The Yards

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The Yards Page 9

by The Yards (epub)


  If nothing comes of the video from Randy’s, we’ll ferret out the liars and use their lies against them. But that’s for later. For now, I just want them on the record.

  It’s three thirty when we finish with the last of the group, Candy Gowen. She bursts out laughing when I mention Grieg’s name.

  “He pretended that we were beneath him, but it was a cover-up,” she tells us. “The asshole was a complete dud in the sack. Too quick on the trigger. I spent the month after we hooked up avoiding him.”

  Our timing is perfect. The busboys are setting up the tables when we stroll into Randy’s. The waiters, all female, are huddled with the cook. Two bartenders are rolling an aluminum keg into place. The only bouncer leans against the door to the kitchen.

  The workers continue about their business when Vern and I come through the door, not even looking up. All except the boss, Mason Cheat.

  The surname works well for Mason, who passed his mid-twenties in prison after a credit-card scam fell apart. The assumption, these days, is that he managed to hide a chunk of his ill-gotten gains. Enough to open the bar. His actual claim, that a silent investor supplied the capital, is universally rejected. But now that he’s found the light, Mason’s become an asset. Twice in the last year, he’s informed on drug dealers working his club.

  Mason Cheat’s a short, broad-shouldered man with dark brown eyes that bug out of his head, a wide mouth that usually hangs open, and a receding chin. To this cop, he seems to be perpetually pleading. The reality, on the other hand, is that nobody fucks with Mason Cheat, not even Carl Schmidt. That’s the word, anyway, and I’ve yet to see it disputed. Having been in prison once, Mason doesn’t care to have his liberty threatened.

  Mason’s gaze fastens on me as I approach. I can almost see the questions rushing through his brain. Then he blinks twice, and I know he’s come up with the answer. I won’t have to waste my time explaining.

  Mason nods to my partner, who returns the gesture. “How do, Vern?” Then he turns to me. “You here about Bradley?”

  “Sure am, Mason.”

  “He was in here for a time on Saturday.” Mason’s wearing a brown sport coat over a white shirt. He runs his finger along both lapels of the jacket as though adjusting body armor. “I was gonna call ya, sure as hell. Just ain’t got around to it.”

  I don’t dispute the claim. There’s no point. “Were you here on Saturday, Mason? Did you speak to him?”

  “I was in my office. Never laid eyes on the man.”

  “Then how do you know he was here?”

  Mason’s mouth is very wide, and his responding smile reaches almost to his ears. I got him, but he’s not holding a grudge.

  “One of the waitresses, Maureen, served him. She told me right after the killing was reported.”

  “And Maureen would be?”

  Mason points to the waitresses, still huddled around the cook in his white apron. The girls wear black T-shirts, scoop necked and tight enough to pass for a second skin. A single word, Randy, is printed across their breasts. Not Randy’s. Randy.

  “Which one?”

  “The blonde.”

  I take the subpoena from my bag and pass it over. Mason’s hands pull away at first, but then he accepts the document.

  “What’s this?”

  “A subpoena, Mason. For all the video shot by your security cameras between 9:15 and 10:45 on Saturday night. Every single frame, Mason. You hold out on me, I’ll bust you for obstruction. Think I’m kiddin’, try me.”

  Mason leans back in his chair and shrugs. I’m taking that to mean we got to the club before Connor.

  “No problemo, Lieutenant. Only thing, I can’t cut ninety minutes out of the data. We’re digital now, and our data’s broken down into whole days and recorded on flash drives, one for each camera. I can give you everything for June twenty-fourth, and I’m glad to do it. I don’t like the idea of Bradley’s killer running free any more than you do.”

  I wave off his reply. “How many cameras, Mason? Show Vern where each camera is placed and what part of the club it covers. Please.”

  Mason doesn’t argue, but he’s not about to play guide for a hick cop. He turns and motions to the bouncer, who snaps to attention. Is it kick-ass time? If so, he’s roid-rage eager. I watch him approach Vern, the greater threat, his fingers curling, only to stop suddenly when his boss speaks.

