four years in prison without female companionship. Beth was a young woman with a long absent husband. Maybe both of them could control their emotions. But Maher wondered how long they could control their sexual appetites.
At first, Maher was able to keep his desires under control, not because of any conscious effort, rather because of the situation. Every time his desire for Beth overtook him, an equally powerful guilt shook him free of the longing. And then there was the fear. What would a hit man do to a man who was screwing his wife? One guess.
The first week passed without event. Maher performed various chores, including babysitting for Beth’s son, Bobby, when Beth made her frequent forays to Rikers Island to visit Eschert. On Saturday, Alice announced that she was going to visit Molese at Taconic Correctional Facility in Bedford, New York. She asked Maher and Beth to come along.
Taconic Correctional Facility, the prison to which Molese had been transferred, was a minimum-security facility in upstate New York, approximately an hour from Fair Lawn. Essentially a halfway house where prisoners waited as the final paperwork for their release was completed, Taconic looked more like a camp than a place of incarceration. There were few rules and almost no restrictions. Unlike Rikers Island – where a prisoner was allowed only on visitor at a time – at Taconic an inmate could schedule a family reunion. Thus Alice, Maher, Beth and little Bobby trekked out to Bedford Hills that sunny Saturday afternoon. And since they were not required to crowd into a cubicle or even share a small visitors’ room, Alice had packed a picnic lunch, including a 2 liter bottles of 7UP.
It was an incongruous scene. Alice and Beth standing over a picnic table laying out cold cuts and bread, prying open containers of potato salad. Maher and Bobby running around in the freshly mowed grass. And all of this taking place on prison grounds.
Molese approached. He greeted Alice with a hug and a kiss, a show of warmth that surprised Maher.
“You remembered the 7UP,” Molese said. Molese poured a cup of 7UP and downed it.
Appearances, of course, can be deceiving. In preparation for a visit to her husband, Alice would pry up one side of the bottle cap and, being careful not to entirely break the seal, replace the 7UP with vodka, Molese’s favorite drink.
Molese looked toward another picnic table a few feet away.
“Hey Ronald,” Molese said.
Molese introduced everyone to “my new friend Ronald Scofield,” who was picnicking with his parents, his sister Bonnie, and his brother John.
Ronald Scofield was handsome, blond, and blue-eyed, extremely muscular. He seemed civilized enough and well educated, just another white-collar criminal biding his time in a country club setting. However, he had been convicted of armed robbery and assault. Ronald Scofield was more violent than he looked.
The afternoon lazed away, ending in a tearful good-bye between Alice and Molese. Maher watched poor Alice, who was crying real tears. And Molese, who was crying for show. At least that’s the way Maher interpreted it. After all, until now Maher had never seen Molese demonstrate any affection toward Alice or even have a kind word to say about her.
Since Maher and Bonnie Scofield had seemed to hit it off – they spent most of the visit huddled together and laughing – she invited everyone to stop by her parents’ house, which was just a mile from the prison. Beth was not thrilled.
“You know, Bonnie,” she said, “that’s very nice of you, but I’m tired and just want to head home.”
“I could use some coffee,” Maher countered. “Especially after all that 7UP.”
Everyone laughed.
Beth glanced toward Bonnie, who was as pretty as her brother was handsome. Then Beth scowled Maher. Maher walked over to her and whispered: “What’s the big deal?”
“Fine,” Beth sighed and walked away.
A few minutes later Alice, Maher, Beth and Bobby were sitting at the Scofield residence. It was blue-collar home, a cloth existence. The Scofields were friendly people, trusting. Maher smiled. I bet if I asked them they would say there was some kind of mistake. Maher could just hear Mrs. Scofield saying: Ronald is innocent you know.
Suddenly, Bonnie jumped up from her chair. “Kevin, will you come to the store with me?”
Maher and Bonnie left. Bonnie stopped by the grocery store, then the drugstore, and then a friend’s house to drop off a pair of borrowed roller skates. Maher didn’t mind. He was enjoying the company. Finally, an hour after they had left, they returned to the Scofield house. Beth was seething. Maher stared at her for a moment and then he got it. She’s jealous. Beth is jealous.
