by G. K. Parks
“He was a football fan.”
Barry studied the names. “Guess so.”
Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out a few c-notes and put them on the desk beside me. “Thanks.”
“Hey, Alex,” he called after me, “let’s not meet like this again.”
I shrugged. “No promises.”
Twenty-six
Every one of Knox’s aliases linked to offshore bank accounts with hundreds of thousands of dollars each, but most of the accounts had gone dormant roughly eight years ago. According to passport records, Knox had flown out of the country the day he disappeared under the alias Dan Rice. Rice had traveled to Fiji, where Phil Namath caught a flight to Vanuatu. Talk about multiple personalities.
Knox had gone to great lengths to cover his tracks. When he returned to the country, it wasn’t under either of those names. Jerry Marino returned to the city roughly six weeks later.
According to the timeline, that would have been three weeks after Cross went to Vanuatu, and one week after he returned from Nevada. The police would claim this gave Cross the opportunity to kill Knox since they were both in the city at the same time. So I dug deeper.
Phil Namath had booked a flight to Fiji for the ninth but never got on the plane. Since Knox flew into the city on the seventh, more than likely, that two-day window was when he was killed.
Letting out a breath, I checked Cross’s records for those dates. According to his calendar, he was in town and met with several corporate clients. That wouldn’t exonerate him.
I resisted the urge to call his old clients to ask about his demeanor, but no one in his right mind would remember something like that. Digging through Cross’s credit card statement, I found several charges for KC’s. But none during that timeframe. Cross could have paid cash, but I couldn’t prove it. I doubted Jim Harrelson held on to bar receipts from eight years ago, but I jotted down a note to ask, if all else failed. Cross’s cop pals might be willing to alibi him out if it came down to it. But Cross wouldn’t like it.
I went back to examining Knox’s alter egos. The addresses, phone numbers, and histories appeared to be nothing but bogus, fictitious details created by Barry to match birth certificates, credit cards, and whatever other items Knox requested.
The overseas banks wouldn’t give me the time of day, so I called Mark and asked for another favor.
“The OIO isn’t your personal research assistant,” he reminded me.
“I’ll owe you.”
“Anything I want?”
“Name it.”
“I want you to forgive yourself for what happened. I’m okay. Lucca’s okay. And quite frankly, he’s a bit miffed you’ve been ducking his calls. You owe him dinner.”
“You want me to pay you back by taking Eddie Lucca to dinner?”
“He was your partner, Alex. Just because things change, it doesn’t mean that bond goes away.”
“Now you sound like Cal.”
“Who?”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. “Never mind.”
“You want this done, so I’ll do it. But you have to stop staring at me with those big sad eyes of yours every time you see me. You’re breaking my heart. I could barely get my steak down at lunch.”
“It didn’t seem that way to me.”
“Alex,” he warned.
“Fine. You’re fine. Lucca’s fine. We’re all fucking fine. Now will you look into those bank accounts, or do I have to sing a song and do a dance?”
“No song, but don’t forget to ask Lucca when he and his wife are free. You and Martin can take them out.”
I ground my teeth. “Fine.”
“All right. I’ll call you when I know something. What are you doing in the meantime?”
“I’ll dig deeper into Cross’s affairs and see who he pissed off. It’s possible they may have an enemy who overlaps, but Cross didn’t think so. Even I think it’s a stretch, but if I come across a name that matches one from Knox’s list, I should recognize it.”
“Just one last question.”
“Now what?”
“Why didn’t you call Kate Hartley and ask her to do this?”
“She’s out of the office this week.”
Mark chuckled. “I wondered if you knew that.”
“Goodbye.” I hung up and went down the hall to speak to Renner.
Almeada hadn’t called me today, so he must be busy. But since he gave me a pass to do whatever I thought would be in Cross’s best interest, I figured Renner might be able to shed some light on things.
“Enter,” he said when I knocked.
“Hey.”
He smiled. “Checking up on the progress I’ve made on the assignment you dumped in my lap?”
“No. I…uh…thought I’d see if you remembered anything else about eight years ago. Do you remember Cross having a beef with anyone? You knew he’d been in a fight. Did you ever pursue that?”
“We didn’t find anything. We retraced his steps, but he never got in any bar fights or drunken brawls. He could have been hurt on the job. But we didn’t have access to his case files, so that would have been a dead end. Why? What’s going on?”
“I just wondered if he had any enemies. We’re pretty sure he must have pissed off the Russians when he called in the tip.”
“If they even knew, which is a big if,” Renner said.
“Did you ever cross paths with Joe Gallo?”
“Beat cop?”
I nodded.
Renner rubbed his eyes. “Moretti and I spoke to him after Knox disappeared. Wasn’t that in the notes I gave you?”
“It was. I just wondered if you ever had any other dealings with him.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t the type who paid much attention to what the grunts were doing.”
From what I’d heard, Renner had been a hotshot detective who didn’t necessarily listen to the officers around him. It’s how he’d gotten hurt and why Detective O’Connell had warned me to be careful around him when he first learned we were working together. “Do you think you could ask your friends about Gallo?”
