Chapter 4
Maher fidgeted as Doherty and Wainright attached the tape recorder and microphone.
“You’ll be able to hear me,” Maher said. “Right?”
“Not with this,” Doherty responded.
Maher frowned. “This thing doesn’t transmit?”
“No,” Doherty responded, holding up a Kell, which was a small transmitter. “But this does.”
Doherty finished fastening the microphone to Maher’s chest with heavy-duty tape and then added the tiny transmitter that would essentially be the life line between Maher and Doherty. Even then, Doherty remained a breath away from calling the whole thing off. Not only was he dubious about Maher being able to con a con, Doherty also had grown attached to Maher. The long day the two had spent together on the trip to Green Haven had bonded them somehow, and now Maher was more than just a source of information to Doherty. In fact, if Doherty had taken a free association test that night and been given the word “Kevin,” he probably would have answered, “Son.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Doherty asked.
“Hey,” Maher countered, “what’s with you? You’re the one who talked me into this in the first place.”
They sat in silence for a moment and Doherty contemplated the responsibility he had to Maher. If anything went wrong, how would he feel?
Maher patted his shirt where the microphone was attached to his chest and looked at Doherty.
“Parlati won’t spot this thing,” Maher said nervously. “Right?”
“No,” Doherty snapped, sounding vaguely annoyed at the question. The inference was clear. Doherty was worried about Parlai finding the recorder.
“Try to keep Parlati in the parking lot,” Doherty said. “Where I can see you. And if you can, get Parlari to sit in your car.”
“My car?”
“Yeah, the car we gave you is wired, too.”
Maher howled. “You guys are something else.”
“Pay attention,” Doherty scolded. “Now don’t ask to many questions. Let Parlati tell you what’s going on.”
Doherty looked at Maher, Jesus, Doherty thought, what the fuck am I asking this kid to do?
Maher drove to the meeting place, the parking lot of an Italian restaurant on Long Island. Doherty and Detective Tom Harkins followed closely – but not too closely – behind.
Maher parked his car, stepped on the asphalt, and looked toward the street. Doherty’s car drifted past the stopped a block away.
The small lot was deserted except for a Cadillac, which was parked next to the building. After a moment, “Fat Boy” Parlati and two henchmen emerged and ambled slowly toward Maher.
“Who are you?” Parlati demanded. Antarctica was warmer than his eyes.
“Kevin Maher.”
Parlati looked at the question, visibly shaken.
“Hold your arms out,” Parlati ordered.
Maher’s heart began to pound. This is it. I’m going to die right here in this parking lot of a two-bit pasta joint.
“I said, hold your arms out.” Parlati was not particularly patient.
Maher stuck his arms straight out.
Doherty and Harkins were listening from a discreet distance. Since they didn’t want their sedan to be conspicuously parked, they did not have a line of sight on the meeting, which rendered the audio-only surveillance even more ominous than if they had been watching the action as well.
“Oh shit!” Doherty exclaimed. “The bastard’s going to frisk him.” Doherty slid a hand onto his gun and reached for the door handle.
Parlati smiled and began patting Maher down.
Doherty and Harkins heard the pat, pat, pat of Parlati’s hands making contact with Maher’s body. And they heard a rubbing sound as Parlati reached around Maher’s waist and ran his hands up and down Maher’s back.
“I’ve been burned by wire before,” Parlati said with a growl. “It ain’t gonna happen again.”
Parlati patted Maher in the chest. Maher held his breath. No way Parlati didn’t feel the fucking microphone. I’m dead.
Meanwhile, in Doherty’s car, the last thing Doherty and Harkins heard was Parlati saying “It ain’t gonna happen again.” Followed by a loud thud. After that, silence.
“We lost the wire,” Harkins reacted.
“Let’s go, “Doherty said, climbing out of the car.
Doherty and Harkins eased down the sidewalk until they could see what was going on in the parking lot. From what they could tell, all was well.
In fact, all was well. Although Parlati’s heavy-handed frisking had disabled transmitter, he had not felt the presence of electronic equipment.
“Morris says you’re good with cars,” Parlati said with a smile. “That so?”
