by JP Ratto
“Now I am a reasonable, kind, and caring individual.” His sarcasm was not lost on Keeler. “I want to see all of you succeed. So, the punishment will be light…this time. Keeler, you wake your ass up at two a.m. You go outside and guard the dumpster until four a.m. Then you come back in here and sit down and write your mama. You tell her what a kind, understanding man I am, and how much you love the organization you so badly want to join. Do you understand the words that are coming from my mouth, Keeler?” Ramirez’s voice crescendoed as he once again stood inches from Keeler’s face.
“Sir. I do. Sir.”
Keeler hadn’t a cell phone to wake him to stand his watch; they weren’t allowed. He slid under his cot with a flashlight and a textbook to keep awake. When the yawning began, he prepared his locker for the next inspection. It occurred to him, writing a glowing tribute of the sergeant now, instead of later, might allow him a quick nap before Reveille. Just in case Ramirez actually wanted to read the letter. At 0155 hours, Keeler went to his post.
He stood at ease in front of a fifteen-foot green metal dumpster. It was just his luck that it was full. Keeler recognized the foul stink and knew it had been recently visited by a skunk.
Why has he singled me out?
Keeler started when a car passed and parked farther down the street. Not wanting to attract attention, he prepared to leave. He would drive around and come back. Before he pulled away, a pickup truck pulled into the driveway. It idled for five minutes before the driver cut the engine and got out. A man of medium height and build stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to a sagging porch. He took long drags on his cigarette. Finally, he tossed it away, climbed the stairs, and entered the house.
Glad he hadn’t had to wait long, Keeler smiled at his good fortune. From the note he took from Giaconne’s wallet, he surmised that Giaconne had paid JC fifteen thousand dollars. He didn’t intend to pay for information. Keeler had other means of persuasion in mind. He left his car and approached the house.
***
Commissioner Sheppard paced in front of a five-story limestone building on Park Avenue. Can he ever be on time? Exacerbated by the honking traffic noise and threat of rain, his annoyance with Douglas Cain grew. Without Cain, he couldn’t enter the member-only Hunt Club. One of the perks of his association with the committee, he enjoyed the exclusivity and opulence from the moment he entered the front door. It made him think of how a nineteenth century men’s club in London might look and feel if it were described by Arthur Conan Doyle. Why don’t I have a membership?
“Harold.” Cain clapped him on the back. “Sorry I’m late.” A soft drizzle of rain pelted the faces of both men as they climbed the steps and entered. In the oval foyer ewers of different sizes, shapes, and patterns were displayed in a semi-circle. A podium stood in the exact center of the room, occupied by an elderly man jokingly referred to as “The Sentry.”
“Hello, William,” Cain said.
“Good afternoon, sir.” William Biggs, a fixture at his post for twenty years, noted Cain’s name, the time and, to Sheppard’s further irritation, “one guest.”
Sheppard followed Cain, who pulled the handle on the expanding gate so they could enter the elevator. The lawyer pressed the button for the third floor. The only nod to the 21st century was the soft music to relax passengers in the open carriage.
Exiting the elevator, they entered a large room with dark walnut walls, a fireplace, and wingback chairs distributed to form conversation areas.
Cain smiled. “Good, my two favorite chairs are available.”
In fact, Sheppard noticed, the entire room was empty.
“So, Harold, can I order us coffee? In this setting, I always feel it more appropriate to have tea, but I’m not a fan. Or do you want a whiskey or scotch?”
“Coffee is fine.”
While Cain checked boxes on a small white pad and delivered it to a corner table by the elevator, Sheppard studied their surroundings. This had always been their safe house; a place where they felt comfortable saying anything. Now, he couldn’t be sure.
“Done,” said Cain, getting Sheppard’s attention. “I stressed we want a fresh pot. That should give us some time before we’re interrupted.” Cain crossed his legs and folded his arms. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Sheppard was not going to jump into discussing the attempt on Scully’s life. Cain would be expecting that, and he didn’t want canned, prepared answers. “Why is it I never see you at committee meetings?”