  “This is Detective Taney,” Mason says. “He’s gonna check out our security system and pick up the drives from Saturday. Make sure he’s taken care of. Understand, Mark? We’re cooperating.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “You could’ve just asked,” Mason tells me as Vern and Mark walk away.

  “Sorry, but I’m not the trusting type.”

  “I can see that, but look here, I hope you don’t suspect me or anyone in the club . . .” When I don’t answer, he continues. “I know about Bradley, about the game he runs with Connor Schmidt. Swear on my mother, Lieutenant, they don’t play that game in my club. I got two more bouncers comin’ in later. I pay ’em well.”

  Mason’s too eager, and I’m pretty sure he’s holding back. That’s okay, like the bullshit fed to me by Bradley’s former girlfriends. Maybe later I’ll follow up. For now, I want a few words with Maureen while my partner collects the video.

  The waitresses peel away as I approach. Their movements are synchronized, a kind of water ballet on terra firma. I dutifully show my badge. As if they didn’t make me for a cop the minute I walked through the door.

  “Maureen? Can I speak with you for a moment?”

  Maureen shoots a glance in her boss’s direction, then says, “Sure, why not.”

  I lead her to the end of the bar and give her a second to adjust. I’m a cop and I’m confronting her, but I’m not dangerous. Meanwhile, the woman’s in her mid-twenties, with teasing green eyes and the most erotic smile I’ve ever seen.

  “I understand you served Bradley Grieg on Saturday evening. Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know him?”

  “He comes in a couple of times a week. Usually takes a table in front of the bar. That’s where he sat on Saturday.”

  “When did he arrive?”

  Maureen opens up at that point, rambling on without prompting. She tells me that Bradley showed up around nine thirty and left an hour later. He had two drinks, Maker’s Mark on the rocks, but nothing to eat. And no, she didn’t see him talk to anyone. That was unusual in itself because Bradley usually hit on every woman in the club, starting with the youngest.

  When she finally rolls to a stop, I’m faced with a choice. I’m tempted to ask if she remembers a customer that night, a woman wearing a hat. Quick, right? Directly to the point?

  But I can’t be sure the woman wasn’t a regular, and I don’t want her warned. “All right,” I finally say, “and thanks for the time.”

  I turn to go, but Maureen puts a hand on my forearm, holding me back. I look down at her hand, but she leaves it right where it is, the touch of her fingertips featherlight.

  “I just remembered something,” she tells me. “About Bradley.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bradley had this bag with him. Like a gym bag, only too expensive for the gym.”

  “Describe this bag.” I find myself disappointed when her hand falls away from my arm.

  “I think it was made out of snakeskin . . . Hey, wait a minute.”

  I watch her take a pad and a pencil from the pocket of a mini apron that drops from her waist to the crotch of her yoga pants. She scratches away for a minute, then tears off the top page and hands it to me. Maureen’s drawn a reasonable representation of a gym bag, but that’s not where my eyes are drawn. No, my eyes are drawn to the phone number at the bottom of the page.

  “If I can be of any more help, call me,” she says.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CONNOR

  I can’t believe what Cully tells me, so matter-of-fact I wanna punch him in the
mouth. Cannot-fucking-believe. Cully’s a bouncer at Randy’s. When we come up to him, he’s standing outside, blocking the door. Filling it, really. The guy’s a giant.

  “The cops are inside,” he tells me.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Wish I was, Connor.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another. “I come to work around twenty minutes ago, open the door, and see ’em with Mason. The lieutenant and Vern Taney. Right away, I back off. I’m way behind on my child support, and I’m thinkin’ I got a warrant on me. At least that’s what my ex claims.”

  I look at Augie. Augie looks at me. I wanna hit someone, which Augie recognizes right away. He shakes his head. This ain’t the time and it ain’t the place and Cully ain’t a man I need to be hittin’.

  “Richard Gaitskill, boss,” Augie says. “That’s gotta be how.”

  Yeah, Richard Gaitskill. Bradley told Rich where he was goin’ on Saturday night, and that prick told the cops. Him or his mother. Me, I got a thing about hittin’ women, but in this case I could make an exception.

  Augie turns to Cully. “You know what they’re doin’ in there?”

