Forced Entry by Stephen Solomita Read Free Book Online

over a fiery dinner at one of the Indian restaurants that lined 6th Street between First and Second avenues. “It’s a war between the defense and the prosecution, and the defense lawyer’s obliged to get the client off the hook. I heard all that shit about the founding fathers not trusting the government and maybe they were right, but I’m not a lawyer and I’m not obliged to keep some shyster’s scummy client—pardon me: scummy rich client—out of jail. I admit they pay me good, but I retired on a three-quarters pension. With the overtime on the last year, it’s enough so I don’t have to worry I’m gonna finish up sleeping in doorways. Which means if I keep doing this, it’s because I want to. It bothers me.”
    The end had come when he’d been asked to dredge up a few individuals willing to provide an alibi for a Wall Street executive named Evan Rhenquist, a brutal rapist who openly bragged of his crimes during meetings with his lawyer, George Feingold. Feingold, who specialized in pulling “not guilty” verdicts from juries like magicians pull rabbits from hats, had found Rhenquist’s braggadocio quite amusing, but Moodrow’s first instinct had been to bury his massive fists in the defendants smug face. The thought of Evan Rhenquist going back out on the streets through his efforts left Moodrow utterly disgusted.
    “I didn’t actually hit him,” Moodrow explained on the night he began what was to become a monumental drinking binge, “because I was working for Feingold. I couldn’t take the man’s money and then fuck up the man’s client, but I told Rhenquist that I wouldn’t piss in his mouth if his heart was on fire (which didn’t bother him worth a shit) and walked out. Now I don’t know what to do. The only thing I have going for me is an offer to head up the security in a pharmaceutical warehouse. I got the contact from a friend of Captain Epstein.”
    “So what’s wrong with that?” Tilley asked.
    “It’s in the middle of New Jersey. I’d have to move. To fuckin’ New Jersey. It’s a fate worse than life.”
    Moodrow shrugged his massive shoulders, then rose from the chair. It was the first time Tilley had ever seen him worried, ever seen him pace the floor. Even in the middle of the most intense investigation, Moodrow had inevitably been calm when he’d discussed a case. Now Tilley, watching his former partner closely, had the sinking feeling that his prophecy regarding Moodrow’s retirement was about to come true. Moodrow’s broad, almost featureless (almost ageless) face was beginning to show signs of real wear. Like the ex-cop could see his future and he didn’t like it worth a damn.
    The weeks that followed had done nothing to diminish Tilley’s fears, even though Rose assured him that Moodrow would eventually pull out of it. Moodrow drank hard and long, drank until he fell into bed at night. Tilley knew his partner wasn’t afraid of death, that Moodrow was a fatalist who thought that life was only a series of postponements. Sex was a postponement; money, too; they could sometimes push away the depression that often lies at the core of the cop’s attempt to square his sense of justice with the reality of the inner city. But the most effective postponement was the job itself. Many cops marry it, including Moodrow, only to find themselves widowers in middle age. Then, with no family and few friends, they have to face the consequences of their deal. Moodrow faced them by launching himself into a bar-by-bar tour of the 7th Precinct (just as he used to when looking for a suspect) and Tilley became afraid that Moodrow would substitute a bullet for the bottle, choosing the most final of all cop consolations.
    Then, one Thursday night, Tilley received a phone call from an obviously sober Moodrow asking that he and a new girlfriend, a lawyer named Betty Haluka, be invited to dinner on Saturday. After a brief consultation with Rose, Tilley eagerly agreed, but Tilley’s questions,