Chapter 17
Maher – still brandishing his Smith & Wesson –charged out of the room. Beth slowly got out of bed, collected her son, Bobby, and slipped out of the house. She drove to the police station and arranged for an order of protection against Maher. The cops returned home with her.
"So where the fuck am I supposed to go now?" Maher raged at one of the cops.
"Wherever you go," the cop stated evenly, "it better not be here."
Maher climbed in his car and thought about his options. I’ll go to Mike Bellzano’s house, Maher decided. Maher had met Bellzano, who lived in nearby Rutherford, because Bellzano’s children often played with little Bobby.
Maher cranked up the engine and tore out of the driveway. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the squad car in front of the house. The realization of what had just happened – what he had done to Beth – sobered Maher a little.
What the fuck did I do this time?!?
Maher drove the Bellzano’s house and banged on the door. A couple minutes later, a sleepy-eyed Bellzano appeared.
"Kevin," Bellzano said, "what’s going on?"
"Beth threw me out," Maher answered.
When Maher checked his bank account the next day, he found he was low on cash. The Porsche, the improvements to the Porsche, the nights out on the town buying drinks for the house, had depleted the DEA windfall.
For the next two days, Maher laid on Bellzano’s couch, listless, depressed. Bellzano called Beth.
"He’s a wreck," Bellzano said. "I think he needs to go to drug rehab."
Beth didn’t want to hear about Maher’s problems, much less deal with them.
"Okay," Beth said. "I’ll sign whatever insurance papers you need to check him in."
Bellzano took Maher to a place called The Harbor, which was in Hoboken. Cost for a twenty-eight day drug rehabilitation program: $22,000. As Beth had said she would do, she signed the insurance papers. She also signed another set of papers: She filed for divorce.
After only one week at The Harbor, Maher walked out. He wound up back on Bellzano’s couch. A few days later, Maher’s cellular phone rang. His hands shook as he fumbled for the send button. Please let this be Beth.
"Hello, Kevin," a female voice said. "Do you know who this is?"
It was Beverly.
Cocaine and passion, endless weeks of delirious pleasure. Maher and Beverly floated into the charcoal days of autumn. By October, Maher had moved into Beverly’s Brooklyn apartment.
"You know, Kevin," Beverly said one night, "I’ve been with probably thousands of guys and I’ve never felt this way about any of them."
Maher looked at her in disbelief. A thousand guys?
Maybe it was the cocaine. Maybe Maher had just gone crazy. Whatever it was, Kevin Maher and Beverly Merrill were united in matrimony on October 20, 1988. Of course, there was a small problem with the union. Maher was still married to Beth.
Maher and Beverly found a place in a two-family house in Elmwood Park, New Jersey, a nice, spacious apartment in a two-family house on Grove Street. This required that Beverly’s parole be transferred from New York to New Jersey. But that was easy, since Maher had accumulated so many contacts in law enforcement he could have worked a deal for Jack the Ripper.
Beverly supported both of them with the money she made from dancing, which ranged upward to $3,000 a week. They lived the high life, never worrying about saving for the future. That’s because they had their future already set.
"I’m going to win the case against the railroad and get two million dollars," Maher would tell Beverly.
But the case dragged on. Motions and countermotions. Postponement after postponement. Deposition after deposition. Clearly, it was going to be a very long time before Maher would see a cent from New Jersey Transit, if in fact he saw anything at all.
Although Beth was no longer speaking to Maher, her son, Bobby, missed the man who had been his father for thirteen years. So, on November 19, 1988, which was Bobby’s eighteenth birthday, Maher took his "son" out to celebrate.
"Who is my father?" Bobby asked suddenly.
Maher took a breath. Beth had never told Bobby the truth about his biological father.
"I’m your father now, Bobby."
"I mean my real father."
Maher was stung.
"Your father’s name is Robert Eschert."
"Where is he?"
A million lies zapped across Maher’s mind.
