by Blake Banner
He puffed his cheeks and blew. “Man, I don’t know…”
“Don’t talk. Just listen. The way it is now, you are going away for the rest of your life and nobody—nobody—is even going to try to help you. You will become an old man in prison. And you will probably die in prison.” I paused, watching his stupid, simple face. “But you give me what I want, Guzman, and you will spend the rest of your life enjoying the blessing of your wife and your children, on a beach in California. Not many people get a second chance, Guzman. God has seen fit to offer you a second chance. What do you think the smart move is? Huh?”
There was something like awe in his face.
“They would kill me, man?”
I burst out laughing, leaning back in my chair and throwing back my head. “Jay! Jay! Do you really think they are not going to kill you? You really think they are going to let you reach two years in jail? Do you have any idea how dangerous you are? Do you understand the people who you will bring down if you talk to me?” I paused and shook my head. “The information you have is so important, Guzman, that even if you decided in five years to come clean, it could reduce your sentence.” I laughed again. “But don’t get ideas, because your employers, the people you can bring down with what you know, are aware of that, and they will not let you get to five years. You won’t last three months, pal. Your smart move is talk to me. Make a deal. Get on the witness protection program. It is your best, last hope.”
He swallowed. He was terrified. He was not intelligent, but he was shrewd and cunning enough to know that I was telling the truth.
“Your lawyer will be arriving in a few minutes, Guzman. Listen to him, see what he says to you. My bet? He will tell you to plead guilty and keep your mouth shut. That’s because the people paying his fees are your employers—the people who will go down if you talk. You’ll stand trial, you’ll go to prison, and after a few weeks you’ll be executed in the showers. And the buck will stop with you, and all of those sons of bitches will laugh and piss on your grave.” I shook my head. “No, that’s a lie, Guzman. They won’t piss on your grave, because they will have no idea who the hell you are, or where you are buried.”
“You would say that…”
“I’m not going to try and persuade you, Jay. I’m going to take them down sooner or later, one way or another. This way is quicker, and though I would be happy to see you rot in a cell for the rest of your life, or get knifed in the showers, you son of a bitch…” I showed him my arm in a sling. “I would be just as happy to see you give your wife and kids a decent life in exchange for seeing your bosses get what’s coming to them, sooner rather than later. But in the end?” I shook my head. “It’s all the same to me.”
There was a commotion outside and the door burst open. A big guy in an Italian suit wearing a fedora and an expensive coat came in. “We’re done here! I am Mr. Guzman’s attorney. He has nothing to say. This interview is over!”
I kept my eyes fastened on Guzman’s. I said, “Yeah, we’re done here.”
Dehan turned and shouted, “Sergeant!” The sergeant poked his head in the door. “Take Mr. Guzman down to the holding cells when he’s finished talking to his attorney.”
“Sure thing, detective.”
We stepped out of the interrogation room and walked down the stairs. As though of a single mind, instead of going into the detectives’ room, we stepped into the street. It was late afternoon and the sun had slipped behind the buildings and the bare trees, casting long, wintry shadows.
Dehan stopped, breathing plumes of condensation, and watched my face with a frown. She said, “I think we’re done for today, Stone. You look beat. Let Guzman stew for the night. He’ll talk to us in the morning. You scared the bejesus out of him. I think we got him.”
In my mind I told her to go home. I’d get take out, watch a movie, and see her in the morning. I told her to stay at the station, go out to dinner with some guy, any guy! Do whatever she had to do. I’d take care of myself, the way I always had. But not a single one of those words could make it out past my throat. My jaw was locked shut. She watched me a moment longer, then made a face like a firm decision. “Come on. You shouldn’t even be here. I’m going to get the key and our coats. We’re going home.”
I nodded. She went inside and I walked across the road to my car. I leaned on the roof and covered my face with my hands. I smiled and laughed softly to myself.
We’re going home.
Home.
