Shakedown jd-1

by Joel Goldman

  I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. I could be in Leavenworth, Kansas, in less than an hour. I knew from past trips that visiting hours were from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon every day except Wednesday and Thursday. Inmates were given twenty-four visitor points per month. Each hour of visits cost one point. Each inmate had an approved visitor list. If you weren’t on it, it didn’t matter what day of the week it was or how many points the inmate had left for that month.

  Today was Thursday. Even if I waited until tomorrow, I still wouldn’t be on Rice’s visitor list and I had no idea if he would be willing to use any of his points to talk with me. Normally, I wouldn’t care about any of that since the visitor rules didn’t apply to law-enforcement personnel. But the visitation rules did apply to me because, without my FBI credentials, I was one of the unwashed, unknown, and unwanted.

  My cell phone rang as I was considering how long it would take me to get arrested, convicted, and sentenced to Leavenworth just so I could have a conversation with Thomas Rice. A television show had already tested that scheme, one brother getting himself sent inside to break out his innocent brother before they were both killed. I doubted that my version would do well enough in the ratings to last through sweeps week.

  “Nice call on the cash,” Ammara Iverson said.

  “You found Oleta Phillips’s fingerprints?”

  “On a couple of the bills so far, a thumb and index finger. It will take a while to check all of the money. Three thousand dollars in twenties is a lot of twenties.”

  “A hundred and fifty, to be exact,” I said. “Who had her prints?”

  “KCKPD. She’d been picked up a few times for soliciting prostitution plus she had a couple of misdemeanor possession busts.”

  “What about the videotapes? Will Troy let Grisnik have a look?”

  “He said we should do our own analysis first. Ben Yates is going to ask the KCK chief for a set of photographs for comparison.”

  “Grisnik won’t like that. I get the impression he’s trying to keep this quiet.”

  “Troy doesn’t care what Grisnik likes. He’s not taking a chance on anybody. If it will make Grisnik feel any better, tell him that I reviewed the tapes. I didn’t see anybody who looked like a cop.”

  “I’m sure that will be a great comfort to him, since everyone knows that all cops look alike, especially when they’re out of uniform.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “Cops carry themselves differently. Same as we do. Doesn’t matter what we’re wearing. That’s what makes undercover so hard. You have to learn to be someone else.”

  She was right. I wanted to ask Ammara about the results of the neighborhood canvass, find out if anyone had reported seeing someone leaving the scene, but I didn’t want it to be about me.

  “Did any of the neighbors see Oleta that night?”

  “If they did, they aren’t saying. We went back to her brother. He said the last time he saw her was when Marcellus gave her the money. We haven’t found anyone who admits seeing her after that. That was about twelve hours before the murders.”

  “Did the neighbors see anyone else, maybe someone hanging around after the murders like an arsonist that likes to watch the fire?”

  “I’ve got to tell you, Jack. You’re the only one anybody saw. LaDonna Simpson, Latrell Kelly, a few others. They all saw what happened to you in the backyard, but that’s all they saw.”

  “I’m glad I put on such a good show for them. Did you take another look at Latrell Kelly?”

  “Yeah, and there’s nothing to see. None of the neighbors have anything bad to say about him. He even brings his charcoal cooker whenever they have a block party.”

  “Say that again.”

  “I said they have block parties during the summer. He cooks the hot dogs. You think that makes him a suspect?”

  If I told her yes and explained why, she’d agree that I was too close to this case to be of any use. “Remember what they taught you at Quantico,” I said. “Keep an open mind until the statute of limitations expires.”

  “I’ll do that. In the meantime, things have gotten real tight around here since you left. Troy is having all of us take polygraphs to make certain no one leaked anything about the surveillance camera inside the house. They’re bringing in someone from D.C. to run the tests. You’ll probably have to take one, too.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Troy set them up on the hour. He’s going first at eight o’clock. I’m on for nine, Colby is at ten; Jim and Lani are at eleven and twelve. I’m surprised he hasn’t called you yet.”

  “Maybe he wants to rule everyone else in or out before he gives me a turn.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he thinks it couldn’t have been me since it was my show or maybe he thinks it had to be me because that would explain why I was shaking so badly. Either way, it would make sense for him to leave me for last.”

  “I hate taking a polygraph,” she said.

  “We have to take one every year just to make certain we’re still good guys. I thought you’d be used to it by now.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “Those guys always make me feel like I’m guilty of something even if I don’t know what it is.”

  “That’s what they get paid to do. Did you tell Marty Grisnik that you found Oleta’s fingerprints on the money?”

  “That’s Troy’s call. I just report the news. How about you? Grisnik tell you anything else I should know?”

  “I haven’t talked to him.”

  “It would be convenient if you did,” she said.

  “Yes, it would.”

  Ammara didn’t know it, but she had just shown me how to break into the federal penitentiary. I didn’t know if I could be convicted for trying. Like all criminals, I knew that it wouldn’t matter unless I got caught.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “You want me to take you where?” Marty Grisnik asked.