He pushed away from his desk, his notes forgotten. “Yeah, I can do that. Do you want to tell me what you’re hoping to find?”
“I just want to know if Gallo’s a straight-shooter.”
“Give me a sec.” He picked up the phone and dialed. After asking a few questions, he hung up. “Aside from a few civilian complaints for minor things, his record’s clean. No write-ups or commendations. His arrest rate is on par. My buddy says he’s just a cop who clocks in and clocks out. No muss or fuss. He doesn’t go above and beyond, but he’s not parked behind the donut shop for half his shift either.”
“What about the civilian complaints?”
“No beat cop serves as long as Gallo without catching a complaint or two. They were investigated.”
“What were they for?”
“Unprofessional behavior.” Renner shrugged. “Basically, he was rude.”
“I might have witnessed a little of that myself.”
“Pot meet kettle,” Renner teased, earning the opportunity to glimpse my withering stare. “Hey, I’m just stating the obvious.” He blew out a breath. “I happened to spot your car on my way in. Does that have anything to do with Cross’s case?”
“Yep.”
He tried to hide his grin. “That’s great.”
“Do you want to pay for a new windshield and paint job?”
“No, that part sucks, but it’s a lead, right?”
“The guy had his face covered and avoided area surveillance cameras. It’s another dead end.”
“Maybe not. I took the liberty of checking it out myself. Embedded in one of the scratches was this sparkly thing. I thought it was glitter, so I asked the guys upstairs to take a look. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s a waste of time. FBI techs already gave it the once-over.”
“Amir found something the FBI missed. He just e-mailed me. Do you want to
go upstairs and see what he found?”
“Lead the way.”
Renner ushered me out of his office and to the elevator. My gut said this was a waste, but it shouldn’t take long. After this, I’d get back to scouring Cross’s history for any names that overlapped with Trey Knox or his known aliases.
When we entered the lab, Amir held up a pair of tweezers. “This fragment was embedded in your car door. It appears to have broken off a piece of jewelry. I’d guess a ring.”
To the naked eye, it looked like a speck. Amir placed it on a tray and handed me a magnifying glass.
“Is that a diamond?” I narrowed my eyes at the sparkly crystal, which couldn’t have been much larger than a grain of salt.
“It’s a cubic zirconia.” He nodded to Renner. “We never would have seen it if you hadn’t pointed out the shine to us.”
“The light just happened to catch it right,” Renner said.
“Let me get this straight.” I peered down at the crystal and glanced at the mass spec report Amir had run on the scrapings from my door where he’d dug out the stone. Aside from the basic composition of the paint, Amir had found trace amounts of sterling silver. “Someone used jewelry to key my car?”
“Basically.” Amir picked up the report. “We didn’t find anything else. No prints. No other unusual trace elements. No tracking devices.”
“I know. The FBI went over it.”
“They missed this.” Renner picked up the cubic zirconia chip. “They could have missed more. Though, I can see why this was overlooked.”
Most men I knew didn’t wear ornate jewelry. “Do any of the guys around here wear rings with stones?”
“No, just wedding bands,” Renner said. “Plain, simple. Nothing with gemstones.”
Aside from the occasional earring or gold chain, that was the extent of the jewelry I saw around here. Cops didn’t wear fake diamond jewelry either, unless they were undercover.
“Any idea what kind of ring it was?” I asked.
“Something like this, with a small accent stone.” Amir keyed in some specifications and rows of various styles of class rings popped up.
“What about sports rings?” An image of Knox’s prized championship ring popped into my head. The details on the ring had been made with tiny diamond chips.
“Let’s see.” Amir entered new search parameters, and the screen filled with plenty of options. “It could be a knockoff of one of these.”
The fact that the threat had been carved with a ring similar to the one found on Knox’s body caused me to shiver. I considered all the possibilities, but Renner hadn’t attacked me. I would have recognized his limp. He just happened to be an astute observer. “Did you find anything else, Amir?”
“No, sorry.”
“Thanks for trying. And thanks for noticing.” Pulling out my phone, I headed for the stairs. When Heathcliff answered, I asked if the police had any special rings for graduating or retiring.
“They look like class rings mostly or a stamp.”
“A stamp?”
“With the badge or department insignia stamped onto the ring.”
“Anything with cubic zirconia?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Then again, the women do have more blinged out options, so it’s possible.”
“But nothing for the men?”
“I’d have to check. Why?”
I updated him on the situation with my car. “Assuming a ring is how the unsub scratched the warning in my door, I’d say he’s probably not a cop or working for Cross. They’re too macho to wear stuff like that.”
“I’d agree.” Heathcliff let out a breath. “I don’t like that he might have used a ring to do that. It elevates the threat to another level. You need to be careful.”
“For my sanity, would you mind checking to see if Knox’s championship ring is still in evidence and that the stones in the ring are genuine diamonds?”
“You don’t think someone took it out of evidence just to threaten you.”
“No, but I want to be sure.”