TWENTY TWO
I stood for about five minutes watching dusk gather around the station house, watching the late sun turn from gold to burnished copper as the shadows deepened and the cold bit through my jacket into my skin. Then I saw Guzman’s attorney step out of the station house door, swinging his attaché case, and walk quickly toward Story Avenue. A moment later, Dehan appeared, wearing her coat and carrying mine. She took the two stairs in one long stride and was just looking to cross the road when I saw her stop and look back. Maria, the desk sergeant, was at the door saying something, pointing back with her thumb, like she was hitchhiking.
I pushed myself off the car and walked to where Dehan was standing. As I approached, she turned to me. Her face was a vivid mix of pity, compassion, and wanting to hit somebody.
I asked, “He wants to see us now?”
She nodded. “He’s going crazy.”
“Let’s strike while the iron is hot, Dehan. Let’s reel it in.”
She sighed and followed me into the station. As we walked, I said to her, “I’m going to get Newman. We’ll call the DA. You go and get Guzman. Take him to number three. Take two armed guards with you and post them outside the door. I want the whole damned station on red alert. If anyone or anything comes near him, shoot it.”
“You got it, Sensei.”
As I climbed the stairs, I could hear her bellowing like a marine gunnery sergeant rallying his troops.
Upstairs, I pushed into Inspector John Newman’s office without knocking. He looked surprised but not upset.
“John…”
I raised an eyebrow and almost smiled. The pain in my shoulder didn’t let me see it through. I said, “John, you’re going to want to see this. Guzman is about to give us Hennessy and her hit man.”
“Holy…”
“Shit is the word you’re looking for, and a ton of it is about to hit the fan.”
“Is it time to call in the Feds?”
“No.” Then I shrugged. “It’s your call, Inspector, but as of right now we still have no evidence. Let’s see what Guzman gives us. But call the DA. We need her in on this interrogation. We need her to authorize the deal, and we also need a safe house for him. Because after tonight, he is going to have some very powerful and very dangerous enemies.” I hesitated. “And so are we.”
Half an hour later, Newman and Jane Anderson, the very worried District Attorney, stepped into the observation cubicle attached to interrogation room three, and I went in to join Dehan and Guzman. I sat down, told Guzman that we were being recorded, and then recited the date and the time, stating who I was and who was present. Finally, I said, “Okay, Guzman, what have you got to say to us?”
He was watching me with fearful eyes. A couple of times he glanced at Dehan. His breathing was shallow.
“First I need guarantees, man. You don’t know how dangerous these people are.”
“What guarantees do you need?”
“What you said before. I need indemnity. I need protection, and I need the witness protection program for me and my family.”
“What do we get in exchange for that, Guzman?”
He kept trying to talk, but all he could manage was to swallow and lick his lips. Finally, he said, “I can give you the name of the guy who paid me to whack you and Detective Dehan. I can tell you where the order came from. And I can give you a name…”
“What name?”
“The name you’re looking for. The name of the guy who was talking to Thorndike. The big shot hit man.”
&nb
sp; “How do you know that name?”
“Fuck you. Gimme the deal, then I talk.”
I stood and walked out. Newman and the DA joined me in the corridor. Jane said, “Give it to him. I’ll call the office and get them drafting it. If there is the slightest chance that what he is saying is true, we need to nail these bastards before they slip out of our grasp. Once the deal is done, you understand this will become a federal case?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know that. And that worries me.”
I turned and went back in. I sat and said, “Okay, Guzman, you have your deal. The paperwork is being done as we speak. This conversation is being recorded. You have all your guarantees you need. Now talk.”
I heard the suppressed sigh of relief from Dehan as she flopped back in her chair. Guzman went pale and sagged as he realized the enormity of the commitment he had just made. In that moment, I understood that I owned this son of a bitch. Maybe not for long, maybe only for the next twenty-four hours—until the Feds took over—but for now he was mine to do as I pleased with. I smiled, like he was now my pal.
