by James Lepore
13.
2:00 PM, December 5, 2004, Newark
It was good to see that the yellow crime scene tape, in the form of a large X, had finally been removed from Danny’s office door. “No Danny,” it said to Jay every day as he passed it on the way from the elevator to his own office. No Danny. No smiling face. No voice of irrational reason in a world filled with posers and bullshit artists of every stripe. No Danny.
The door was not locked. Inside, Jay first saw the three cardboard boxes sitting on his friend’s cheap metal desk, then scanned the fifteen-foot-by-fifteen-foot one room, one closet office, and saw that Dan’s pictures and college diploma were still on the walls, and his books still on the two small book-cases that flanked the desk. One of the pictures was of Jay and Dan sitting at a fire on a beach at the Jersey shore, the light from the flames dancing in their eyes as they smiled at the camera. The picture of his two sons that Dan kept on the top of the filing cabinet behind his desk was not there, but Jay expected to find it somewhere in the office.
Taking a deep breath, he sat in the tired leather armchair behind Dan’s desk and confronted the boxes. On top of the middle box was a Seizure/Return notice from the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office, indicating the date the enclosed materials had been taken, the date they were returned, and the word Zero under the heading Items Retained. The “enclosed material” had been crammed randomly into the boxes, and the first thing Jay did was separate the contents into three piles: client files, banking, and miscellaneous. It did not surprise him that there was no Donna Kelly among the fifty or so client files. Most of Danny’s client information he kept on scraps of paper that he threw away as soon as the case was over. Really important data made its way into the small address and date book that he kept with him at all times, and which was not, according to Dan’s mom, among the items sent north by the Florida police. There was no record of a recent deposit of twenty-five thousand among the banking documents, some pages of which seemed to be missing, which was not unusual for Dan, who looked on record keeping as something people took much too seriously.
Dan’s business account had just under two hundred dollars in it. He had no receivables, and bills due totaling around two thousand dollars, including two months’ rent at six hundred per month. Jay closed up the boxes, sat back, and lit a cigarette. It was a cold, damp Sunday afternoon. Below him, Market Street, raucous during the week, was quiet. Before leaving, he went through the closet, the filing cabinet, and the desk, where, in a bottom drawer, he found the framed picture of Dan’s boys—Dan, Jr. and Michael—wearing Yankee caps, smiling shyly at the camera. The glass facing was cracked diagonally. As Jay began to remove the photograph, he felt the cardboard backing begin to move and, slipping it from the cheap metal frame, he found a thick envelope between it and the boys’ picture. In the envelope was eleven thousand dollars in cash, in hundred dollar bills, and a piece of lined notepaper, on which was written, in Danny’s handwriting, “If you find this, give it to my boys. Don’t pay my debts with it.” Smiling, Jay put the envelope in his jeans pocket, and the picture in one of the boxes.
He loaded the boxes, wall hangings, and books into his Saab, and headed to the Colonnade Towers, twin, glass-skinned high-rises only a mile or two away, built at the edge of Jay and Dan’s old neighborhood after the Newark riots. He parked in the underground garage, rode the elevator to the tenth floor of Building A, and let himself into Danny’s apartment with the key given to him by Mrs. Del Colliano. Leaving the door open—the apartment was hot and stuffy—he went around opening windows and drawing curtains, and then sat in an overstuffed chair and looked through the living room’s glass wall down into a section of Branch Brook Park that contained an old-fashioned circular reservoir, empty since before he was born, where he and Danny had played endlessly as boys. His reverie was broken by a deep voice, quite nearby.
“Excuse me, young man, do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jay, getting to his feet. “Are you Bill Davis? I’m Jay Cassio, Danny’s friend.”
Jay’s interrogator, a black man in his sixties, with short salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—and a thick, neatly trimmed mustache of the same mix, said nothing. About six feet tall, wearing a dark cardigan sweater buttoned over a substantial potbelly, he stood in the doorway and stared at Jay, whose appearance, he suddenly realized, was not one to inspire confidence. Sleeping badly, if at all, of late, going days between shaves and showers, his hair longer than usual, there was a mad look to him that he now saw reflected in Davis’s wary eyes.
“I’m a lawyer,” Jay said, reaching for his wallet to produce one of his cards. “Dan’s mother asked me to handle his estate. All this stuff will have to be sold or given away.”
They both looked slowly around the apartment, at the open, well stocked kitchen—Danny was a great cook—the comfortable living room, the Persian rug beneath Jay’s feet, the television and stacks of magazines and books, the artwork on the walls—Danny’s home—and then back at each other.
“Didn’t I see you at the wake?” Jay asked.
“I was there.”
The black man took the card from Jay, read it, and then walked over and extended his hand.
“I’m Bill Davis,” he said. “I’m sorry to be so stiff, but it’s not every day your neighbor is murdered, with people traipsing in and out at all hours.”
“The cops, you mean?”
“How about I stand you a drink, Mr. Cassio? You look like you could use it.”
“Call me Jay.”
“Jay.”
“Sure.”