“Good with cars?” Nervous energy arced out of Maher like electricity. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Parlati, when I was seventeen I took the fuckin’ cops on a chase from the Bronx to th Catsills and then…”
Maher chattered away. Every time Parlati said something, it triggered another burst from Maher.
“You know Long Island?” Parlaiti asked.
“Long Island? Hey, I know Long Island like the back of my hand. One time, I was heading out to Hempstead and…”
Safely back at Hogan Place, Doherty took the Nagra from Maher and played the tape. Doherty, Maher and Harkin listened as Parlati patted Maher down. There was a loud thud.
“You hear that?” Maher exclaimed. “He hit the fucking mike.”
“The mike is working fine,” Harkins deadpanned as the recording continued. “But Parlati knocked out the Kell.”
“We lost transmission,” Doherty added.
Maher stopped laughing, “You lost the transmission.”
“Yeah,” Doherty said. “Now be quiet so we can listen to the tape.”
On the tape, Parlati related how he intended to rob the home of a wealthy Long Island art collector, speculating that, in addition to the paintings, there would be a great deal of jewelry and cash. Parlati and his gang would impersionate police officers to gain access to the house. A man of few words, Parlati summarized it this way: “It’s a house on Long Island. Art. Jewelry. Cash. We go in as cops.” However, because of Maher’s frequent diatribes, it took Parlati ten minutes to get that out.
Doherty snapped off the tape recorder and looked at Maher. “When do you shut up?”
“See, I was just trying to make Parlati feel at ease, you know, and so I told him about –“
Doherty snapped on the tape recorder again, Parlati wrapped up the conversation and dismissed Maher.
Doherty clicked off the recorder and leaned back in his chair. “I think we can get a wiretap order with that, don’t you know?”
Harkin nodded.
“I did good, hug?” Maher said, finishing for a compliment.
“Hell, no.” Doherty said with a laugh. “you wouldn’t let him talk.” Doherty looked at the suddenly crestfallen Maher. “Yeah, Kevin you did great.”
For whatever reason, Parlati never called Maher again. However, the wiretap reaped instant rewards, specifically a phone conversation two weeks later between Parlati and an unidentified accomplice.
ACCOMPLICE: So we go in as cops?
PARLATI: Yeah.
ACCOMPLICE: What about masks? We’re wearin’ masks?
PARLATI: No masks. I told you. We’re cops, see?
ACCOMPLICE: Yeah. But our faces. They see our faces.
PARLATI: Don’t worry about it. We’re whackin’ everybody in the house.
Maher reported to his job as doorman at 200 East 58th Street. The place advertised “white glove” service, and Maher found it funny that it was his ex-con hand under the white glove. But then again, it didn’t take him long to find out that not everybody in the building would have been appalled by his background. Indeed, living among the well-heeled tenants were more than a few high-heeled hookers.
On his second shift as the all-night doorman, a petite brunette approached Maher and introduced herself as Lisa. Dressed in a designer silk dress, her hair perfectly coifed, her manner decidedly sophisticated, Lisa could have been a corporate wife. But she wasn’t.
“Listen, Kevin,” Lisa said, “I just want you to know I usually have frequent visitors, especially late at night.” She rubbed Maher’s arm. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Lisa stared seductively into Maher’s eyes,”The other guy took care of me and I took care of him. You know what I mean?”
Although his job was gratifying enough, his home life was not. When Maher moved back into 1609 Aqueduct Avenue, he expected it to be familiar. But with his mother now living there, it was as if his father’s hallowed territory was being desecrated. After all, didn’t his mother leave his father for a drunken bum? What right did she have occupying his father’s home? And so the place seem haunted by his father instead of filled with his memories.
During the first week following his release, Maher made two additional calls at Doherty’s request, one to Henry Bohle – whom Morris Weiss had said wanted to kill his business partner – and another to Joe Jefferies, who had asked Weiss for the name of a “wheel man.”
“Morris says you don’t want to be partners with Louis Izzo anymore,” Maher began his telephone conversation with Bohle. “Morris says you’re looking for someone to take care of that situation.”
A meeting was set for that evening at a diner on Long Island.