On a hot and humid August afternoon, Doherty called Maher.
“Kevin,” Doherty said, “Bohle called the UC line. You’ve got to get down here as fast as you can.”
The UC – or undercover – line was a secure ohone at 1 Hogan Place that undercover cops and confidential informants could give as their “home” number. It was the number Maher had given to Bohle.
The phone was in a soundproof booth about the size of a walk-in closet. Signs covered the walls. DO NOT ANSWER. NO RADIOS. It was perhaps the most unguarded area in the building. Earlier that afternoon, Doherty had answered the UC line with a simple “Hello.” “Who is this?” a suspicious Bohle had asked.
“I said I was your girlfriend’s father,” Doherty told Maher.
Maher grilled Doherty: “Did you sound old enough to be someone’s father?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Doherty reacted. “I’ve got six kids. Just get in the car and get down here.”
Maher made it to 1 Hogan Place in half an hour. Doherty was talking with FBI agent Al Garber. After introducing Maher and Garber, Doherty said: “You know, Kevin, you met a lot of guys in prison. Maybe you can help Al with a case he’s been working on.”
Garber had a book full of surveillance photos taken during bank robberies. He asked Maher to take a look and see if he knew any of the suspects. Maher looked at the first photo and shook his head no. Then the second. Same response. Third and fourth. Nothing. Maher pointed at the fifth photo.
“ I know who this guy is,” Maher said. “That’s Joe Jefferies.”
Garber flipped the page. “ No, it isn’t. We already got that guy. That’s Wayne Morris.”
Maher flipped the page back. “This picture is of Joe Jefferies.”
Maher picked up the book and walked over to Doherty’s desk.
“Tell him whose picture this is.” Maher said to Doherty.
“That’s Joe Jefferies,” Doherty said.
Garber looked stricken and left the room to call the US Attorney.
“There goes that case,” Doherty noted.
“Can’t they just go and arrest Jefferies?” Maher asked.
“It’s not that simple,” Doherty said. “The mistaken identity will taint the whole proceeding.”
Maher followed Doherty into the cramped UC booth.
“Have you located the tape?” Doherty asked.
“Come on, Sergeant Doherty,” Maher whined like a recalcitrant child. “I’m doing the best that I can.”
The conversation turned to a question that had been bothering Maher.
“Sergeant Doherty, how does ADA Sullivan know about the tape?” Doherty shrugged.
“Somebody turned state’s evidence,” Maher speculated. “And told Sullivan about the tape.”
Again Doherty shrugged.
“But who?” Maher frowned. “Beverly Hodge?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Doherty said. “I’m pretty sure the tape implicates her, too.”
“Hemmers! Eschert’s accomplice. It has to be Hemmers. That’s who it was. Hemmers.”
Doherty remained noncommittal. “I really don’t know who it was, Kevin. Or even if that’s how Sullivan found out about the tape.”
“Wait a minute,” Maher said. “Maybe Sullivan found out about the tape with a wire tap. That’s it. A wire tap.”
Doherty laughed. “Or maybe Eschert told his cellmate about the tape.”
Maher looked at Doherty and realized that even if Doherty knew, he wasn’t about to elaborate on the circumstances under which Sullivan had learned of the tape’s existence.
“You’re supposed to give us information,” Doherty said, confirming Maher’s thought, “not the other way around.”
“Okay,” Maher responded, “you won’t tell me how Sullivan found out about the tape. What about why? Why would Eschert make a tape that incriminated himself?”
Doherty say silently.
Maher squinted his eyes, thinking. “You said the tape implicates Beverly Hodge.”
“No,” Doherty corrected him, “I said maybe the tape implicates Beverly Hodge.”
Maher smiled. “Eschert made the tape to keep Beverly Hodge from turning him in.”
“I don’t know if that is true,” Doherty said.
“I do,” Maher said with a smile.
“Look, Kevin, forget about who, what and why. You need to find out where the tape is. Locate it. And get it to Sullivan.”
Maher thought about Beth and sighed. “To tell you the truth, Sergeant Doherty, I don’t know if can do it.”
