The Crime Beat Boxed Set

by A. C. Fuller

  9

  Monday

  Robert Warren threw two quick jabs with his muscular left arm, then a right hook that knocked the heavy bag into his refrigerator. A half-full bottle of Rémy Martin 1738 wobbled on its base, nearly toppling off the top of the rusty fridge.

  Warren watched, panting and sweating. Half of him wanted to dive for it, the other half hoped it would shatter on the cracked wooden slats of his kitchen floor. The bottle was a reminder of where he’d been. It represented everything he was now against—his healthy body being the foundation of his increasingly healthy mind—but he left it there to remind him. Of what he’d been and what he’d surely be again if he wasn’t careful. The bottle steadied and he went back to the bag as it swung toward him. Another right hook, then a torrent of jabs. Left, right, left, right, left, right. Chest burning, he stopped.

  The bolts that held the bag to the ceiling creaked and the bag rocked back and forth like a pendulum, slowing and finally stopping.

  As he cooled down, he stalked from the tiny kitchen through the windowless living room and into the bedroom. From a plastic milk crate—his “bedside table”—he grabbed a tub of grass-fed whey protein and returned to the kitchen. After downing two scoops mixed with organic almond milk for some healthy fat and extra post-workout calories, he stabbed at the screen of his cellphone, which he’d duct-taped to the top of the heavy bag.

  Swipe, tap, tap, scroll, tap. It began to ring.

  “Hello.” The familiar voice. Bright and cheery.

  He put the call on speakerphone. “Gabby, this is Rob.”

  “Rob who? Rob?”

  Gabriela Rojas had been his training officer when he joined the NYPD. Coming from the Marines, he’d been embarrassed to take direction from a younger woman. But she’d proven brilliant and tough, more than worthy of the seemingly unending series of promotions she’d received since. From beat cop to sergeant, from sergeant to detective, all in five years.

  They hadn’t spoken much since he’d left Brooklyn, but Warren trusted her. She was one of the most honest people he’d come across in law enforcement. Had she really forgotten him?

  “Robert Warren,” he said slowly. “War Dog.” She’d given him that nickname on day one.

  “War Dog? What the hell? It’s been like—?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years. Right. How…how are you?”

  “You mean the thing?”

  “Yeah, the thing. We do get the paper out here in Brooklyn.”

  Warren jabbed the bag as hard as he could. “It’s crap,” he shouted in the direction of the swinging bag. “You know how those people are.”

  “Dude had it coming, huh?”

  Warren walked a square around the bag as it slowed, eyes always on the phone. “In front of an IAB Review Board, I regret my actions. And actually, I do regret it. I lost my cool and I’m not proud of it. Off the record? In a city full of scumbags, he may be the worst.”

  “That bad?”

  Warren jabbed the bag again. “Worse.”

  “Well, it’s been great catching up and I—”

  “Gabby, what the hell? You, too?”

  “You know how it is.”

  “I’m that toxic?”

  “War Dog, I’m in the office.”

  “I get it.”

  He walked another lap around the bag, the silence thick between them. He imagined Gabby looking over her shoulder in the thinly-carpeted office, his former home in Brooklyn’s 72nd Precinct. She was probably afraid someone would hear her say “War Dog” and leak it to one of the cop-haters in the Brooklyn press.

  He decided to try small talk. “So how is the 72nd treating you?”

  “Huh? Oh, right. I still live in Brooklyn, but I’m JTTF now. You didn’t hear?”

  It didn’t surprise him. New York City’s Joint Terrorism Task Force was where Gabby was destined to land. The home of the best of the best. But he’d never expected her to land there so soon. “Whose butt you kiss to get that gig?”

  She said nothing, but his off-color joke wouldn’t have bothered her. It was something else. One thing about climbers like Gabby was that they knew associating with a toxic cop could land them in a boss’s crosshairs and blow torch their careers. He was now one of those cops, and this was one of those times. “Real quick, you got anything on the shooting at the Met? Ambani?”

