“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?”
Brock shrugged. “They’re still putting it together. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to wonder if Acevedo is my guy.”
Graziani frowned. “What do you mean? You got a solid case—in some ways better than mine, with a witness ID, and he confessed to the attempted rape and the Atkins murder.” His voice was tense and the bonhomie was gone.
“Yeah, but I’m still bothered by a couple of things,” Brock said. “For instance, the assault victim, Marianne Tate, described hitting the guy who grabbed her with her left elbow, striking him on the left side of the face.”
“So?”
“So, Acevedo’s face was bruised on the right side.”
Graziani rolled his eyes. “Big fuckin’ deal. It wouldn’t be the first time a victim got mixed up. Or maybe he turned his head. It don’t mean shit.”
“Maybe,” Brock said. “But I also talked to his mom, who said his dad hit him the night before he was arrested. She described it as a backhand blow to the right side of his face.”
Now the other detective was scowling. “So what? Maybe the victim didn’t hit him hard enough to cause a bruise. Or the mom is covering for her kid. He told the ADA the same thing he told me.”
“Yeah, and my gut tells me that kid was just parroting everything we gave him,” Brock said, “and he picked up on it real good. I looked back at my interview with him and it’s clear he followed my lead. I knew better, but I wanted the killer,
too. And you practically spoon-fed him the answers you wanted.”
Graziani’s eyes blazed and he started to say something but stopped as the waitress delivered his beer. He picked it up and drank half of it before setting it down again. “I didn’t threaten him, didn’t hit him,” he said with his jaw clenched. “He was caught and he knew it. He was just hoping to get a deal if he cooperated. You’re throwing away a perfectly good case on bullshit technicalities and your ‘gut.’ I’m glad the New York DAO wasn’t so chickenshit.”
Brock stared hard at Graziani for a moment. The guy was an asshole but this didn’t mean he was a bad cop; they’d both made mistakes on this one. “What I think isn’t your biggest problem,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Graziani scowled.
Brock told him about Vinnie Cassino’s accusations against Kadyrov.
“Bullshit,” Graziani spat, and finished his beer. “He’s just another scumbag drug dealer trying to cut a deal.”
“He knew about the missing blue shirt.”
“Maybe he read about it in the newspapers.”
“I looked,” Brock said. “I couldn’t find a single story that talked about the shirt.”
“Maybe he heard it from Acevedo,” Graziani said. “Kid’s probably a meth head and bragged about doing these women. Maybe Cassino heard about it but got him mixed up with this Ahmed Kadyrov. Or maybe somebody on the task force let it out. There must have been a hundred people who could have seen the investigation reports.”
“Yeah, it’s all possible,” Brock said, unconvinced. “You ever hear of Kadyrov? He’s got a rap sheet for a few B & Es in Manhattan and Queens.”
“Never heard of him,” Graziani said.
“Well, maybe if you tracked him down, and this Cassino has what he says he does, you still get the collar, and all else is forgiven.”
“Yeah, right,” Graziani sneered. He rubbed his face with his hand. “The DA and NYPD brass will throw me to the wolves. I’d be the guy who made them look like fools. I’ll be pulling traffic detail in Staten fucking Island until I’m pensioned.” Graziani stared at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head and looked Brock in the eyes. “I don’t believe Cassino. I know we got the right guy for this. The rest of this is bullshit. But if you let this out, a defense attorney will use it to jack up my case and put doubt in the minds of the jurors. And that means a psychopath gets off scot-free.”
Brock tilted his head and shrugged. “Sorry. You know I have to turn in this report.”
Graziani looked for a moment like he wanted to bust his beer glass on his colleague’s head, but then he relaxed. “You didn’t file the report yet?”
Brock hesitated; he didn’t like Graziani to start with and liked him even less now. “Not yet,” he said. “I wanted to give you a head start so that you could run this Kadyrov to the ground and figure out if Cassino is telling the truth. But I’m going to have to tell Sergeant Marks soon. We’re supposed to meet with the assistant district attorney assigned to the Atkins case early next week.”
Graziani thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry; don’t know what I was thinking. Can you give me a couple of days to find this Ahmed Kadyrov before you let the cat out of the bag? Maybe I can still make this come out all right. At least get the bad guy off the streets even if my ass gets fried for it.”
Brock nodded. “Yeah, I can hold off for a few days. Maybe Kadyrov is connected to the Atkins murder, in which case you’d be doing me a favor, too.”
“That’s right, you’d owe me one,” Graziani said, and signaled the waitress for another beer. He smiled. “You know, this might just work out fine after all.”
19
ZAK STARED DOWN FROM THE MOUND AT THE CATCHER, who glanced over at Coach Newell for the pitch sign. Chase Fitzgerald nodded and grinned as he looked back at Zak and gave the signal. High and tight. A brushback pitch—a head-high fastball meant to intimidate a batter and move him off the plate.
Or in this case, he’s hoping I’ll hit Esteban or at least scare the shit out of him, Zak thought.