  I was on my cell phone, still at the restaurant. “Leavenworth. The federal penitentiary.”

  “That good-looking Chevy of yours broke down?”

  “Runs like a dream, but your big Crown Vic will make a much better impression on the warden.”

  “Why would I want to take you to Leavenworth?”

  “To make a new friend.”

  “I don’t like the friends I have. I don’t need any new ones,” Grisnik said.

  “You might like this one.”

  “This friend of yours know anything about Oleta Phillips and her boy?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Then I’m not going.”

  “But he might know someone who does.”

  “Who is it and what do you think he knows?”

  “I’ll tell you on the drive over. And I’ve got something else for you. It turns out I do still have a friend at the Bureau. I’ll park in the city lot behind the federal courthouse. You can pick me up on the corner of Seventh and Ann in half an hour.”

  “I’m going to quit taking your phone calls,” Grisnik said.

  “Won’t help. I’ll sleep on your doorstep, follow you to work, and wait outside your office.”

  “I may leave you in Leavenworth.”

  “I’ll pack a toothbrush. There’s one other thing.”

  I could hear Grisnik grinding his teeth over the phone. “What?”

  “You still have that phony ID you loaned me when I served the fugitive warrant at Marcellus Pearson’s house?”

  “I’ve got it locked up in my desk drawer. I’d burn it except I’m afraid I’ll be accused of destroying evidence.”

  “Good. Bring it with you.”

  “What for?”

  “They won’t let just anyone into that prison.”

  “The easiest way is to take I-29 North to Platte City, then pick up Highway 92 and take it straight into Leavenworth,” I told Grisnik.

  He’d hung his suit jacket in the backseat, rolled his sleeves, and pu
t the air conditioning on high. He furrowed his eyes and set his jaw like he wanted to pimp-slap me.

  “You don’t think I know how to get to Leavenworth?”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m just saying that’s the best way to go.”

  “You gonna tell me how to tie my shoes and brush my teeth?”

  “I don’t care about your shoes or your teeth. Do whatever you want with them.”

  Grisnik goosed the Crown Vic into the traffic on the Intercity Viaduct, catching I-70 East, then cut over to I-29 North.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  We were on the Paseo Bridge crossing the Missouri River. A casino built on a?oating barge was docked below, tight against the riverbank, its garish pink, red, and yellow neon lights re?ecting off the cloudy water, the promise of something for nothing dragged down by a swift current and then drowned in mud and silt. Though it was still early, the parking lot was half full, gamblers anxious to roll the dice on the rent money. I envied them. My odds were longer and my stakes were higher.

  “As a pig in shit,” I said.

  “Now tell me again why I’m driving you to Leavenworth.”

  “I told you. There’s someone there I want to talk to.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him by yourself?”

  “I had to turn in my FBI credentials when they put me on medical leave. The Bureau frowns on freelancing.”

  “So you have to make an appointment like every other visitor-that whole thing they do there with the visitor lists and the points.”

  “Exactly. And today isn’t a regular visiting day. So I need you to get me inside.”

  “But that’s not enough. You want me to help you impersonate a police officer, too.”

  “No. I want you to help me do my job so I can help you do yours. Think of it as a back-scratching, gate-swingingboth-ways road trip. You know as well as I do that the prison keeps records of every visitor. Doesn’t matter if it’s family or feds. I’d rather keep this one off the radar for now.”

  Grisnik didn’t respond for a few minutes, finally shaking his head like he would regret his decision. “We want to see an inmate, always works better to let the warden know we’re coming.”

  “Call him.”

  Grisnik reached in his pocket,?ipping open his cell phone. “I’ll need a name.”

  “Thomas Rice. Went up a few months ago on a drug charge.”

  “I remember hearing about that case. Wife turned him in, right?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “The wife is selling the house.”

  “You in the market?”

  “No,” I told him. “Someone else is who can’t afford it.”

  “This person in the market or just interested in this house?”

  “Just this one. Already signed the contract. The wife ended up with the house when they got divorced. The husband gets half the sale proceeds, but the wife has to give him notice of the sale and the price has to be fair market. The buyer says she’s selling the house to him for peanuts just to piss off her ex.”

  “Why do you care?”

  I didn’t answer, letting him work it out. His eyes narrowed, then widened.

  “The buyer is one of your people?” he asked me.

  “Yeah.”

  “You think the buyer came by the money the wrong way?”

  “I don’t think that his rich grandmother died or that he won the lottery. He can’t afford it even if she’s giving it away. The property taxes are more than twelve grand a year.”

  Grisnik asked, “Even if you’re right, what’s that got to do with my case?”

  “Maybe nothing. Or maybe the money is coming from somebody who needed to wash some cash or pay off a favor.”

  “Marcellus Pearson?”

  “More likely whoever put the hit on Marcellus, if that’s what happened.”

  “I’d put the early money on Javy Ordonez. He and Marcellus have been scuf?ing for a long time,” Grisnik said.

  “Could have been him. Could have been Bodie Grant.”

  “That jerk-off from Raytown?”

  “You know about him?” I asked.

