Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 5)

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 59^th 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 58^th 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.”

Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 4)

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 58^th 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 77^th 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 47^th 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.