The Payback Game (3 page)

“I believe you,” the redhead replied. “But Nicky’s people were reliable. He never once got a bum steer.”

Her narrative apparently finished,
she folded her arms. Cassidy was also staring at him.
The ball,
Boff thought sourly,
is in my court
. Now, he had to either accept the damn assignment or reject it.

Not one given to quick decisions when it came to taking cases, Boff looked off
for a minute and contemplated what was being asked of him. He had two alternatives, neither of which was particularly appealing. One, he could sign on for the case, which meant he’d be putting his life in danger again. Two, his preferred choice, he could turn Cassidy down. But he knew that if he refused to take the case, the reporter was going to ask why.

Ah hell
, he thought.
Call it pride. Call it machismo
. But he didn’t want a man like Cassidy to think he lacked the backbone to take on a potentially dangerous case.

“Okay,” Boff heard himself mutter, “I’ll work the case.”

For the first time since they’d sat down, the old reporter smiled.

Boff immediately got down to business.
“Here’s what I charge,” he said. “One-fifty an hour, and after four hours it’s considered a day and you don’t have to pay anything for the extra time I might put in. You pay all my expenses, my mileage, and any incidentals. Plus, I require a five-thousand dollar retainer.”

Without hesitation, Cassidy took a check book out of his pants pocket.
“Before I write a check,” he said, “I’m going to ask you a favor.”

Jesus, what now?
“And what might that be?”

“Hannah
’s been working really hard on this story. She’s a very good reporter, and Brooklyn’s her beat. I’d like you to keep her in the loop, and when you find Nicky’s killer, let her break the story.”

This keeps getting worse
. Despite what Cassidy had said, Boff didn’t think this twenty-something reporter from a small Brooklyn paper would be of much use. But then again, he conceded, if she worked crime and the courts in Brooklyn, it was
possible
—however remote—that she might have
some
worthwhile sources.

“Okay,” Boff said. “I guess that’s fine with me.”

Hannah smiled. So did Cullen. He was glad to see Boff taking the case. He wanted to get to know the pretty redhead better.

Cassidy slipped a pen out of his shirt pocket, opened his checkbook, and said, “That retainer was five large. Right?”

“Correct.”

After writing out the check, Cassidy handed it to Boff, then looked at the redhead and said, “Hannah, take Danny to the bar. I want to discuss something alone with
Mr. Boff here.”

She frowned. “Why can’t I stay?”

“Because I said so. That’s why.”

“This suck
s.”

“I’m sure to you it does,” Cassidy
told her. “Be that as it may, get your butt over to the bar now with Danny.”

“I’ll go, but I’m not happy.”

“Here’s a news flash, young lady,” Cassidy said. “I wasn’t put on this earth to make you happy.”

The old reporter slid out of the booth so she could get by him
, and Boff did the same for Cullen. When they were seated at the bar and out of hearing, Cassidy lowered his voice.

“Hannah is relentless and fearless. Which in some ways is good. And in other ways? Not so good. I’ll throw in an extra hundred a day if you keep an eye on her. If you think she’s exposing herself to risk at
any
time, I want you to tell me.”

At that,
Boff frowned. Cullen was also relentless and fearless, and those qualities had nearly gotten them both killed on more than one occasion. The extra money just wasn’t worth the aggravation and potential danger.

He held up a hand. “It’s generous of you to offer the additional money, but—” 

“Don’t say no, Boff. If you do this for me, I’ll owe you a favor. And I’m sure you’re aware that I’ve got the best sources in the city.” The old reporter pointed his checkbook at Boff. “Here’s the deal. I’ll give you access to all my sources on this case. And any others you get in the future, providing they don’t include defending cop killers.”

Boff took a few minutes to weigh the frustration of dealing with Hannah against the benefits of Cassidy’s offer. Even in retirement, the old columnist
was probably wired to the city better than anybody. Cassidy had access to assets even he didn’t have.

With great reluctance, Boff said, “Okay,
Cassidy. We have a deal.”

The old reporter grinned.
“Now you can call me Mike.”

“I thought you were through finding killers,” Cullen said on the drive back to
Brooklyn.

“So did
I.”

“Shit happens, huh?”

Boff frowned. “In your so-called investigative class, did they teach you
anything
about the value of assets?”

“Sure.”

“Well, you don’t find them growing on trees or in the yellow pages. Cassidy has more sources in this town than anybody. Quick example: I’ve never spoken to him in my life, and I’m quite sure we don’t have any friends in common. I only give my cell number to a select group of people. So how’d he get it?”

“I dunno. You tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter
how
. Fact is,
he did
. Look, I don’t particularly want to work this case, but Cassidy offered to be an asset for most of my future cases if I do him a favor.”

“What favor?”

“He wants me to keep an eye on the redhead. If she gets in over her head and is at risk, he wants me to alert him.”

Knowing what Boff’s reaction would be, Cullen took a deep breath and said, “I’d like to work this case with you.”

Boff shook his head. “Give me
one
good reason why I’d want your help this time. There’re no boxers involved in the case.”

“That may be so. But consider this. While I’m sure you won’t admit it, Hannah has sources in
Brooklyn you don’t have.”

“Again, why would I need
you?”

“Well, the way I figure it, you might have a hard time getting help from her because of what you do for a living. I, on the other hand, am a world champion boxer and don’t have questionable morals like you do. I could get close to her and gain her confidence. She might even allow me to bridge the gap to you. I’ll just make up a lot of crap about your alleged
better side
, the one your wife loves, but I fail to see.”