As Doherty formulated a response, the phone rang. Maher and Doherty looked at each other. It rang again.
“Answer it, Kevin,” Doherty instructed.
Maher grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
It was Henry Bohle. Doherty stood, made a motion for Maher to keep Bohle talking, and slipped out of the booth.
“I told you before, Bohle, it’s twenty-five hundred dollars. Five hundred up front.”
Maher was insistent.
“And I need a picture of Izzo.”
Maher paused as Bohle agreed. Then Doherty slipped back into the booth with ADA Peter Benetiz, who was handling the Bohle case.
“Where in Queens?” Maher said into the receiver.
A pause.
“Why not? Because you probably shopped around, That’s what you did, isn’t it? Shopped around.”
Another pause.
“No way, Bohle. I ain’t being seen with you in Queens. You want me to do the job you come to Manhattan.”
A very long pause.
“I’ll meet you at T.J. Tucker’s. Eight o’clock. Take it or leave it.”
Maher hung up. ‘He agreed.”
“Good work, Kevin,” Doherty said with a smile.
Benetiz detailed what he needed to arrest Bohle for conspiracy: “Make sure you get a picture of his business partner. Make sure you say the money is to buy a gun. Make sure he tells you exactly what he wants you to do.” Having issued his instructions, Benetiz left the room.
“We’ll wire you up,” Doherty said.
Maher nodded, then: “Why was he so bent out of shape about getting Bohle to come into Manhattan?”
Doherty was direct. “Benetiz is an ADA in Manhattan. It wouldn’t be his case if the conspiracy to commit murder took place in Queens.”
Maher leaned back in his chair. Suddenly the idea of justice reformed as something other than a symbolic blindfolded woman balancing a set of scales. Justice was a man with geographic preferences and political ambitions. It wasn’t that Maher blamed Benetiz for wanting to take credit for the case. It was that Maher realized he was not engaged in some noble battle against crime; rather, he was a player in a high-stakes game.
Maher left 1 Hogan Place and walked around the city for a couple of hours, musing about the “assignment.” In fact, Maher didn’t think of himself as an informant. Informants were snitches who traded information for a reduced sentence, cornered by animals scratching for a plea bargain, traitors who gave up their buddies to save themselves.
Indeed, Maher upcoming meeting with Bohle was different in all respects . Maher wasn’t bartering information for a reduced sentence. While it was true that Doherty had helped Maher stay out of jail, the Bohle meeting had not been a condition of that help. Maher had agreed to meet Bohle after the fact and was doing so solely because of an obligation to Doherty. Nor was Maher seeking any plea bargain. His troubles with the law were, presumably, behind him. And finally, Maher had not been involved in a crime with Bohle, so he wasn’t being a traitor.
Maher returned to 1 Hogan Place about six o’clock.
“So this guy Bohle wants to whack his business partner Louis Izzo,” Maher said. “That’s backward, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Doherty asked.
“Usually the Italian is the whacker, not the whackee,” Maher said, laughing.
After a tape recorder and a transmitter had been attached and tested, Maher left for his meeting with Bohle at T.J. Tucker’s.
T.J. Tucker’s – which was on First Avenue near the 59th Street Bridge – was a popular hangout. Young, upwardly mobile types mixed with former and current professional athletes. Maher entered at seven-thirty to find a packed bar. Beyond the bar was an equally bustling dining area. But off the dinning area was a glassed-in café section, which was empty. Maher decided on a table in the café section.
Maher took a seat at a small wooden table and ordered a beer. Then he whispered into his shirt. “Hey, Sergeant Doherty. You out there somewhere?”
By eight-fifteen it was beginning to look like Bohle wasn’t going to show, and Maher was wondering how much longer he should wait. He decided to order another beer and give Bohle until eight-thirty.
“Bring me another Heineken,” Maher told the waitress.
Bohle arrived before the beer.
“Sorry,” Bohle said as he slipped into a chair across from Maher. “The traffic was –“
“Look,” Maher broke in, “I don’t have time for your bullshit. You want me to whack your partner, don’t keep me sitting in some fucking dive for half an hour.”