  “Screw off, dude, you know I don’t. And even if I did—”

  “JTTF not in on the investigation?”

  “You didn’t even know I was JTTF until thirty seconds ago. Why in the name of Saint Paul would you call me with this shit?”

  He went quiet and let out a long sigh. “If I knew something, something about Ambani, where would I go right about now?”

  Gabby breathed heavily into the phone. “Dude?”

  “I’m saying, if I knew something, and I am where I am because of the thing, what would you do if you were me?”

  “Honestly, I’d either walk to a payphone and call in an anonymous tip, or I’d leak it to a reporter, someone you trust. Let them write it and let us pick it up from there. Either way, I’d make sure my name was nowhere near it. We’re gonna catch the bastard who shot Ambani—whether it was a terrorist, a racist, or a jealous ex who hired a pro. When we do, we want your name nowhere near it.” She paused. “No offense, of course.”

  She was right, and it confirmed the instinct he’d had to talk to Cole. The last thing he wanted was to taint the investigation into Ambani’s killer by attaching his name to it. And a messy truth about police work was that sometimes it required leaking to the press to get things moving within the bureaucracy. “Thanks, and one more thing.”

  “War Dog, I—”

  “You’ve seen cases like mine before, so humor me. Please.”

  She sighed her ascent.

  “If I don’t beat the investigation into my incident, what are my chances at detective?”

  “Zero.”

  “And what are my chances of a lateral move, say back to Brooklyn?”

  “Lateral move?” Gabby was whispering now. “Low, but not zero. More likely a demotion. Parking tickets, traffic control. I don’t know, stadium work, maybe.”

  Warren stood in the center of the dark kitchen. The bottle on the fridge called to him, but it had been forty-nine months and fourteen days since his last drink, and he wasn’t going to let this break him. He’d changed, and that bottle, still there untouched, was proof.

  He ran a finger over the curved lettering on the dusty bottle, tracing the R and the E with his index finger. “Parking tickets? Seriously?”

  “Someone’s gotta do it, right?”

  He walked back to the bag. “Sorry, it’s just—”

  “I gotta go. Don’t worry, War Dog. You’ll ride this out.”

  “Yeah. Catch a couple terrorists for me.”

  He tapped “End,” then laid into the heavy bag so ferociously his knuckles bled. Even if his career wasn’t over, it was.

  10

  Cole squeezed her husband’s hand as he pulled her forward, snow crunching under her boots with each step.

  “Keep them closed, Monkey Tree. Almost there.” His voice brought a smile to her face. It always had.

  “Around one more corner,” he whispered, his words tickling her ear. “Keep them closed.”

  Eyes shut tight, she allowed herself to be led forward. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  She laughed at his childlike excitement. “It’s freezing out here, Matty.”

  “Just a little further.”

  She knew they were somewhere in Central Park. She’d figured that out from the left turn they’d made out of their building on West 98th Street. But she thought she might be able to figure out where based on sound or smell. Near the carousel she might smell roasted nuts or popcorn from the vendors. Near the reservoir, the sound of ducks.

  With her free hand, she pulled her jacket up against the cold breeze. A whiff of Matt�
�s spicy aftershave hit her. Her absolute favorite smell.

  He tugged on her hand to stop. “Open your eyes, Monkey Tree.”

  She opened them, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the twinkling lights against the backdrop of darkness. She was in Central Park, surrounded by a blanket of fresh snow. In front of her sat a small tree decorated with Christmas lights, ornaments, and old-fashioned silver tinsel. It was a little shorter than her and had been planted in a green plastic tub.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “How did you do this?”

  He didn’t respond. She let go of his hand and walked to the tree, running her hand, still warm from her husband’s, across the prickly branches. “It’s a monkey puzzle tree?”

  “It is.”

  “And you put it here?”

  “I did.”