"Your father is in prison," Maher said.
"Why?"
Maher hesitated. Then he explained – as gently as one could relate to such a thing – that Robert Eschert was a killer. A murderer.
"I put him away," Maher added.
Bobby looked away. Not verbally, not with a facial expression, not in any way.
"I know where he is," Maher told Bobby. "If you want to go see him, I’ll go there with you."
Bobby looked away. Apparently he wasn’t quite ready to deal with his father. And, despite his bravado, neither was Maher.
From the moment Maher and Beverly had tied the knot, they began trying to have a baby. But a couple of months later, when Beverly had not conceived, they resorted to an unorthodox method of fertility enhancement. Beverly would stand on her head for several minutes, having heard how this would make sure all the sperm reached the egg.
"How much longer," Beverly would ask, her legs sticking straight up toward the ceiling.
"Two more minutes," Maher say, checking his watch.
It was a happy time for Maher. Beverly seemed devoted. And she was going to have his baby. But then in the spring 1989, that old sick feeling returned. Beverly is fucking around. I know it.
One night in April, when jealous thoughts wouldn’t leave him, he tried to drink it away. He got drunk and waded into a bar fight with three bouncers at a place called The Bench in Carlstadt. He was arrested and thrown in a holding tank to dry out.
The next morning, a Carlstadt detective sergeant arrived for work. He read Maher’s arrest report. Drunk and disorderly. Assault, because he shoved a cop. Then the detective walked to the holding cell and looked in at Maher, who was sprawled across the narrow bed. His face was badly bruised.
"What the hell happened to you?" Detective Sergeant Bobby Colaneri asked.
"I showed those fucking bouncers," Maher said with a laugh, grimacing because it hurt to smile. "I rammed my face into their fists a few times."
And so it was that on April 12, 1989, the parallel paths of Kevin Maher and Bobby Colaneri had converged at long last.
Maher and Colaneri sized each other up from opposite sided each other up from opposite sides of the bars.
"What’d you give the cop a hard time for? Colaneri asked.
"I was drunk and stupid," Maher replied. "I didn’t have anything against the cop. It was that fucking bouncer."
Maher stood and walked to the cell door. "I want to apologize to the cop. I like cops. I work with cops."
Maher launched into his undercover stories, mentioned that he had worked with FBI agent Bob DeBellis.
"I know Bob DeBellis," Colaneri noted.
Then Maher started talking about the Molese trial and prosecutor Dennis Calo.
"I know Dennis Calo, too," Colaneri said.
For the next two hours, Maher spun a series of complex tales that ran from murders to bank robberies to DEA drug busts. He told Colaneri how he posed as a hit man. And he confessed the troubles he was having with Beverly.
In turn, Colaneri talked about his own life. The many close calls with the law when he was younger, the hostage crisis at the bank, his marriage to Patti.
Maher and Colaneri related like old friends. And, in a way, they were. Each lived a sort of mirror image of the other’s life.
Colaneri asked Maher if he wanted to file countercharges against the bouncer, a strategy Colaneri had come to expect whenever two guys got into a fight. Maher declined to file charges, and this made Colaneri like him more. He’s from the old school. He takes his lumps.
After contacting DeBellis and Calo to confirm that Maher was who he said he was and not a potential flight risk, Colaneri called a judge and arranged to have Maher released ROR (released on his own recognizance.)
Once again, Maher had made a friend in law enforcement, one who could help him get out of a fix. But this time, Maher had gained more than a police contact, more than a father figure like Doherty. He had encountered someone his own age, someone who had the same hopes and fears.
The feeling that Beverly was cheating on him persisted. Although be knew it would futile to accuse her of infidelity, Maher couldn’t help himself.
"You’re fucking somebody!" Maher screamed one night.
"I am not!" Beverly countered.
The argument escalated. Beverly called the police. And once again Maher was ejected from his home.
