by Mark Dawson
And then, once that was done, he was led to the precinct’s holding cell. The cell accommodated two other prisoners: one drunk, asleep on the bench, and a second man who glared with evil intent until Milton stared back at him and the man decided that he would wait for another patsy.
Milton had no watch, but he had a good sense of the passing of time. He guessed that it was somewhere between four-thirty and five. He still had plenty of time to complete his preparations for the evening, but the fact that he relied upon someone else’s permission for that to happen made him feel anxious. The uncertainty of his situation didn’t help, either; he had been arrested for being an accessory to murder, and not for murder. What did that mean? Perhaps that Mackintosh was fishing, that she didn’t have enough on him for the full charge, and was going to bring him in to see what she could get out of him at interview. But he was guessing. Was it possible that he had been sloppy with the thug that he had killed in the cemetery? Or, worse, with Rhodes this morning? He couldn’t think of how that would be possible, but he couldn’t be certain.
Milton sat quietly and tried to keep track of the time. He started to doubt himself. Had he been there an hour? Two? How long did he have? And what would happen to Manny and Freddy if Acosta took them out to the meet and he didn’t show?
Milton was led into the same room that Mackintosh had taken him to before. The detective was waiting for him and indicated that he should sit. He did. The officer unlocked the cuff on Milton’s left wrist and clipped it around the metal bar that had been set into the wall. Mackintosh thanked him and waved him out of the room.
She pressed a button on the table and turned to look up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “This is Detective Rebecca Mackintosh,” she said. “Interview with John Smith, commencing at 8.00 p.m. Have you been asked whether you want a lawyer, Mr. Smith?”
“No,” he said. “But I don’t. Get on with it.”
“Mr. Smith confirms that he doesn’t want a lawyer.” There was a file of notes on the table; she flicked through them, ignoring Milton in an attempt, he suspected, to increase the pressure on him. “I’m gonna lay it all out for you,” she said at last. “Feel free to jump in and correct me if I’ve got anything wrong.” She stared at him, but he didn’t reply. She continued. “So, you first came to my attention because you say that you found the body of a murder victim in the restroom at Euclid station on Sunday night. José Luis González. You were just passing through, you stopped off to use the facilities, and there he was. Dead. You find the kid in the restroom and you call the police. We bring you here and you give me a statement. How am I doing?”
Milton nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Okay. So, just four days later, yesterday, a member of the public finds the body of a man in a dumpster in Cypress Hills Cemetery. The coroner says this guy was strangled, and that he’d been in the dumpster since the previous afternoon. So, that’s Wednesday. So, that’s three days after you and I met for the first time. We investigated the murder, but it’s not the sort of place where people hang out and the weather was shitty that day. We got nothing, and it looks like we’re gonna strike out, at least until I took a look at the footage from the cameras at the station. I got to tell you, John, it was a hell of a surprise. There you are, getting off the train, and then, getting off the same train, here comes the guy who was about to wind up dead in the dumpster. Can you see why I had to speak to you again? What a coincidence, right? What are the odds that a guy would find one body and then, just three days later, the same guy is seen with another guy who we later find dead in a dumpster? Got to be impossible, right?”
“Is that a question?”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
“You’re a dangerous man to know.”
“It’s strange, but it’s just a coincidence.”
She shook her head. “I’m not buying that.”
“I don’t care whether you’re buying it or not,” he said. “The fact that I was on the same train as some guy doesn’t mean I killed him. And if you’re doubting what I told you about González, then you’re saying that you don’t believe what Freddy Blanco told you. Was he lying, too?”
“No,” she said. “I just don’t believe you’ve told me the whole truth.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. You’ve held me here all afternoon, Detective. Unless you’ve got anything else, I think it’s time you let me out.”
She flashed with anger. “Oh, I’ve got more,” she said. “I’ve been looking into you a little bit more. You’ve been working here, but it seems like you don’t have a visa. So that’s a black mark against you right away. I go back a little more, run some searches, and what do I find but a police report from Victoria, Texas. This is from two years ago. Seems you have a track record for violence. You remember that?”
Milton clenched his fists beneath the table. “It was a brawl in a bar,” he said, making sure to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Two guys attacked me.”
“And you put them both in the hospital.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a violent man, then?”
“No,” Milton said. “Not at all. And none of this has anything to do with either of those murders. Do you have anything else?”
“You want to think about that attitude, John. It’s not doing you any favours. I’ve got enough to hold you. I could decide to get you arraigned, but it’s a Saturday and the courts are shut. So I can hold you all night. Maybe I send you to the Tombs so you can think about why it’d make more sense for you to cooperate with me instead of giving me attitude. You know what the Tombs are like, John? You ever been there? Seen them on TV? It’s worse. Nowhere to sleep. Nowhere to wash. You want to use the toilet, you got to do it in front of everyone. You’re making me very tempted to do that.”
