Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “I didn’t mean to come off as jealous,” I said. “I never thought we’d have to talk about one of your boyfriends, let alone me having to work alongside one.”

  “Bobby was never my boyfriend,” Connie said. “Not in the way you’re thinking in that cop head of yours. And there aren’t any other boyfriends out there for you to fret over. Most of the time I wasn’t interested in anyone looking my way. And on the rare occasions I was, one glare from Carmine scared them away.”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long, Connie,” I said.

  “To do what?”

  “To be with you,” I said. “It should have happened long ago. I let the job get in the way, and I regret that now. All those years where we could have been together, instead of loving each other from a distance. That’s on me.”

  “It happened when it was meant to happen, Tank,” Connie said. “We’re together now, and that’s all that matters.”

  I looked at her and smiled. “Then, just so I’m clear, you’re not still carrying a torch for Bobby Gregson?”

  Connie laughed as she slid out of the booth. “You mean that Brad Pitt look-alike you’re about to work with?” she said. “Not a chance.”

  23.

  BRYANT PARK

  LATER THAT DAY

  WHEN YOU WORK A COLD case, you almost always start with the victim. At least I do. You trace the victim’s patterns, personal habits, close friends, possible enemies. You work it right up to the night of the incident, slowly putting the pieces of the crime together until a clear picture emerges. That’s how me and Pearl mapped it out whenever we caught a cold one. But this time, with Randy Jenkins, we had to approach it from a different angle.

  It wasn’t a cold case, at least not officially. As far as the system was concerned, this baby was closed and solved. The victim was dead. The perp doing hard time in a brutal prison. Which meant we needed to find the real killer and then prove it was him and not the one who confessed to the murder.

  To make our task even harder, we were going back nearly twenty years. We were working a blank slate, not knowing if the killer was still in the city or even the state. We didn’t know if he was already put away for another crime or string of them. We weren’t even sure if he was still alive. So I figured the best place for us to start was with Zeke Jeffries.

  Zeke was now in his late sixties and weighed about forty pounds more than he did back when he was making a name for himself on the basketball courts of New York City. Zeke was a playground legend, from the Harlem summer leagues to Greenwich Village pickup games. He could out-rebound, outscore, and outplay anyone he went up against. And he had highlight-reel moves. When word spread that Zeke Jeffries was going to be in a game, it wouldn’t take long for a crowd to materialize. Even pro ballplayers came out to watch him, and when they were bold enough to match up against him, they would be left breathless and defeated.

  As great as Zeke was on the city playgrounds, he could never make the move to the NBA. He caught a few cups of coffee with the Knicks and the Pistons but could never adapt his skills to the pro level. He was a one-man team, and that played well on cement but not on the hardwood. Zeke saw enough money from the bets that were laid down in his favor to not have to worry about paying his bills or having a nice place to live. He earned pocket money, just never real money. When Zeke’s legs surrendered to the abuse heaped on them by the cement courts of the city, he was content to move from court to court, telling stories about his playing days and listening to the street gossip. Before long, there wasn’t any activity, legal or otherwise, happening from Lower Manhattan up to the Heights that Zeke Jeffries didn’t know about. As great a storyteller as Zeke is—and, believe me, there are few better—he’s an even better listener, and he remembers everything. Pearl used to always say, “If you blow a dog whistle, Zeke will hear it before the damn dog.”

  I spotted Zeke sitting on a park bench, a cold beer wrapped in a paper bag cradled in his right hand. He was checking out the comings and goings in one of his favorite parks, a short distance from the main branch of the New York Public Library, another of his regular Midtown haunts. He smiled when he saw me approach. “Long time, old friend,” Zeke said. “Nice of you to make your way up here to check on my beat-up ass. Sit yourself down and tell me how my man Pearl is doing, before we get down to any business you came to discuss.”

  “What makes you think I have business to discuss?” I asked, sitting down and shaking his hand. “Maybe I just wanted to come check on you and see how you’re doing. Would that surprise you?”

  “Enough to kill me,” Zeke said, laughing. “Shit, men like you and Pearl always got business going. Now, tell me, how is he?”

  “He’s dealing with it,” I said. “Some days are harder than others, but Pearl’s never been one to raise a white flag, even though there were times when he came close.”

  “Working cases with you will do him more good than any doctor he could see or any medicine he could take,” Zeke said. “And having him live with you, well, that was a slam-dunk idea. You been a good friend to him, Tank. There ain’t no doubt about that.”

  “He’s been an even better friend to me,” I said. “And I’m not going to bother asking you how you knew he was living with me.”

  “Same way I know you two are nosing into the Randy Jenkins case,” Zeke said. “Looking to unlock what’s been sealed for close to twenty years.”

  “Did you know Jenkins before he got pinned for the murder?”

  Zeke took a long swallow of the beer and nodded. “Saw him around now and then,” he said. “Him and a group of his friends used to come watch me play.”

  “He run with a tough crowd?”

  “Name one kid his age didn’t think he was tough,” Zeke said. “They caused some noise, and one or two of them got jammed up. Jenkins himself did a few spins, one in juvie and two in state, as I remember. But if you’re asking me if he was the type looking to lay blood on his hands, I’d have to say no to that.”

