The art was in building a case that would stand up to legal challenge and, if need be, before a jury. In this case, however, somebody was screwing with the process, throwing out false leads, gumming the works. Karp’s pride in what was, if not a machine of justice, at least a smoothly working sewage plant, had been touched now.
As he thought about it, doodling on Marlene’s note, he confirmed in his mind the notion that the mess was the fault of the Queens D.A., either through incompetence or worse. In the note’s margin he wrote: “Chaney-Thelmann/Bello—no pressure on cops/sister—rap sheet—informant—why no follow up?” It was as good as an indictment.
Marlene always wrote the names and numbers of case contacts on the inside of the case folder. Karp found the number of Jerry Thelmann at the Queens D.A. and dialed it.
He got Thelmann’s secretary and misidentified himself as a New York D.A. bureau chief. It seemed that Mr. Thelmann was not in. What was this in reference to? The Simmons murder? Oh, then he would have to wait. Everyone on the staff connected with the Simmons case was at a press conference. They had arrested the killer that morning. Who was it? A man named John Doone.
Karp thanked the woman and hung up the phone. He looked at the list again. In large letters he wrote on it, “WHY???”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“They did what!” Marlene came up out of her doze like a breaching whale. “I said,” Karp repeated, “that they just picked up Doone for the Simmons killing. I just got off the phone with Thelmann.”
It was past four and the December light was thinning out. Karp was lying on top of the covers next to Marlene, who, though she had scarcely stirred since returning from her thug-photography session, had come alive in response to the mysterious instincts that let her know when Karp was doing business on the phone in the loft.
“What’d he say?” Marlene asked. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and sat up expectantly in bed.
“He said they’d been watching him for a while on the thing anyway. They knew Leona was carrying dope for him and they figured that was the connection—”
“Who’s this ‘they’?”
“Queens homicide detective named Fence. Thelmann told me he’s the one in charge of the real investigation. Anyway, they got a tip and they went into his car with a warrant. Found an automatic, nine-millimeter, the ballistics check out. It’s the gun that did Simmons.”
“And what does Leona Simmons have to say about this?” Marlene asked.
Karp nodded. “Yeah, I asked him that too. He said she wasn’t material to their case.”
“Wasn’t material! Christ, Butch, she could’ve been an eyewitness. Does he even know where she is?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He was not that anxious to talk to me in the first place; he sounded real nervous—excited but scared. Long pauses.”
“I bet,” said Marlene, then, “Wait a second: they like him for the actual trigger?”
“So I’m told. Why?”
“What about Doone being in jail on the murder night? How did he explain that?”
Karp was startled. “Where did you hear that?”
“From Doone. Don’t give me that look! Why the hell would he lie about something like that? It’s easy enough to check. And Doone isn’t stupid.”
“No, but if he’s not, then Thelmann is. I can’t believe the little putz wouldn’t check something like that.” He looked at Marlene, who had risen from the bed and was shuffling through her dresser drawers. “You don’t like him for it anyway, do you?”
“No, I hate him for it. Bello had it right. It’s the wrong kind of hit, and the dope in the car makes no sense at all. Why would Doone have seen me, have listened to me for two seconds, unless he was genuinely concerned about losing his stuff, or about somebody trying to do him dirty?”
“That’s a point,” admitted Karp. “But the thing that really stinks out loud is the business about Doone being locked up. You going somewhere?”
Marlene was struggling into a pair of red wool tights. “Well, I’m not going to lounge in bed while they railroad my own personal vicious drug lord. What about you?”
“I’m beat for today,” said Karp, leaning back and flexing his bad knee carefully. “Tomorrow I might make some calls. Find out about that arrest anyway. You know, this is starting to stink worse all the time. What I can’t figure out anymore is why they killed him. And why somebody is setting up this elaborate scam. What could be so important?”