Maher went directly to a bar, where he ran into Eric Jann, whose father owned Jann’s Deli in Wood-Ridge. As it happened, there was a vacant apartment over the deli, and Maher moved in that night.
On May 24, 1989, a final decree of divorce was recorded by the Superior Court of New Jersey in Bergen County. Beth was now his ex-wife. And at least Maher was no longer a bigamist.
Maher ran to Beverly, but she was not receptive. She informed Maher she had contacted a lawyer and was planning to file for divorce. Two divorces on the same say, Maher thought. What’s wrong with me?
Once a week, sometimes twice, Maher would stop by to see Beverly. He didn’t feel like a husband. He felt like an alley cat, sneaking in to get a piece of something that wasn’t his. He was infuriated by the thought. Often he would accuse Beverly of having a lover, which would result in another screaming match.
Maher decided he should stop the accusations and look at the situation like it was a case. He would get proof, then confront Beverly with irrefutable evidence.
On the next visit to his estranged wife’s apartment, he waited until she went to the bathroom, and then removed the plastic case from the handset of the cordless phone that was on the bedside table. He jotted down the dip switch settings that control the frequency over which the remote phone operated and put the handset back together.
Maher then bought a cordless phone. He opened the handset and set the dip switches so that they matched the settings on Beverly’s phone. Maher added two more items to his makeshift surveillance kit: a suction microphone and a small tape recorder. When he was done he wound up with his own ingenious phone tap.
Later that night, Maher parked his car on the street behind the house - the bedroom was in the rear of the apartment – and found that he was well within range of the base unit on Beverly’s phone. The tap paid off immediately. When Maher punched on the talk button, he found himself in the middle of a conversation between Beverly and the downstairs apartment.
"Do we have time for a quickie?" the tenant asked. "Meet me in the laundry room."
"He’s not here," Beverly said, her voice dripping invitation. "Why don’t you come up to the apartment?"
"But I like fucking you on the washing machine," the tenant laughed.
They both laughed.
"Okay," Beverly consented. "I’ll meet you in the laundry room in fifteen minutes."
Maher pressed the off button on the handset and fell back against the car seat. She’s fucking the guy downstairs? Before Maher could catch his breath, he heard the phone ring. He clicked on his handset. It was the landlord.
"I miss you," the landlord whined. "Can you stop by on your way to work?"
"Sure, baby," Beverly responded. "Tomorrow night."
The Beverly’s lawyer called. And a bar owner. Maher was shaking. Was the phone ever going to stop ringing.
This time it wasn’t anger he felt, it was resignation. Maher walked to the front door. Beverly was surprised to see him.
"Not tonight, Kevin. I have to do laundry."
"I know," Maher said.
Beverly looked at him quizzically. "You know I have laundry?"
"I know a lot of things," Maher said. "Like you are fucking the guy downstairs."
"Get out of here!" Beverly shrieked, "Or I’m calling the cops."
"And you’re fucking your lawyer," Maher continued, "and you’re fucking the landlord.
"You’re crazy!" Beverly shouted. "Get out!"
Maher reached into his pocket and took out the tape recorder. He pressed play. Beverly’s mouth dropped open. When the tape finished, Maher turned and walked away.
The next night, the anger set it. Maher stopped by Shaker’s, a bar in Carlstadt where Beverly has started dancing under the name "Danielle."
"Where’s Danielle?" Maher asked a waitress.
"She has the night off," the waitress replied. "Who are you?"
"I am her husband."
"Husband? I didn’t know she had a husband. I know she has a boyfriend."
Maher’s nostrils flared. "What boyfriend?"
The waitress started to walk away.
"Who the fuck is her boyfriend?" Maher demanded as he pulled a handful of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, money he had earmarked for a coke buy.
"I don’t think I should…"
"One," Maher said as he placed a hundred on the table.
The waitress’s interest piqued.
"Two," Maher counted a second hundred. "Three. Four."
