Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  “That’s awfully convenient. I mean, he swears he didn’t do it and then turns around and confesses. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Not really. He’s crazy as a shithouse rat. Why sweat it?”

  “How do you know he was telling the truth?”

  “Do you have any reason to believe he wasn’t? You checked his alibi. It didn’t pan out.”

  “I was coming in to interrogate him.”

  Larraby nodded. “And I saved you the trouble. What’s your beef?”

  “A confession under duress is about as worthless as if you waterboarded him.”

  “There was no duress. He played ball. Sometimes the white hats win. Congratulations.”

  Ron shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about it more. He told me he had nothing to do with it.” Ron frowned. “I’m not convinced he did it.”

  “You don’t have to be. The case is now officially closed.”

  Ron leaned forward. “Captain, that’s not how I roll. You know that. I’m not going to go along with a confession if I think it’s fraudulent, and neither should you, regardless of how much pressure is put on you. That’s not our job. It’s to get to the truth.”

  Larraby matched his glare and tone. “I appreciate the lesson on professional ethics, Detective, but unless you’ve got some evidence that the confession is fraudulent, you’re coming dangerously close to insubordination. I like you, Stanford, and you’re a valued member of the force, but nobody comes into my office and tears me a new one without cause. Do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear. But I’m still going to investigate his alibi. I don’t buy the witness’s story.”

  Larraby’s voice softened. “Ron, these cases put you under tremendous pressure. Take the day off. You don’t look so hot, and frankly, your behavior is out of character.”

  Ron ignored his comment. “Where’s Gunter? I want to talk to him.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, and I still want to talk to my prisoner.”

  “He’s been transferred to Rikers. He’s no longer here.”

  Ron and Larraby stared daggers at each other, and Ron had to muster all his resolve to keep from jumping across the table and throttling him. Ron understood that he had been set up. The captain had sent him on his way and, the moment the alibi had fallen apart, worked behind his back to get the mayor the confession they were both after.

  “The whole thing stinks,” Ron spat.

  “Sometimes that’s how life is. But it’s over. Let it go.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you for hearing me out, sir,” Ron said as he stood.

  “Stanford, don’t be that way. You won this one. Enjoy it.”

  “I didn’t win anything if a killer’s still walking the streets. And neither did you. There was a time when I didn’t have to explain that to my superior officer.”

  “Bring me evidence and I’ll go to the wall for you, Detective. Until then, back the hell off and get out of my office.”

  Ron stormed from Larraby’s suite, his mind racing. Why was the mayor in such a rush to close the case? Other than the obvious, which was that it was an election year; could it have to do with pressure he’d received from Stibling? Ron had smelled a rat with the banker from the beginning. Could the videos have been shot with the hedge-fund magnate’s participation?

  The possibility was an unpleasant one to consider, but Ron wasn’t paid for wishful thinking. The bile in his stomach churned with every step as he tried to envision how Stibling might have been involved. Could that have been the ultimate forbidden kick? To have someone tortured and killed while he watched?

  Ron took the stairs back to his office, wanting to move, the thought of riding the elevator again filling him with claustrophobic anxiety. He knew that it was probably a byproduct of too much wine and Grey Goose, but with all the unpleasant surprises so far, he wasn’t feeling lucky.

  If Stibling was a part of the killings, Ron would learn the truth; and then no amount of money or influence would save him.

  Chapter 48

  Back at his desk, Ron endured more congratulations, feeling increasingly sucker punched by Larraby with each high five. Ben stopped by and asked how his meeting went, but Ron’s glare sent him scurrying away in search of coffee. Ron reviewed his discussion with Tom the prior night and tried not to think about Tess’s accusation that he’d been too quick to buy his story. She was right – the only reason he’d been so lax was because he wanted Gunter to be guilty, and had already convinced himself that he was, right down to congratulating himself that another body hadn’t turned up – proof he’d nailed the murderer.

  Which, of course, violated his first rule, which was to allow the evidence to guide him, not his sentiment. He’d disliked Gunter on sight and wanted the killing to be over so badly that he’d dropped his guard. Now he would make amends. If Tom’s story held up, then he was flagellating himself for nothing, but he wouldn’t take anything about the case for granted from this point on.

  Ron powered on his computer and logged into the central database. After a few moments of consideration, he entered Tom’s name to see if he had a record. Ron doubted it, but he’d been surprised before. As the system churned with typically sluggish speed, he called his contact in technology and gave him Tom’s cell phone so he could verify its location on the night in question.

  “Just that night?” his contact asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You got a court order?”

  “I was hoping you could just sort of glance at it.”

  “You know that’s bending the rules, Ron.”

  “The NSA does it all the time. Cut me some slack, would you?”

  “It’ll be inadmissible.”

  “I just need a verbal. A peek behind the curtain is all.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You owe me lunch.”

  “Guy’s gotta eat,” Ron agreed.

  The blinking message light’s accusing flash convinced him to check his voice mail, but the calls were mainly celebratory – except for Amy. Hers was terse.

