Chapter X – Covering Tracks

And so it was done. Milton arranged for me to meet with New York’s then-Mayor John Lindsay. Upon arriving at City Hall, I damn near fainted. In all honesty, there was no place for me among the ‘big wigs.’ I belonged on the beat. To keep my mind at ease, I tried to focus on the benefits of the situation. For one, while it may not have been ethical, there was a shit-t0n of money to be made. Margaret would turn into the doll of dreams, and my little girls would be given the world. With my status and pay raise, there was no University that wouldn’t scoop them up in a second. And all I had to do was sit through a lousy meeting with an old fool.

 

Mayor Lindsay’s office was quite posh. Bearskin rugs sprawled across the floor in place of carpet, bottles of brandy on reserve, and vault in the back corner which I pretended to ignore. While waiting in the seemingly hand-carved ladderback chair, I suddenly caught a strong whiff of cherries jubilee. “What the hell,” I thought. Then, Mayor Lindsay’s body and soul burst into the room, along with enough smoke to suffocate an infant. In greeting him, I sensed the quiver in his voice; not one of age but of pneumonia. After an endless conversation which covered everything from racial integration to dead hookers lying outside the office door, I left Mayor Lindsay with a hardy handshake. Under my breath, I assured “don’t worry, my friend, you’re the lucky one.”

 

With Gretchen Stenzlo up the Department’s ass farther than Uncle Sam, there was little time to doddle with competing press releases. Cole was right: The real concern lied with who was supplying the information. I, of course, knew about the murders taking place at Milton’s estate. Granted, there weren’t many other guesses to make at the time. After a few days, I called Cole back up into the quarters, figuring now was as good a time as any to discuss next steps. Not a second past noon, he barged into the room. “I’m here,” he said.

 

“I wouldn’t suspect anything less from you.”

 

“Enough of that. What’s the deal? Are we cutting ties with the Times?” Cole often grew startled at the merest sight of trouble. The guys gave him the name “Squirrelly” on account of his incessant pandering and worrying. But why, then, would someone as fragile as him join the police force? It turns out Cole Senior received an early dismissal on account of gunshot wounds to the hip. Unsurprisingly, he placed all the faith he had in his son. A recipe for disaster, I might add.

 

“Cutting ties is the last thing we should do. If we did, they might as well print the headlines right now: ‘NYPD Refuses to Cooperate with Everyday Journalist.’ While reading the fictitious headline out loud, I put my arms in the air and underlined the words as if the were right before me.

 

“Alright then, what were you thinking we should do?”

 

“It’s not a matter of ‘we,'” I said. I already had my sights set on Milton. He got us into this mess – he can damn-well get us out of it.

 

“Ed, ditch the philosophy and get to the point,” Cole replied. He was eager for me to get to the root of the plan as well as the problem. I fear that he still knew very little from what was said through the Department grape vine.

 

“Mr. Mossberger will be happy to accommodate our request. In fact, I think I’ll give the rich bastard a call right now.”

 

“Milton Mossberger? But he’s the one being investigated.”

 

“No Cole, No,” I shouted. “You don’t get it. The suspicions live and die with us. We run this town. What does and doesn’t get released to the public is in our domain until we say otherwise! Just give me a moment.”

 

“I’m not sure I get where you’re going with this, but I trust you. Got any liquor?”

 

“Right behind you,” I said. The stained mobile cabinet Milton gifted me on account of my new appointment fit in nicely with my current office. If only I were to stay.