Maher held a fifth hundred in the air. "At some point, I’m going to stop counting. If you tell me the name of the boyfriend, you can have the money on the table. But when I stop counting, you get nothing, even if you tell me."
Maher lowered the hundred slowly.
"Five."
The waitress swallowed.
"Six."
"Al," the waitress blurted out. "Al Harris."
Maher slid the money toward the waitress but kept his hand on top of the stack of bills.
"Where does he work?"
"Bennigan’s in Saddle Brook."
Maher lifted his hand and walked out. He headed home to pick up his Smith & Wesson 9mm.
When Maher arrived at Bennigan’s, three bouncers guarded the front door of the popular Irish bar. Maher swept past them like they weren’t there. Once inside, he looked at the bartender. That’s gotta be Al, Maher thought.
Al walked from behind the bar and started across the restaurant. Maher intercepted him.
"Your name Al?"
Al nodded.
"My name is Kevin Maher and I want to talk to you."
"Look, I am busy," Al said.
"It’s about Danielle."
Al thought it over for a minute, then led Maher to a booth. They sat face to face.
"Danielle," Maher stated evenly, "is my wife."
"Hey," Al said with a growl, "let me tell you something right now –"
"No," Maher said as he slid the Smith & Wesson from his waistband and jammed it in Al’s crotch. "You’re not going to tell me shit, motherfucker. I’m going to tell you."
Al looked in horror at the nickel-plated barrel pressed into his genitials. His expression drew attention from the bouncer.
"You got problems here?" the bouncer asked Al.
"No," Al squeaked. "Leave us alone."
The bouncer backed off.
"Now," Maher said, "this gun is a lie detector. I’m going to ask you questions, and the fucking minute I think you are lying to me, I’m going to blow your balls off."
Maher stared at the terrified Al for a long, intense moment.
"Do you know Danielle?" Maher asked.
Al nodded. "I didn’t know she was married."
Maher applied more pressure with the barrel of the gun.
"Boom!" Maher said. "That’s a lie. The next boom you hear is coming from my Smith & Wesson."
Al trembled slightly.
"Where did you meet her?" Maher demanded.
"She came in here with one of her girlfriends."
"How long have you been fucking her?"
"Since May."
Maher grimaced. That was month before he and Beverly separated.
"Did you use a condom?"
Al hesitated.
"Did you use a condom?" Maher asked with a snarl, jamming the gun hard into Al’s crotch.
"No."
"Did you fuck her in my bed?"
"Yes."
Maher pulled the gun away. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, dropping it on the table.
"Don’t get up from the booth until I’m out the door," Maher said.
Al nodded.
And then Maher, tears clouding his eyes, stumbled out of the bar.
In Mid July Beverly stopped by Maher’s apartment. Maher was coked out of his mind.
"I miss you so much," she said.
"Whore!" Maher replied. "You’re nothing but a fucking whore!"
Beverly began to cry.
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry," Beverly said sobbing. "I need you. I want you to come back home."
"Are you crazy?" Maher shouted. "Come back to you? I can’t face people here. I don’t know who the hell you fucked."
Beverly walked over and put her arms around Maher’s waist. He pushed her away. She did it again. He pushed her away. A third attempt. A third rejection. A long stare. Dead silence. The next thing Maher knew, he was in bed.
Incredibly, they decided to get back together.
As Maher was packing to leave the apartment over Jann’s Deli, Eric Jann told Maher he was moving to Scotsdale, Arizona.
"Here’s my number," Jann said. "Give me a call sometime."
Again living with Beverly, Maher tried his best to put her promiscuity behind him. But every man he saw in the neighborhood gave him pause. Did she fuck him, too? Maher decided that he and Beverly should move. Someplace where they didn’t know anyone, someplace far away.
