Boots folded his arms across his chest, remembering all the reasons why he disliked the public he was sworn to defend. A hardened criminal would already be negotiating a deal. But then, he consoled himself, a hardened criminal wouldn’t make a very persuasive witness.
‘What you have to figure,’ Boots explained as he stepped away, giving Rajiv a little space to recover, ‘is that you’re gonna come clean, sooner or later. That’s because you’ll be forced to testify under oath before a grand jury. If you don’t tell the truth, it’s perjury. Remember, I’ve already spoken to Ms Henrietta and I know you were lookin’ out that window when the shots were fired.’ Boots spread his hands apart and smiled. ‘Also, you should remind yourself that nobody in law enforcement cares what you were doin’ when you saw what you saw. The state’s interest here is Chris Parker.’
Boots watched a light dawn in Rajiv’s eyes. Sure, he’d been punched around pretty good, but he was still on his feet.
‘What will I say … to my family? Why I did not report this witnessing before?’
‘I been thinkin’ about that, Rajiv, and here’s my advice. Tell Indira that you were at the apartment of a man you met in the restaurant, a man who offered you some gold jewelry at a fantastic discount. You didn’t speak out earlier because you were afraid the jewelry was stolen, but now your conscience is bothering you. One thing for sure, as long as you’re straight with me, I have no interest in the lies you tell your family.’
Rajiv’s eyes blinked rapidly for a moment, then he let the air out of his lungs in a great huff. ‘I saw the man who fired this gun only from behind. Believe me, this is the whole entire truth. I am not able to identify this man.’
‘Do me a favor. Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened.’
‘All right, I am lying on the bed and I hear a car alarm go off. I know this is my car, so I dash to the window. There I am seeing that someone is inside my car and they are trying to start it. Then another vehicle, a Jeep, drives on to the block and parks. A man gets out and I’m wondering if he’s Henrietta’s … Well, I don’t know who he is, but when he gets to the sidewalk, a second man steps away from a building – I didn’t see him before – and shoots the first man twice.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then he runs around the corner.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, as I come out through the door, I am seeing my car driving away.’
Boots squelched an urge to recite a prayer of thanksgiving as he reached into his briefcase for a yellow pad. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘let’s get the truth down on paper. After that, we’ll take a ride into Brooklyn where you’ll repeat your story as many times as necessary. Myself, if I was in your position, I’d try to be consistent.’
Lieutenant Levine’s features seemed to melt as he read through Rajiv Visnawana’s signed statement, a statement that confirmed those of Vinnie Palermo and Henrietta Penn. By the time he finished, he looked like an English bulldog with a head cold. Sorrowful didn’t even begin to describe his demeanor – not to Boots, who’d anticipated the worst.
‘Bottom line, boss, Palermo’s innocent,’ Boots said when Levine finished.
‘Only until proven guilty.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means the car Palermo stole was tracked to a chop shop in Queens over the weekend. It means blood evidence found on the car’s dash has been matched to Chris Parker’s blood type. It means the media is being informed even as we speak.’ Levine laid his hands on the desk and allowed his weight to come forward. ‘It means that I’m the asshole who gets to throw a monkey wrench into Inspector Mack Corcoran’s well-oiled machine. Trust me on this, Detective Littlewood, Inspector Corcoran will not be happy.’
‘I know that, boss. That’s why I waited so long before I went looking for a witness. But what I figure now, as long as I’m in the shit, I’m gonna have a good time. It’s not every day you get to trash an inspector’s dreams of promotion.’
‘Oh, great. Boots Quixote. And lucky me, I get to play Sancho Panza.’
Boots wasn’t buying into the guilt trip. He’d made any number of compromises over the years, but letting an innocent man go to prison was a line he’d never crossed. To cross it now would change the way he felt about himself. That was the conclusion he’d come to and he hadn’t been able to shake it, though he’d tried. Still, Boots felt enough sympathy for his boss to offer him a way out.