“Fine. Do what you have to do. But I want my phone call now.”
111
Polanski had been thinking about driving north to see his wife and kids when he got Smith’s call. He listened, absorbed the news, and drove down from the island to the Seven Five as quickly as he could.
Mackintosh was prowling around outside the interrogation rooms when he arrived.
“You arrested Smith?” he asked her.
“You?” she said without answering his question. “He called you?”
“Why do you have him in here?”
“Because I don’t believe a word he’s been telling us.”
“Go on.”
She moved him away from the desk and out of the earshot of the three men who were waiting to be attended to by the sergeant.
“We found the body of a man connected to Carlos Acosta on Thursday,” she said. “He was inside a dumpster in the cemetery north of Cypress Hills station. Time of death was estimated sometime on Wednesday afternoon. Strangled. No witnesses. No leads. Looked like we were going to have to eat it until I checked the video from the station. Right about the time we think this guy’s ticket was punched, lo and behold, we’ve got John Smith getting off a train. And then, just after that, we have the victim getting off the same train, too.”
“They were on the same train?” Polanski said sceptically. “That’s it?”
“You don’t think that’s weird? That they both got off at the same station, right next to where the body was found?”
“It’s a coincidence.”
“That’s what he said. Just like the fact that he found the body of González. Two deaths that he’s at least connected with in three days. You don’t think that needs digging into?”
“You can’t hold him on that.”
“That’s what he’s been telling me.”
“And he’s right.”
“Maybe.”
“You got anything else?”
“Some,” she said. “He’s been working without a visa.” She saw him roll his eyes and forestalled his protest with an upheld palm. “The other thing’s mor
e interesting. Two and a half years ago, Smith was arrested in Texas. There was a bar brawl and he beat up two men, including the son of the local sheriff. They were ready to arraign him when they got a visit from a woman who said she was with the FBI. She told them they had to let him go, and they did.”
“The FBI?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Where was this?”
“Little town called Victoria.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“I’ve emailed. Waiting to hear.”
Polanski shook his head. “So he’s more complicated than he told us. Fair enough. But I still don’t see how that has anything to do with this.”
“He’s an illegal alien, working without a visa, and he has a history of violent behaviour. He told us he was a cook working in Coney Island. And you think he’s just ‘more complicated’? We can’t trust a word he’s told us.”
“But you still don’t have enough to hold him for anything here.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I can hold him until the court opens. And, the attitude he’s giving me, I’m tempted to do that.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Polanski said. “If I can get anything out of him, I’ll let you know. All right?”
She shrugged. “Knock yourself out.” She gave him a small key. “For his cuffs,” she said, turning away and making her way to the stairs that led up to her office.
Polanski took a moment outside the door to the interrogation room, then reached for the handle and went inside.
112
Polanski went into the interrogation room. Smith was sitting at the table, his left wrist cuffed. The other bracelet was attached to a metal pole that was fixed to the wall.
“Hey.”
Smith looked up. “Thanks for coming.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Smith looked down at his cuffed wrist. “Bit of a misunderstanding.”
“This is a mess.”
“You need to get me out.”
Polanski rested his hands on the back of the second chair. “Not gonna be easy. I just spoke to Mackintosh. You’ve got some questions to answer.”
“And I answered them.”
“She doesn’t think so.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out. But you’ve really riled her up.”
Smith was silent.
“Come on,” Polanski pressed. “You’re gonna have to work with me if you want to get out. She’s trying very hard to pin the dumpster body on you. What happened? You said you were followed after we met. Right?”
“Yes,” Smith said. “I was.”
“And then what? This guy followed you to Cypress Hills and jumped you?”
“No,” Smith said. “I told you—I lost him.”
“So the guy in the dumpster is who, exactly?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s just a coincidence?”
“That’s it.”
“Two dead bodies turn up within a week of each other and you’re in the vicinity for both of them?”
“It’s a big city. A lot of murders.”
“Not as many as you’d think,” Polanski said.
“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Smith said. “I can answer these questions all night, but, if you keep me here, you’ll have another two murders to deal with. Freddy and Manny need help.”
Polanski paced. He agreed with Mackintosh up to a point: there were plenty of questions that Smith needed to answer, but now wasn’t the time.
“We struck out on the van,” he said. “I put it out all over Brooklyn, but we got nothing.”
Smith stared straight at him, his blue eyes cold and piercing. “The van doesn’t matter now. Acosta called me this afternoon. He wants to set up a meet.”
“Why?”
“He says he doesn’t want the Blancos. He wants me.”
Polanski sat down. “Why?”