At the end of July, Maher and Beverly rented a place in Tobihanna, Pennsylvania, deep in the Poconos. Beverly got a job dancing at Satin Dolls in Hackensack. Each night, Maher would take her there in his Porsche – the normal two hour drive translated to an hour and twenty-minutes with Maher behind the wheel – and he would pick her up eight hours later. It seemed to work for a while. Perhaps Beverly had really changed her ways. Or perhaps Maher had resigned himself just to look the other way.
In August, as Maher’s court date in Carlstadt for disorderly conduct and assault was approaching, Colaneri arranged for Maher to meet with Dave Smith, the arresting officer from the bar fight. Maher apologized, and Smith agreed to drop the charges. The case against Maher was dismissed .
As Colaneri was showing Maher out of the squad room, Maher turned to him and said:
"I want to repay you for what you’ve done."
"You don’t owe me anything, Kevin."
But Maher insisted.
"Give me a case. I’ll help you solve it."
Colaneri shrugged. "Well, we’re getting killed with radio car thefts."
"I’ll find out who’s stealing the radios and get back to you."
Colaneri laughed. "Knock yourself out."
Two weeks later, Colaneri wasn’t laughing. Maher appeared at Carlstadt police headquarters. He handed Colaneri a piece of paper.
"Here’s the guy who is stealing the radios."
Colaneri looked at the piece of paper. It had a name, address, phone number and license plate number.
"How’d you manage to find this out?" Colaneri asked.
"Easy," Maher said, then explained how he did it. "I just went out and told all my contacts in the neighborhood that I wanted to buy car radios. Bingo."
Armed with the information provided by Maher, Colaneri obtained a search warrant and raided the address. The Carlstadt police recovered dozens of radios. Then, like so many of Maher’s cases, it escalated. The raid led to information that pointed to a corrupt police official in a large New Jersey town. Despite the evidence, however, the case was not pursued.
While Maher was happy that he repaid Colaneri, he was also disillusioned. First the Caldera case and now this. Two straight cases involving police corruption "swept."
By November it had become clear that Beverly had not reformed. And Maher could no longer look the other way. Following a horrendous argument, Maher packed his bags and left their home in the Poconos.
As Maher sped south over the twisty roads that led out of the mountains, he was thinking: I gotta get as far away as I can get. Maher remembered Eric Jann was in Arizona. Maher called Jann, who was happy to hear that Maher was thinking about heading to Scottsdale.
"I was looking for a roommate," Jann said.
"I’m on my way," Maher replied.
In Scottsdale Maher moved into Jann’s apartment, which was located in what Maher referred to as a "fancy yuppie complex." There were tennis courts, a pool, and all the amenities.
In January 1990 Maher flew back to New Jersey for a hearing on his railroad case. No sooner did he return to Arizona than he was informed by his attorney that the railroad had scheduled another hearing two weeks later. In February the railroad demanded two more hearings. While they had slowed down the process when Maher was living locally in New Jersey, they were speeding it up now that he was in Arizona, and it was a hardship for him to attend the hearings.
In February Maher moved to Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey. His money dwindling, he began drinking heavily. There was a Porsche, which could probably be sold for $60,000. But Maher decided he couldn’t sell the Porsche. He knew that, the way he handled money, he would blow that money in a couple of months. No mater what, he had to hang on to it. It was more than a car now, it was also his financial life line.
On the morning of June 20, 1990, Colaneri, sporting a beard and long hair and wearing an earring, walked up to a cinder block garage in the back of a warehouse, glancing at a sign that read "Bimini Auto Detailers," took out a key, and let himself in. It was the first day of an undercover operation aimed at a stolen car ring. Colaneri had spent the past few weeks setting up the sting. This is the perfect job for Kevin, Colaneri told himself as he worked on the plan. However, as far as Colaneri knew, Maher was still in Arizona.
Colaneri and two undercover investigators from the Bergen County prosecutor’s office – Ken Nass and Rich Barbato – had decided on the still when two men who were associated with car thieves had been arrested on other charges. Deals were made, freedom in return for "referrals" to Bimini Auto Detailers.
