“Yes. It was terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry I was there, too.” I didn’t really have anything more I wanted to add. Thankfully, Courtney saved me. She turned to Sorren and instantly made like the investigative reporter she used to be.
“David, I’m sure you’ve heard all the speculation about Eddie Pinero being responsible for Marcozza’s murder, right?” she asked. “What’s your take on it?”
As leading questions went, this one was a major gimme. Sorren, like a young Rudy Giuliani — albeit better looking and with a full head of thick hair straight out of a men’s shampoo commercial — had made cleaning up organized crime one of his highest priorities as Manhattan DA.
“At this point,” said Sorren, “most of my thoughts are with the families of those two officers who were gunned down.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “That said, I can assure you of this: We’ll nail whoever committed those murders. And if it turns out that Pinero was connected, I’ll be swinging the hammer on him myself, and I’ll be swinging it hard.”
Whoa. Easy there, Popeye …
I could see the veins in Sorren’s neck pop through his skin as he finished that last sentence. It was more than mere conviction. It bordered on vengeance.
It also brought the conversation to a screeching halt. All that remained were the obligatory parting pleasantries. So good to see you again … Yes, we really should try to get together sometime … Blah, blah, blah …
And that was that.
I was done talking to Brenda and her new boyfriend for the evening. At least, that’s what I thought.
Chapter 15
“SO, WHAT WERE you and I saying before we were interrupted by Blond Ambition?” asked Courtney when we were alone again. “You were about to tell me something, no? So tell me, Nick.”
Yes. Yes, I was. But timing is … um … uh … everything, and the moment for that heartfelt declaration had come and gone. Along with my having the guts to say the actual words to her.
All the more reason why I suddenly didn’t feel like sticking around at the benefit.
“I guess it’s jet lag,” I explained to Courtney. “I need to catch up on some sleep. You okay with that … boss?”
She probably knew I was making an excuse to leave, but she also knew the only reason I had come in the first place was because she’d asked. Plus, I’d had a rough couple of days, right?
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, giving me a sweet kiss on the cheek. “As soon as possible we’ve got to get you back together with Dwayne Robinson. We need that interview, Nick.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. I definitely wanted this story as much as she did.
A minute or so later I was on the steps outside the New York Public Library — smack between its two landmark lion sculptures, Patience and Fortitude — when I heard someone call out my name.
I turned to see David Sorren catching up to me. He was jogging, actually.
“You got a second?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Sorren reached into his jacket, removing a pack of Marlboro Lights. I was surprised to see that he smoked, if only because of his widely known political ambition. Gallup poll: candidate + cigarettes = less trustworthy. Obama didn’t go on the patch just for health reasons.
“You want one?” he offered. “No, thanks.”
“Yeah, I know, bad habit. Don’t tell the press,” he said, lighting up. “Wait a minute, you are the press.”
I smiled. “I’ll consider this off the record. Besides, I’m not much for petty crap.”
“Good, because I actually have a favor to ask you.” Sorren slid the pack of Marlboro Lights back into his jacket. When I saw his hand again, he was holding something else.
“Here,” he said. “Go ahead, take it.”
It was his business card. I looked at it as if to ask, What’s this for?
“Now’s not the time, but I was hoping the two of us could maybe talk on Monday about what you witnessed at Lombardo’s,” he said. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but I’m convinced Eddie Pinero was behind it. Now I have to figure out some way to prove it. Believe it or not, I am torn up about those two detectives.”
“I understand,” I said, taking the card. “I’ll give you a call. Monday.”
“Great — I appreciate it. Because if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down for good.”
I nodded. I mean, I think I nodded. Tell you the truth, I was still pretty taken aback by the district attorney’s intensity. He wanted Pinero bad. Really bad.
Sorren firmly shook my hand again and was halfway back up the steps when he turned around.
“Hey, one other thing,” he said. “Brenda told me that the two of you used to be a couple.” He let go with a slight chuckle and shake of the head. “Small world, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Small world.”
Maybe a little too small.
Chapter 16
CUE THE NIGHTMARES.
I knew I’d have trouble sleeping that night. There wasn’t enough warm milk and Ambien in the world. As soon as I closed my eyes, it was as if I were back in Lombardo’s, living it all over again in a continuous loop. I could hear the screams, the chorus of terror that ripped through the restaurant. I could see the shine of the scalpel in the killer’s hand, the dark plum color of the blood that was suddenly spurting everywhere.
At one point it was even my eyes being carved out.
Finally, I raised the white flag.
I got out of bed and into the chair behind my desk. If I couldn’t sleep, maybe I could at least get some writing done.
Perhaps that was the only silver lining in my missing the interview with Dwayne Robinson — I could put all my focus into the piece on Dr. Alan Cole and his work in Darfur with the Humanitarian Relief Corps. First things first, I needed to sort through the hours’ worth of recordings I had made with him, taking careful notes to string together an outline. Note to any kids reading this: outline — always!
