“Good, we can talk. Let’s go someplace. You can buy me a drink.”
“Joe Delaney’s is right up the block.”
The bar, one long, dimly lit room with a pool table on a raised platform at the back, a juke box and cozy booths along the wall, was not crowded, the snow having driven people home. They took a booth and ordered drinks, a Coke for Jade, a Jameson straight for Davila.
“I imagine McCann and Goode are anxious to drop the kid off to you and Nick,” Jade said, while they were waiting for their drinks. She had hung her coat and scarf and woolen hat on the coat rack near the front door, and was running her hands through her long black hair, made unruly by the slightest dampness and now totally out of control, or so she thought, ruing her vanity and her obsessive hair issues.
“You’re right, but Nick and I are getting out of it, too,” the detective replied.
“Why? You know Matt?”
“Every homicide and major crimes guy in the city knows Matt.”
“The women too.”
“What women?”
“The woman detectives, Bob. You left them out.”
“You know what I mean.”
“So what’s your conflict?”
“I was the first officer,” Davila said, “at Matt’s first murder trial.”
“The honor killing?”
“That’s the one.”
“You were around then?”
“I was a rookie, twenty-years-old. I was in the Operation Impact program. You never heard the story?”
“No. Tell me.”
“I was riding with Jack McCann. He was teaching me the ropes. Supposedly. I was driving. Jack passed out on the way to the scene. He drank on the job then.”
“Christ.”
“Exactly. Anyway, the neighborhood’s very bad. Dope dealers, gangbangers all over the place. I lock Jack in the car and rush in. The perp is in the basement trying to shove his dead sister’s body through this one-foot opening in this old fashioned incinerator. I didn’t know they even existed any more. He’s covered with blood. I know backup is coming and I don’t want them to see Jack. I wrestle the kid to the ground and cuff him. Now I’m covered with blood, too. The kid’s telling me his sister’s a whore. He’s glad he killed her, shit like that. His eyes are on fire with hate—of me—but cold and calm at the same time. A bad kid. I rush him outside. There’s people looking in on Jack. I back them off. The backup comes, I tell them about the body. I tell them Jack had a heart attack. It turns out they know Jack so we all cover for him.”
“I never heard this, Bob.”
“True. The thing is, I never gave the perp his Miranda warnings, so what he says to me—the sister is a whore, she deserves it—all that gets thrown out. I fucked up, my first day out.”
“But Matt won anyway.”
“Yeah. He told me not to worry and he was right. My career’s been OK.”
“Did he know McCann back then?”
“Yeah, and Goode. They knocked around.”
Jade looked at Davila. The sly smile that she was used to seeing on his face, missing while he was telling his story, had returned.
“How bad is this, Bob?”
“It’s bad,” Davila replied, “and it’s gotten worse. The girl’s father is a big shot in Lebanon, one of the one’s on our side. Healy called our C.O. and asked him to go over the case with him. He wants no holes, no fuck ups.”
“What do you have?”
“The doorman says no one else came in or out, fingerprints, angry e-mails. How am I doing so far?”
Jade couldn’t help smiling. Davila, a bantamweight with a chip on his shoulder because of his size, was not without his charms. One of them was his sense of humor, dry and sly.
“What’s the charge?” she asked.
“One-two-five, two-seven. Murder one.”
“No way!”
Jade blurted this out. Murder one—for cop killers, multiple killings and murder committed while committing certain felonies—carried the death sentence.
“We think she was raped,” Davila said, his voice matter-of-fact. “They’re doing the autopsy tomorrow morning.”
Jade shook her head. She had left Legal Aid and opened her own office only a week ago. She had taken two shoplifting cases yesterday. Today, it’s murder one, her client the son of a high profile prosecutor and an ex-lover to boot.
“Based on what?” she asked. “They were dating.”
“Bruises. You’ll see the pictures.”
“Anything else?” Somehow she knew there was more to come. Their drinks arrived before Davila could answer. He drank half of his down, then said, “You won’t believe it. The murder weapon, found in the kid’s room.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yes it is.”
“It goes against premeditation, at least.”
“If you say so.”
“If he had thought the whole thing out he would have disposed of the gun.”
“You would think so.”
“Something’s wrong, Bobby, don’t you think?”
Jade was fishing. She did not know if something was wrong. She had only met Michael DeMarco once, briefly, when he was seventeen. He had barely acknowledged her. For all she knew he was capable of rape and murder in a fit of rage.
Davila knocked back the rest of his whiskey and then looked around the room for a second before answering. “Maybe,” the detective said, “but I’m not being paid to think, not in this case. Tomorrow it goes to Manhattan Homicide.”
“What about a security video?”
“We’ve asked for it.”
“Do me a favor,” Jade said.
“What? Hold it,” Davila said. “Let’s have another drink.” He had caught the waitress’s eye. When she came over, he ordered another round. Jade watched him, knowing he was calculating the risk-reward factor of doing something for this tall half-breed who he had once dreamed of having a torrid affair with, perhaps renewing those hopes.
