Outrage bkamc-23

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Maybe more than that,” Guerrero responded quickly, inching farther back from the dog. “I see him around. Mostly with those other punks in the park. He’s kind of slow, but he’s a pretty good rapper. His name is Felix.” He looked at the dog and smiled slightly when there was no growl.

  “That’s better,” Marlene said. “Gilgamesh believes you. Now, did you sell Felix a small diamond ring a few weeks ago?”

  “Yeah, I might have.”

  “Where did you get this ring?”

  “I found it.”

  Marlene signaled the dog, who suddenly tensed and bared his teeth. “Oh, bad one,” she said. “You didn’t just find it.” She knew she was running the risk that if Guerrero was the real killer of Olivia Yancy, forcing this confession out of him might mess up the case for the cops. But her senses told her he was no more a murderer than her client.

  Guerrero scooted farther away from the dog. “Shit, okay, I snatched a purse from a lady over by the old Yankee Stadium. There wasn’t much in it. A few bucks, the ring, a credit card, and her driver’s license.”

  “That right, Gil? Rilassare,” she said, adding the Italian word for “relax” to the end of her question.

  Gilgamesh sat down on his haunches and for the first time took his eyes off Guerrero. Marlene smiled. “Very good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I remember the last name from the driver’s license,” Guerrero said helpfully. “Lopez. The same as my mom’s before she married my dad.”

  “That’s great,” Marlene said. “You remember anything in particular about this ring?”

  Guerrero thought about it and then shook his head. “Not really, except it was pretty cheap,” he said. Then he brightened. “But there was some writing on the inside. A name and a word.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember what it said?”

  “The name was Al-that’s why you called me that,” Guerrero said, suddenly putting two and two together. “I told Felix that was my name so he wouldn’t think the ring was hot. I don’t remember what else.”

  Marlene reached back into her purse and pulled out two more photographs-these had been taken of the evidence by a defense photographer-and showed him one. “Can you tell me if the ring in this photograph looks like the one you sold to Felix Acevedo?”

  “Could be. It was something like that.”

  “Here’s another photograph,” Marlene said. “It’s the inside of the same ring.”

  Guerrero looked at the photo and shrugged again. “Looks like Felix filed the words off. I can’t be sure but I think so.”

  “Did you steal the purse that same day?”

  “Yeah, a couple of hours before I saw Felix. We done? I got to go.”

  Marlene thought about it and then nodded. “Yeah, except I need to know how to reach you in case I need you to testify about the ring.”

  “Fuck that,” Guerrero said. “I ain’t testifying or telling you where I live.”

  Marlene gave the dog a barely perceptible hand signal and Gilgamesh jumped up, bristling and growling at Guerrero. “Nobody’s going to bust you for the purse snatching. Felix’s life may depend on you telling the truth. So tell me how to find you, and just so we’re clear, don’t make me and Gilgamesh come hunting for you. He has your scent now, the smell of a liar, and it would be easy for him to track you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Guerrero said. “I don’t want nothin’ to happen to Felix. He’s an all right kid and everybody already picks on him. I live with my mom in her apartment building, the Hampshires, on the corner of 183rd and Southern, across from the zoo. But if she comes to the door, don’t say nothin’ to my mom about this. She thinks I’m a musician in a band.”

  Marlene laughed sarcastically. “She must be very proud. Now-not that I don’t trust you, which I do about as far as you’d get from Gil if you lie to me-let me see your driver’s license, and give me your mom’s address again.”

  Grumbling but conscious of the dog, Guerrero stood and produced a driver’s license. Marlene wrote the pertinent information down and handed it back. “One more thing: I need a photograph,” she said, pulling a digital camera out of her bag. “Say cheese.”

  An hour later, Marlene stood on the sidewalk waiting for the couple pushing a baby stroller toward her. She left Gilgamesh in the truck so as not to frighten the couple, who she’d learned from a neighbor in their apartment building were out for a midafternoon walk.

  “Excuse me,” she said, addressing the tall, pretty woman, “are you Amy Lopez?”