The money for the sting came via NATB – the National Auto Theft Bureau – which was funded by insurance companies. The initial investment, $10,000, was used to build offices inside the garage and equip those offices with hidden video and audio equipment. A video camera was positioned so it was pointed at Colaneri’s desk. Still cameras were placed behind nude pictures of women.
"That’s how we’ll get the close-ups," Colaneri said with a laugh, knowing the men would wander over to get a good look at the centerfolds.
Business cards were printed. Colaneri’s said Robert Schultz, which was the name of his deceased brother-in-law. And the Bimini Auto Detailers opened its doors. Before long, the cars started rolling in.
Since Colaneri and the two Bergen County investigators often went in and out of the secret video room, Colaneri had to have a way to keep from being surprised by the car thieves. One day, when two guys showed up unexpectedly, Colaneri became furious.
"Never show up here unannounced!" Colaneri shouted.
"Why not?" one of them asked.
"The other people we’re dealing with don’t want to know you," Colaneri barked. "And you don’t want to know them."
Colaneri went on to say that "we guarantee all our customers the same confidentiality."
The two guys bought it. In fact, so did all the car thieves. Bimini Auto Detailers was able to conduct transactions in an orderly fashion – and, of course, reduce the risk of being detected as an undercover law enforcement operation.
Although the sting was aimed at an auto theft ring specializing in Cadillacs and BMWs, Colaneri could not specify a make or model because it might be construed as entrapment if he "ordered up": so thieves were told that Bimini wanted only "luxury cars, expensive cars." Since Colaneri was working on a tight budget, he offered $500 a car. When one thief saw Colaneri with a wad of money – actually flash money used not for spending, but to impress the thieves – the thief complained about the "low price." Colaneri silenced them with: "Hey! It’s a half-hour work for you."
One of the things that the sting demonstrated was just how ingenious some thieves could be. A Bimini customer got his hands on a T-shirt from Brogan Cadillac. He slipped onto the Brogan lot and, when an old lady drove her car in for service, he smiled and said, "I’ll take that for you, ma’am." In fact, he did take it. All the way to Bimini Auto Detailers. Another thief, wearing a shirt from Park Cadillac, stood at the rear of the car-carrier tractor-trailer truck and watched the brand new imports being unloaded. "I’ll take that one into the garage," he offered. The driver handed him the keys, and the Cadillac was off to Bimini.
The biggest problem Colaneri had was not getting cars but identifying the people who stole them. All transactions were, of course, in cash, and most of the thieves only went by their first name or a nickname. So Colaneri always did two things. First, he would ask the thieves to sit across the desk from him when he paid them, making sure the transaction was vaught by the video camera. And then, at some point, Colaneri would motion toward one of the centerfolds and say:
"Hey , look at the tits on that one."
The thieves always obliged. They’d walk up to the centerfold and stare at her breasts.
Click! Another portrait.
By October, Bimini Auto Detailers had received forty-two cars – all luxury models – several guns, and a stash of counterfeit titles and bogus license plates. And all the thieves except one had been identified. The operation a success, it was time to shut down. But how could they begin the arrests without tipping off other suspects? The solution was simple.
Colaneri spread the word that Bimini had "tagged" the cars – that is, changed the Vehicle Identification Numbers to render them salable – and now needed people to drive the altered autos to Ohio.
"You get five hundred dollars," Colaneri told thieves, "and when we get to Ohio there’ll be a big party. Drugs. Hookers. And we’ll give you a bust ticket back to Jersey."
On October 5, 1990, a twenty-foot box truck was parked outside Bimini Auto Detailers, as was a windowless van. Inside the truck was a SWAT team, and inside the can was a canine unit, just in case one of the suspects made a run for it.
The trap set, the thieves were given staggered pickup times, and a passenger van was dispatched to collect five or six of them at a time. Waiting in front of their homes and clutching overnight bags, the thieves eagerly bounded onto the van.
