said, “this place has got to be the size of a court.” The bedroom’s floorboards shined in the muted light as if they were waxed and polished in the same way a professional basketball court would be.
Cohen was more efficient than Cerullo. With a video camera hanging on a strap from his left hand, he glanced calmly around the entire room. He learned long ago that it was important andpossibly life-saving to first assess everything in a room before focusing on anything specific. He walked toward a finely crafted sliding door in one of the walls. He rolled the door to the right, revealing a row of very orderly drawers and, to the left, the even more orderly rows of hanging suits, jackets, and slacks. He picked up a clean poker from the fireplace next to the closet. Handling the poker like a scalpel, he used its curved point to pull out two drawers.
Cohen called out to Cerullo, “Dick, get over here.”
As Cerullo approached, Cohen handed him the bag in which he carried the clunky, ten-year-old video camera. Cerullo started the camera while Cohen began narrating and describing who they were, where they were, the time, and the date. His hands in plastic gloves, Cohen displayed the first drawer to the camera. It was empty. He repeated the same scene with the other drawers. They too were empty. Cerullo turned the camera off.
Cohen went to the windows that faced the ocean. He opened another sliding closet door. Inside was a dazzling array of women’s clothes. He reached through some of the dresses to look for drawers in the back wall. There were none. He started to turn away. It was in that moment when he was about to slide the door closed that he saw stacks of cash simply lying on the floor. They were tightly bound in red elastic bands. He pulled forward one of the packets. It was the size and shape of a brick. The elastic bands held the bills so tightly that the stack weighed as much as a brick.
At the top of the packet were hundred dollar bills; that meant, Cohen was certain, that the rest of the bills in each packet were hundreds. He quickly counted the number of neatly stacked packets: there were at least thirty. “Holy Mother of Jesus,” Cohen said. “Look at this shit.”
Cerullo, who was at the other side of the bedroom, was startled. He was certain that Cohen had just discovered a body. Despitefifteen years with the New York Police Department and another five as a homicide detective in Suffolk County, he had never passively reacted to the sight of dead or wounded people. He walked warily toward Cohen, who motioned with his head for Cerullo to look into the closet. Cerullo saw the cash immediately. He wasn’t distracted by the elegant clothes.
Cohen whispered, “Check for security cameras in here?”
Most people, they knew, didn’t have security cameras in their bedrooms. Neither of them saw anything like a camera in the places in which they were usually concealed, such as the corners of the ceilings or the tops of picture frames.
Dick Cerullo had noticed in the bathroom a small door in the wall near one of the two showers. He had been in big houses before, so he knew it was likely to be a door to a crawl space in the attic where the machinery was located that controlled the bathroom’s air-conditioning, steam room, and sauna.
Picking up the first brick of cash, Cerullo whispered to Cohen, “Let’s get this shit into the attic.” Since they were homicide detectives, they would have free access to the house for at least three days at any time they wanted, even when no one else was there, and there were bound to be times when no one else was there. After all, they had a license to investigate.
Cohen, the smaller man, slipped into the crawl space, and Cerullo handed the packets to him. When they closed the door, Cohen whispered, “This never happened, right? Oscar doesn’t know, right?”
Cerullo chuckled. “Oscar who?”
“Oscar, like in Felix and Oscar.”
When they came downstairs, Dave
Cohen was more efficient than Cerullo. With a video camera hanging on a strap from his left hand, he glanced calmly around the entire room. He learned long ago that it was important andpossibly life-saving to first assess everything in a room before focusing on anything specific. He walked toward a finely crafted sliding door in one of the walls. He rolled the door to the right, revealing a row of very orderly drawers and, to the left, the even more orderly rows of hanging suits, jackets, and slacks. He picked up a clean poker from the fireplace next to the closet. Handling the poker like a scalpel, he used its curved point to pull out two drawers.
Cohen called out to Cerullo, “Dick, get over here.”
As Cerullo approached, Cohen handed him the bag in which he carried the clunky, ten-year-old video camera. Cerullo started the camera while Cohen began narrating and describing who they were, where they were, the time, and the date. His hands in plastic gloves, Cohen displayed the first drawer to the camera. It was empty. He repeated the same scene with the other drawers. They too were empty. Cerullo turned the camera off.
Cohen went to the windows that faced the ocean. He opened another sliding closet door. Inside was a dazzling array of women’s clothes. He reached through some of the dresses to look for drawers in the back wall. There were none. He started to turn away. It was in that moment when he was about to slide the door closed that he saw stacks of cash simply lying on the floor. They were tightly bound in red elastic bands. He pulled forward one of the packets. It was the size and shape of a brick. The elastic bands held the bills so tightly that the stack weighed as much as a brick.
At the top of the packet were hundred dollar bills; that meant, Cohen was certain, that the rest of the bills in each packet were hundreds. He quickly counted the number of neatly stacked packets: there were at least thirty. “Holy Mother of Jesus,” Cohen said. “Look at this shit.”
Cerullo, who was at the other side of the bedroom, was startled. He was certain that Cohen had just discovered a body. Despitefifteen years with the New York Police Department and another five as a homicide detective in Suffolk County, he had never passively reacted to the sight of dead or wounded people. He walked warily toward Cohen, who motioned with his head for Cerullo to look into the closet. Cerullo saw the cash immediately. He wasn’t distracted by the elegant clothes.
Cohen whispered, “Check for security cameras in here?”
Most people, they knew, didn’t have security cameras in their bedrooms. Neither of them saw anything like a camera in the places in which they were usually concealed, such as the corners of the ceilings or the tops of picture frames.
Dick Cerullo had noticed in the bathroom a small door in the wall near one of the two showers. He had been in big houses before, so he knew it was likely to be a door to a crawl space in the attic where the machinery was located that controlled the bathroom’s air-conditioning, steam room, and sauna.
Picking up the first brick of cash, Cerullo whispered to Cohen, “Let’s get this shit into the attic.” Since they were homicide detectives, they would have free access to the house for at least three days at any time they wanted, even when no one else was there, and there were bound to be times when no one else was there. After all, they had a license to investigate.
Cohen, the smaller man, slipped into the crawl space, and Cerullo handed the packets to him. When they closed the door, Cohen whispered, “This never happened, right? Oscar doesn’t know, right?”
Cerullo chuckled. “Oscar who?”
“Oscar, like in Felix and Oscar.”
When they came downstairs, Dave
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