  “Ron, heard about Gunter this morning. We putting this one to bed?”

  He held off on calling her until he knew more and focused on his screen, which was pulsing to indicate his record search was completed. Ron tapped in a request and a scanned copy of a police report filled the screen, dated six years ago.

  Ron read it with growing anger at himself, and with Tom. Of course people lied about their sex lives. In a conservative position with a conservative company, and married with a child, there was little chance Tom would admit to doing the nasty with Gunter, or anyone else.

  His tech contact called back and gave him the bad news. “Last ping was at ten p.m.,” he said, and identified a tower near Union Square.

  “Nothing after that?”

  “No. He must have turned his phone off.”

  “Why would he do that if he was out drinking?”

  “Low battery? Beats me.”

  “I still owe you a sandwich.”

  “That’s it? A lousy sandwich? You said lunch. I was thinking a T-bone.”

  “I was thinking a vending-machine burrito. Let’s split the difference.”

  “See how much help you get next time you need it.”

  “Okay, steak it is. Philly cheese steak.”

  “What a rip-off.”

  Ron disconnected and considered how to confront Tom. After a long moment, he dialed his work number and was put through.

  “Tom? Detective Ron Stanford. Do you have a few minutes? I have a couple more questions for you.”

  “It’s pretty busy here today, Detective. Can it wait?”

  “Afraid not. If you like, I can mention to your employer that you’re helping us with a case. That should free you up enough time so we can meet.”

  “No, that’s okay. I was going to take a break and hit the Starbucks around the corner from my building. When were you th
inking?”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Tom was sitting at a table at the side of the café, his suit and pricey tie impeccable. Ron ordered a cup of drip and carried it to the table, a neutral expression in place.

  “Mr. Jenkowitz,” Ron said.

  “Detective, you mentioned you had some questions? I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush today…”

  “This shouldn’t take much time.” Ron sipped his coffee. “Do you know the penalty for lying to a homicide detective in the course of an investigation?”

  Tom blinked, but aside from that, remained calm. “I have no idea.”

  “It’s hindering a felony investigation, at the very least – a felony. The courts come down hard when it can result in a miscarriage of justice – an innocent man going to jail or a guilty man going free.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you like to reconsider your testimony?”

  Tom’s hand was steady when he took a gulp of his drink. “Why would I? I told you what I recall.”

  Ron set his voice recorder on the table. “So you are asserting that you provided a true and correct statement to me? It’s important to get that clear, if a felony charge is to be filed.”

  Tom stared at the device like it was a live scorpion. “What are you playing at, Detective?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I…it’s what I remember.”

  Ron sat forward. “Mr. Jenkowitz, there are two ways to do anything – the easy way or the hard way. I can go to the bar where Gunter claims he met you, show your picture around, and if you were there, maybe get someone who recognizes you. I can pull traffic-camera footage in the area and see if you appear. If I have to go to that level, I can guarantee you that I’ll be pretty annoyed at all the work I had to do, and will come down on you like a ton of bricks if you’re lying.”

  “Sounds like I need an attorney. You’re becoming rather abusive, Detective. I’ve committed no crime.”

  “I’m waiting for the results of the fingerprinting at his flat, Tom. If your prints show up there, you’re history.”

  Tom glared at Ron but didn’t say anything. Ron went in for the knockout punch. “While you’re searching your memory, care to discuss your arrest and plea bargain six years ago? The one where you solicited a male vice cop in a gay bar? Patronizing a prostitute, third degree, pled down to disturbing the peace due to no priors.”

  The blood leached from Tom’s face. “I…”

  “Take your time.”

  Tom swallowed hard. “Detective, I might not have been entirely complete in my response.”

  “It happens. No harm done if you recall more.”

  Tom nodded and averted his gaze. “It’s true. I spent the night at a man’s home in the West Village. His name was Gunter. That’s all I remember. A lot of alcohol was involved. I’m sorry I…didn’t remember sooner. I was scared and embarrassed. If my family or my employer were to find out…”

  Ron removed Gunter’s booking photo from his jacket pocket and showed it to Tom. “Is this the man?”

  Tom glanced at it and nodded. “What did he do?”

  “That’s not material.” Ron switched on his voice recorder and announced the date, time, and Tom’s name. “Tell me everything, Mr. Jenkowitz. Start from the beginning, and leave nothing out. I’m particularly interested in times – what time you hooked up with the suspect, what time you left his place.”

  “It was around ten on Wednesday night…”

  Ron mentioned the date, and Tom nodded. Ron pointed at the recorder. “A verbal response is required for the recording.”

  Fifteen minutes later Ron was rushing to the subway, face flushed, cursing with every other step.

  Chapter 49

  Captain Larraby looked up from a report he was reading when Ron burst through his door, voice recorder in hand.

  “Is this going to be a repeat performance, Stanford?” Larraby growled. “Because I’m in no frigging mood…”

  “The alibi is genuine. The confession’s bogus,” Ron declared.