Cain did a slight double take. “Why, keeping up with Senator Grayson’s campaign is more than a full time job. I’m on call night and day. Especially, now. The election is close. One mistake by Todd or any of his advisors could cost us the presidency.”
“Anything else?” Something didn’t ring true. That may be the reason today, but he hadn’t been at any meeting Sheppard attended.
Cain hesitated, and then admitted, “I can’t be associated with a committee that goes to extremes on behalf of the senator. Imagine if someone traced the abduction of Marnie Holt back to the committee, and Grayson’s personal counsel is a member.”
Sheppard wouldn’t let go. “Yet you aren’t concerned about your own actions coming to light. That would certainly end any chances of Todd Grayson becoming president.”
The lawyer sighed. “Giaconne became a major problem. He was blackmailing me, and it would’ve never ended. I had no idea he would approach Lucas Holt.”
Sheppard checked the time and wished he had ordered something stronger. “Or that Scully would try to access the Bardinari files. Lucky for you he did. That sent up an alarm.”
“Perhaps I should’ve come to you when Giaconne first contacted me. At the time, I tried to minimize the number of people involved…so I handled it myself.”
“Yes, you should’ve come to me. We would’ve made sure Giaconne had nothing on him that contradicted the theory he was robbed…like his ring and Holt’s business card. We had to clean up your mess by pinning the murder on a dead drug addict. You think you would’ve learned your lesson.”
“What are you talking about?” Cain asked.
Sheppard switched topics as if interrogating a common criminal. “The attempt on Ray Scully’s life…you arranged that, didn’t you?” Sheppard stared, looking for any tell indicating a lie was forthcoming.
Cain didn’t flinch; he made Sheppard wait for an answer.
“Well?” asked Sheppard.
A waiter arrived with their coffee and a cart of desserts. He set two ceramic mugs and a metal pot on the small table in front of them. He poured a cup for each. “Dessert, gentlemen?” They both declined. Cain took a sip of coffee before answering.
“Yes. I arranged it,” he admitted bitterly.
Sheppard leaned forward. “Well, next time, put me in the loop,” he said, his voice low and laced with anger. “You created a shit storm, and now I have to deal with it. The rank and file are ready to revolt, the mayor wants this to go away, and the press is hounding me for answers. If that isn’t enough, Kerrigan thinks I’m behind it.” Sheppard involuntarily ground his teeth and balled his right hand into a fist.
Cain waved his as if the matter were as inconsequential as swatting a fly. “I can handle Kerrigan.”
“Burke had shut down the investigation into Giaconne’s death. Why did you do it?”
“After you told me Scully went to Moravia Correctional Facility, I had someone follow him. He was seen at McAllister’s, where he met his partner. I couldn’t chance Holt getting involved. They were getting too close.” Cain shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “It was a necessary step. I’m sorry if it complicated your life.”
Sheppard rose and glared down at Cain. “Douglas, that’s an understatement. Although, right now, my head’s on the chopping block, don’t underestimate Emmett Kerrigan. Your cozy relationship with Grayson won’t protect you if the senator or the committee is threatened by the results of your actions. And I assure you, I won’t be the only one to go do
wn.”
Chapter 10
Keeler drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while he waited for the school bus lights to stop flashing. Luck had been on his side.
It hadn’t taken much for Joseph Clarkson to tell him what he needed to know. Keeler credited his intimidating presence and threats to Clarkson and his children, who would soon be home from school. He’d preyed on the man’s obvious fear of another visit by Keeler if he didn’t give the menacing stranger the information he demanded. Clarkson said he’d never heard of Douglas Cain, and Keeler believed him.
After Keeler produced the note taken from Giaconne’s wallet, Clarkson admitted to a relationship with Abrams and provided an address in Elmira. Before leaving, he warned Clarkson to keep quiet about their meeting. The man’s ashen face assured Keeler he’d do as he was told.
He watched as two boys jumped off the school bus and charged up the steps. Their father stood at the open door and after ushering them in, he slammed the door shut and closed the blinds.