Maher didn’t expect Bohle to be so old. His eyes were sunken in wrinkled sockets, and his gray, leathery skin hung off his bones like half-dry cement. He looked more like an ancient Ichabod Crane to Maher than a man about to hire a contract killer.
“Morris says I can trust you,” Bohle said several times during the conversation.
“You better hope so,” Maher replied each time, playing the part coolly.
“What do you need?” Bohle finally asked.
Maher, who was wearing a wire, leaned over the table. “I need money to buy a gun. And a picture of Izzo.”
Those were the two items Doherty had instructed Maher to request: money and a photo. Doherty knew that merely having Bohle on tape was not enough to get an indictment. Intent, rather than anger, had to be demonstrated.
“How much money?” Bohle wanted to know.
“Five hundred,” Maher shot back.
Bohle hesitated. “How do I know you won’t take the money and disappear?”
Maher acted insulted. He pointed in Bohle’s face. “Hey. I ain’t no fuckin’ thief.”
Despite Maher’s performance as a tough guy, Bohle wasn’t entirely convinced.
“I’ve got to think about it,” Bohle said.
“Let me give you my phone number,” Maher said, then wrote down the number for the UC, or undercover, line at 1 Hogan Place.
When Doherty heard about Bohle’s reaction to Maher: “Okay, let’s put that one on the back burner.”
Bohle was a little spooked, that’s all. Doherty was certain that after Bohle checked in with Weiss, he’d surface.
Joe Jefferies was more trusting.
“There’s this old Greek couple out in Kew Gardens,” Jefferies explained, “and they hold this weekly dance at the night club. Charge admission. They take in a bundle of cash at the door.”
The way Jefferies planned it, he would arrive at the club late, pull a gun, and rob the old Greek couple. Maher would come along and supply the getaway car.
A couple of nights later, Maher and Jefferies parked in the front of the club, on Queens Boulevard. Jefferies opened the glove compartment and removed two pistols, handing one to Maher.
“Listen, Joe,” Maher said, shaking his head, “don’t you think that we ought to case the place first?”
Jefferies thought about it. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” He stuffed the gun in his waistband.
“I mean without guns,” Maher insisted. “All we’re gonna do it right now is take a look.” Maher held up his gun. “We don’t want to be caught with these things.”
Jefferies thought about that. “Yeah,” he said again, “maybe you’re right.”
Maher and Jefferies put the guns back into the glove compartment and climbed from the car. The duo walked to the front door and disappeared into the club. Once inside, they were immediately confronted by an old Greek woman.
“Five dollars,” she barked.
“We just wanted to look around,” Jefferies said.
Maher frowned at Jefferies and dug into his pocket for a ten.
“Here you are,” Maher said as he shot Jefferies a glance and then handed the money to the old woman.
The old woman grabbed the bill, then shuffled to the cash box that was set up on a table near the coat check.
“Look,” Maher whispered into Jefferies’ ear, nodding toward the old woman, “for ten bucks we get to see where she keeps the cash.”
“Yeah,” Jefferies whispered back. “Good idea, Kevin.”
Maher shook his head in mock disgust. Jefferies turned and watch as the old woman opened the metal lid of the cash box and stuffed the ten dollar bill into a stash of green.
Maher and Jefferies walked through the club and then back toward the front door. Suddenly a look of horror washed over Jefferies’s face as his head snapped toward the window of the bar. Through the window, Jefferies could see the car being towed.
“You dumb shit,” Maher chastised him. “Look what you did. You made me park in a tow away zone.”
“I borrowed those guns,” Jefferies wailed.
Jefferies was panicked, certain he was about to be arrested.
But Doherty had no intention of arresting Jefferies at that time. He would follow his usual MO and get a wiretap order based on the attempted robbery. He would build a stronger case on Jefferies. Get an arrest warrant for multiple crimes. Then – when Jefferies was surrounded by evidence and had no legal loophole from which to escape – then Doherty would pull the string.
In fact, the aborted robbery enabled Doherty to obtain a court order to tap Jefferies’s phone. Often Doherty and Harkins would listen in on Jefferies as he planned his crimes with an accomplice. Most of the conversations went like this:
JEFFERIES: You wanna do a thing?
ACCOMPLICE: Yeah, I’ll do a thing with you.