Boff knew Cullen was feeding him a line of bullshit. He also knew if he turned him down, the kid would pester the hell out of him until he relented.

“Let’s make a pit stop,” Boff said. “Then we’ll talk about you and this case.”

After parking near a Dunkin’ Donuts, they walked inside and Boff ordered two Bavarian Kreme donuts, plus coffee. Cullen, who had to watch his weight between fights, ordered just coffee.

“If I let you tag along,” Boff said when they were seated at a table, “you’d better deliver on Hannah. Or I’ll get rid of you.”

“No problem. Women open up to me.”

“So tell me, Romeo, where do you think we should start with this case?”

Cullen gave this some thought before saying, “With the dead cop.”

Boff was impressed, but he wasn’t going to admit it. Instead, he played Devil’s Advocate. “Why the dead cop? I was hired to find out who killed Doyle. Shouldn’t I start with the reporter?”

“Why? Because the reason Doyle was killed was that he was investigating the cop’s murder. So we need to find out what the cop was into that got him killed. Then, if we discover who killed the cop, chances are the same person murdered Doyle.”

Boff bit into a donut. “So far, so good, Sherlock. Now comes the tough part. What’s the single most important thing we know about the dead cop at this point?”

Drawing a blank on that question, Cullen frowned. He knew that with Boff, there was only one right answer. If you didn’t know it and guessed wrong, Boff would rag on you forever. He stayed on safe ground.

“Hmmm. I’m…not sure.”

“Well, venture a guess,” Boff said.

“For chrissake, stop quizzing me and just tell me the friggin’ answer.”

Boff pointed his donut at Cullen and said, “The
manner
in which he was killed. A drug-induced heart attack tells us a few things.” He held up one finger. “First, that the doer didn’t want anybody asking questions about the cop’s death. If the police thought one of their own had been whacked, they’d have launched a major investigation.” He raised a second finger. “Two, we can also assume the cop represented a significant threat to someone.”

Cullen felt stung because he hadn’t thought of that. “Okay, genius,” he said, “then tell me why Doyle wasn’t also killed with a needle? Wouldn’t the
killer worry Doyle’s newspaper would assign a ton of reporters to the case?”

Boff finished eating his first donut before he replied. “I doubt that a full-court press from a newsroom would have scared the bad guy much. Newsrooms today aren’t what they were in Cassidy’s day. They’re filled with journalism-school types who’re as clueless about street smarts as you are.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cullen watched longingly as Boff bit into his second Bavarian Kreme. Some filling squirted out and landed on the table. Boff scooped it up with a finger and sucked the finger clean.

Watching him do this, Cullen could only shake his head. “That friggin’ table is probably loaded with bacteria.”

“So? I haven’t been sick or seen a doctor in fifteen years. My immune system is superb.”  

Boff was about to take another bite on his donut, when something popped into his head. Putting his donut down, he wiped his hands on a napkin and then took out his phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Cassidy. I should’ve asked him something.”

He dialed and put it on speaker so Sherlock could hear.

“Mike, this is Boff. I’ve got a question for you.”

Shoot.

“If Nicky was doing an investigation, he’d keep notes, right?”

Correct.

“Was his computer at the office checked for those notes?”

Yes. But they found nothing about the case. I knew that before they even did it. Nicky and I were old school. We never put notes into a computer.”

“Why’s that?”

We were afraid that when we left the office, somebody might check our computers to find out what we were working on, and then try to worm in on the story. You know, like Bernstein did in Watergate. Or worse, steal the story. We always kept our notes on real paper. Pads.

“Did you tell the cops that?
”

You bet.

“Did they look for the notes at his place?”

They reluctantly agreed to. But i
t was too late. The day after Nicky was killed, somebody tossed his apartment. Whatever Nicky might’ve had down on paper, was taken.

“Didn’t the cops find it suspicious that the apartment was ransacked?”

I said that to them. They told me some burglar probably read that Nicky had been killed, looked up his address, and broke into his apartment to search for valuables. The cops I spoke to said that’s a fairly common occurrence nowadays. Like I told you before, some cops are very good. Others? Not so good.

“I understand. While I’ve got you, Mike, can you give me Hannah’s cell number?”

It’s seven-one-eight, six-eight-eight, zero-niner-two-eight.

Boff wrote the number down on a napkin, thanked Cassidy, and hung up. Then he programmed the redhead’s number into his phone.

“What’re you going to ask Hannah?” Cullen said.

“I’d like to speak with the dead cop’s partner. Given my reputation with cops, I’m sure the detective wouldn’t give me the time of day.
But
sweet, young Hannah Riley might have better luck scoring an interview for me.”

Boff glanced at his watch. It was close to dinner time. “I’ve got to get home,” he said. “Where can I drop you?”

“At the gym. Ryan wasn’t happy with my work this morning. He wants me back for a second session.”

After wrapping his half-eaten second donut in a napkin, Boff got up and headed for the door, Cullen right behind him.

Before they got into his car, Cullen said, “Give me Hannah’s number. I’ll call and tell her you want to meet with her.”

“I can do that myself.”

“Perhaps. But like I said before, I think she’ll be more receptive to me.”

With a shrug, he told Sherlock the number. Cullen programmed it into his cell.

As they climbed into the car, Boff pointed a finger at the boxer and said, “Make sure you don’t hit on her.”

Looking as innocent as the day he was born, Cullen replied, “Me? I wouldn’t dream of doing any such thing.”