***
“Twice in one day, Emmett.” Harold Sheppard stood at the entrance to Kerrigan’s Plaza Hotel apartment. “I have a lot going on and don’t have time to be at your beck and call.”
Kerrigan’s lips curled. “Yet, here you are.” He turned and walked to a seating area. “Sit down, Harold.”
Sheppard took great pains not to show his anger, but could feel the heat rise in his face. He loosened the knot in his tie and sat in one of the silk upholstered chairs flanking a marble-surrounded fireplace. He waited for Kerrigan to speak.
The head of the “committee” poured a glass of iced water and handed it to Sheppard. “You look like you need this.” Kerrigan sat opposite Sheppard. “Harold, we’re very concerned about what’s taken place in the last twenty-four hours. Ben and I agree that we need to get a handle on the situation and prevent anything that might reflect negatively on the election.”
Without taking a drink, Sheppard laid the full glass on a wood side table, inwardly smiling at Kerrigan’s horrified expression. Pompous ass. I hope it leaves a water stain.
“I’m doing everything I can, Emmett, to keep the official reports on the sniper shooting focused. Our PR department is working on an appropriate narrative to release to the public. The truth is the NYPD doesn’t have any physical evidence or leads, so in that respect, we can be honest.”
“Do I take that to mean you truly don’t know who is behind the shooting?”
“I, personally, don’t know who took a shot at Detective Scully.”
“Come on, Harold, now you’re mincing words. Did you order the hit? You’ve been known to go off on your own. But I would hope that with a decision as grave as this one—killing a police officer—you might have given it some real consideration. I have to say, I’ve felt for a while now that you don’t always weigh all the repercussions that could arise from your decisions and actions.”
Sheppard glanced at the glass of cold water. Beads of condensation pooled at the bottom. He wanted to pick it up and take a giant gulp. He ignored it. “Meaning exactly what? Are you trying to tell me something, Emmett?”
Kerrigan, who had been staring at the glass of water ruining his furniture, rose from his seat. Reaching into a nearby cabinet, he grabbed a handful of napkins and a coaster. He lifted the glass, swiped the moisture from the table, and set the glass on the square of thin cork. He sat again, visibly relaxed with his legs crossed.
What a patronizing dick. “It wasn’t my bad judgment you should be concerned about. Douglas Cain hired the sniper.”
Now it was Sheppard’s turn to relax and take joy in Kerrigan’s apparent shock and discomfort.
Kerrigan leaned forward in his chair, his widened eyes narrowing. “You knew about this, didn’t you? Why didn’t you stop him?”
Sheppard shook his head. The sight of Kerrigan’s tight, angry features made it hard to keep the chuckle out of his voice. “I knew nothing about it. Douglas arranged it all on his own.”
“Son of a bitch,” Kerrigan hissed. “What the hell was he thinking?”
“He wasn’t. He rushed to act. Just like when he arranged to have Giaconne killed.”
“What?” The color drained from Kerrigan’s face.
“Yes, Cain hired someone to murder Giaconne. Surprised?”
Kerrigan checked his watch and rose to get a drink. He stood at a north-facing window overlooking Central Park and spoke in a low growl. “This is worse than I thought.” Kerrigan turned to look at Sheppard. “Obviously, I’ll have to speak to Douglas, but tell me what you know.”
Sheppard related the few details Douglas Cain had given him and wrapped it up with one statement. “He was being blackmailed.”
“And Giaconne had proof to tie Cain to the kidnapping of Holt’s daughter?”
“Cain must have thought he did.”
“You don’t seem surprised by this revelation, Harold. Did you know the details of Giaconne’s death? Why weren’t we warned? Cain’s actions could directly impact Todd’s chances of winning the election. Hell, if this is made public, he could be forced to leave the ticket. Dammit, Harold, this is your fault.”
Sheppard shot out of his chair. “My fault. How? I didn’t know about the blackmail until Giaconne was already dead. Cain contacted me after the fact, and we did our best to clean up his mess. He tried to make it look like a robbery, and we pinned the murder on a drug felon.”