“That’s the toughie, all right,” said Marlene. She pulled on a bulky black sweater and wriggled into a denim maternity skirt. “And I think I know who to talk to about it.”
She dropped down the ladder and went to her office. There she dialed a familiar number and was quickly connected to the woman who was holding down her job while she was on maternity leave, Luisa Beckett.
“Luisa, I got a problem,” she said after the usual pleasantries. “Are you free later this afternoon?”
“I could shuffle some things. Why? Is it important?”
“Yeah, I think it is,” Marlene replied and then gave Beckett a brief description of her involvement in the search for whoever had killed Marion Simmons.
At the first mention of Bello’s name, Beckett interrupted her.
“That’s Harry Bello? Used to work out of Brooklyn homicide?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Um, you could say that. Working in the Brooklyn D.A. back when I did, he was hard to miss. I knew his partner, Jim Sturdevant, a lot better. Jim was one of those cops who keep baby D.A.’s from making assholes of themselves, you know? A sweetheart. I broke down when he got killed. Harry, on the other hand …”
“What about him?” asked Marlene anxiously.
“Well, the word on him around the courthouse was that he wasn’t that tightly laced to begin with. Smart as hell, but he wouldn’t talk to anybody but Sturdevant; I mean literally. He had a temper on him too. Some mutt would tell him a stupid lie, like they all do, and he’d go batty. Jim kept him in line, and when Jim got it, he went out of control. Went on a rampage looking for the shithead all over Bed-Stuy. A kid got shot dead under suspicious circumstances. Self-defense according to the inquiries, but it left a stink. The D.A. had words with the commissioner, I understand. Anyway, he got transferred out.”
“What was the story on how Sturdevant got shot?”
“Yeah, that too. Bello’s story was him and Jim were checking out a witness at a building on Lewis Avenue. They surprised two kids busting into an apartment. One of them pulled a gun and shot Jim, and then they both escaped while Harry was getting help for Jim. So he knew what they looked like.”
“And Harry tracked down and killed the gunman?”
“Well, he killed a black teenager all right. Whether it was the gunman remains to be seen. The dead kid’s mother swore he was out of town when it all happened. But, given the circumstances, case closed. I mean, what’s another dead black scumbag more or less? So, Harry’s back in action, huh?”
“Yeah, to an extent,” Marlene replied, and finished the story of the case.
Beckett laughed and said, “That’s some vacation you’re taking, Marlene. How would you distinguish it from work itself?”
“I don’t wear makeup or panty hose,” said Marlene. “Look, here’s the point. I need to go back and see Mrs. Simmons again. She was locked up tight when she was interviewed before, because she was afraid for Leona. Probably somebody was pressuring her to keep her mouth shut and to go along with the story that Marion was involved with the drug business. If I go to her now and explain the situation that’s come out in the last couple of weeks, I’m pretty sure we can get her on our side.”
“I don’t follow,” said Beckett.
“It’s because of the problem of protecting Leona. If she really did see something, we’re not just talking about a stretch upstate. Somebody might try to hit her too. It’s a different ball game now, and the mother’ll see that.”
“Why not let Q
ueens handle it?”
“Luisa! Queens is the fucking problem! If they’re trying to frame a guy who was in jail during the murder, they must be getting desperate. I’m talking massive corruption here.”
“Fine, fine,” said Beckett. “Where do I come into this?”
“I want to go down to Mrs. Simmons this evening, with you, and pump her. Maybe we’ll even get a line on where Leona is.”
Marlene heard the flipping of pages. Luisa was checking her calendar. Marlene could sympathize: running the rape and sexual violence bureau was a job and a half. On the other hand, Luisa owed her a big one.
Luisa said, “Mmm, yeah, I could, after six. But I repeat my question, Marlene: why me?”
“Because you’re another woman. Because you’re a good interviewer. Because I don’t have a car and you do—”
“And I’m black.”
“Yeah, right, Luisa. There’s that.”