“Is bourbon okay?”
“A little ice.”
Davis left and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two cut crystal rocks glasses, one with ice in it. He sat on the couch, placed the bottle and glasses on the coffee table in front of him, and poured three fingers neat for himself and a healthy splash for Jay, who had returned to his easy chair.
“So how did you know my name?” Davis asked, reaching with his glass to touch Jay’s.
“Danny mentioned you moved in over the summer.”
“He brought me a bottle of bourbon as a welcome.”
Jay did not respond.
“We’re drinking the last of it.”
“I saw you with your wife at the wake,” Jay said. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me, but a couple of others have.”
“What do you mean?”
“There were two punks here,” Davis said. “Mexicans, I think. I was coming back with groceries. The police tape was down, so I pushed the door in, like a fool.”
“When was this?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Dan owed a shylock some money.”
“How much?”
“A few grand.”
“These were no collectors of a few grand. They were reptiles.”
“What did they say?”
“They were looking for Danny’s girlfriend.”
“He didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“A beautiful Mexican woman. They showed me her picture.”
“Had you seen her before?”
“Never.”
“What did she look like?”
“Long, dark hair. Beautiful face. She looked like Sophia Loren. They don’t come more beautiful than that.”
“How old?”
“Mid-twenties.”
“How old were these two guys? What did they look like?”
“The same, mid-twenties. They might have been twins, shiny black hair, swarthy. Eyes like snakes. They said the girl was their sister. They hadn’t seen her for a few weeks. They were worried about her.”
“Did you get their names?”
“You must be kidding.”
“Do you have the picture?”
“They never let go of it.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Of course, and who shows up but the FBI. Specia
l Agent Chris Markey.”
Jay had not been convinced that the two Mexicans Davis described were quite as scary as they appeared to the old man, nor that they were involved with Danny in anything but one of his low-grade schemes. Possibly Danny had hired them to dump a car for a friend, and they were looking to collect their fee. Possibly they didn’t know he was dead and were looking to buy, or sell, some dope. But the FBI was not interested in small-time insurance fraud, or the occasional five hundred dollar marijuana deal. They investigated interstate criminal activity and crimes under federal law. How did Danny’s death, and these two Mexicans, fit into that?
“What did he want?”
“He asked a lot of questions, the same as you.”
“Did these guys kill Danny?”
“He didn’t say, but he showed me pictures, and it was them.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“No, but one of them had a gun.”
“He pulled it?”
“No. His jacket slipped open and I saw it in his belt. To me they were stone killers. Dead inside.”
“Did Markey leave his number?”
“I have it in my apartment. I’ll give it to you before you leave. Another drink?”
“Sure.”
Davis poured, and then said, “What was it you were looking at so intently when I came in?”
Jay sipped his drink. From where they were sitting they could both see clearly into the park below.
“See that dried-up reservoir down there?” Jay said. “Danny and I played there when we were kids. It was our private Coliseum. We used sticks for swords, and garbage can tops for shields. We would approach each other from opposite ends. I could always hear the crowd cheering wildly. The emperor didn’t know I was his bastard son. We pummeled each other. I was taller, bigger, but it didn’t matter. It was impossible to get him to quit. Sometimes he won because I could no longer lift my arms. On the rare days when I got him to cry uncle, he would get up and smile as he dusted himself off, and I always wondered if he was letting me win . . .”
Jay stopped himself, embarrassed, and looked over at Davis, who was staring down at the reservoir, caressing his glass.
“This neighborhood has changed, Jay.”
“The whole city has.”
“Dan had to have a lot of balls,” Davis said. “He was the only white guy in either building, and most of us blacks are afraid to go out at night.”
“The rent was cheap,” Jay replied, “and he grew up here. He felt he had a right to come back. And he wasn’t afraid of the things you and I are afraid of.”
“I’m sorry you lost your friend.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the drink. You were right. I needed it.”
14.
7:00 PM, December 7, 2004, Montclair
Jay spent two hours in Dan’s apartment making a list of its contents for Kay Del Colliano. At home he opened his own bottle of bourbon and drank until, unnoticed, night fell and he was asleep on the couch in his living room. The next morning, at his office, he called Linda Marshall, the Newark Star-Ledger reporter. He told her about his talk with Bill Davis, and asked her if she felt it was worth a call to the FBI to find out if they were in fact investigating Danny’s death, and if so, why.
Jay had seen Linda at Danny’s wake, where he had related to her Danny’s story of Donna Kelly and the five hundred thousand dollars that was an obvious link between Dan’s murder and the deaths of Bryce and Kate Powers. Linda had written a story in which she related the reasons for Dan’s trip to Florida, attributing her facts to an unnamed, nongovernment source, and questioning the quick labeling of the Powers deaths as murder-suicide. The story noted that the prosecutor’s office had refused comment, except to say that the case had been thoroughly investigated and closed on solid scientific grounds.