“Apparently, your best wasn’t good enough.” Kerrigan’s voice rose to a shout. “Somehow, you allowed Detective Scully to get involved, and now it’s opened a Pandora’s Box. You fucked up—royally.”
The commissioner stared at Kerrigan, making an inward attempt at composure. You bastard, how dare you dump this mess at my feet. “If you think I’ll allow you to make me a patsy, Emmett, you’ve misjudged me. I deserve more respect for my position in the NYPD and for how it has benefitted you and Grayson. You’d be wise to remember how deeply entrenched and complicit all the members of this committee are in its effort to protect Todd Grayson.”
Sheppard waited for Kerrigan’s reaction and was both surprised and unnerved at the businessman’s silence. Suddenly uncomfortable, he felt compelled to fill the void in the conversation. “With the investigation into Giaconne’s death shut down, I think we’ve gotten control of the matter.”
Kerrigan appeared unimpressed. “You think so, do you?”
“Yes, and Captain Burke is keeping an eye on Detective Scully. He’s got him tied up with a case where there are too many witnesses and no one saw the same thing.”
“Really?” Kerrigan’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “And who is keeping an eye on Lucas Holt?”
***
The house on Demarest Parkway was barely maintained compared to the other well-kept homes on the quiet stretch in West Elmira. Keeler parked his car a block away where a number of cars lined the street. He grabbed the jacket he kept in the backseat. Shrugging into it as he walked, he noted the ten-degree difference in temperature between upstate suburbs and the downstate boroughs. Keeler strode up the cracked cement walk, hands in his pockets, his eyes shifting in all directions. He rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” a man called, his voice frail and shaky.
Before Keeler could answer, the door opened a crack and the aroma of bratwurst and sauerkraut wafted past him. Mmm, smells good. Keeler had taken the time to do an internet search of Alfred S. Abrams, Esq. He was surprised to learn the ninety-two-year-old lawyer was originally from the Bronx and had lived not far from Keeler’s neighborhood. He wondered if Abrams knew his grandparents.
“Guten Abend, Herr Abrams,” Keeler said, using the German he hadn’t spoken in years. “I wonder if you could help me. I’m Edna and Felix Maier’s grandson. You lived in the Bronx, maybe you knew them.”
Abrams opened the door wider, and with glassy blue eyes, looked Keeler over head to foot. “What’s the name? Maier, you say?”
“Yes, can I come in?” Keeler gently pushed t
he door open, meeting no resistance from the elderly lawyer. Abrams appeared wary, but turned and walked away. Keeler closed the front door and followed.
“I was just about to have my dinner.” Abrams pointed to a steaming dish set on a small snack table in the living room.
“I’m sorry,” said Keeler, “I won’t keep you long.”
Glancing around, it appeared to Keeler that, aside from the kitchen, the old man lived mainly in one room of the large house. The living room was divided into two areas, a sofa, chair, and television on one side and a large desk and row of file cabinets on the other. Off the living area, Keeler could see a small alcove where a single unmade bed stood with a nightstand and lamp next to it.
Abrams grunted and asked, “Did you say you want to ask me about your grandparents? I haven’t lived in the Bronx for over forty years. Doubt I can help you.” Not offering Keeler a seat, Abrams sat and began to eat his dinner.
Keeler watched the old man cut his sausage into small pieces and load the fork with meat and sauerkraut. “Actually, I’m here to ask you about a man who came to you recently looking for information. His name was Giaconne.”
Abrams stopped eating and gently laid the fork beside the plate. He peered at Keeler, his eyes suddenly clear, his speech lucid. “No one by that name has visited me. In fact, I have very few visitors, since I’m retired.” Abrams pushed the snack table away and with one hand on the armrest, rose from the sofa. “Sorry I can’t help you.” He walked back toward the front door.
With a few swift strides, Keeler reached it first but made no move to leave. Instead, he pressed his back against the door and folded his arms over his chest.