“Because he’s the sort of man to bear a grudge.”
Polanski shook his head. “Because of what—”
Smith interrupted him. “On Wednesday, after I met you, I went to the Blancos’ house.”
“And it was attacked. I know—you said. You fought back and they bailed.”
“There were three guys. Acosta’s brother was one of them.”
“And what did you do to him?”
“Turns out I blinded him.”
The feeling of nausea grew stronger. Polanski was confused. He had trusted Smith and had found his steely resolve reassuring in the midst of an investigation that had already turned to shit. But now he wondered just how much of what Smith had told him was true. The revelation that he had been arrested for a violent crime had dented his confidence even more. He found, as he tried and failed to hold Milton’s implacable gaze, that it was all too easy to credit Mackintosh’s notion that Smith was a killer.
“Blinded? How?”
“Does it matter?”
Polanski felt dizzy. “How did you—”
“I grabbed a mug of boiling water,” Smith cut in. “I added sugar and threw it into his face. The sugar helps the water stick. It’s not pleasant, but he came at me with a gun. He had it coming.” Smith massaged his wrist. “That’s why Acosta wants me. It’s part revenge, part expediency. I’m a loose end from what happened to González. He doesn’t know what I saw or didn’t see. And he knows I want Freddy and Manny. There’s his leverage. He says he’ll swap me for them.”
“And you believe that?”
“No, of course not. Freddy’s too dangerous. He’s using him as bait.”
“When does he want to meet?”
“He says he’ll call. That’s why I need to get out of here. I don’t have my phone. He might have already called. Do you think he’s going to patiently wait for me to pick up?”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll speak to Mackintosh.”
Smith held his eye again. “There’s something else you need to do.”
Polanski exhaled. He felt hollowed out. “Do I want to hear it?”
“James Rhodes.”
“What about him?”
“He’s been working for Acosta, too. I think he killed Carter and Shepard once Acosta decided that he couldn’t trust them.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I’ve been looking into him. I was watching outside the station house on Thursday—the night Carter went missing. Rhodes didn’t go straight home. I followed him. He went to Prospect Park and met someone there.”
“You know who?” Polanski asked.
“No, but I can guess. He got into a blue Audi. I got the registration.”
Smith recited the details of the plate attached to Acosta’s Audi.
Polanski took it down. “I can run it.”
“I think the car belongs to Acosta. I think Rhodes met him to report on what he’d done. Maybe he was getting paid. But I think Acosta is being very thorough now. Your investigation has rattled him. González was first. Then Carter and Shepard. Now I think he killed Rhodes, too.”
“Speculation isn’t going to be enough. I’ll need a whole lot more than that.”
Smith nodded. “Rhodes has been on the four-to-midnight shift. Did he report today?”
Polanski shrugged. “Don’t know. I can check.”
Smith leaned back. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Polanski left the room. He went to the counter and asked the sergeant for the duty roster. He took it and ran his finger down the line of officers who were out on tour. Officer James Rhodes was marked as absent.
Polanski went back to Smith. “You’re right. He didn’t report.”
“Send someone to his house. I went this morning. His car was outside and the curtains were closed. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer.”
“Jesus,” Polanski said again. “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding out on me?”
“I’m not,�
�� Smith said. “I’m just thorough. A cop and an ex-cop go missing, I’d want to check that the new partner doesn’t know anything.”
“You think we haven’t checked him out?”
“I’m not saying that. Just see if you can find him.”
Polanski felt foreboding adding to his sense of frustration and helplessness. He had been so focused on Carter and Shepard ever since Freddy Blanco had identified Shepard as one of González’s murderers that he hadn’t had the opportunity to spend any time looking at Rhodes. He felt as if events were running out of control.
“Polanski?”
He pulled himself out of his detachment.
“Can you get me out?” Smith said.
Polanski nodded. “I’ll have to speak to my boss and then I’ll need to smooth it out with Mackintosh. But probably. If I do and Acosta calls you, I want you to let me know. You can’t do this on your own. Do we have a deal?”
“You think I want to take on someone like that?” Smith said. “You’ll be the first person I call.”
“Good,” Polanski said. He took the key, went around the table and unfastened the cuff.
Smith rubbed his wrist again. “Thanks.”
“Wait here. I’ll take care of the paperwork and then you can go.”
113
Sergeant Richard Haynes parked his car around the back of the club and, after making sure that there was no one around, he went in through the side entrance. He knocked on the first door at the foot of the stairs and waited until it was opened; then, he climbed up to the landing, went through the open second door, and continued into the lounge area, where Acosta and two of his heavies were watching football on the big TV.
“Hey,” he said.
Acosta turned. “Look who it is,” he said. “My favourite policeman. How you doing, Dickie?”