The reality is, the longer I do this, the more I understand that there are no shortcuts in journalism. At least not any worth taking.
So I flipped on my laptop and grabbed my tape recorder. I was about to hit the rewind button when my hand suddenly froze. I realized something.
In the horror of those moments at Lombardo’s, as well as in the haze and commotion of the aftermath on the killing floor, I’d forgotten that I had already been recording when Vincent Marcozza and those cops were murdered.
I didn’t get my interview with Dwayne Robinson.
But what did I get?
Part of me almost didn’t want to know. After tossing and turning half the night, I didn’t particularly want to relive the murders yet again.
But how could I not?
Taking a deep breath first, I braced myself for what I knew was coming. Once more, I’d hear Marcozza crying out in agony. I’d hear the shots that had brought down the two detectives.
But before all of that, there had been something else, something I couldn’t believe as I listened to the tape recording now.
Holy shit.
This changes everything.
Chapter 17
MY HEART WAS pounding as I played the tape back three times just to make sure. Am I really hearing this? Did he really say that?
Yes. Yes, he did.
It was the voice of the killer before he committed three murders in cold blood. He was speaking to Marcozza, telling him something, something I wasn’t supposed to hear, something I shouldn’t have been listening to now.
“I have a message from Eddie.”
My recorder had barely picked it up and the Italian accent wasn’t helping, but there it was — creepy, ominous, and beyond a reasonable doubt.
Evidence.
There was no other Eddie it could be, not since Vincent Marcozza had worked for Eddie Pinero. The speculation around town was nearly unanimous — Pinero had ordered the hit. Now, word for word, it was more than jus
t speculation.
“I have a message from Eddie.”
The killer delivered it, all right. I listened to his words once, twice, three times.
Then I pushed back from my desk, the wheels of my chair carrying me nearly all the way to my bed. On the bench by the footboard were the trousers to the suit I’d worn to the benefit at the public library. I dug through the pockets looking for the business card David Sorren had handed me. I hadn’t lost it, had I?
No. There it was, along with my money clip, a half-eaten roll of Cryst-O-Mint Life Savers, and two pieces of Trident bubble gum.
Right below Sorren’s office number was another number for his cell. I looked up, checking the clock on my bedside table. It was almost three a.m.
Don’t be crazy, Nick. You can’t call Sorren now. Wait until morning.
On the fourth ring he answered.
Chapter 18
“HELLO?”
“David, it’s Nick Daniels,” I said. “Sorry to call so late.”
It took him a few seconds to respond. “Oh … hey, Nick,” he said in a whisper. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”
I knew why he was whispering. He wasn’t alone. Sure enough, I heard another whisper in the background.
“Nick Daniels? At this hour?”
It was Brenda.
Don’t sweat it, I felt like telling him. You’re in bed with my ex-girlfriend. I get it. You weren’t playing Boggle.
Instead, I pretended I hadn’t heard her and quickly explained why I was calling him in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure the sound I heard next was his shooting up in bed like a nuclear missile.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Dead serious,” I answered. “I just listened to the tape several times.”
I expected his next question to be a breathless Can you play it for me over the phone? Or maybe even How fast can you meet me?
Who cared what time it was? This was the guy who only hours before had looked me straight in the face and declared, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down.”
Thanks to my tape recorder, I was all but doing it for him. I had what he desperately wanted and needed to drop the hammer on the biggest mobster in New York.
That’s why I was so surprised by what David Sorren said next.
Chapter 19
I WALKED INTO the Nineteenth Precinct on East 67th Street at a little after nine the next morning and was greeted by Detective Mark Ford, who led me back to his desk. It sat in the middle of a slew of other desks, in a large open area that reminded me of every police drama I’d ever seen on television, albeit without the ridiculous “extras” of gum-chewing hookers in fishnet stockings and belligerent drunks hand-cuffed to benches.
Then again, maybe Saturday mornings were just a little slow around here in the real world.
“Have a seat,” Detective Ford told me, pointing to a metal chair that rode sidecar to a file cabinet.
“Thanks,” I said. My butt was still hanging in the air, though, when he cut straight to the chase.
“So, do you have it?” he asked. “Did you bring it with you, Mr. Daniels?”
What, no small talk first? No chitchatting?
Of course not. From the moment Detective Ford had taken my statement at Lombardo’s, I knew that everything about this guy was direct and to the point. His short, cropped gray hair. His rolled-up sleeves. The way his sentences were all about finding the quickest route to either a period or a question mark.
“Yeah, I have it,” I said. “But there’s something I want to talk to you about first. Something I need to know.”
Oh, great, said his expression. It was as if I’d just told him some god-awful, horrible news, such as the TV show Cop Rock was returning to the air. All Detective Ford wanted to do was listen to the recording, and here I was telling him, Not so fast.
Just like David Sorren had told me.
As happy as the Manhattan DA had been to learn about my recording, he didn’t want to hear it himself. At least not yet. Not until certain “protocols” had been met, he had explained.
“I can’t be seen playing detective, you know what I mean?” he told me.