  The big, burly man accompanying the woman stepped in front. “Who wants to know?” he asked.

  “My name is Marlene Ciampi; I’m a lawyer but right now I’m doing some investigative work for Felix Acevedo,” she replied. “I just wanted to talk to Amy Lopez about a report she filed a few weeks ago about her purse being taken.”

  After leaving Guerrero, Marlene had called a friend with the NYPD records division and, after a little wheedling, got him to look on the computer and see if anyone named Lopez had reported a purse being stolen in the vicinity of old Yankee Stadium several weeks earlier. It was just a hunch, but it paid off. An Amy Lopez had reported the theft of the purse, and among the items she listed as its contents was “an engagement ring with the inscription ‘Always, Al.’”

  “You found my purse!” the woman exclaimed as she pushed her husband out of the way. “I’m Amy Lopez. Don’t mind Al, here, he works as a court clerk downtown inside the Criminal Courts Building in Manhattan, and he’s suspicious of everyone.”

  “You playing hooky?” Marlene asked Al.

  “Nah, just taking some comp time off,” he replied. “But Amy’s right. Listening to that stuff all day, every day, has made me a little jaded. Sorry, I was being overprotective.”

  “Not a problem,” Marlene said. “It pays to be cautious these days. And I thought I recognized you; you’ve been working at the Criminal Courts Building for a long time.”

  Al grinned. “Yeah, how ya doing, Ms. Ciampi, I thought that was you, too, but it’s been a while. Small world. Anyway, this tall drink of water is my wife, Amy, and the little guy is my son, A.J.”

  “Oh, he’s a doll! What does A.J. stand for?” Marlene cooed.

  “Alexander Jenner,” Amy replied.

  “Jenner? That’s unusual.”

  “He was named for his aunt, Jennifer,” she said sadly. “I’m afraid she passed away last December. A heart condition. She was my best friend, and we all love and miss her very much.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marlene said. “I know how it feels to lose someone you love like that. Tears the heart right out of you.”

  “Thank you,” Amy replied. “So you found my purse?”

  Marlene shook her head. “Unfortunately, no, but did you also report that a ring was inside the purse?”

  Amy nodded. “Yes, my engagement ring. I’m afraid I gained a few pounds carrying A.J. and it got a little tight. I took it off until I could lose the weight.”

  “Could you describe the ring?”

  “Yes, it had a small diamond-”

  “It wasn’t that small,” Al interjected.

  Amy leaned forward conspiratorially. “It was maybe half a carat. That small,” she said with a laugh, and put her arm around her husband. “But this two-hundred-and-eighty-pound bundle of love has more than made up for it in kisses.”

  “I’ll take the kisses any day,” Marlene said. She reached into her purse and took out the photographs of the ring that she’d shown Guerrero. “Would you mind taking a look at these?” she asked, handing the first one to Amy.

  “That’s my ring!” Amy replied. “See what I meant about the diamond?”

  “Hey, it looked bigger in person,” Al retorted.

  “I’m sure,” Marlene said with a laugh as she handed the second photograph to Amy. “Here’s another of the same ring.”

  “Oh, he wrecked it,” Amy cried. “It used to say ‘Always, Al,’ but it’s all scratched out.” Tears slipped out o
f her eyes and ran down her cheeks as her husband patted her shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I bet a jeweler can buff that up nice and inscribe it again.”

  “Sure he can, and now you’ll have a story to go along with it,” Marlene said. “Do you think you’d recognize the guy who snatched your purse?”

  “In a New York minute,” Amy replied. “He sat across from me on the train all the way from Spanish Harlem. The pizza-faced jerk waited until I was on the sidewalk then came out of nowhere and grabbed my purse. Believe me, I got a good look at him.”

  Marlene pulled the camera out of her purse and pushed a button before turning the screen toward Amy. “I’m going to show you six photographs of different men. Stop me if you recognize any one of them.”

  Amy looked at each photograph as it appeared but stopped Marlene at the fourth. “That’s Mr. Pizza Face right there.”

  Marlene looked at the face on the screen. Jesus Guerrero, she thought with satisfaction. “Good,” she said. “And if I need you to identify him for the authorities, would you be willing to do that?”

