Ostrowski sunk into his jowls. His eyes glowed with cunning. “Brad’s connected everywhere. He talks to the president if he wants.”
Cosgrove was almost finished. Ostrowski would check all of the angles. He wasn’t a dumb guy; corruption had eaten away at him for so long he had nothing left to guide him to a right decision except self-interest and greed.
“Tomorrow you’ll see your boss doing the perp walk, wearing bracelets. You’re icing on the cake, Ed. The evidence from Paul’s files is on the commissioner’s desk.”
Ostrowski didn’t say anything. The terror in his eyes answered.
“Brad Campbell pulled the trigger. It was your precinct. You did the investigation and set up the Thomas kid.” Cosgrove paused. His voice took on a different timbre. “Paul kept good notes.”
Finished, Cosgrove stood, his beer untouched. He looked at Ostrowski who clung to his empty glass. “Take your time but not too long. You don’t want the brass to talk to Brad and give him a chance to hang all of this on you.”
“I’m not worried.” A tremor in his voice betrayed him.
“I’ll see you in court.”
Cosgrove talked braver than he felt. He needed Ostrowski to flip to back up Paul’s notes on the Wright murder case. More important, he couldn’t nail Campbell on the Leila Stone murder without him. If Ostrowski didn’t flip, he’d get him for the prison murder of Devon Thomas. But for that he’d need the testimony of Ray’s son and Perez himself. It would be a shallow victory and not so good for Ambler’s son.
* * *
Walter Scott lived in the Amalgamated Housing Cooperative in the Bronx, across from Van Cortland Park. The front door of the garden-style apartment opened directly into a small living room with wall-to-wall carpeting and modern Ikea-like furniture, a couple of easy chairs and a couch. The television was on, tuned to some daytime talk show, and, strangely to Ambler, Walter Scott made no move to turn it off. He didn’t pay any attention to it either, as if he’d forgotten it was there. Ambler told him what he knew about Operation Red Light and what Devon told him about Richard Wright’s murder.
“I said to my wife after you called, ‘It’s about time.’ Thirty years ago, I reported it. My handler said, ‘Hang on. We’ll get back to you.’ That’s the last I heard until you called.”
“What did you report?”
Scott stopped. He had the build of a man, muscular in his younger days, who’d gone soft in retirement, unassuming but okay with himself at the same time. You’d recognize him as someone who’d carried a lunch box all his life.
“At the time, you were an informer for the FBI?”
A shadow moved across his eyes. “I was young and believed a lot of foolishness. Richard, the man who was supposed to be the enemy, opened my eyes.” He laughed and then became serious. “Richard was killed because of what he knew. I knew it, too.”
Ambler waited.
“You know what happened, right? This state senator Richard knew from the civil rights movement held hearings. The hearings found the corruption but not everything. The government appointed a trustee to run the local and tossed the gangster union leaders out. Richard was elected the head of the union in a government supervised election.
“The NYPD Red Squad didn’t want that. The union boss had been a snitch for the NYPD informing on Richard and the radicals. I was reporting on Richard for the FBI. The state legislature hearings gummed up the works. The NYPD Red Squad, the FBI, they didn’t want no black militants getting union power. When Richard got up into the union office, he found out about the arrangement between the gangsters and the Red Squad guy.”
“The Red Squad?”
Scott looked at him quizzically. “NYPD Intelligence. That’s what we called it, The Red Squad. The union boss reported to the head of NYPD Intelligence.”
“Brad Campbell?”
“He couldn’t let it get out that he was in bed with the gangsters. When they offed Richard, I got the picture. I kept quiet. I didn’t want to follow him into the grave.”
“What did Richard find in the union office?”
“Stuff he showed me was phone numbers, notes from the Intelligence guy.” Scott stood. “I’m going to get you something.” He came back with a folder. “My stuff from back in the day.” He held up a yellowed, typewritten form. “These are CI contracts. Mine is with the FBI. Richard found the gangster union guy’s contract with the NYPD.”
Chapter 45
Mike Cosgrove’s worries were short-lived. Ray called the next day to tell him Brad Campbell’s motive for the murder of Richard Wright. Walter Scott gave Ambler his FBI file and the name of his FBI handler who had the Operation Red Light files.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Scott,” Cosgrove said. “I can tell you now what you know already. I found Paul’s file in Texas. Leila Stone took a bullet for protecting her ex-husband’s files. Love is strange. Too bad Campbell got him anyway.”
“The Arab killers?”