  “What do you think, Jack? That I spend all my time writing traffic tickets and waiting for you to call?”

  I laughed. “No, I guess not. We think Bodie and Javy may have decided to go into business together. Getting rid of Marcellus could have been their first joint venture.”

  Grisnik said, “I talked to one of our detectives that works drugs.”

  “You and I both know someone in your department was tipping Marcellus. You think that was a good idea?”

  “I’ve known him a long time. If he’s dirty, we’re all dirty. He told me that he didn’t think Javy or Bodie were smart enough or ballsy enough alone to pull this kind of shit but that together, they might talk themselves into it.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I think it’s someone else, someone further up the food chain. As much business as Marcellus was doing, he didn’t live like he had much money. Someone else was getting fat off his action. That’s who I was after.”

  “And you think that’s who could have taken out Marcellus and his people?”

  “Makes the most sense to me. Maybe Marcellus had a silent partner who decided to renegotiate his contract.”

  “Doesn’t add up to a pass for your home buyer.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “You said you had something for me on my case,” Grisnik said. “What is it?”

  “Marcellus gave Oleta Phillips three thousand in twenties twelve hours before he was shot. I found three thousand in twenties in Marcellus’s backyard an hour after he was shot. Oleta’s fingerprints were on the money.”

  “That friend you still have tell you about the fingerprints?”

  “This morning. She thought it would be convenient if I ran into you. Seems she has this idea that you might tell me something she’d like to know.”

  Grisnik nodded, smiling. “I can see how she might think that. I might send her the ballistics on the bullets the coroner dug out of Tony Phillips. Let her check them against the ones that killed Marcellus.”

  “Her name is Ammara Iverson.”

  “I like that name,” he said. “Is she a good enough friend to get me the surveillance videos?”

  “Not yet, but Ben Yates, our SAC, is going to ask your chief for pictures of everyone on your force so he can crosscheck them against the video.”

  Grisnik laughed. “I can’t wait for that turd to blossom. The chief will ask Yates if he’s got any proof that one or more of his officers are dirty. If Yates does, the chief might cooperate as to those people but he’ll never let the entire force be painted with that brush. Yates has to know that.”

  “If he doesn’t, I’m sure your chief will educate him. In any event, Ammara said she reviewed the tapes and didn’t see anybody who looked like a cop.”

  Grisnik shook his head. “A cop looks like anybody else when he’s out of uniform.”

  I thought about what Ammara had said and realized that I agreed with her. I could pick an FBI agent out of a crowd. “You saying you can’t tell when someone has been on the job?”

  “I guess you’re right. Usually I can. I guess if Ammara didn’t see anyone who looked like a cop on the tapes, I should feel better. So how come I don’t?”

  “Because you’re like me. You don’t trust people because of how they look.”

  “Amen to that. You still think someone at the FBI leaked word of the surveillance camera in the house so that the killer would have known to cut off the electricity?”

  “Troy Clark does. He’s having everyone take a polygraph tomorrow.”

  “Including your home buyer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I take it you’d like to know about the home buyer before the polygraph exam.”

  “That would be a good thing.”

  “Same question. Why do you care?”

  “I’ve got
other interests I’m trying to protect.”

  “Yours?”

  I shook my head. “No, but it’s personal. Leave it at that.”

  “You have any proof your home buyer is dirty?”

  “Only that it seems strange that he would buy a house at a bargain price that used to be owned by a guy we busted. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.”

  “Just one of those gut feelings cops on TV always get?”

  “More like the gut fear real cops get,” I said.

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  “I’d rather not say until I’ve got something hard to work with.”

  “Suppose Thomas Rice gives up his name?”

  “That would qualify.”

  Grisnik had the warden’s number stored in his cell phone. Their conversation was brief. He hung up and pulled a KCKPD ID from his shirt pocket, tossing it in my lap. I was about to become Detective John Funkhouser again.

  “How about the neighborhood canvass?” Grisnik asked. “Any eyewitnesses?”

  I decided to bounce my memory off him. He’d interviewed enough witnesses to gauge how my story would play.

  “Not so far. There is one person who may have seen something.”

  “What?”

  “Someone, probably male, running from the scene.”

  “When?”

  “After I got there. He could have been watching from the backyard of one of the houses nearby. If he were, he would have had a view of the rear of Marcellus’s house. The tree where I found the money was roughly in a line between where this guy would have been standing and the back door.”

  “Who saw him?” Grisnik asked.

  I let out a long breath, looked at Grisnik, then looked away, staring at the highway. “I did. Maybe. I’m not sure. That’s when I started shaking.”

  Grisnik grunted. “I don’t like eyewitnesses,” he said.

  “Me either.”

  “Only thing worse is a lineup. Just read a report that said seventy-seven thousand people go to trial each year because someone picks them out of a lineup. Study said that eyewitnesses get it right in a lineup only about fifty percent of the time. Then they looked at two hundred people who were convicted and later exonerated based on DNA evidence. An eyewitness had identified one hundred and fifty of them, usually in a lineup.”