  “You bet. Maybe they’ll lock him up for a few years.”

  “Actually, I might need him as a cooperative witness,” Marlene said. “I may want him to testify that he sold your ring to another man. It could save that man’s life.”

  “Well, that’s more important than putting Pizza Face in jail,” Amy said, “though I’d still like to punch him. But hey, do you think I’ll get my ring back?”

  “You may have to wait until this case is resolved,” Marlene said, “but you should be able to after that, and I’ll help.”

  “Then I’m good with it,” Amy said, and smiled. “It may be a small diamond, but it was my first. Thank you, Marlene.”

  18

  Vinnie Cassino sat in the back of the squad car weighing his options. He’d traveled to the South Bronx and a seedy apartment off Anderson Avenue to purchase several ounces of methamphetamine from his favorite dealer, only to learn the hard way that he’d been set up. Now he was looking at a felony drug possession with intent to sell, and they’d popped him with a handgun for an additional count. With two prior strikes against him, another could earn him the unwanted legal title of “habitual offender,” or in the vernacular of the streets a “three-time loser,” looking at life behind bars.

  Time to play my ace, he told himself. “Hey, tell Detective Brock that I need to talk to him,” he said. “Tell him he’s got the wrong guy for the Atkins murder. The guy didn’t do the two in Manhattan either, but I know who did.”

  The police officer driving the car looked in the rearview mirror at the scruffy, gray-haired drug dealer with the protruding forehead and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Sherlock,” he said in a tone that implied he was unimpressed by suspects trying to make deals on the way to jail.

  “Listen, asshole, I’m telling the truth,” Cassino said. “You’ll be walking the two A.M. beat in Bed-Stuy if you blow this.”

  “Watch your mouth, punk,” the officer snarled, “or maybe we’ll stop in an alley for a little attitude adjustment before I get you to lockup.”

  “Go ahead,” Cassino retorted, “then I won’t have to say nothing to Brock, and I’ll still walk. But if you got any brains, tell him to check and see if a blue silk shirt came up missing in the Manhattan killing.”

  An hour later, the police officer was talking to Sergeant McManus when he saw Brock. The officer weighed whether to tell the detective about the drug dealer. It was probably bullshit; then again, most of the scumbags trying to weasel their way to freedom didn’t first offer something that could be checked out. He decided to pass the information on.

  “Detective Brock, I’m Dave Drummond,” the officer said. “This is probably nothing but I was detailed to haul a drug dealer named Vinnie Cassino down to booking after a bust this morning.”

  “Cassino? Doesn’t ring a bell,” Brock replied with a frown.

  “Yeah, and this probably isn’t anything but a line of BS,” Drummond said, “but he was real insistent that I tell you that you’ve got the wrong guy in the Atkins case. He says he knows who did it.”

  “And I’m the queen of England,” Brock snorted. “If it would get him a better deal, he’d probably tell me who killed Kennedy, too.”

  Drummond laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he would. But anyway, he said to ask you about a blue silk shirt in the Manhattan case.”

  The smile faded from Brock’s face. After Graziani connected Acevedo to the Yancy-Jenkins double murder, Brock asked for a copy of the Manhattan file to see if there was something in it that could help him nail down the Atkins case. The file contained a report on items the younger victim’s husband had identified as missing-some jewelry, purses, and a blue silk shirt taken from his closet. He remembered that item in particular as it meant the perp had changed clothes after the bloodbath. It was one of the details that had been kept from the press as far as he could remember, but now some drug dealer knew about it.

  “A blue silk shirt, you’re sure that’s what he said?” Brock asked.

  “Yeah, positive,” Drummond replied. “It mean something?”

  “Maybe,” Brock said, and patted the young officer on the shoulder. “You done good, kid, I’ll pass my thanks on to your supervisor.”

  The young officer grinned. A commendation from a senior detective to the higher-ups could speed up the time it took to get his detective’s gold shield. “No problem.”

  Twenty minutes later Brock was waiting in one of the interview rooms when Cassino was brought in. “You wanted to talk to me?” he asked.