JEFFERIES: You got a thing?
ACCOMPLICE: Yeah. I borrowed a thing from Danny.
JEFFERIES: Okay ‘cause if you didn’t have a thing I was gonna say I could get you a thing.
Jefferies thought he was talking in indecipherable code and that the cops, if they happened to be listening in on his phone calls, would never figure out what a “thing” was. Jefferies’s dialogue earned him a nickname around the Manhattan DA’s office: “Joey the Bran Surgeon.”
Maher walked into his apartment one evening to the sound of a ringing phone.
“Hey, Kevin, how’s life outside?” It was Brian Molese.
“Great,” Maher responded.
After Molese related a few funny anecdotes from Green Haven, he grew serious.
“I’m worried about that fat bitch wife of mine.”
“What happened?”
“I thing she spent all the goddamn money.”
Maher had heard Molese boast about “Alice’s money” before, but Maher was never sure where she got it. Molese explained that Alice had inherited a Brooklyn brownstone from her two spinster aunts and sold the place for a profit of $100,000. In addition, the aunts left Alice a valuable collection of jewels, silverware, and antiques.
“You gotta do me a favor, Kevin.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Go over there,” Molese pleaded. “Check it out.”
Molese gave Maher the address: 24 Sanford Road in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, a quiet bedroom community that served Manhattan.
When Maher arrived at the house the next day, he was shocked to see that a comfortable two-story brick home was in a state of disrepair. The grass on the large corner lot hadn’t been mowed in months, and the bricks, which had been painted white, were peeling.
Alice answered the door and shrieked with delight when she saw Maher. She hugged him so hard he was embarrassed.
“Brian says you’re going to give me a hand,” Alice said, “and boy, do I need hand.”
When the conversation turned to Molese, Alice spoke of him like he was some kind of god. It made Maher uncomfortable, especially when he recalled the way Molese had talked about “fat Alice.” Maher felt like grabbing Alice by the shoulders and saying: Alice. The fuck talked about killing you for insurance money.
“Alice,” Maher said instead, “I think the grass needs cutting.”
Alice giggled. “Oh dear. You’re right. The town is suing me because the yard is so sloppy.”
Maher spent the morning mowing the lawn and cleaning up the yard. During several breaks, he sat in the kitchen and chatted with Alice, learning a great deal about her. She sat there peering through her wire-rimmed glasses, holding her ever-present cigarette, and related childhood devoid of affection. Her parents died when she was young, and she was raised by two spinster aunts whose emotional range, at least the way Alice told it, went from disapproval to distrust. The recollection of those years was painful. Her eyes misted over several times during the account. But she brightened when she recalled how her aunts left everything to her. And she smiled as she turned to talk of furs, diamonds, and designer clothes. She was a spendthrift. From what Maher could tell, she probably had spent all of her inheritance, just as Molese had suspected. And as far as Maher was concerned, it served Molese right.
As Maher was standing on the front porch saying good-bye to Alice, a car pulled into the driveway. First a little boy about four years old jumped from the car and then a young woman. It was Elizabeth Eschert.
“O my,” Elizabeth remarked as she looked at the freshly cut lawn, “doesn’t this look wonderful.”
“Kevin did it,” Alice announced.
The little boy stared up at Maher.
“You Kevin, mister?”
Maher knelt down to the boy’s level.
“Yes. I’m Kevin. Who are you?”
“My name is Bobby. Bobby Eschert.” He smiled proudly. “Bobby Eschert, Junior.”
Maher looked at Elizabeth. “Weren’t you at Green Haven?”
“I thought I recognized you,” Elizabeth said.
“Yeah,” Maher said, pointing his finger. “You had on a blue bandana.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Bandana?” That makes me sound like a pirate. It was a blue scarf.”
For the second time their eyes met. And for the second time Maher felt a little twinge in his stomach.
Over the next month, Maher spent weekends in Fair Lawn working on the house. Alice – with a permanent cigarette dangling from her permanent smile- was happy to have a handyman around. Maher found Alice to be warm, friendly, funny. But the more Maher got to know her, the more he realized how ditzy she was.