  “When I opened the door, the one cop, the woman, was handin’ Mason some papers. Don’t ask me what was on ’em, but Mason didn’t look happy.”

  That’s enough for Augie. He lays a thick hand on my shoulder and says, “We should really go, boss. Like before the bitch catches us out here. I mean she already pulled you in once.”

  Good point, but I continue to stare at Randy’s lacquered double doors.

  “C’mon, boss,” Augie continues. “I got a line on Rink Meghan. Let’s take care of a little business.”

  Rink Meghan’s a deadbeat who’s into us for two-and-a-half large. Not a huge amount, but after makin’ regular payments for six months, he vanished three weeks ago. Word on the street is that he picked up a dope habit that’s accounting for every penny in his pocket.

  I shake off Augie’s response. “How’d ya find him?” Someone I can hit, at last. “Forget that. Where is he?”

  I’m afraid Augie’s gonna say Portland or San Diego, but Rink’s not that smart.

  “On the west side, at his aunt’s.”

  Rink’s standing outside his aunt’s garage on Baker Street when we pull up. I’m expectin’ him to rabbit. He doesn’t, though his expression turns glum. Rink’s not meant for the life. He’s only about five seven, and he can’t weigh more than 150 pounds. Next to Augie, he’s a mosquito.

  “Hey, guys,” he says. “I got somethin’. For the loan, right?”

  Augie comes close enough to stand on Rink’s toes. “Somethin’? Not cash?”

  “No, but it’s good. I swear. Come inside, I’ll show ya.”

  He starts to raise the garage door but stops abruptly when Augie pushes him aside. “There anybody else in there?” Augie wants to know.

  “Nah, it’s my aunt’s house. She’s at work.”

  Augie shoves Rink toward me and opens the door to reveal a banged-up Crown Vic covered by a thick layer of dust. The car hasn’t been on the road in years.

  “Open the trunk. Go ahead.” Rink’s tone is upbeat, and I know we’re gonna find something reasonably valuable inside. I also know he’s convinced himself that he’s escaped a serious beatdown. That remains to be seen.

  The open trunk reveals two items, a pump shotgun with an etched barrel, and a wooden box.

  Rink points to the box. “Check it out.”

  Augie looks at me, then lifts the lid to reveal a full set of polished cutlery. Only the handles are visible, but they gleam as if they’ve been waiting for enough light to show themselves off. Augie removes a dinner knife, checks it out for a moment, then hands it to me. I turn it back and forth until I find a set of stamped figures on the handle. There’s a running lion and a crown, good signs, plus the knife is too heavy to be junk.

  “So what am I supposed to do with this, Rink?”

  “C’mon, you’re lookin’ at antique British cutlery. You couldn’t buy a set like this for less than six grand.”

  Probably true, I’m willing to admit. But that doesn’t mean I can sell it. The set is heavily engraved. Most likely it’s already on a list of stolen goods posted in every pawnshop from here to Chicago. So what am I lookin’ at? The melt value? Or what I can get from a fence like Frankie Lapaglia, which won’t be a whole lot more?

  “Take the silver and the shotgun,” I tell Augie. “Put ’em in the trunk.”

  Rink’s eyes reflect the truth as it settles over him. Bye-bye, dope money. Better than a beating, though. It begins to drizzle, as it has been on and off all day. Augie opens the trunk of my Lexus and drops the silverware and the gun inside. As he closes the trunk, my phone begins to ring.

  My father.

  “Do what you gotta do,” I tell Augie.

  I let the phone ring out, then jump into the back seat and redial. Where’s the money? That’s what he wants to know, all he wants to know. It’s been two days, and he’s still out eighteen grand. What the fuck’s wrong with me? Why can’t he trust me to do the least little thing?

  And what am I gonna tell him? The cops beat me to it? Beat me to the data from the Skyview? Beat me to Randy’s? And if I don’t catch a fuckin’ break soon, they’re gonna beat me to the broad who stole his money?

  This—the truth—is not what he wants to hear. “Did you speak to our guy?” he demands.

  “Yeah. He’s only sure they’re after a woman. Mariola and Taney.”

  “Are they close?”

  “He doesn’t know from nothin’, Pop. They got him workin’ burglaries in Oakland Gardens.”