“I don’t want the kid to spend the night in the Tombs,” she said.
“So? What?”
“Keep him at the precinct. Take him downtown around seven AM. I know the head court clerk. She’s a friend of my mother’s. She can get him booked quickly, and arraigned at nine sharp.”
“That’s only one night,” Davila said. “He’ll be there till Monday.”
“I’m going to try to get him his own cell.”
“Good luck with that.”
Jade watched as Davila again looked around, thinking over her request.
“I can do it,” he said, finally. “But it won’t be as easy as you think. And you’ll owe me.”
“Bob,” Jade said. “You know what Robert DeNiro said in The Godfather, don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“I don’t forget,” she answered, putting her right index finger to her temple and smiling.
“Good, I don’t either,” said Davila, smiling back.
The drinks came, but before they could sip, Davila’s cell phone rang. Jade listened carefully to his end of the conversation:
“Is that you, Jack?… OK… I’m at Delaney’s… He’s lawyered up, by the way… Jade Lee… Of course I remember.”
“Was he reminding you that you’re a happily married man?” Jade asked when he hung up.
“As a matter of fact, he was,” Davila replied, picking up his double whisky and drinking it in one gulp.
“I guess we’re going?” Jade said.
“Yes, they’re on the Westside Highway.”
“I’ll get this,” said Jade, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the table, noticing that the detective had not reached for his wallet. That’s your payback, she said to herself. We’re even.
> Chapter 3
Manhattan,
Saturday, January 31, 2009,
12:15AM
“You’ve grown up, Michael,” Jade said.
“I don’t remember you.”
“We met once about five years ago at one of your soccer games.”
They were in a windowless ten-foot by ten-foot interview room on the second floor of the 20th Precinct’s modern brick and concrete building on 82nd Street, sitting on metal chairs, facing each other across a dented metal table. Michael’s hands, resting on his lap, were cuffed. Bob Davila stood in the hallway outside, within calling distance, doing his job.
“Is it Jade? Or Miss Lee? Or Ms. Lee? Whatever you want me to call you, get me out of here.”
“Has anybody interrogated you?”
“Are you listening to me? Get me the fuck out of here.”
Jade, startled by Michael DeMarco’s ferocity, leaned back in her chair, her features composed. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. His girlfriend was dead. Perhaps he had killed her.
“Michael,” she said, her voice neutral, “in a few hours you’re going downtown to be booked. The place is a dungeon. That’s why it’s called the Tombs. Scumbags all over the place. Just follow directions and keep your mouth shut. I’ll meet you in the courtroom at nine o’clock.”
“Is that when I get out?”
“No, you’re charged with murder. You’ll be remanded to custody without bail.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll be in the Tombs until Monday. Then you’ll be transferred to Rikers. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course. It’s a shit hole.”
“Correct.”
“And then what?”
“You have to be indicted by a grand jury within five days of your arrest. Then you’ll go before a judge who will set bail.”
“Is that when I get out?”
“The bail will be high, but if you can make it, or your family can, yes.”
“Where’s my father.”
“Your father’s on his way here, but you won’t be able to see him.”
“He’ll get me out.”
“No, he won’t. That’s why I’m telling you this. To prepare you. The Tombs and Rikers are nasty places. Get ready for a rough couple of days.”
“I thought my father was a big shot prosecutor?”
“The president of the United States couldn’t get you bailed until Wednesday.”
Jade, noticing the flash of light in Michael’s eyes, wondered for a second whether he was going to make another sarcastic remark, perhaps about the new president, but he remained silent. Michael’s eyes, she could not fail to notice, were the same as his father’s, dark and wildly beautiful. How far otherwise the fruit had fallen from the tree she did not know, but it seemed pretty far.
“Is she really dead?” Michael said.
Jade looked at her watch. She was wondering when he was going to ask about his dead girlfriend. Ten minutes had passed. Not a good sign.
“She’s dead, Michael, shot twice in the back of the head and twice in the back of the neck, at close range.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it?”
“You were there today.”
“That doesn’t prove anything. It was someone else, obviously.”
“They say she was raped too. Did you have sex with her?”
Jade watched as Michael absorbed this, his eyes narrowing, his wheels spinning, trying to get traction.
“We made love,” he said.
“Were you arguing?”
“Yes.”
“They think it was rape.”
“It wasn’t.” His denial was forceful, but Jade did not miss the shadow that fell across Michael DeMarco’s eyes as he spoke, the first crack in his armor of arrogance, always thin, especially in the young.
“And then there’s the gun they found in your room in Pound Ridge,” she said. “They’re pretty sure the bullets will be a match.”
“It’s not mine. I told them that at the house.”
“Your Arab friends must have planted it, don’t you think?”
Jade watched as Michael paused. This must have occurred to him, she thought. He’s not stupid.