Elizabeth, too, found Maher’s presence to be comforting. She loved to engage Maher in philosophical discussions about the human condition, and she came across as well-read and intelligent. Once in a while she would bring up her husband, Robert, who she said she deeply loved. When she would insist that her husband had been wrongly accused, Maher would just nod in agreement. Yet Maher couldn’t help but wonder how Beth could be two distinct people – the erudite woman who engaged him in scintillating conversation and, at the same time, the wife of a ruthless Mafia contract killer. When he asked her about the circumstances under which she met and married Robert Eschert, the answer deepened the mystery about the two Beths.
“I was a flight attendant,” Beth told Maher, “flying for United Airlines.”
Beth recalled now how she and a group of friends wandered into an East Side bar called Paddy Quinn’s, which was at 77th Street and First Avenue. Escher, according to Beth, was dashing and worldly, as mysterious and manly. As Beth went on and on about “Robert,” Maher cringed. He didn’t want to hear how great Robert Eschert was.
“What did he say he did for a living?” Maher asked rather pointedly.
“He said he was in the insurance business,” Beth replied.
Maher was astonished at how little he knew about Eschert. The more he pressed her for details the more he realized that the woman sitting across from him had entered into a marriage willfully ignorant of her husband’s history. Fantasy, delusion, whatever it was, it became clear that Beth had allowed a stranger into her heart. Even now – with Eschert charged with murder – Beth chose to believe that he was innocent or conversely, refused to believe that he was guilty. There was subtle distinction between the two ways of looking at the situation, and Maher struggled to figure out exactly what it was that Beth really believed. She was either naïve or in denial. Which one was worse?
Little Bobby claimed a piece of Maher as well. When Maher would work in the yard, Bobby followed him around like a pint-size shadow. The boy seemed hungry for attention, and Maher was glad to oblige.
One weekend, Maher was in the yard when the mailman delivered a certified letter. It sent Alice into a fit.
“What is it?” Maher asked.
Alice handed Maher the letter. It was from the town of Fair Lawn. According to the letter Alice hadn’t paid her property taxes for three years, and the town was about to foreclose – Unless she came up with $7,500.
“Alice,” Maher said after he read the letter twice, “this is serious.”
When Molese called from Taconic Correction Facility, where he had been transferred as he neared release, Maher told him of the tax problem. Molese howled like a wounded animal.
“Kevin! Please! Whatever you have to sell – that fat pig’s furs, her jewelry, her furniture – just do it. Just save the fuckin’ house. It’s worth a quarter of a mil.”
Following his phone call from Molese, Maher sat Alice down and explained the seriousness of the situation. Clearly, she didn’t have the money for the taxes.
“Oh dear!” She kept saying it over and over. Then she broke down in tears, her rolls of fat shaking like Jell-O as she sobbed. “Is Brain upset? I don’t want to upset Brian.”
With Alice’s permission, Maher carted boxes of jewelry to 47th Street in Manhattan, the heart of the diamond district. It wasn’t easy, raising the $7,500. First of all, many places were leery of anyone with fistfuls of bracelets. And when they did agree to buy the stuff, they offered well below value. Maher persisted, however, and by the end of the day he had the money that Alice needed.
Molese was ecstatic that Maher saved the house.
“Why don’t you move in?” Molese suggested. ‘You’d be doing me a favor.”
The offer was tempting. For Maher, living with his mother at his father’s old apartment had become unbearable.
“I wish you would,” Molese pressed. “At least till I get out and I can deal with fat Alice myself.”
Maher’s mind reeled back to that day in Green Haven Prison when Molese, his eyes full of fire, said he wanted Alice dead.
“Let me think about it,” Maher said.
As far as Maher was concerned, he had shown good faith by calling Parlati, Bohle and Jefferies. Now it was time for Doherty to deal with his outstanding charges.
Doherty had already been working on it and, with indictments in three different counties, it wasn’t easy. But he had succeeded.
“All charges will be dropped. I got you an unconditional discharge.”
Maher smiled, “Really?”
Doherty shook his head. “You better stay out of trouble. Don’t make me come after you.”
Maher laughed. “Thanks, Sergeant Doherty.”