  Augie slides behind the wheel as I hang up. “That enough?” he asks. Rink is lying on the ground, blood streaming from a cut in his brow. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll miss his next appointment.

  “Yeah, Augie, that’ll do. Let’s move.”

  “Where to?”

  “Hell and back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  GIT

  It’s been gloomy all day, but now it’s starting to rain for real. I call to Charlie: time to go. She’s with her park friends, kids she gets to see only when I take her to Baxter Park. We’re on the fancy edge of town, me and my little girl, or what passes for fancy in Baxter. Charlie and her friends are still too young for snobbery, but they’ll learn. The other mothers in the park are gathered on benches to either side of me. They don’t even glance in my direction. Me, on the other hand, I can’t stop looking around, like I’m expecting to see Connor Schmidt walking toward me with a pistol in his hand. I saw Connor’s photo yesterday when a local newscaster linked him to Bradley Grieg. The man seemed nondescript except for his mouth. Connor’s lips turn down at both corners, and I sense a calculating ruthlessness. This is a man with no stopping point. At the same time, he’s not stupid. He won’t act on impulse. Does that mean he can be manipulated? At this moment, I have no desire to find out.

  “Coming, Mommy.”

  Baxter Park has been thoroughly rehabbed despite the economic slump. Teeter-totters, slides, swings, monkey bars, even a geodesic dome made of aluminum tubes. Instead of blacktop, the surface of choice in Baxter’s other parks, this one’s of padded rubber in case one of the darlings should fall from the top of the dome.

  Charlie waves to her pals as she settles into a booster seat she hopes to outgrow in the near future. In fact, I plan to strap her down until she’s eighty.

  On the way home, I stop at the Dairy Queen on Baxter Boulevard for ice-cream cones. I know the only healthy choices for children lie somewhere between a stalk of celery smeared with sugar-free peanut butter and a carrot dipped in plain yogurt, but Charlie and I pass so little time in each other’s company that I can’t resist. Charlie displays her appreciation with a happy grin as she nibbles at the edges of the cone. That’s enough for me.

  “Charlie, what would you say if I told you that I’ve decided to leave Baxter?”

  We’re in the car, me in the front, Charlie in her bo
oster seat, the strap loose. Charlie’s not grinning now; she’s looking at me, her blue eyes narrowed. What’s Mommy up to?

  “Where would we go, Mommy?”

  The plaintive tone—the one that makes me want to give her anything she asks for—usually draws a smile. Not this time. Late this morning I got a call from Madison Klein at Short Hills Medical Center. Madison woke me, but I pulled myself together real fast when she asked if I’d be up for an interview tomorrow morning.

  “We’d move to New Jersey, a place called Short Hills.”

  “Where is that? Will I have friends there? Will Gramma be coming?”

  I gobble up the last of my cone and wipe my fingers on a paper towel. “Let me show you where New Jersey is. How’d that be?”

  No response necessary. I shift to the back seat and slide in beside my daughter. Charlie has a tablet, one of the benefits of working seventy-two-hour weeks. It’s on the seat next to her, as usual, and I turn it on. We’re getting an unlocked signal in the parking lot and it takes me only a couple of minutes to produce a map of Baxter.

  “Okay, baby, this is Baxter. This is where we are.”

  “I know that, Mommy.”

  Charlie loves her tablet, and she loves maps. She pulls up a street view of our house and the houses of her friends several times a week.

  “Now, pull back. A little more, a little more. Stop.” I drop a finger to the screen. We’ve got most of the country in view. “This is New Jersey. See if you can focus on it.”

  Charlies fingers work until the state fills the touch screen.

  “And this is Short Hills.”

  Again, Charlie fingers work their magic, and we’re soon traveling down a residential street, taking short hops from one colonial home to another. The homes are large, the lawns meticulously cut, the shrubbery trimmed. Summer flowers gleam in weeded beds.

  “Will we live here, Mommy?”

  I usually don’t lie to my daughter, but I’m not always frank either. Now I merely smile as I get out of the car. Maybe one day she’ll live in a neighborhood like this, but the best her mom can hope for at this point in time is an apartment over a two-car garage.

 

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