“I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
I’d just delved into Cross’s client list from eight years ago when my phone rang. “What’s the verdict?”
“Knox’s ring is here and intact. As far as the techs can tell, the diamonds are real.”
“All right.”
“You sound disappointed.”
If Knox’s ring was a fake or had disappeared from evidence, it’d be easier to cast doubt on Cross’s guilt and further investigate the possibility a corrupt cop was behind the attack at the precinct. Instead, I had to keep digging. “Do you think another collector could be to blame for Knox’s murder? Collectors obsess over these pieces, especially limited edition, championship memorabilia.”
“I’ll run this up the flagpole and make some inquiries.”
“Careful, Detective. It sounds like you’re not sure Cross is the killer.”
“Whoever attacked you yesterday morning sure as shit wasn’t Cross. I’d like to know who it was and what he has to do with any of this before I make a decision.”
“It sounds like you have your hands full. Maybe we should skip the meeting tonight.”
“Alex, you’re making progress. You shouldn’t skip out just because things get crazy. That becomes a slippery slope.”
“I’ll buy some skis.”
“I saw the look on your face yesterday. You were playing the what if game. Didn’t Cal warn us about doing that?”
“You don’t know that’s what I was doing.”
“We’re going to the meeting, but given the circumstances, I don’t think I should pick you up at Cross Security. Will you meet me there?”
I let out a sigh. He’d issue a BOLO if I didn’t show. “Fine.”
“Promise me you’ll go.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you later. Let me know if anything comes up.”
“Yeah, and you let me know what you find.”
“I’ll fill you in tonight.”
Twenty-seven
“One of Knox’s accounts is still active,” Mark Jablonsky said when I answered my phone.
“Which one?” My research into Cross’s past didn’t turn up any connection to Knox’s known aliases.
“Phil Namath’s.” He gave me the bank information and account number. “Money comes out every month like clockwork. I’m guessing Knox had automatic bill pay set on that account.”
“Where’s the money going?”
“To a real estate holdings company.” He gave me the information. “Aside from that, there have been a few wire transfers. I kicked that over to the boys and girls in financial crimes to analyze.”
“Thanks.”
“Look, just give me a few days. We have to do this right.”
“With court orders and a task force? Cross doesn’t have that kind of time.”
“He’ll get bailed out. Then you’ll have plenty of time. Just wait.”
“Okay.” But I had no intention of waiting. Phil Namath must be paying rent for something. After a lengthy search, I discovered Knox had rented an apartment under the alias. The lease had been signed eight years ago, on the seventh, the same day Knox arrived back in the city.
Scribbling down the address, I set out for Knox’s apartment. I had no idea what I hoped to find. Maybe I’d stumble upon the crime scene. After all, Knox had been killed elsewhere, his body wrapped and dumped at the field near the airport. But I wondered why a man with a house and mortgage would rent an apartment under a pseudonym. He must have been afraid to return to his normal life. That meant he knew the threat remained. The safe deposit box must have figured into it, somehow. If he was that scared, would he risk returning home to retrieve his ring?
The apartment was situated in a seedy neighborhood. My vandalized car fit in perfectly with the graffiti and broken windows. Leaving it parked on the corner, I made my way through the overgrown weeds
and around the cracked sidewalk to the apartment complex.
Phil Namath rented unit 3C. Given what I knew about Knox, I couldn’t picture the wealthy professional spending any time in this place. This was the exact opposite of the gated community where his alter ego lived.
As I made my way up the concrete steps, a shiver traveled down my spine. Stopping, I looked around. The place was abandoned, like the scene out of some post-apocalyptic zombie flick. Somewhere above me, the staticky electric buzz from a bug zapper sounded. Not even the flies survived around here.
The concrete on the second floor landing had been tagged by several graffiti artists. The skull with the snake coming out of its eye socket stared up at me. Who needs a welcome mat when you have that? The window in apartment 2E had spiderweb cracks in it. The muffled sound of a radio played inside.
Giving the stairs below me another look, I continued upward. The railing creaked under the pressure from my gloved hand, so I pulled away, watching bits of the wall crumble as the rusted joint quivered against the loose nail. The third floor landing had scorch marks on it, like someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail onto the concrete. What kind of place was this?
Again, I peered below me, but no one was around. I stepped onto the third floor. To my left were four apartments. A tricycle with two missing wheels sat outside 3F. 3C was to my right.
I knocked on the door, standing close to the wall in case my interruption was met by gunfire. But no shots rang out. I tried again, but as I suspected, no one was home. After glancing around to make sure there were no security cameras, I reached for my lock picks.
I’d just inserted the tension tool when footfalls sounded behind me. As I shoved the picks back into my pocket, the handrail let out the same whine, followed by a loud thunk which echoed against the concrete floors and walls.
I kept my eyes on the stairwell while I casually unzipped my purse and tucked my gun into my bag, so I could keep my hand on it without being obvious. People lived here, but the graffiti and decay had made me nervous.
The footsteps grew louder as the man made his way toward me. The stairwell kept him in shadow, but as soon as he emerged, I recognized him.