  “Well, somebody killed that girl,” I said, looking out at the small parade of people passing by. “And if it wasn’t him, we need to find out who, and fast.”

  “No way he took that girl’s life,” Zeke said, shaking his head. “Not from what I know and from what I heard.”

  “He confessed to the murder, Zeke,” I said. “And he got himself convicted in court. If me and Pearl are going to get him out of that hole, it might help if you could share what you know and what you heard.”

  “First off, that boy had a mad crush on Rachel,” Zeke said. “If he could ever get his shit together, the two of them had a shot at making a life for themselves.”

  “They were both on the pipe back then,” I said. “That wrecks your mind. Makes who you think you love one minute your biggest enemy the next. You know that well as I do.”

  “They were playing around with it, I give you that,” Zeke said. “But they weren’t hooked. Not like some of them zombies walking the street. They were fighting hard to get off it, Tank. As much as they may have wanted it, that’s how much they wanted off it.”

  “If you were me and Pearl, who would you be looking at?” I said.

  Zeke finished off his beer and laughed. “Don’t go sticking no badge on my hip. I ain’t cut out for any of that shit.”

  “Just for argument’s sake,” I said.

  “I’d have me a few suspects,” Zeke said. “The cop who took him down, for one.”

  “Eddie Kenwood,” I said.

  “He was as dirty as an oil rag,” Zeke said, not bothering to hide his disdain. “He put away lots of young men, and not all of them were guilty of the crimes he laid on their names.”

  “A number of his cases have been overturned already,” I said. “The men he sent up were set free.”

  “That don’t make up for it, Tank,” Zeke said. “How do you give a man back twenty years h
e spent in a cage for no reason?”

  “You don’t,” I said. “Now, Kenwood knew Randy from the street, and I heard he had warm eyes for Rachel.”

  “There’s truth to that,” Zeke said. “He was on the prowl for her, for sure. And what Kenwood wanted, he took. And there was no one around that could stop him. Looking his way would be my first move.”

  I nodded. “Anybody else?”

  “There was another guy who also had eyes for Rachel,” Zeke said. “That Rachel was one fine-looking young girl, the kind most men would give their all for a hot sheet jump and a roll.”

  “A gangbanger or a wannabe?”

  “He had his hands in all sorts of shit,” Zeke said. “Sold dope. Boosted cars. Cranked out a few ladies on the street. And if you put some cash in his pockets and gave him a name, he would waste a guy. Jack-of-small-trades and master of none.”

  “Is he still walking or is he in prison?” I asked.

  “Last I heard he was still around,” Zeke said. “Cleaned his act up a bit, or as clean as a guy like him will ever be. Over the years, he’s been in the system more than he’s been out of it. These days he’s got himself a cover job, bouncer at one of the all-night titty clubs downtown. Place ain’t got a name, but somehow folks seem to know where it is. Never been there myself, but I hear you can get anything you want once you step onto those sticky floors. And he’s the guy that gets it for you. Now, I ain’t telling you he might have done in Rachel. I’m just saying it would not surprise me.”

  “You got a name, Zeke?”

  “Livingstone,” Zeke said. “J. J. Livingstone. You go looking for him, Tank, go in ready to do battle. He spent all those years in the joint lifting weights and popping that muscle shit. Guy makes Stallone look like a hand puppet.”

  I patted him on the knee and stood. “Appreciate the help, Zeke,” I said. “Anything I can throw your way?”

  “A couple of Knicks tickets once the season starts would do me a world of good,” Zeke said. “Bad as they’ve been these past years, I might start pushing my ass into the gym and get myself back into playing shape. Can’t do worse than that sad bunch.”

  “I’ll get a few games to you,” I said. “Maybe me and Pearl will go with you. We’ll make a night of it.”

  I turned and started to walk away. “Hang on a second, Tank,” Zeke said. “There’s something else you should know. Heard it for the first time myself not too long ago.”

  “What is it?”

  “About that cop Kenwood,” Zeke said.

  “What about him?” I said.

  “Word got to him that you and your bunch are looking to clear Jenkins,” Zeke said. “That didn’t sit too well with him, as you can imagine.”

  “Wouldn’t expect it to,” I said.

  “He’s still got friends with badges on the job,” Zeke said. “And he has a rough crew of ex-cops working for him now. They’re a nasty bunch, so you and Pearl watch your backs.”

  “They can come looking for us,” I said to Zeke. “We’re not hard to find.”

  “They’re not coming to talk you out of it, Tank,” Zeke said. “They’re coming to take you and Pearl down.”

  24.

  THE BROWNSTONE

  THAT NIGHT

  PEARL HAD THE CREW ASSEMBLED in the large living room by the time I walked in, Bobby Gregson by my side. I stepped in front of Bobby and introduced him to each member of the team. He shook hands with each and saved Connie for last, giving her his widest smile. “Been a long time,” he said to her. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Same here,” Connie said, eager to let the awkward moment pass as quickly as possible. “Thanks for coming in to help out.”