Doherty didn’t need thanks, he was happy to do it. And it wasn’t just because he liked Maher or because Maher had been willing to help him. In fact, there was an even more compelling reason. The more Doherty looked into Maher’s convictions of five years ago, the more it disgusted him. Seventeen-year-old kid with a stolen car get’s four years? It was appalling. Sure, Maher had led police on a dangerous chase, but four years? For a minor? In any other court in the state at any other time, Maher would have been given a youthful-offender status and would have received probation.
As Doherty researched the case he discovered that James Morihan, Maher’s lawyer, was an alcoholic who had been charged with obtaining illegal green cards for ineligible aliens. And the man who prosecuted Maher – Bronx DA Burton Roberts – seemingly had his own political agenda, which could explain why he treated every case as if he were dealing with Public Enemy Number One. Since sending Maher away, Roberts had received an appointment as a New York State Supreme Court justice. Those were the reason Doherty had worked so hard to make sure Maher didn’t go back to prison. He had already been screwed by the system once.
“What about the tickets?” Maher asked.
“You got some balls,” Doherty said with a growl. “You’ll have to pay them. Sorry.”
There was a certain element of irony in the fact that it was easier to deal with a felony than a moving violation.
“Oh by the way,” Doherty said, “we got Parlati.”
“You did? When?”
“A couple of days ago,” Doherty answered. “He hit the house on Long Island. We had pulled the family out and filled the house with cops. So when Parlati and his gang showed up, they got a helluva surprise.”
“You knew because of the wire tap,” Maher stated.
‘Right. We caught Parlati saying: ‘We’re whackin’ everybody in the house’. So you saved a couple of lives, Kevin.”
Doherty shook his head. “Bohle. Parlati. And now Eschert. You’re batting three for three.”
Doherty handed Maher a New York Daily News. “Actually, you’re four for four.”
Maher looked at a picture of District Attorney Morgenthau standing on a huge Oriental rug. It took Maher a minute, but he finally got it.
“That’s the rug?!” Maher screamed.
Doherty nodded, a smile breaking across his face.
Based on Maher’s lead, Doherty had sent Detective Greg Demetriou to the Bronx to pose as an Oriental-carpet dealer. Apparently Demetriou’s act had been convincing because a man in the house just handed over the rug.
“We brought it back here and spread it out in Morganthau’s office,” Doherty explained. “He came in the next morning and said: ‘What the hell is this?’ So I said: ‘It’s a rug’”.
Doherty told Maher that the carpet – depicting four biblical scenes on is sixteen-by-twenty-foot tapestry – had been woven by small Persian children at the turn of the century. It was worth $50,000.
“I told you that rug was something,” Maher crowed.
“The company that insured the rug is offering a reward,” Doherty continued. “Fifteen-hundred.”
Doherty wrote something on a piece of paper. “Here’s the name of the guy at the Insurance Company of North America.”
Maher took the piece of paper. “Thanks, Sergeant Doherty.”
Maher and Doherty shook hands firmly, then spontaneously hugged.
“Take care of yourself,” Doherty said.
“Nobody else will,” Maher laughed. “Except you.”
The broken-down Plymouth Maher had actually owned – the one that prompted him to steal the Roadrunner – had long since been sold by his father. So Maher used most of the $1,500 reward to by some transportation: a 1966 Buick LeSabre. It’s wasn’t fast and it wasn’t slick, but at least it would get him around town. Maher drove directly from the used car lot to see Doherty.
“ I stopped by to tell you I might be moving,” Maher said.
“Where to?”
“Jersey. Molese has a house in Fair Lawn.”
Maher and Doherty had previously discussed Molese.
“Nice guy, you’re friend Molese,” Doherty said, snickering. “He kill his wife yet?”
“He asked me to look out for her.”
“Better not look out to good.”
Maher laughed,” She’s five hundred pounds.”
Doherty laughed too.
“But there is a nice little number living there with her,” Maher said. “Elizabeth. She has a cute little kid named Bobby.”
“Where’s her husband?”
“In jail,” Maher answered. “For murder one.”
“What’s his name?”
“Eschert,” Maher said. “Robert Eschert.”
Doherty motioned to a chair. “Sit back down.”
“Why?” Maher wanted to know. “What is it?”
