Outrage (21 page)

“You found my purse!” the woman exclaimed as she pushed her husband out of the way. “I’m Amy Lopez. Don’t mind Al, here, he works as a court clerk downtown inside the Criminal Courts Building in Manhattan, and he’s suspicious of everyone.”

“You playing hooky?” Marlene asked Al.

“Nah, just taking some comp time off,” he replied. “But Amy’s right. Listening to that stuff all day, every day, has made me a little jaded. Sorry, I was being overprotective.”

“Not a problem,” Marlene said. “It pays to be cautious these days. And I thought I recognized you; you’ve been working at the Criminal Courts Building for a long time.”

Al grinned. “Yeah, how ya doing, Ms. Ciampi, I thought that
was you, too, but it’s been a while. Small world. Anyway, this tall drink of water is my wife, Amy, and the little guy is my son, A.J.”

“Oh, he’s a doll! What does A.J. stand for?” Marlene cooed.

“Alexander Jenner,” Amy replied.

“Jenner? That’s unusual.”

“He was named for his aunt, Jennifer,” she said sadly. “I’m afraid she passed away last December. A heart condition. She was my best friend, and we all love and miss her very much.”

“I’m sorry,” Marlene said. “I know how it feels to lose someone you love like that. Tears the heart right out of you.”

“Thank you,” Amy replied. “So you found my purse?”

Marlene shook her head. “Unfortunately, no, but did you also report that a ring was inside the purse?”

Amy nodded. “Yes, my engagement ring. I’m afraid I gained a few pounds carrying A.J. and it got a little tight. I took it off until I could lose the weight.”

“Could you describe the ring?”

“Yes, it had a small diamond—”

“It wasn’t that small,” Al interjected.

Amy leaned forward conspiratorially. “It was maybe half a carat. That small,” she said with a laugh, and put her arm around her husband. “But this two-hundred-and-eighty-pound bundle of love has more than made up for it in kisses.”

“I’ll take the kisses any day,” Marlene said. She reached into her purse and took out the photographs of the ring that she’d shown Guerrero. “Would you mind taking a look at these?” she asked, handing the first one to Amy.

“That’s my ring!” Amy replied. “See what I meant about the diamond?”

“Hey, it looked bigger in person,” Al retorted.

“I’m sure,” Marlene said with a laugh as she handed the second photograph to Amy. “Here’s another of the same ring.”

“Oh, he wrecked it,” Amy cried. “It used to say ‘Always, Al,’ but it’s all scratched out.” Tears slipped out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks as her husband patted her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I bet a jeweler can buff that up nice and inscribe it again.”

“Sure he can, and now you’ll have a story to go along with it,” Marlene said. “Do you think you’d recognize the guy who snatched your purse?”

“In a New York minute,” Amy replied. “He sat across from me on the train all the way from Spanish Harlem. The pizza-faced jerk waited until I was on the sidewalk then came out of nowhere and grabbed my purse. Believe me, I got a good look at him.”

Marlene pulled the camera out of her purse and pushed a button before turning the screen toward Amy. “I’m going to show you six photographs of different men. Stop me if you recognize any one of them.”

Amy looked at each photograph as it appeared but stopped Marlene at the fourth. “That’s Mr. Pizza Face right there.”

Marlene looked at the face on the screen.
Jesus Guerrero
, she thought with satisfaction. “Good,” she said. “And if I need you to identify him for the authorities, would you be willing to do that?”

“You bet. Maybe they’ll lock him up for a few years.”

“Actually, I might need him as a cooperative witness,” Marlene said. “I may want him to testify that he sold your ring to another man. It could save that man’s life.”

“Well, that’s more important than putting Pizza Face in jail,” Amy said, “though I’d still like to punch him. But hey, do you think I’ll get my ring back?”

“You may have to wait until this case is resolved,” Marlene said, “but you should be able to after that, and I’ll help.”

“Then I’m good with it,” Amy said, and smiled. “It may be a small diamond, but it was my first. Thank you, Marlene.”