“They work for Brad. It might take a while to find them. I’ll have the department’s resources now, so it’s a matter of time. They’ll be on one of his payrolls. We’re charging Campbell with the Wright murder for now. It’s not out yet. But it’s coming. Waiting to see what turns up on the other two.”
“The other two?”
Leila Stone and Paul. I’m waiting on a phone call to see what we do with your friend’s murder.”
“The phone calls from Ostrowski?”
“I think he’ll flip. Easier if he does; difficult if he doesn’t.” He paused for a long time. “The thing is, Ray, if he flips, he’ll walk on the contract killing of Devon Thomas. We give him that for his testimony. He’s a sleazeball. Campbell’s more than that. Like that guy in the movies, a license to kill? That’s what he thought he had.”
Ray interrupted him. “Devon’s death matters, too, Mike. We wouldn’t have Campbell if it weren’t for him. Devon spent his life in jail and he never killed anybody. He deserves—”
“I know. I know. That’s the choice, Ray. I’m sorry. That’s the way it is. You want us to charge Ostrowski, involve your son, and let Brad Campbell walk—”
Cosgrove listened and then looked at his phone. Dead air. Ray had hung up on him. Sure. It was a lot to swallow. Like everyone else, Ray wanted a nice neat ending, everything tied up with a bow, justice done. They both knew better than that.
A week later, Ambler walked down Third Avenue, arm in arm with Adele. Johnny walked a bit in front with a mongrel pup tugging at the leash. They were on their way to the dog run at Madison Square Park, walking down Third Avenue rather than down Madison because Ambler didn’t want to remind Adele of Paul Higgins’s body bleeding out on the sidewalk in front of the Library Tavern.
“You saw Gobi Tabrizi off at the airport?”
“He left a free man.” Adele said. “Amazing he doesn’t hate us. He was sad to leave America, he said, especially the pizza.” She laughed.
“And you.”
She stopped, so he did also. “I know I hurt you, Raymond—”
He tried to stop her. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re not … I don’t know how to say it. We’re not anything—”
“Wait. I liked Gobi. I was intrigued by him.” She gazed off into the depths of the city, as if trying to catch up with something. “He was dashing, mysterious, an attractive man. So I was interested.” Her eyes met Ambler’s. “There was never anything between us, except a slight attraction.”
Ambler felt a rush of warmth. There might have been more between her and Gobi than that. But this was okay. “One thing that came out of our adventure with Gobi is David Levinson said there might be something wrong about John’s trial. He said he’d look into the appeal.”
They began walking again. Ambler watched a small flock of birds pecking at a patch of grass inside the entrance to the park. “Robins,” he said. “A sign of spring.”
Adele took his arm. “How’s Mike Cosgrove? He took a beating in the press for ar
resting Brad Campbell.”
“He’s a pariah since he’s been back on the force. He had to threaten to sue the union to get them to file his grievance. Everyone thinks he’s a traitor.”
“Because he arrested Brad Campbell?”
“Campbell bent the rules to protect the country.”
“Murdering people?”
“Ostrowski will testify. When the story gets out, Campbell may not be such a hero.”
They’d reached the dog run. Johnny let the so-far-nameless dog loose with the other dogs and went inside the enclosure. Ambler and Adele leaned on the fence watching him encourage the shy dog to play.
Adele put her arm through Ambler’s again and leaned against him. “You know,” she said. “What you said isn’t true. We are something.”
ALSO BY CON LEHANE
Beware the Solitary Drinker
What Goes Around Comes Around
Death at the Old Hotel
Murder at the 42nd Street Library
About the Author
Con Lehane is a mystery writer, living outside Washington, DC. Murder at the 42nd Street Library is the first in his series featuring Raymond Ambler, curator of the 42nd Street Library’s (fictional) crime fiction collection. He’s also the author of the novels featuring New York City bartender Brian McNulty. Over the years, he (Lehane, that is) has been a college professor, union organizer, labor journalist, and has tended bar at two-dozen or so drinking establishments. He teaches fiction writing and mystery writing at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Also by Con Lehane
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
MURDER IN THE MANUSCRIPT ROOM. Copyright © 2017 by Con Lehane. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph by Matthew Stern
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Lehane, Cornelius, author.
Title: Murder in the manuscript room: a 42nd Street Library mystery / Con Lehane.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2017. | “A Thomas Dunne book.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2017021222 | ISBN 9781250069993 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781466879898 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Libraries—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3612.E354 M88 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017021222
eISBN 9781466879898
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First Edition: November 2017