I did. Even though that’s precisely what he had been doing with me on the steps of the New York Public Library.
So now here I was, sitting in front of Detective Ford, following protocol. There was just one problem.
“So what is it? Tell me,” said Detective Ford. “What do you need to know?”
I cleared my throat. Twice, actually. “It’s just that … well, I’m a little concerned about —”
He cut me off with a raised palm. “Let me guess — you’re scared shitless that Eddie Pinero will want to carve your eyes out, too? That it?”
Maybe “scared shitless” was a touch extreme, but I wasn’t about to quibble over semantics. I just would’ve preferred to slip the recording to David Sorren as an anonymous source and then get far, far away from this murder case, police protocols, and anything else that might eventually pop up.
“Will Eddie Pinero know I’m the guy supplying this?” I asked. “Seriously, detective. I’d like a straight answer.”
Ford quickly folded his arms. “Here’s the deal. For the time being, Pinero can’t even know this recording exists. If it is what you say it is, then the first time he’ll hear it will be after he’s indicted.” He shrugged. “Now, can he find out that you’re the Good Samaritan who came forward with it? Sure. I won’t bullshit you on that. Will he want to kill you because of it? I highly doubt it. Killing you would serve no purpose. How could it?”
I nodded as Detective Ford leaned back, the legs to his chair squeaking loudly as they scraped against the linoleum floor. If I had to guess, that had been the most uninterrupted string of sentences the guy had put together in a long, long time.
“If killing me would serve no purpose, then what was the purpose of killing Vincent Marcozza?” I asked. “It would seem to be no different — simple revenge.”
I stared at the detective, waiting for him to alleviate my fears, to give me some great and compelling explanation as to why I had nothing to worry about. But that clearly wasn’t his style.
“Look, Mr. Daniels, it’s like this,” he said. “Eddie Pinero is a sick and twisted motherfucker who kills with little provocation and even less remorse. Personally, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Then again, Vincent Marcozza probably thought the same thing. So it’s your call. Now, are you going to give me the recording or not?”
Chapter 20
“OH MAN, oh man, oh man.”
Dwayne Robinson sat alone in the darkness of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. The place was barely furnished, almost as empty as the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black tipped over by his feet.
He was mumbling to himself, thinking that he missed his kids so much, it felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. For years now their mother had Kisha and Jamal out in California, as far away from him as possible. But even if they lived next door he knew he’d probably be too ashamed to see them. He hadn’t paid child support for over a year. The last time he did, the check bounced, and he was ashamed about that, too.
There was nothing more to hock. His two Cy Young awards were long gone. So were the old Yankee jerseys. On eBay, the highest bid for one of his signed baseballs was $18.50. His rookie baseball card had no bids at all.
Again, the phone rang.
It had been ringing all afternoon and into the night. Not once did he answer or even check the caller ID. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was.
He was sure that writer, Nick Daniels, was a decent guy, and that’s what made it worse. Dwayne pleaded with himself, Just call him back and tell him you’re okay.
Just lie, like you always do.
But he couldn’t even do that much. He was too scared. The same fearless pitcher who chose to stay here in New York, even after letting the entire city down, was too
scared to talk to some writer.
All he could do was close his eyes and let the darkest of dark thoughts creep into his mind like shadows across the outfield and around the monuments at Yankee Stadium.
Never having to open his eyes again. Not ever. That would be good.
“Goddamn it!” he yelled, swinging his huge clenched fist through the darkness. But the invisible demons were always out of reach.
His eyes popped open as he stood, turned on the light, and began pacing the floor. His fear had turned to rage, the alcohol coursing through his blood no longer dulling the pain. Instead, it was greasing the wheels. Every muscle, every nerve ending, fired at once as he lunged for the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, scooping it up while cocking his arm.
This would be no curveball.
This was a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball aimed right at the bare wall before him.
Smash!
Shards and splinters of jagged glass scattered across the apartment as he fell hopelessly back into his chair, sobbing into both hands.
Dwayne knew one thing for sure.
He couldn’t keep his secret any longer.
He had to talk to that damn reporter, whatshisname — Nick Daniels.
Chapter 21
AFTER RETURNING HOME from the Nineteenth Precinct, where Detective Ford had sweet-talked me into handing over my recording from Lombardo’s under the threat of a sub-poena, I spent the rest of my day alternating between calls to Dwayne Robinson and contemplating life on the run from Eddie Pinero.
On the plus side, an extended stint in the Witness Protection Program would make for one hell of an article.
I could only pray I was overreacting about Pinero and what he might do to me.
As for getting through to Dwayne Robinson, well, that was getting damn frustrating — and I don’t give up easily. Especially not on a story as big as this one could be.
Courtney had given me Dwayne’s home number, courtesy of his agent, but if Dwayne was home he sure wasn’t picking up. The guy didn’t even have an answering machine, so I couldn’t leave a message, something like Call me, you self-centered son of a bitch. It’s time to grow up, Dwayne.
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