The Simmons home was dark when the two women arrived in Luisa Beckett’s yellow Firebird. They had to ring several times before a hall light came on and they saw the older woman’s face peering anxiously through the tiny square window set in the door. When she saw Luisa, her eyes widened and she flung the door open.
“Honey, where’ve you—” she began, and stopped abruptly when she was able to see in the light from the hallway that the thin woman standing there was not her daughter.
Mrs. Simmons put her hand to her throat and took a stumbling step backward. Beckett said, “Mrs. Simmons, my name is Luisa Beckett. We’re here about Leona.”
“Jesus God, she’s not—”
“No, as far as we know she’s still all right,” said Beckett quickly. “But she may not be if we don’t get some information from you. May we come in?”
Mutely, Mrs. Simmons drew back from the door, and Beckett and Marlene entered.
They sat in the living room, with the Last Supper and the memorabilia of the Simmons children. If Mrs. Simmons recognized Marlene from her previous visit, she did not mention it.
“Where’s my baby?” she asked.
“We don’t know, Mrs. Simmons,” said Marlene. “I think she’s being hidden by a man named John Doone.”
Mrs. Simmons grimaced as if she had swallowed bile. “That evil, evil man!”
“I agree, ma’am,” said Marlene. “He is an evil man, but killing your son was not one of his crimes. Somebody else did it, and I think your daughter knows more about what really happened to him than she’s told anyone so far. That means that as long as she’s on the loose, she’s in grave danger from whoever really did it.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Simmons. “The gentleman from the D.A., he said that pusher killed my boy. He promised nothing would happen to Leona. Now you’re telling me …” She threw up her hands and turned a stricken face to Luisa Beckett.
Beckett rose from her chair and sat on the couch next to Mrs. Simmons. She held her hand and spoke softly. “Ma’am, this has been confusing for everyone. Ms. Ciampi here has been working on your son’s case all by herself, nearly, and she’s found—well, it may be hard for you to believe, but the Queens district attorney may not want to find your son’s killer.”
This did not seem to surprise Mrs. Simmons. She rose heavily and went to the shelf where the pictures of her family were assembled. Selecting one in a silver frame, she returned to the couch. “They were both such good babies,” she said softly, staring at the photograph. It showed Marion and Leona at ages ten and eight, dressed in elaborate Easter get-up, the boy in a white suit with bow tie and the girl in a white foam of ruffles. “I honest to God thought we had crossed the river.” She looked seriously at Beckett. “He wasn’t one of those playboys on those teams. Trained monkeys! Marion had brains. Always did well in school. Leona too. I can’t understand it.” She shook her head in confusion.
Beckett said, “Mrs. Simmons, can you tell us what happened on the night Marion died?”
“I don’t know what happened. She took the car, the Cadillac. Said she was going to pick up Marion and bring him home. About ten I went to bed. In the morning I went out to get the paper and I saw the Cadillac wasn’t in the drive. I went to Leona’s room. She was using that poison.
“I screamed at her. We had a terrible argument, terrible. We said terrible things. She said I never cared for her, only for Marion. That’s not true. I said to her, you’re both my babies …” She paused. “You don’t want to hear all this.
“When we settled down, I asked her where Marion was. She started in crying. She said she didn’t know. She said she was driving him home, and he said for her to go on the highway to the City.” She was silent for a long time, and Beckett had to prompt her.
“Why did he want to go to the City, Mrs. Simmons?”
“He wanted to see that woman. That whore.”
“Julia Mackey,” said Marlene.
“Woman got a husband already, what does she want with my Marion? I told him, I told him, but once he got under her clutches it wasn’t no use. A boy doesn’t listen to his momma when he’s that way.”
“You’re sure it was Julia Mackey,” Marlene pressed.
“Yes, I’m sure. Leona told me. She brought him there a lot, she said. That’s how I know, from her. I told him it was breaking my heart. Why couldn’t he find a nice girl and settle down?”