Bohle looked around nervously. There was no one nearby.
“You bring the money?” Maher asked, then remembering that Benetiz told to him to say: “The money for a gun.”
“Five hundred,’ Bohle said. “Right.”
“And a picture of Izzo? The guy you want me to whack.”
Bohle placed a Manila envelope on the table. Maher picked it up, opened it up and looked inside.
“Well, Henry,” Maher said, “I guess you just hired yourself a hit man.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Maher asked: “So why you want your partner dead, Henry?”
Benetiz had asked him to establish a motive.
Bohle was accommodating. “He’s been stealing from me for years. I just found out about it.”
“So how we gonna do this, Henry?”
“Make it look like a robbery,” Bohle answered. “You can take whatever’s in the safe.”
Right. Maher thought. There won’t be anything in the safe.
Bohle looked around him for prying ears, then leaned across the table. “Tomorrow morning. Come to the office. It’s a trailer on the lot. Come around eight. I’ll leave and walk down the block. Then you go in and take care of Izzo.”
“You got it,” Maher said.
Fortunately for Doherty and Benetiz, Bohle was new at hiring hit men. Maher’s heavy-handedness most certainly would not have worked with someone like “Fat Boy” Parlati, for example. With a wise guy like Parlati, Maher might not have gotten more than a block from T.J. Tucker’s. But the novice felon and the rookie informant had managed a decent enough performance to gain raves from at least one of the critics at 1 Hogan Place.
“Great job,” Benetiz gushed as he listened to the tape.
Doherty, on the other hand, was not pleased. He chided Maher, not like a cop who was running a CI, but like a father scolding a son.
“First of all,” Doherty began, “I can hardly hear Bohle. The glass walls echoed all the sound. And second, you were too eager, too pushy. That kind of mistake can get you killed.”
As Doherty ranted on and on about how dangerous CI work could be, Maher tuned out. All he wanted to think about was the rush he got from going undercover, the thrill of having a secret life. It was exciting. Maybe even as exciting as stealing cars. And the best part was, it was legal.
When Maher returned to New Jersey, the reality of what he was doing pieced the fantasy. Now I’m back on my other assignment: Fuck Beth Eschert and get the tape. But this assignment wasn’t giving Maher any pleasure. He was afraid that if he went through with it, only two things could happen, both of them bad: (1) Eschert would want revenge; (2) Beth would feel betrayed.
“Where were you?” Beth asked as Maher entered the kitchen.
“I met a friend for a drink,” Maher said as nonchalantly as he could.
Beth studied Maher for a moment. “A friend?”
Maher smiled. Beth seemed jealous. “A male friend.”
Maher walked to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer. “Where were you all day?”
Beth sighed. “At the courthouse copying documents. And I went by to see Robert’s lawyer. And then I stopped off at Rikers.”
“Documents? What documents?”
“Oh, I’m helping Robert with his defense.”
Great, Maher thought. Beth is running around New York gathering information to aid in her husband’s defense while I’m about to destroy any defense he could mount.
After diner, Maher, Beth, and Alice talked for awhile in the living room. As it neared midnight, Alice drifted off the to bed.
Maher looked at Beth. She seemed lost, vulnerable, afraid. And beautiful. So beautiful, so sweet. How could she have married a man like Robert Eschert?
“Sometimes I wonder how it all got so screwed up,” Beth said, seeming to read Maher’s thoughts.
“I know what you mean,” Maher said with a laugh. Twenty years old and four years in prison wasn’t the way Maher had envisioned his life.
Beth brushed a strand of hair from Maher’s forehead and smiled. Maher stared at her. What was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to sweep her into his arms?
The moment passed. Beth stood, said good night, and disappeared upstairs. Maher fell back in the couch and sighed. He realized he really could pull it off, he really could bang her if he wanted to. Only Maher wasn’t thinking of banging her, he was thinking of making love to her. Somewhere along the way his emotions had crossed the line. And as much as he denied it, he knew what was happening. He was falling in love with Beth Eschert.
Maher was punctual for his rendezvous with Doherty and Sullivan, waling into 1 Hogan Place at 7:00 A.M. Once again he was fitted with a recorder.