  Her first trip with Matt had been to the Pacific Northwest, where Cole had fallen in love with a droopy-branched variety of pine tree that grew in the front yard of their rental. Matt had poked fun at her, calling it “The most ridiculous looking tree on earth,” and “God’s only mistake.” On their last night in Seattle, he’d proposed to her on the Ferris wheel by the waterfront and, after she’d accepted, she’d done a dorky, arm-flailing dance that reminded him of the tree’s branches.

  Ever since, he’d called her Monkey Tree.

  She dove into his arms, then pulled back and kissed him. “Oh. My. God. This is so sweet. But where are we, exactly?”

  “North Woods. Somewhere near 108th Street.”

  “Central Park at night?”

  “I figure people can tell I’m a Marine on spec.”

  It was true. Although forty years old, Matt was built like a tank. Not the kind of guy a Central Park mugger would single out. “How’d you get the lights to light up?”

  “Battery buried in the dirt. I petitioned the park for a month, even tried to bribe a guy, but they wouldn’t let me actually plant a tree here. Good news is, we can take it home. I thought we’d plan a trip to plant it somewhere upstate, maybe in the spring?”

  She kissed him again. “It’s perfect.”

  “Merry Christmas, Jane Cole.”

  “Jane. Your phone. Wake up!”

  Cole shot up in bed, the warmth draining from her all at once. Her phone’s triumphant, Ode to Joy ringtone filled the room but, as usual, provided none of the advertised joy.

  Danny Aravilla sat on the bed next to her, holding her phone in her face. She pushed a tangled swath of hair off her forehead and read the caller ID. “Ugh!”

  “Your boss, right? Didn’t you say you were on thin ice?”

  “Let me sleep, Danny.” It came out more annoyed than she’d intended, but less annoyed than she felt. They’d been dating for six months and he’d had to wake her up every time she slept over. That was no reason to be pissy with him, though. “Everyone over thirty is on thin ice. If you didn’t have a smartphone in your crib, you’re always about to get fired.”

  “C’mon.”

  “That’s how it feels.”

  He forced the phone into her hand. “Then shouldn’t you answer it?”

  Silencing the phone, she shoved it under her pillow. “Not taking this call won’t make or break me. I’m not supposed to be in for an hour. Max probably wants something new on the Ambani murder. Gave them seven hundred words last night, but since I dared take the evening off from tweeting news McNuggets, I guess he’s having a conniption.”

  “Not that I have much, but I could give you something on Ambani.”

  “I told you what the rules are. Rules are important to me.”

  “I know.”

  Aravilla buttoned the top button of a crisp white shirt, studying himself in the mirror. Cole watched him watching himself. He was handsome, she thought. Square jaw, short brown hair, good skin, lean and toned. His butt looked good in his black slacks. And he treated her well. So why wasn’t she into him in any real way?

  The answer came as soon as the question entered her mind. Because he’s not Matt.

  Aravilla looped a red tie around his neck. “Rules in general are not important to you.” He spoke slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully. “You break rules all the time. Jaywalking. Lying to your boss, lying to sources to get them to talk. One outdated journalistic standard is important to you, and that’s fine. Just saying, if you do get fired, I can help you.”

  Cole opened her mouth to explode at him, but caught herself in time and took a couple deep breaths. “You’re sweet. I appreciate it. There are a few rules that matter, and not sleeping with my sources is one of them.”

  He swiveled as he pulled on his jacket. “You were sleeping with me before you knew I was a detective. So technically you wouldn’t be sleeping with me in exchange for information.”

  “That’s a distinction without a difference.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Look, stay as long as you want. I know lazy members of the institution formerly known as the Fourth Estate can ignore their bosses and go in late, but central has half the detectives in the city pitching in on this Ambani thing and, if you ask me—”

  She put a hand up. “Not another word.”

  He stopped in the doorway. “You free tonight? I thought maybe we could go on an actual date.”

  Her eyes glazed. Pieces of the dream still echoed like a fading memory. The piney scent of the Monkey Tree, the warmth of Matt’s hand. Happiness.