  “No, I think you want to talk to me,” Cassino replied. “But I want a deal, or I ain’t saying shit.”

  “What are you offering for this deal?”

  Cassino’s eyes grew shrewd and ratlike as he leaned forward. “You got the wrong guy for these killings. And I know who did it.”

  Brock shrugged. “Anybody can say that.”

  “That cop told you about the blue silk shirt or you wouldn’t be here,” Cassino said.

  “What about it?” Brock asked.

  “What if I told you the famous Columbia U Slasher wore that to my pad the day of the killings?” Cassino said. “That and that me and my old lady saw blood on his pants. There’s more, too, but that’s all you get for now.”

  “I’m interested,” Brock said. “So who is this guy?”

  Cassino grinned, revealing missing teeth and serious dental problems with those that remained. “Not so fast, Detective. I can tell you his name, but that won’t do shit for you. Not without me and my old lady testifying, and what’s more, I got a tape of him talking about that other woman, your case in the Bronx. But I ain’t scratching your back until you or whoever has to fix this scratches mine.”

  “What are you going to want?” Brock asked.

  Leaning back in his chair, Cassino smiled again as if he’d just concluded a big business deal. “I’m a two-time loser and if they get me on this latest charge, they’ll put me away for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life,” he said. “Either way, I don’t like the idea of being away from my sweet Lydia for so long. So first things first, I’m gonna make bail, but I want these charges to go away, and I want the Crime Stoppers reward for giving this guy up. In exchange, you get me and my old lady on the witness stand pointing to that asshole in the courtroom, and you get my tape and the blue silk shirt.”

  “That’s asking a lot,” Brock said. “You’ve got to give me more.”

  “All right, I’ll give you the fucker’s name,” Cassino replied. “Like I said, it ain’t gonna do you no good without me, but at least you could start looking for him. His name is Ahmed Kadyrov.”

  “Know where I can find him?” Brock asked.

  “Maybe,” Cassino said. “Or at least where to start looking. But that’s all you get until I get a deal.”

  “I’ll talk to the higher-ups,” Brock said. “But I can’t promise anything.”
>
  “Then I can’t either,” Cassino said. “If I’m going away for a long time, I’m going to do it without a snitch jacket.”

  Two hours later, Brock sat in a booth in the Lino Tavern, a favorite hangout for cops working out of the Four-Eight off Van Nest Avenue. He was waiting to give Joey Graziani some unwelcome news and not looking forward to his reaction.

  After sending Cassino back to his cell, Brock had looked up Ahmed Kadyrov and found a young man by that name with a record for crimes committed in Queens and Manhattan. He wasn’t big-time, just a few burglaries committed when the owners weren’t home during the day, but nothing too serious or anything that would indicate a sex killer. People change, he reminded himself, and he was comfortable working daylight hours. He could have been surprised and things turned nasty.

  So far he had not told anybody about his conversation with Cassino. He felt obligated to tell Graziani first. He didn’t particularly like the man; he’d been acting like a rock star ever since the news of the Columbia U Slasher arrest broke, and he declined interviews but somehow details about the crimes and the arrest kept being leaked to the press, with Joey Graziani as the man of the hour. He’d even gotten his wish and had been reassigned to the Two-Six detective squad in Morningside Heights to work the case. But there was still the brotherhood of the gold shield, and if Cassino’s story checked out, it was going to mess up Graziani’s case.

  There was a chance that the other detective could redeem himself if he used Cassino’s information to catch the real killer, even if it meant admitting that charging Acevedo was a mistake. A chance, but not much of one, Brock thought. The New York County DAO had indicted Acevedo based on Graziani’s investigation and recommendations. Having to backtrack now would not only cause a great deal of embarrassment to the DAO, which the press would go to town with, but it would also present real difficulties in prosecuting a new defendant.

  No, Graziani wasn’t going to be happy about the news. It’s his own damn fault, Brock thought with a touch of anger. He’d been sloppy and determined to pin the murders on Acevedo come hell or high water. And that sort of thing reflects on all of us.