“Relax, Jay. Believe it or not, this is probably the safest you have ever been in your life. And the more you commit, the more you give us, the more we’ll want to keep you that way. As of the last two minutes, you have the biggest law enforcement machine in the world focused on keeping you alive. We’re friends now, on the same side.”
He stared at me for a long moment as he adjusted to the idea that all the people who used to be his friends were now his sworn enemies, committed to his death, and all the people who had until now been his sworn enemies were his friends and allies, committed to his safety and survival. It was like he was dying and being reborn.
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess…”
Not everybody is moved to profound statements in profound moments. What can you do?
Dehan said, “So who ordered the hit on Detective Stone, Guzman?”
“A fockin’ Italian guy, name of D’Angelo. He’s Senator Hennessy’s personal sec’atery. He paid me twenty grand, cash. He brought it in a paper bag. I still have the bag. I always keep’em.” He grinned. “You know why I keep ’em?”
I said, “Tell me.”
He pointed at me with a big, sausage finger. “I ain’t as dumb as I look. I read somewhere that paper is one of the best surfaces for keeping fingerprints. Did you know that? So this schmuck D’Angelo—I never did like the fockin’ Italians, you know? They give me a lot of work. The fockin’ Jersey Mob operate a lot down here. Did you know that? They give me a lot of work. But I never liked ’em, you know? You never know if they’re bein’ straight with you. Us, the Mexicans, you know where you stand with a Mexican.” He turned to Dehan. “Vos sois Mejicana, a que si? Am I right?”
She looked at him like she wanted to cut his throat. “Why do you keep the bags, Guzman?”
“Yeah, right, because I figure if I ever need an insurance policy, I got proof, right there, that this fockin’ Italian schmuck has been payin’ me.”
I smiled. “You’re a smart man, Jay. So you keep these bags in your house?”
“Right there, in my wardrobe.”
I knew that as he was saying it, Newman and the DA were applying for a search warrant for his house. D’Angelo didn’t know it, but right then, wherever he was in his sharp, two-thousand-dollar Italian suit, he was going under.
“Was D’Angelo working on his own?”
“You kidding? That schmuck ain’t got the brains to act on his own. Me? I been an independent operator all my career. You know? The fockin Sureños wanted me in the gang. I told them, ‘Fock you!’ I make the hits, I set my price, they pay. The fockin Mob wanted me to join, not as a fockin’ soldier, you know what I’m sayin’? They wanted me as a made man. You know what I told them? I told them, ‘Fock you. Fock you!’ I ain’t no wise guy, I ain’t no Sureño. I’m my own man. So they offered me work, I charge my fee, they pay. Everybody happy. An independent contractor. That was me.”
Dehan sighed. “So about D’Angelo…”
“Yeah. No, he worked for Hennessy. You nail him and he’ll deny it. That is one big, scary organization, you know what I’m sayin’? The Mob is little league compared to that firm. It’s not just her, neither. Her husband is the big honcho. Those guys are above the law. They are untouchable.”
I felt a surge of hot anger in my belly, but I spoke quietly. “Nobody is above the law, Guzman. That’s why it’s the law. Sometimes people forget that, but the bigger they get, the higher they climb, the harder they fall.”
He shrugged and made a face. “Maybe. Either way, D’Angelo was the go-between. He gets his hands dirty so she don’t have to. If things go bad, she washes her hands and he takes the fall.”
“Can you prove that?”
“No. I can tell you about a hundred conversation I had with D’Angelo where he said he was workin’ for Hennessy, but that ain’t worth shit to you. What I can do is give you the name of the guy who can nail Hennessy.”
I could feel my heart pounding. Dehan leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Who’s that?”
“He was the fockin’ Terminator, man. I got so much fockin’ respect for this guy, you know what I’m tellin’ you? This guy is a fockin’ ninja, man. I call him the Aspirin guy. You know why I call him that? Because Hennessy used him to get rid of all her fockin’ headaches. Then he fockin’ retires. He disappears. Is he dead? Nobody knows. And every fockin day of their fockin’ lives they are wondering, ‘Is he gonna come back? Is he gonna spill the fockin’ beans on me?’”