“The minute Bohle leaves the trailer we’re going to move in,” Doherty said. “You run down Queens Boulevard. A couple of cops will chase you, but you’ll get away. You got it?”
“I got it,” Maher said, anxious to get on with it.
Maher parked a block away from Flushing Car Service and walked to the parking lot. A nervous Bohle exited the trailer and gave Maher a furtive glance before hobbling toward Queens Boulevard. And then all hell broke loose. Sirens. Flashing lights. Cops exploding out of nowhere. Bohle stopped as if he had been struck by a bullet. Maher took off.
“Get him!” Doherty screamed. As had been prearranged, Detective Greg Demetriou chased Maher. Although Demetriou could have easily caught him, Maher “escaped,” reaching his car in the nick of time and tearing off down the street.
Back at Flushing Car Service, Bohle was cuffed and dumped in the backseat of a squad car.
Louis Izzo approached Doherty and asked: “What’s going on?”
“You’re partner hired someone to kill you.” Doherty said.
Izzo’s face drained. “Not, Henry?”
“Yes,” Doherty answered. “Henry.”
Later that morning, Maher reported to work at 200 East 58th Street. One of the doorman greeted him with a bit of bad news.
“You’ve been laid off,” the doorman said.
“What?”
“The new owners don’t want to pay for part-time doormen anymore.”
“But I was a handyman, too,” Maher protested.
“What can I tell you?” the doorman said with a shrug.
Maher walked down Park Avenue in a daze. A few days ago he was living in the Bronx and had a good job. Now he was unemployed and living in New Jersey. Maher’s mind flashed back to his years of incarceration. At least life on the inside was predictable.
Maher spent much of the day driving aimlessly around the city and trying to put things into perspective. Earlier that day he had nailed Bohle. Tomorrow or the next day he would dig up the tape. The what? He’d have to find another job. But what job? It wasn’t easy for an ex-con to find employment. Maher’s desperation presented an obvious solution. I could always steal a car. Just one more car. Maher eyed a Mercedes parked on Madison Avenue and started to calculate the profitability of stealing it. And then. What am I thinking? I don’t want to go back to jail. Maher sped away.
“How as work?” Beth asked as Maher entered the house.
“I got laid off.”
“Oh, Kevin, I am so sorry.”
Alice rushed into the room. Having overheard the conversation, she walked over and hugged him.
“Now don’t you worry,” Alice soothed. “I’ve got plenty of money.”
Maher looked at Alice. Brian Molese’s words echoed in his head. That fat bitch is spending all the money. There won’t be any left when I get out.
Later that evening, after Beth had tucked Bobby into bed and Alice had retired early as usual, Maher and Beth were watching the news when a promo appeared for an upcoming story.
“And the hiring of a hit man,” newscaster Ted Kavanaugh read from the cue cards, “right after this message.”
Maher jolted. Beth got up to change the channel.
“What are you doing?” Maher almost shouted.
“Changing the channel,” Beth said. “I don’t want to hear about some hit man.”
“I want to see it, okay?”
Beth shrugged. “Fine.”
Following the commercial break, a video of Bohle being led into the precinct in handcuffs was accompanied by a voice-over detailing the “breaking story.”
Maher looked at Beth. He wanted to tell her that he was the hit man and that he was working for the cops. But he couldn’t tell her anything.
The Bhole story ended, and Maher snapped off the television.
“Beth,” Maher began, “I want to talk to you about something.”
Beth frowned. She had never seen Maher look so serious. “Sure, Kevin.”
“Beth, why are you protecting Robert?”
“What do you mean?”
“The tape. That’s what I mean.”
Beth paled. “What tape?”
“Come on, Beth, you know what tape.”
Beth stared at Maher for a long moment. Her eyes reflected confusion, uncertainty, mistrust. “How do you know about the tape?”
“I overheard you tell Robert on the phone that the tape was safe.”
Maher hadn’t overheard anything. But he was gambling that Beth had indeed mentioned the tape by phone conversation or, if she hadn’t, wouldn’t remember that she hadn’t. Beth stared away, her mind reeling back through dozens of phone calls from Eschert. Then she looked at Maher.