She was crying now. Beckett reached into her bag and gave her a package of Kleenex. Marlene waited until her weeping had subsided into snuffles, and then asked, “Did Leona say what happened that night?”
“No. Not really. She was scared to talk to anybody, after what that D.A. said.”
“What was that?” asked Beckett.
“That they would put her in jail for a long time if she didn’t help them catch that man. The drug man. The Jamaican. She had to pretend that Marion was using drugs, and keep up with that man, and to do what they said.”
“But she did say something to you.”
Mrs. Simmons nodded. “Yes. After we settled down she did. I’m her mother. Leona said something about Marion being very nervous and excited. He said he had found out something bad, something about the team. She didn’t understand what it was, and he wouldn’t talk about it. He said she’d see all about it on TV. What happened was she let him off at that woman’s building and went to get something in a drugstore, and when she came out, the Cadillac was gone. She thought Marion had just driven off, so she took the subway home. That’s what she said, but …”
“But what?”
“I know when my children are lying to me.”
Marlene said, “One more thing, Mrs. Simmons. Marion had a kind of diary that he wrote in and kept appointments in. Do you know what happened to it?”
The woman shook her head. “No. I never did get his things back. That book. He was always scribbling stuff down, from when he was a little boy. He always had it with him. But I don’t know. It must have been in his bag when he left, but they never gave it back.”
Mrs. Simmons knew nothing more of relevance, and with many promises to keep her informed and many half-believed assurances that everything would be all right, Beckett and Marlene finished the interview and walked out to the Firebird.
Marlene said, “Baby, can I drive your car?”
“You serious?”
“Yeah, I love to drive and I never get a chance. Especially a hot machine. What have you got inside?”
“Damn if I know,” said Beckett. “I liked the color and my brother said it was a good deal.” She handed Marlene the keys. “Here. I’m beat anyway. Just remember it’s not my car, it’s the bank’s car. Hey, can you drive with that eye?”
“No problem. Half the drivers in the city are blind in both eyes.”
Down at the end of the darkened street, two men sat in a blue Chevrolet. One of them was having a tantrum.
Carmine was venting his rage and frustration in a stream of curses, in both English and Sicilian dialect, impressing even Joey with its virtuosity and fluency. It was especially i
mpressive because Carmine was usually so cool. It was why, Joey supposed, they called him the Fish.
“What the fuck, Carmine. So she goes to the momma, so what? Don’t mean she knows shit about us.”
“Us!” Carmine cried hoarsely. “Us ain’t the point. She’s talking to the momma, it means she’s nosing around the deal. She saw the nigger who got the sister one day, the next day here. It means she could get close enough to fuck it up.”
“So we whack her?”
“Fuckin’ A,” said Carmine, starting the car.
Marlene got into the Firebird and rolled the seat far enough back to accommodate her girth. She cranked the engine and pulled out onto the street in a scatter of gravel.
When she was headed north toward Queens Boulevard, Luisa asked, “What was that about a diary?”
“Oh, Butch found out Simmons kept some kind of date book, diary: I thought it might have turned up. That was interesting what she said about Simmons finding something out about the team.”
“You mean somebody wanted him not to say what he knew?”
“Yeah. It’s a reason for the hit, which we haven’t had before. By the way, you were great. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Beckett said. “Sad woman. So fucking hard to raise black kids to begin with, and she does it, and one’s a junkie and one’s dead. At least she’s got some money out of it.”
They drove along Queens Boulevard, talking desultorily about office politics and the perfidy of men. Marlene decided to take the Long Island Expressway and the BQE back to the city. It would be the world’s longest parking lot eastbound at this hour, but virtually deserted in the other direction.
Driving with no right eye, Marlene was particularly sensitive to the usual blind spot to the right rear, which she tried to reduce by canting the rearview mirror to the right and using the side mirror to check her left rear. She also kept in the right lane most of the time.
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