  They’d never made the trip upstate to plant the tree. The evening in Central Park had been Christmas Eve, their seventeenth wedding anniversary. Matt left for his third tour in Afghanistan the following week. He died a month later. The tree now sat in the corner of her apartment, dehydrated and clinging to life.

  “Jane, what about tonight?”

  She didn’t reply. Part of her wanted to say, Go to hell, Danny. Next week would have been my twentieth wedding anniversary and there’s no way I’m spending any more time with you between now and then. She wasn’t in love with him, would never be in love with him. But he was a decent guy and didn’t deserve her mockery. She grabbed her phone from under the pillow and pretended to be lost in the screen, scrolling.

  As he walked out, she looked up.

  “See you around, Jane,” he called over his shoulder before shaking his head.

  She’d known she was bound to disappoint him from the moment they’d met.

  11

  Max Herr picked up his glasses and pointed them at her. “Try everything. Everything.”

  “I wrote everything I had last night. You think I didn’t try every source before I filed? No one broke any news yesterday. Not The Times, not The Post, no one.”

  “Find better sources.”

  Her story had been the best she could do, but it wasn’t anything special. By the time she’d filed, the police had released a statement indicating that Ambani had been killed by a sniper. Every paper in the city had quoted it. Cole had included Dr. Horowitz’s assertion that the fatal shot came from the limestone townhouse, but no one else would confirm it. She’d had very little information about the actual shooting so she’d spent much of the piece on Ambani’s background in order to fill column inches.

  Cole glared at her boss. Lately, this job had been the one thing she was good at and the lecture left her somewhere between pissed and ashamed. “You and I both know that I have better sources than anyone else here.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re good enough. The best of a bad lot isn’t anything to brag about.” Herr stood and walked a lap around the desk, stroking his wizardly beard. “There’s gotta be something we can do. Ambani’s personal life? His business partners?”

  “I’m looking into that, but you think I’m gonna crack this case before the cops? Best chance is we get a leak once they have something.”

  “Has his wife released a statement or spoken publicly?”

  She’d read Mrs. Ambani’s statement on Twitter just before coming into Herr’s office. “Shocked and devastated. Requested privacy in this time of pers
onal tragedy. Pretty standard, but I have a sense of what she’s going through. With a baby coming, I imagine it’s...well...as bad as something can be.”

  Herr ignored her sentiment. “Try. Harder.” He flopped into his chair and sighed. “I’m sorry, Jane. I know you’re doing your best. We need a win. I need a win. I need something no one else has.” His face became pinched, as though with pain. “I’m not demanding Pulitzers here, just…a win.”

  He looked defeated, almost desperate. For the first time in a long time, she felt for him. The Sun had lost half their staff over the last ten years. There were rumors of another series of layoffs. Even though Herr did the firing himself, she knew it gave him no pleasure. From the look on his face, it ate him up.

  “You’re my eyes out there,” he said. “You go to Ambani’s office?”

  “Last night. Total lockdown.”

  “Okay, what else? Gotta be something else.”

  Cole thought about it again. On the walk to work from Danny’s apartment, she’d played her interaction with Warren over in her mind, and one thing stuck out. The story that got him suspended had come out two weeks ago. He’d called The Sun dozens of times since—trying to refute it, arguing for a retraction. When he’d first approached her, she’d assumed it was about the story.

  But he hadn’t mentioned it. Not until she brought it up, at least. If he’d been obsessed enough about Ambani to approach her, obsessed enough to forget his anger about her story…

  It had to mean something. Under normal circumstances, she might have run the interaction by Herr for his opinion. But what if Warren was setting her up?

  Herr caught her eye. “I can see the wheels spinning, Cole.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “What?”

  She nodded at his laptop. “You have Twitter open?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything on the gun yet? I checked on my phone before I came in.”

  He scanned the screen. “Not that I see, but isn’t that something you should get from a source before it breaks on Twitter?”