“He’s my husband.”
“Yes, he is. And he’s also Bobby’s father.” Maher leaned in on Beth. “Do you want little Bobby raised by a murderer?”
“Robert is not a murderer. He’s innocent.”
“Have you listened to the tape?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of my business.” Maher pressed: “Maybe you’re afraid of what you’ll hear.”
Beth crossed her arms. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I think you should go to the district attorney and tell them everything you know.”
Maher braced for a tirade. Instead, Beth suddenly grew very sad. She stood and walked quickly up the stairs.
Maher thought about Beth’s initial reaction, which was that of a woman defending her husband. But now there was something more powerful going on in Beth’s mind, something more primal. Beth Eschert also was a mother thinking about the welfare of her child.
The following morning, Beth seemed to have forgotten about the conversation. She was full of energy, chirpy. She fed Bobby breakfast then left to take him to nursery school. Alice also left.
“I’m going shopping,” she told Maher as she swept out the door.
Maher could hear Molese’s voice echo in his brain: That fat bitch is going to spend all the money.
Now alone, Maher walked slowly and deliberately through the house. Where would Beth hide the tape? Maher decided that the first place he would look was a large credenza where Beth was always stuffing things. Recipes. Magazines. Coupons. Maher knelt down and carefully sorted through it. A hair ribbon. A scarf. A catalog. A tape! Maher stood and ran to a wall unit, popping the tape into the deck. He pressed the “play” button and heard a man’s voice. Then a woman’s voice. They were planning a murder.
Maher walked up to Doherty’s desk and handed him the cassette tape. Doherty looked at it.
“The Rolling Stones?”
“It was the first tape I came across. And I wanted to copy it before Beth got back from nursery school.”
Doherty shot to his feet. “This is the Eschert tape?!”
That’s the Eschert tape.”
Doherty buzzed Sullivan, who charged into the room.
“You got the tape?!” Sullivan asked, gasping.
“That’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it?”
Sullivan took the tape and returned to his office.
“How you doing for money?” Doherty asked.
“I’m okay.”
“How can you be okay? You lost your job.”
Maher laughed. “I’m going to steal another car.”
“That’s not funny.”
Doherty opened up his desk drawer and took out two $20 bills. He handed them to Maher.
“I can get forty dollars at a time out of petty cash.” Doherty explained.
“You don’t have to pay me,” Maher said. “I’m doing this because of what you did for me.”
“Take it,” Doherty insisted.
Maher hesitated, then took the money.
After an awkward moment, Maher stood. “I better be getting back to New Jersey.”
“Take care of yourself, you hear?”
“I will.”
“Keep in touch, Kevin.”
“Sure, Sergeant Doherty.”
And with that, Maher walked out of the squad room, rode down on the elevator, and exited 1 Hogan Place. He stopped and looked up at the building. He would miss Doherty. And he would miss the excitement of working with the cops. At least he was doing something good, something worthwhile. Now he was back to being just another ex-con looking for work, someone whose future loomed as nothing more than an expanse of time that needed to filled.
On the drive back to Fair Lawn, Maher resolved to move out of the house. He had accomplished the mission, so why stay? Maher could only thing of reasons not to stay. One: he was falling in love with Beth. Two: Beth’s husband was remorseless killer. Three: Beth had a kid. As much as he loved little Bobby, Maher didn’t want to get involved with a woman who had a kid. Hell, he was just a kid himself.
Maher walked into the house and found Beth sitting in the living room. From the look on her face, it was obvious she had something to say. Maher stiffened. Had Beth somehow figure out that he had copied the tape?
“I went to Rikers this afternoon to visit Robert,” Beth said. “I was telling Robert about you.”
Maher swallowed. “About me?”
“Yes. Over the past few visits, I’ve been telling him how much I like you. How fond of you I am.”
Maher frowned. He couldn’t really be hearing this.
“So today I told Robert that I was attracted to you. Physically attracted.”
Maher looked at Beth in horror. “And what did he say when you told him that?”
“He said he wants to see you.”