When the van returned to Bimini Auto Detailers, the thieves disembarked and filed into the garage to see Colaneri. After greeting them, Colaneri uttered the magic phrase – Oh, we’re going to have a great time in Ohio!" – which was a signal for the cops to jump from the truck and burst in. A few minutes later, the passenger van was off on another roundup.
One of the van runs even netted the only suspect Colaneri had been unable to identify. The suspect had been told about the Ohio trip from another thief.
" I heard about the party," the unidentified suspect said to Colaneri. "Can I drive a car to Ohio? I can use the money."
"Sure," Colaneri said, and then: "Oh, we’re going to have a great time in Ohio!"
In came the cops.
"What about the party?" one of the thieves asked as he was being led away.
Colaneri was pleased with the Bimini sting. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that he might have done better if Maher were around. Kevin could have collected a lot of money on this one, Colaneri mused.
Maher spent the autumn of 1990 in constant emotional postmortems. He felt lost. Adrift. Then one day at the end of October, the phone rang.
"You want to have lunch?" a voice asked.
It was Jim Doherty.
The timing was perfect. Doherty’s father presence always had an uplifting effect on Maher.
"Sure," Maher said. "I’ve got a lot to tell you."
"And I’ve got a lot to tell you," Doherty said.
The previous March, Doherty had returned to law enforcement as an investigator at the Suffolk County district attorney’s office.
The next day, Maher and Doherty met for lunch at a diner in Queens.
"How’d you wind up in Suffolk County?" Maher asked.
Doherty explained that after ten frustrating years as a federal investigator, and feeling decidedly not well suited for the Defense Department’s procedures, he heard about a test being given at the Suffolk County DA’s office for the position of investigator.
"I did great on the written exam," Doherty related. "But then they told me I have to have a physical exam. So I go in and see the doctor and the doctor says, ‘You’re sixty pounds over weight. We’re gonna have to fail you. You won’t be qualified when we call you.’"
"You should’ve called me," Maher said with a laugh. "I know a guy who would haven taken the physical for you."
Doherty shook his head and ten continued the story.
"Anyway, I knew it was going to be a while before they staffed the position, so I figured I had plenty of time to lose the weight."
"How much did you weigh?" Maher wanted to know.
"Two-hundred and seventy pounds," Doherty reluctantly responded.
"Two hundred and seventy pounds!" Maher howled with laughter.
"Hey," Doherty said frowning. "It’s not that funny."
When Maher got his laughter under control, Doherty picked up the story.
"Eight months later, I was called in for another physical. Guess what I weighed?"
"What?"
"Two hundred and twelve pounds."
"You lost fifty-eight pounds in eight months?" Maher reacted.
"Yep," Doherty said. "So then the doctor says, ‘You pass.’ And I say, ‘Are you sure I pass?’ And the doctor says, ‘Yeah. You pass.’ So I say to the doctor, ‘Do you know where I am going now?’ And the doctor asks, ‘Where?’"
Doherty smiled at Maher for a few seconds.
"Where?" Maher pressed, taking the bait. "Where did you go?"
"I went to the Pancake House," Doherty responded. "I had three fried eggs, orange juice, toast, a stack of pancakes, sausage and bacon."
Maher and Doherty had a good laugh.
"So," Doherty asked, "What’s been happening with you? You still doing the same shit?"
Two hours and three cocktails later, Maher finally wound down.
"Now I am back in Jersey," Maher said, then added," I’m fucked up."
Doherty reassured Maher. "It’ll all work out."
"Yeah," Maher said with a sigh. "I guess it will. I’m looking for a job."
"Now that I’m back in the business," Doherty said, "if you hear of anything out my way, give me a call."
"I don’t mean that kind of job," Maher countered. "I’m not doing the CI thing anymore. I’m looking for a real job."