  Larraby’s shoulders slumped. “What have you got?”

  Ron pressed play on the recorder and set it on Larraby’s desk. He took a seat and stared holes through his superior, whose face could have been cast from wax by the time the recording finished. Ron switched the device off and pocketed it.

  “I told you,” Ron said softly.

  “And I told you that if you came up with evidence, I’d back you. Which I will.”

  “The killer’s still walking free, Captain.”

  “I put two and two together on that, Stanford.”

  “You going to call the mayor?”

  “Let’s wait until you do some more digging, shall we? I don’t want to give him a heart attack.”

  Ron pushed back from the desk and stood. “I’m going to investigate the likely perps for the last murder. One of whom is Stibling. And I don’t want any flak.”

  “I won’t try to micromanage you, Stanford. Do what you have to do.” Larraby tossed the report aside. “I’m sorry to have gone along with this.”

  “Let me get to work,” Ron said. He wasn’t going to let the captain off the hook that easily. The way the NYPD worked was like a bank, where favors were the currency. Having a big credit from Larraby in Ron’s account was meaningful, and both men knew it.

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” Ron gave Larraby a final hard stare. “I expect no interference from the mayor or anyone else. He’s already done enough damage with the fake confession.”

  “Nobody will get in your way.”

  Ron nodded and left, leaving the captain to stare at his desk, his afternoon prospects having just turned ugly.

  Back in his cubicle, Ron ferreted through his file drawer until he located the background he’d compiled on Stibling. He placed it on his desk and pulled up the dossier on Jeremy, reading it critically for any hint of psychopathic behavior – other than going to work on Wall Street.

  He more than understood Tess’s perspective: that Jeremy had killed Dakota after learning about her pregnancy, using the cover of a serial killer to deflect suspicion. It was plausible, if extreme; but the problem remained that the detail in the video couldn’t have been faked, which had him leaning toward Stibling, although neither Paulo nor Sato were in the clear either on Dakota’s murder. He would have to re-question them and see whether they had alibis, he knew, and added that to his list of diligence now that he was treating Dakota’s killing as a separate case – which, of course, Tess had argued for all along.

  He passed his afternoon on the computer, searching for anything he’d missed, and he was engrossed in a newspaper account of the Japanese snuff films when his office line blared at him. One of the junior detectives’ nasal whine emanated from the speaker.

  “I have a Sheriff Delon on the line, Ron.”

  “Who?” The name didn’t ring any bells.

  “You asked me to call the local cops in Virginia to see if there were any juvenile records for Jeremy Glass the other day? Well, the sheriff finally returned the call. Wants to talk to you.”

  “Put him through,” Ron said. The call was a routine part of detective work, but one he’d had success with in the past.

  A gruff male voice came on the line, and Ron immediately visualized a chain-smoking man with a cowboy hat and skin the texture of saddle leather. “Detective Stanford? Sheriff Delon. What can I do you for?”

  “Thanks for returning the call. I’m looking for any background on a former resident of yours.”

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. It was the weekend, and I’ve been down with the flu. It’s going around.” The sheriff coughed. “Who you checking on?”

  “No problem. A guy named Jeremy Glass.”

  A silence hung on the line. When Delon finally spoke, his voice was more guarded. “You pull his record?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing.”

  “Wh
at kind of investigation are you working, Detective?”

  “Homicide.”

  Another pause. “You say there’s nothing in the record? Damn. They must have sealed ’em.”

  “Sealed?”

  “Juvenile.”

  “What did he do?”

  Delon sighed. “Detective, you know I can’t answer that without violating the law. But what I can say…what I will say is it doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “No, Detective, I can’t be. I’m already treading on some thin ice, and we both know that. I wish I could tell you something that could help you out, but I’m hamstrung. Good luck with him. If I recall, he’s a smart one. Those are the worst kind.”

  “Sheriff…”

  “Might want to check in with the local paper and see if there are any articles that catch your eye from the years he lived here. Never know,” the sheriff said.

  The line went dead with a click, and Ron found himself listening to the hum of a dial tone. “Shit,” he said, and slammed the handset into the cradle. The sheriff’s response had told him enough. There was something in Jeremy’s childhood that had made an indelible mark on the old lawman, and it wasn’t good. That he wasn’t surprised Jeremy was part of a murder investigation cinched that it must be dark. Due to the way the law was written, crimes committed by juveniles could be sealed if they weren’t tried and convicted as adults, and it sounded like that was the case with Jeremy.

  Ron devoted a half hour to an in-depth search of all newspaper records from the town during Jeremy’s life there, but came up empty – it was before most publications had computerized their archives, so he was left with the unappetizing prospect of begging research librarians in that area to go through their microfiches for any articles in which Jeremy was mentioned, or grilling him in person. Ron checked the time and made his decision: he would question Jeremy one more time, this time with more skepticism, get more specifics on his story, and verify as much as he could.

  He started by calling his friend in tech again, who was less than thrilled to hear from him, judging by his tone.