V
INNIE
C
ASSINO SAT IN THE BACK OF THE SQUAD CAR
weighing his options. He’d traveled to the South Bronx and a seedy apartment off Anderson Avenue to purchase several ounces of methamphetamine from his favorite dealer, only to learn the hard way that he’d been set up. Now he was looking at a felony drug possession with intent to sell, and they’d popped him with a handgun for an additional count. With two prior strikes against him, another could earn him the unwanted legal title of “habitual offender,” or in the vernacular of the streets a “three-time loser,” looking at life behind bars.

Time to play my ace
, he told himself. “Hey, tell Detective Brock that I need to talk to him,” he said. “Tell him he’s got the wrong guy for the Atkins murder. The guy didn’t do the two in Manhattan either, but I know who did.”

The police officer driving the car looked in the rearview mirror at the scruffy, gray-haired drug dealer with the protruding
forehead and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Sherlock,” he said in a tone that implied he was unimpressed by suspects trying to make deals on the way to jail.

“Listen, asshole, I’m telling the truth,” Cassino said. “You’ll be walking the two
A.M
. beat in Bed-Stuy if you blow this.”

“Watch your mouth, punk,” the officer snarled, “or maybe we’ll stop in an alley for a little attitude adjustment before I get you to lockup.”

“Go ahead,” Cassino retorted, “then I won’t have to say nothing to Brock, and I’ll still walk. But if you got any brains, tell him to check and see if a blue silk shirt came up missing in the Manhattan killing.”

An hour later, the police officer was talking to Sergeant McManus when he saw Brock. The officer weighed whether to tell the detective about the drug dealer. It was probably bullshit; then again, most of the scumbags trying to weasel their way to freedom didn’t first offer something that could be checked out. He decided to pass the information on.

“Detective Brock, I’m Dave Drummond,” the officer said. “This is probably nothing but I was detailed to haul a drug dealer named Vinnie Cassino down to booking after a bust this morning.”

“Cassino? Doesn’t ring a bell,” Brock replied with a frown.

“Yeah, and this probably isn’t anything but a line of BS,” Drummond said, “but he was real insistent that I tell you that you’ve got the wrong guy in the Atkins case. He says he knows who did it.”

“And I’m the queen of England,” Brock snorted. “If it would get him a better deal, he’d probably tell me who killed Kennedy, too.”

Drummond laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he would. But anyway, he said to ask you about a blue silk shirt in the Manhattan case.”

The smile faded from Brock’s face. After Graziani connected Acevedo to the Yancy-Jenkins double murder, Brock asked for a copy of the Manhattan file to see if there was something in it that could help him nail down the Atkins case. The file contained a report on items the younger victim’s husband had identified as missing—some jewelry, purses, and a blue silk shirt taken from his closet. He remembered that item in particular as it meant the perp had changed clothes after the bloodbath. It was one of the details that had been kept from the press as far as he could remember, but now some drug dealer knew about it.

“A blue silk shirt, you’re sure that’s what he said?” Brock asked.

“Yeah, positive,” Drummond replied. “It mean something?”

“Maybe,” Brock said, and patted the young officer on the shoulder. “You done good, kid, I’ll pass my thanks on to your supervisor.”

The young officer grinned. A commendation from a senior detective to the higher-ups could speed up the time it took to get his detective’s gold shield. “No problem.”

Twenty minutes later Brock was waiting in one of the interview rooms when Cassino was brought in. “You wanted to talk to me?” he asked.

“No, I think you want to talk to me,” Cassino replied. “But I want a deal, or I ain’t saying shit.”

“What are you offering for this deal?”

Cassino’s eyes grew shrewd and ratlike as he leaned forward. “You got the wrong guy for these killings. And I know who did it.”

Brock shrugged. “Anybody can say that.”

“That cop told you about the blue silk shirt or you wouldn’t be here,” Cassino said.

“What about it?” Brock asked.

“What if I told you the famous Columbia U Slasher wore that to my pad the day of the killings?” Cassino said. “That and that me and my old lady saw blood on his pants. There’s more, too, but that’s all you get for now.”

“I’m interested,” Brock said. “So who is this guy?”

Cassino grinned, revealing missing teeth and serious dental problems with those that remained. “Not so fast, Detective. I can tell you his name, but that won’t do shit for you. Not without me and my old lady testifying, and what’s more, I got a tape of him talking about that other woman, your case in the Bronx. But I ain’t scratching your back until you or whoever has to fix this scratches mine.”