  “Wasn’t my call,” Bobby said. “But if we nab our targets in the end, that makes it worth it.”

  I walked over to the bar and poured myself a glass of wine from an already opened bottle of Biondi Santi. I looked over at Bobby. “Red or white okay by you?” I asked.

  “It’ll do,” Bobby said. “Unless you got Dewar’s somewhere on that bar. Then I’ll have that instead. Neat.”

  I handed Bobby his drink and turned to face the team. “Bobby’s been looking into the accounting firm my brother worked for,” I told them. “So I’ll let him start us off.”

  Bobby faced the room. “Think of them as a two-tier operation,” he said. “The bottom rung is made up of folks looking to invest their money, pay their taxes, and, with a little luck, see some profits fall their way. The top rung is what we’ve been looking at. That’s where the big money is, and it all comes from people with a lot to hide—drug dealers, mob guys, white-collar thieves, grifters, casino bosses looking to hide their skim. The firm always turns a profit for their clients, but those profits are hidden in offshore accounts and overseas banks.”

  “What’s their end?” Bruno asked.

  “The usual five percent fee per client,” Bobby said. “But I suspect they skim quite a bit more off the top for themselves. Haven’t been able to prove that end of it yet.”

  “Are you here to work with us or to spy on us?” Alexandra asked. “Be good to know that from the start.”

  “I can see this is going to be a friendly crew to work with,” Bobby said, taking a sip of his drink.

  “They don’t know you yet,” I said to him. “And what they don’t know, they don’t trust. That has to be earned, and you just got here.”

  Bobby was in his mid-forties, tall, and in workout-solid shape. He kept his dark-brown hair trimmed short and came off as relaxed and composed. Me and Pearl exchanged a glance, and we were both thinking the same thing: There had to be some mettle to this guy in order for Dee Dee to choose him to come work with us.

  “What Tank says is true,” Bobby said to them. “Except for Connie, none of you know me, and she hasn’t seen me in the longest time. But if you want to catch these guys, you’re going to need my help. You may think you can take the firm down without me. Thinking that would be boneheaded. It might also get you killed.”

  Chris stepped away from the corner wall he was leaning against and walked up to Bobby. “Have you read the files I worked on?” he asked him.

  Bobby nodded. “More than once,” he said. “I’m sorry about what happened to your parents. And you did a great job poking holes in the car-accident scenario they came up with. But going after them for killing your parents is only one way we can nail them and, to be honest, maybe not the best way.”

  “I don’t care that they keep money in offshore accounts and don’t pay taxes,” Chris said. “Maybe you do, but not us. We want them…I want them for killing my mother and father. The rest of it means nothing to me.”

  “We need to get them for the rest of it, for all of it, to pin them for the murder of your mother and father,” Bobby said.

  “How you figure that?” Pearl asked.

  “There’s three partners who own the firm,” Bobby said. “There were, at last count, a dozen associates with knowledge of their under-the-table business.”

  “Fifteen,” Carl said. “Last time we checked their personal rankings, three more junior members got booted up to senior level.”

  “Okay, then,” Bobby said, “fifteen. We nab them on the tax fraud, drug-dealing, money laundering, they each face a minimum of twenty years in prison. And not a country-club medium-security place. Flat-out hard federal time.”

  “And how does that get us to where we got them on killing my parents?” Chris asked.

  “Because when they’re facing that kind of time,” I said, “up against a prosecutor like Dee Dee Jacobs, then one of them, if not more than one, will be looking to do a flip.”

  “And in order for Dee Dee to make that flip happen,” Bobby said, “she’ll need to know who ordered your parents killed and why.”

  “What happens to the ones who flip?” Chris asked. “Do they j
ust get to walk away clean?”

  “Depends on who it is,” Bobby said. “If it’s one of the associates, they might have caught wind of what went down with your mom and dad but were in no position to give that kind of an order.”

  “And if it’s one of the partners?” Chris asked. “One of the ones who did give the order to have my mom and dad killed? What happens to him if he cuts a deal?”

  I reached over and put a hand on Bobby’s arm and then stepped in closer to Chris. “In that case, there will be two deals,” I said to him. “The one that Dee Dee gives him. And the one I’ll give him.”

  Chris stared at me, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. “What’s the difference between the two?”

  I leaned over and put both hands on Chris’s shoulders. “Dee Dee’s lands him in prison,” I said. “Mine puts him in a coffin.”

  25.

  ONE POLICE PLAZA

  THE NEXT DAY

  THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES, RAY Connors, sat behind his large wooden desk, his spit-polished shoes resting against an open drawer, sipping from a large container of Dunkin’ Donuts iced decaf. I was across from him, pacing between his desk and the large windows that looked out at the congested streets of Lower Manhattan. Chief Connors glanced at an open folder on his desk and then looked up at me. “Doesn’t surprise me that Kenwood still has a few friends on the job,” he said. “It shouldn’t surprise you, either. What does put me back on my feet is that he’s still tight with some ex-cops that are eager to do his bidding.”

  “And there might be a few loose cannons on his side in the DA’s office that block me from digging deeper on the Jenkins case,” I said.