When Jay’s former law partner, Dick Mahoney, was under indictment eight years ago, Marshall had written a story recounting Mahoney’s lawyer’s claim that Jay had been the one who had offered the bribe to the state trooper. This was ridiculous on its face since the trooper had been wired and had identified Mahoney as the briber. Marshall had made it clear that the accusation was absurd, but the story had nevertheless angered Jay, and he had let the reporter know it when he saw her a few days later in the courthouse, one of her regular beats. When Mahoney abandoned the claim at his trial, Linda wrote a story condemning both Mahoney and his lawyer, in which quotes from Al Garland, calling them “artists of deception” and “frauds upon the court” appeared prominently. Jay took her out to dinner to thank her, and to apologize for his earlier outburst—he had called her naive and a hack, easily used by Mahoney’s lawyer to sow confusion.
They had been friends ever since. Now married with two small children, juggling a career and a family, Marshall was well respected for her fair and thorough reporting, and had twice been nominated by her paper for Pulitzer Prizes for investigative series she had done. She said she would be happy to check the story out.
Jay was at home, having Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for dinner, when Linda called him back.
“Jay? It’s Linda.”
“Hi. That was quick.”
“It doesn’t take long to get a flat denial.”
“They denied it?”
“Yes.”
“Who’d you speak to?”
“I asked for Markey. A PR person called me back.”
“And said what?”
“‘The FBI is not investigating the murder of Mr. Del Colliano.’”
“What did you say?”
“I told her that I had it from a reliable source that they were, that in fact Special Agent Chris Markey of the Newark Field Office was working on it.”
“And?”
“She said my source is wrong.”
“You didn’t mention Bill Davis.”
“No, you told me not to.”
“Did you talk to Davis?”
“Yes, he confirmed it.”
“You didn’t believe me?”
“I had to get a confirmation, Jay. Don’t get testy on me.”
“Now what?”
“I’m writing a story for tomorrow’s paper relating all this, and again raising the issue of the connection between the Powers deaths and Danny’s killing.”
“Good. I have something else for you. Bryce Powers worked in Mexico City in the seventies. He was in charge of commercial development for an international real estate company, Gentex. Now two Mexicans show up at Danny’s apartment.”
“Is Gentex still in business?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“It has to be off the record.”
“Sure.”
“Kate Powers wrote me a bunch of letters telling me that Bryce was bribing government officials in Mexico, and that he had close ties to some big-time drug dealers.”
“Do the police know this?”
“I don’t think so. My file was returned by one of Judge Moran’s court officers. It didn’t even look like it was opened.”
“Why do you want this off the record?”
“Because I represent the daughters in lawsuits against them and the estate. Any damage to Powers’s reputation would hurt my clients.”
“Did you use the letters in court in the divorce?”
“No.”
“Who was your adversary?”
“Bob Flynn.”
“Does he know?”
“I told him about them, but I didn’t send him copies.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t going to use them in the case. Kate wasn’t in her right mind. She was drunk most of the time, and drugged out. I thought the letters were worthless.”
“Can I call Flynn?”
“I’d rather leave him out of it.”
“Okay, he’s out of it.”
Even if Linda confirmed the existence of the letters via Bob Flynn, Jay would still be her original source. To his relief, she clearly understood that he could not l
et her make an end run around his ethics issue.
“I’ll have to use your name, though, Jay,” she continued, “regarding the FBI’s involvement. I already talked to my editor. The story needs credibility, especially since I’m naming Markey and quoting the FBI’s denial. I’m identifying Davis, but that won’t be enough against the word of the FBI.”
“Did you clear that with Davis?”
“Yes. Those two Mexicans scared him, and he feels like he’s being a good citizen in helping to track them down. Plus, he really liked Danny.”
“Who didn’t?”
“Can I use your name?”
“Of course.”
“What will you do with them? The letters?”
“First I have to get rid of Melissa and Marcy as clients. They’re making me sick.”
“Your judgment is no longer being clouded by lust.”
“Right.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll give Agent Markey a call.”
“Can I see the letters, off the record for now?”
“Stop by my office tomorrow. And one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“If you win a Pulitzer Prize on this, then all comments about my relationship with Melissa Powers have to stop. Is that a deal?”
“That’s a deal. One last thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Does Frank Dunn know about any of this?”
“I’ve told him about the letters, but not my talk with Bill Davis.”
Jay looked down at his drink, which he had stopped sipping during his conversation with Linda, and which was now mostly melted ice. After a couple of nights of quiet and murderous drinking with the detective, Jay had stopped returning Dunn’s calls, and avoided the places where he might run into him. Dunn and Danny respected each other’s nerve, realistic take on life, and intolerance of phonies, but there was also a natural tension between them that did not take too long to spring up when they were in each other’s presence. Danny’s cockiness irritated Dunn, and Dunn’s secretiveness irritated Danny. They often provoked each other to anger while Jay watched, trying not to smile. Next to Jay, Dunn probably knew—and loved—Dan as well as anyone, and it occurred to him now, for the first time since Dan’s death, that Dunn had sustained a loss, too, and that he possibly needed comforting. God placed self-pity, it has been said, next to despair, the cure beside the malady.