A real job was the best thing for Maher, and Doherty knew it. On the other hand, Doherty also knew that Maher seemed incapable of steering clear of trouble. Sometimes cases seemed to drop in Maher’s lap.
"I hope you find a good job," Doherty said. I’ll check around out here if you want me to?"
"That’d be great, Jimmy," Maher said.
Jimmy
In November 1990, a minor miracle occurred. Maher’s lawsuit against New Jersey Transit embodied two different complaints – one that charged the railroad and a codefendant. Asplum Tree Company, with the unsafe use of a toxic weed killer, and the other pertained to Maher’s wrongful termination. While the wrongful termination segment of the suit was bogged down, the chemical part of the suit had proceeded. A judge ordered New Jersey Transit and Asplum Tree Company to compensate Maher $25,000. So although Maher’s $2 million wrongful termination suit was still pending and would be undecided for some time, he had money again: $50,000- or more accurately, $33,000 after Maher’s attorney deducted $17,000 which represented the stand on-third contingency fee.
Immediately after the settlement, the possibility of a "real job" arose when one of Maher’s childhood buddies, Mark Pasquale, mentioned he needed a partner for a small car dealership in Queens, at 40-45 Crescent Street in Long Island City. It was called M.A.P. Auto Sales, which stood for Mark Anthony Pasquale. Maher invested $10,000 in M.A.P. and, to be close to his new venture, moved from New Jersey to Astoria, Queens, renting an apartment a the corner of 49th Street and 20th Avenue.
Ownership in M.A.P. made Maher feel anchored. Now with a business to build, Maher found a purpose. He once again vowed he would stop snorting coke.
The first time Maher had tried to stop, he really believed he could do it. But now, the second time would be more difficult because he knew from experience he couldn’t do it. But while Maher had made a conscious decision to break the chains of his coke habit, there was more than willpower alone to keep him clean. Maher was a businessman now, and he had more important things to do with money. Maher needed the balance of the money from the lawsuit – which was now $15,000 – to but cars at auction. The cars would be placed into inventory, and once M.A.P. sold the cars, Maher got this money back plus a profit.
Unlike Maher the informant, Maher the part owner in M.A.P. Auto Sales stayed off coke and kept to himself. It was the most sedate period Maher ever spent. The only excitement in his life was the once-a-day sighting of Bill Cosby. Cosby – who taped his television show The Cosby Show at Kaufman Astoria Studios in Queens, would head back to Manhattan at the end of the day via the 59th Street Bridge. Since the main entrance to the bridge was a street that passed in front of M.A.P. Auto Sales, Maher and Pasquale would watch for Cosby each evening and wave when he rode by.
At the Manhattan DA’s office, Maher’s retirement did not go unnoticed, which is why Harkins called Doherty one day in early 1991.
"What the hell ever happened to Kevin?" Harkins asked.
"He’s still around," Doherty said.
"He’s been awfully quiet lately," Harkins noted.
Doherty laughed. "Yeah but you know Kevin. Something’s bound to happen sooner or later."
Just then, Maher was listening to the radio when he heard about a daring, broad-daylight hold up. A gang of thugs had ambushed a jeweler on a Midtown street, pumping twelve rounds into his Range Rover. They killed the jeweler and made off with $250,000 in precious gems.
A couple of hours after the news broadcast, one of Maher’s associates in the car business (we’ll call him Sammy), who was a used car broker, walked into M.A.P. Auto Sales. Sammy had an expression of horror on his face.
"Sammy!" Maher said when he saw him. "Are you okay?"
Sammy nervously looked around to make sure no one was listening.
"I just saw a guy get killed," Sammy said, his voice cracking.
"Who?" Maher asked.
"A jeweler," Sammy croaked. "A bunch of Chinese guys killed him. It’s all over the news."
Maher felt a rush. He was back in the game.
. Until the, Maher always been more formal. Sergeant Doherty. But on this day in late October 1990, Maher was not a CI and Doherty was not a cop. They were, simply, friends.