“Who else could it have been?” she said, when Michael did not answer. “You think your father put it there?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t yours?”
“Of course. I hate guns.”
“Michael, listen to me,” Jade said. “Right now, I’m not interested in whether you did this crime or not. Only in figuring out defenses. If you didn’t do it, the way I see it, the gun had to be planted by your so-called buddies. Do you agree with me?” And if you did do it, ditto, she said to herself, planning ahead, thinking of reasonable doubt.
“Yes.”
“O.K. We don’t have long,” she continued. “You need to tell me about them. What are their full names? Where do they live?”
Michael raised his cuffed hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, then returned them quickly to his lap, shaking his head, sitting more upright. “I don’t know their last names,” he said. “Adnan’s is F-something. Farouk maybe. They work sometimes for Basil, my stepfather. That’s how I met them.”
“When?”
“When they came to New York, a few months ago.”
“Where are they from? What nationality?”
“They’re Lebanese.”
“Did Yasmine meet them?”
“Yes.”
“How do I find them?”
“They live on Long Island, in Locust Valley. They’re house sitting some rich guy’s house. Basil got them the gig.”
“What rich guy? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.
“Have you been to the house?”
“Yes, a few times.”
“What’s the address?”
“I don’t know, but it’s huge. It’s got a fountain in front with statues of dolphins in the middle. There’s a golf course across the street.”
“Who else knows them?”
“Who else?”
“Yes, other friends, people you hang out with.”
Michael’s handsome features were grim now. These two had really fucked him. That was Jade’s educated guess as to what he was thinking. Good old Adnan and Ali.
“Just Yasmine,” Michael answered finally. “The three of us just hung out.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting stoned sometimes, listening to music, sometimes we went to a club.”
“What club?”
“A place called Lucky’s, in Queens.”
“Did anyone know them there?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Bartenders, bouncers, anyone?”
“One bartender did seem to know them. Another Arab guy.”
“But you don’t know his name.”
“I do. Because it’s so weird. Rex.”
“Rex. Where in Queens?”
“Near the Whitestone Bridge. I think it’s on Linden Place.”
“O.K.,” Jade said, looking at her watch again. Davila had given her 20 minutes. “A couple of things. Were you questioned when you got here?”
“No. I was fingerprinted, then handcuffed to a desk.”
“Did they do a gunshot residue test, or talk about one? Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s a chemical test to tell if you’ve fired a gun. It has to be done within 48 hours.”
“It hasn’t happened.”
“You would have no problem with it?”
“I didn’t fire a gun.”
“Did you handle it?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll get it done. We have until four P.M. Sunday. I’ll get someone to come to the Tombs.”
Jade had been making notes on a yellow legal pad. She put the pad back in her briefcase and rose from her chair. Her height seemed to startle Michael. She had been sitting waiting for him when he was brought into the interrogation room. He looked tired, but otherwise not the worse for the wear of the events of the evening, and the afternoon, if he in fact had killed Yasmine Hayek.
“How tall are you?” he asked.
“Five-ten.”
“I do remember you. When you were dating my father.”
Jade nodded.
“What happened there?” Michael asked.
“I’m leaving,” she said, ignoring this question. “I’ll see you in court tomorrow. Is there anybody you want me to call, or talk to?”
“My mother.”
“Your father called her.”
“I did too, but she didn’t pick up. I left a message for her to call my father.”
“When did you call her?”
“They let me make a call when I got here.”
“One last thing, Michael.”
“What?”
“Don’t talk to any inmates at the Tombs or at Rikers about your case. Especially Rikers. They’re all looking to make deals.”
“Sure. Of course. So what happened between you and my father?”
Michael had been looking at her with great interest, the way most men did. Though her sweater was not form fitting and her jeans were just jeans, her body had a way of announcing itself.
“Do you want me to represent you, Michael?” Jade replied, moving to the door and pushing the buzzer on the wall to signal that her visit was over.
“Sure.”
“Then don’t ask me any more personal questions. One more and you’ll have to get a new lawyer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 4
Manhattan,
Saturday, January 31, 2009,
3:00AM
Matt, lucky to get a taxi to stop in a snowstorm, had had to bribe the cabbie with a twenty-dollar bill to get him to take him across town to his apartment on Columbus Avenue. Could he sleep? He didn’t think so. He had a habit of putting his leftover morning coffee into an old glass milk bottle and refrigerating it for future use. Pouring some into a pan, adding milk and sugar, he stirred himself a poor man’s cappuccino, turning off the flame just as the mixture was starting to boil. They had not let him see Michael at the Precinct. He was in a holding pen in the basement, Matt was told, and would be taken downtown any minute. Bobby Davila had gone off duty. No use waiting. Despite Jade Lee’s admonition not to, he had called Jon Healy, and gotten through. Sipping his coffee in the apartment’s small but comfortable living room, he recalled their conversation.
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