“An ADA in the office here, Alan Sullivan, is working on one of the Eschert homicides. You mind talking with him?”
Maher sighed. “Sure. Why not?”
Doherty picked up the phone receiver and buzzed Sullivan.
A moment later Assistant District Attorney Alan Sullivan entered. Although he was just thirty-five, Sullivan was graying. Since he was also very tall and very thin, he looked older than his years.
Doherty introduced Sullivan to Maher and explained to Maher had performed well undercover in a couple of tense situations. Then Doherty dropped a bombshell as far as Sullivan was concerned.
“Kevin’s about ready to move into a house with Elizabeth Eschert,” Doherty said.
Sullivan’s jaw dropped. “Robert Eschert’s wife?”
After an intense nationwide manhunt, Eschert had been arrested in Lee, Massachusetts, on May 4, 1974, and charged with a double homicide in Queens. In addition, Sullivan was prosecuting Eschert for the murder of a well-known Manhattan musician named George Hodge.
“But we know he’s responsible for at least fifteen contract killings,” Sullivan added.
“Fifteen?” Maher’s voice went up an octave.
Sullivan left Doherty’s office and retrieved a New York Daily News dated October 14, 1973. The headline cried out, “Burglars Kill Musician, Attack Wife,” and the subhead added another lurid detail: “Rape Attempt Fails in W. Side Flat.”
Sullivan explained that Robert Eschert, an accomplice named John Hemmers, and Beverly Donna Hodge, the victim’s wife, had been indicted for the murder of George Howard Hodge. Then Sullivan related his theory regarding the brutal homicide. Essentially, Sullivan believed Beverly Hodge had contracted Eschert to kill her husband and stage a rape attempt that would make it seem as if she were a victim as well. The motives were money – Hodge’s considerable estate, which Beverly Hodge would inherit; a sizeable insurance policy, which named Beverly Hodge as the beneficiary; and a preplanned lawsuit against the owners of the building for a “lapse in security.” According to Sullivan, all of this information was contained on a tape, which he wanted Maher to retrieve.
“Eschert made a tape of a phone call he had with Beverly Hodge,’ Sullivan explained. “We believe Beth Eschert is in possession of that tape.”
Other than the recorded conversation, there was nothing concrete to link Eschert to the murder, at least nothing Sullivan felt would hold up in a court of law. Without any forensic evidence and in the absence of any clues, Sullivan would be unable to convict Robert Eschert for the brutal slaying of George Howard Hodge.
“Queens doesn’t have a strong case either,” Sullivan said. “Eschert could walk.”
Sullivan painted a horrific portrait of Robert Eschert. Ruthless. Sociopathic. A real monster.
Maher didn’t like where this was going.
“Beth doesn’t know anything about the murders,” Maher insisted.
“I think she does,” Sullivan countered. Sullivan stared a hole in Maher. “You think you could get to her?”
Get to her? Was he crazy?
“You want me to do what?” Maher was indignant. “Fuck some information out of her?”
Sullivan explained that he was under court order not to talk to either Eschert, or his wife, Elizabeth, and that using an undercover cop also would violate that order. But a “private citizen” could circumvent that legal detail.
“Besides,” Sullivan noted, “anything I get would not be admissible in court. A wife cannot be coerced into testifying against her husband. It’s privileged information.”
Sullivan acknowledged that what he was asking Maher to do constituted a “gray area” of the law.
Maher looked at Doherty, who was being strangely quiet.
“What do you think about all of this?” Maher demanded.
In truth, Doherty had mixed emotions. On the one hand, Eschert was not the kind of guy Doherty wanted back on the street. On the other hand, it was a perilous proposition for Maher. And except for a few strands of DNA here and there, Doherty felt Maher could almost be his son.
“It’s up to you,” Doherty said. But his eyes said Do the right thing.
Maher thought about Beth. And little Bobby. Bobby was a sweet kid. Maher couldn’t imagine Bobby being raised by a cold-blooded killer.
“Okay,” Maher finally said.
Maher leaned back in his chair, his body suddenly limp. He had just agreed to do the single most dangerous thing imaginable: romance a jailed Mafia hit man’s wife.