Coaches weren’t supposed to be encouraging, or teaching, brushback pitches at the high school level. There was too great a chance of someone getting seriously injured. But Newell’s ethics were always questionable when it came to getting an edge on the competition. And in this case it was no surprise that he was calling for it against Esteban Gonzalez even though this was just practice.
The coach’s previous efforts to chase the young man from the team had failed. Just three days after being cut by Chase Fitzgerald’s cleats, requiring twelve stitches in his leg, Esteban had walked back out on the field as if nothing had happened. And though it was obvious that his leg was hurting him and he was limping by the end of practice, he’d kept up on the drills.
It was a gutsy performance. But instead of earning even Newell’s grudging respect, the boy’s perseverance seemed to anger the coach all the more. And now he was telling Zak to toss a beanball at him.
Zak shook the sign off and waited for a new signal. Fitzgerald frowned and looked back over at Coach Newell, who emphatically made the same hand signals, only this time he looked directly at Zak as he gestured. There was no question that this was a test. The coach’s eyes said it all: Are you with us or against us?
Zak looked back at Fitzgerald, aware that Giancarlo was standing in the on-deck circle watching. He nodded to the catcher and went into his windup, then threw hard. The ball caught an inside corner of the plate for a strike. A great pitch and the third strike on Esteban, who smiled and shook his head in admiration as he turned to walk back to the dugout.
“Again,” Newell bellowed from the dugout.
Zak and Esteban both looked at the coach and then each other. As the other boy stepped back into the batter’s box, Zak saw a momentary look of fear on Esteban’s face. But the fear was immediately replaced by resolve; he nodded at Zak.
Fitzgerald looked over at Newell and visibly laughed as he gave Zak the signal again for a brushback pitch. Zak reared back and threw. This time the pitch was high and inside … but about three feet over Esteban’s head.
Coach Newell stormed across the field and up to the mound. “What are you doing, Karp?” he demanded.
“Pitching,” Zak answered, his eyes not meeting the coach’s.
“You ignored my signals,” Newell growled.
“I’m not going to throw at his head,” Zak stated as he looked the coach in the eyes.
Newell’s face turned red, and he took a step toward Zak and appeared ready to yell. But the coach looked up and saw that the rest of the team had walked close enough to hear what he was going to say. Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders stood together smirking. But others looked troubled and grim.
The coach held out his hand for the ball. “Hit the showers and see me in my office in fifteen, Karp,” he said, and yelled over to where the other pitchers were throwing in the warm-up cages. “Worley, get your ass out here!”
Worley ran out to the mound. Glaring at Zak, Newell handed Worley the ball. “Let’s see if somebody can remember the meaning of ‘team.’ Or if he knows better than the coach.”
With that the coach turned and walked away. At the same time, Zak walked off in the direction of the locker room. He glanced toward his brother, who smiled and touched the brim of his cap in a salute. Zak rolled his eyes and with a quiet curse changed directions and headed for home plate.
“Give me the bat,” he said as he walked up to Esteban. Without waiting, Zak grabbed the bat and gently pushed Esteban away. He then stepped up to the plate.
Sensing something going on behind him, Newell turned. His eyes bugged when he saw Zak Karp in the batter’s box and his red face grew purple. But he said nothing, just signaled the pitch to Fitzgerald.
Zak saw Worley smile and knew what was coming. “You’re screwed, Karp,” Fitzgerald said, chuckling as the pitcher went into his windup.
Zak waited unt
il just before Worley released the ball and stepped back out of the batter’s box. But he wasn’t trying to duck the pitch. He knew what the signal had been and knew where the pitch was going, which made it relatively easy to make contact and drive it up the middle of the field.
The ball skipped off the mound and caught Worley in the shins. The pitcher went down and began to howl. Weller and Anders rushed over to him. As Fitzgerald ran past Zak, he turned and pointed as he said, “Your ass is grass now, Karp.”
Zak shrugged and tossed the bat over his shoulder and walked to the locker room. Fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door of Coach Newell’s office and walked in. The coach didn’t look up from whatever he was reading and gestured to the chair across from him. “Shut the door and take a seat, Karp” was all he said.
Zak did as he was told and was left to sit for several minutes before the coach looked up at him. “You mind telling me what you were trying to prove today?” Newell asked.
“I don’t think it’s right to try to hurt someone,” Zak said.
Newell acted as if he were shocked. “Hurt someone? Who said I wanted you to hurt someone? I asked for a fastball inside. Your opponent was crowding the plate. If you’re going to have qualms about making that pitch, you’re not going to get any offers to play ball in college.”
“The signal was ‘high and tight,’ a beanball,” Zak said. “I can pitch inside. But you can’t ask me to take a chance of hurting someone, especially on my own team.”
“Your own team,” Newell repeated with a sneer. “Do you consider it part of being a good teammate to ignore your coach’s instructions and then, in front of the whole team, treat him and your other teammates with disrespect? And do you think being a good teammate means trying to hit Worley? We’re lucky he’s only got a bruise or we’d be out our number-one pitcher going into the playoffs.”
Outrage Page 17