He threw his head back and started laughing.
I said, “And that’s what happened.”
“Too fockin’ right it happened. There ain’t never been so much fockin’ nervous dia-fockin’-rrhea in Washington!”
He roared with laughter again and I couldn’t help smiling. I glanced at Dehan and saw she was smiling too.
“So D’Angelo ordered you to hit Thorndike.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Paid me twenty grand to kill him.”
I shook my head and narrowed my eyes. “How did you get him to let you in? Why did you use his gun? And how did you even know where his gun was?”
He made a face like my stupidity offended his sensibilities. “No, man! You don’t know nothin’! I didn’t kill him! I don’t know who the fock killed him. I was at the plannin’ stage, just observin’ him, know what I’m saying? Like all good jobs, the important thing is the planning and the preparation.” He turned to Dehan. “Am I right? Before I could get to him, somebody else did the job for me.” He held up his hands. “But I kept the fockin’ dough. They want him dead. He’s dead. The fee is the fee.”
I closed my eyes and tried to think through the cloud of pain. It didn’t make any sense right then, so I filed it away and asked the billion dollar question.
“So what’s this Asprin Ninja’s name?”
He chuckled. “Mr. fockin’ anonymous. Adrian Philips.” Then he said with more emphasis, as though correcting himself, “Adrian Simon Philips. It’s like the name of a nobody, right?”
My heart sank. “Adrian Philips is dead, Guzman. He died in 2007.”
He gave a big shrug and spread his hands. “I don’t know what to tell you, Detective Stone. That’s the guy. Adrian Philips, Mr. anonymous.”
Dehan sighed loudly and ran her fingers through her hair. “How do you know this? Why are you so sure?”
“Because I often talked to D’Angelo about him. In the beginning I used to complain that this guy got all the class A jobs and the big bucks. Then when I saw how he operated, I saw why. He was good, know what I’m sayin’ to you? Never no come-back from one of his jobs. He was a fockin ghost, man! A suicide, a fockin’ accident, a house invasion. Always untraceable.
“Then, when D’Angelo hired me to kill Thorndike, he wanted me to go after Philips, too. I told him to go fock himself. I ain’t no fockin’ suicide!”
I sat for
ward and stared at him. “They wanted you to kill him?”
“That’s what I’m tellin’ you.”
“Where? Where was he?”
He held up his hands and shook his head. “Oh, no! No way, man! No fockin’ way! I didn’t want to know. I told D’Angelo. ‘Don’t you fockin’ tell me where he is or nothin’ about him! No way, man!’ I’ll whack the reporter, but I don’t want to know nothin’ about that fockin’ guy.”
I thought for a moment. Suddenly, I needed to be out of there, in the cold evening air, to think. I had all the pieces, now I needed to put them together.
“Okay, Guzman. You’re going to be taken somewhere safe now. The Inspector will take care of you.”
He grinned. “So, I guess we’re on the same side now, huh? I joined the other family!”
He laughed and I left, with Dehan close behind me. Newman and the DA were in the corridor waiting for us. Neither of them said anything. They just stared at me.
I said, “I’m going home. I need to think.” I looked at the DA. “Just give me twenty-four hours. The interview was inconclusive. We need to nail this…” I shook my head and sighed. “We need to nail this Aspirin Ninja before we hand it over. At the moment, his testimony barely gives us D’Angelo.”
She nodded. “I’ll give you more than twenty-four hours, detective. I want the results from the prints on those paper bags before I call in the Bureau. I have given that top priority at the lab, so you have a couple of days. Find out if Philips is alive or dead. Do it fast.”
“Thanks.”
We left them there and went down the stairs. It had gone dark and as we stepped out, I searched the sky for stars, but I couldn’t find any. When we got to the car I leaned on the roof while she unlocked it.
“You want to drop me off and take the car? You can pick me up in the morning.”