“What are you going to want?” Brock asked.

Leaning back in his chair, Cassino smiled again as if he’d just concluded a big business deal. “I’m a two-time loser and if they get me on this latest charge, they’ll put me away for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life,” he said. “Either way, I don’t like the idea of being away from my sweet Lydia for so long. So first things first, I’m gonna make bail, but I want these charges to
go away,
and
I want the Crime Stoppers reward for giving this guy up. In exchange, you get me and my old lady on the witness stand pointing to that asshole in the courtroom, and you get my tape and the blue silk shirt.”

“That’s asking a lot,” Brock said. “You’ve got to give me more.”

“All right, I’ll give you the fucker’s name,” Cassino replied. “Like I said, it ain’t gonna do you no good without me, but at least you could start looking for him. His name is Ahmed Kadyrov.”

“Know where I can find him?” Brock asked.

“Maybe,” Cassino said. “Or at least where to start looking. But that’s all you get until I get a deal.”

“I’ll talk to the higher-ups,” Brock said. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“Then I can’t either,” Cassino said. “If I’m going away for a long time, I’m going to do it without a snitch jacket.”

Two hours later, Brock sat in a booth in the Lino Tavern, a favorite hangout for cops working out of the Four-Eight off Van Nest Avenue. He was waiting to give Joey Graziani some unwelcome news and not looking forward to his reaction.

After sending Cassino back to his cell, Brock had looked up Ahmed Kadyrov and found a young man by that name with a record for crimes committed in Queens and Manhattan. He wasn’t big-time, just a few burglaries committed when the owners weren’t home during the day, but nothing too serious or anything that would indicate a sex killer.
People change
, he reminded himself,
and he was comfortable working daylight hours. He could have been surprised and things turned nasty.

So far he had not told anybody about his conversation with Cassino. He felt obligated to tell Graziani first. He didn’t particularly like the man; he’d been acting like a rock star ever since the news of the Columbia U Slasher arrest broke, and he declined interviews but somehow details about the crimes and the arrest kept being leaked to the press, with Joey Graziani as the man of the hour. He’d even gotten his wish and had been reassigned to the Two-Six detective squad in Morningside Heights to work the case. But there was still the brotherhood of the gold shield, and if Cassino’s story checked out, it was going to mess up Graziani’s case.

There was a chance that the other detective could redeem himself if he used Cassino’s information to catch the real killer, even if it meant admitting that charging Acevedo was a mistake.
A chance, but not much of one
, Brock thought. The New York County DAO had indicted Acevedo based on Graziani’s investigation and recommendations. Having to backtrack now would not only cause a great deal of embarrassment to the DAO, which the press would go to town with, but it would also present real difficulties in prosecuting a new defendant.

No, Graziani wasn’t going to be happy about the news.
It’s his own damn fault
, Brock thought with a touch of anger. He’d been sloppy and determined to pin the murders on Acevedo come hell or high water.
And that sort of thing reflects on all of us.

Brock had seen it before, detectives who got so myopic about one particular suspect that they missed clues that could have prevented a mistake. Graziani had been so desperate to get out of the Bronx and saw Acevedo as his ticket, but if Cassino was right, he might wish he was back at the Four-Eight.

He was still thinking about the ramifications when he saw Graziani enter the pub and stand for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. He turned and spotted Brock, then walked over with a big grin as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. He held out his hand. “Hey,
paisan
, how ya doin’? Still enjoying the hellhole they call the Bronx?”

“I’m okay, Joey,” Brock said, shaking the other man’s hand without much enthusiasm.

Graziani didn’t seem to notice or care. “Glad that you called, glad that you called,” he said. “Been meaning to give you a jingle and ask why the Bronx DA hasn’t filed on Acevedo yet. Can’t get Hartsfield to move his fat ass?” He chuckled as a waitress walked up. “Couple of Brooklyn Locals work for you?” he asked Brock. “I’m buying.”

Brock shook his head. “Nothing for me, thanks. I quit drinking ten years ago after wife number two left me.”

“Good for you.” Graziani smirked as he held up one finger to the waitress. “Though as my old man used to tell me, ‘I don’t trust a drinking man when I’m sober or a sober man when I’m drinking.’ So why haven’t you guys filed?”