‘Why don’t I take Rajiv directly to Brooklyn North and hand him over to the task force myself? I’ll tell ’em I found the witness on my own, which is the truth. You had nothin’ to do with it.’
His offer promptly accepted, Boots drove a complaining Rajiv to Borough Command, led him up a flight of stairs, finally sat him in a chair.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’ll be over before you know it.’
Of all the lies Boots told Rajiv Visnawana, this was the most blatant.
Only a single desk in the small office housing the Chris Parker task force was occupied when Boots arrived, that of Detective Second Grade Thelonius Tolliver. Tolliver was cleaning out his desk. Either the task force was being downsized or Tolliver was being dumped.
‘What’s up, Boots?’ Tolliver asked.
Once again, Boots repeated his story, this time adding a number of details relating to why and how he’d gone about locating Rajiv Visnawana. He emphasized Henrietta Penn’s statement as well, and admitted that she was a whore, though he somehow failed to mention her area of expertise.
Boots leaned back in the chair when he finished. Tolliver’s expression hadn’t changed, which didn’t surprise Boots. A large, dark-skinned man, Tolliver had the map of Africa written on his face – his lips were full, his nose flat, his eyes obsidian. On the street, he was often mistaken for the sort of black male who haunts the dreams of white suburbanites, a trait he’d used to his advantage a decade before when he was assigned to the Anti-Crime Unit. Nowadays, he favored black turtle-neck sweaters that made his thick neck appear even thicker.
Thelonius Tolliver listened to Detective Littlewood’s tale. Then, without saying a word, he pulled out his cellphone and walked away. Thirty minutes later, Inspector Corcoran, with Artie Farrahan trailing behind, swept through the squad room and into his office.
As neither man looked in his direction, Boots settled down to wait, his thoughts naturally turning to Lieutenant Sorrowful’s revelations. One thing sure, if DNA testing matched the blood found in the Nissan to Chris Parker, the state’s overall strategy would have to include discrediting Rajiv Visnawana. Either that or virtually admit that the blood evidence was planted.
‘Hey, Boots, what’re ya doing?’
Boots looked up to find Artie Farrahan walking toward him. Farrahan wore a beautifully fitted jet-black overcoat and a flame-red scarf.
‘Just sittin’ here,’ Boots replied.
‘I’m talking about with your fucking career, dummy. We got this jerk, Palermo, dead and buried.’
‘You seem pretty sure of yourself.’
The accusation hung between them for a moment. It would take a DNA match to bury Vinny Booster, and the testing process was ongoing.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Farrahan said, ‘is why you give a shit about a skell like Vinnie Palermo. His whole life, the only thing he’s done is steal other people’s property.’
‘Stop right there, Artie. Think about what you just said. The only thing Vinnie’s done is steal. Meantime, you’re gonna put him on trial for murdering a cop.’
‘So what? Ya know, Boots, you got a hard head. That’s why you been stuck in the Six-Four all these years. You never mastered lesson number one. You never learned to see the big picture.’ Farrahan stood up and brushed off his coat. ‘Corcoran wants you in his office,’ he said. ‘Now.’
‘What in goddamned hell do you think—’
‘Lemme stop you right there, Inspector. The blasphemy? I’d rather not hear it. I have religious objections.’
Brooklyn North’s detectives had long ago hung the nickname ‘Schoolmaster’ on Mack Corcoran. And he had the look, no doubt about it. The craggy face, the austere mouth, the pinched nose, the oversized, wire-rimmed glasses that partially obscured his brown eyes. Looking into those eyes, Boots had to wonder if concealment wasn’t the whole point. Corcoran’s eyes were as dead and empty as those of a man blind from birth. And that was pretty amazing, because in every other way, from the flush in his cheeks to the way he straightened his shoulders, the man’s entire body projected a swelling rage. Even his wig had shifted to one side.
‘Get out,’ Corcoran finally said. ‘Get out before I shoot you.’
Boots gave it a couple of beats, until the hesitation became a dare, looking for any faint glimmer of life in Corcoran’s eyes. But there was no life to be found there, and no hope for Vinnie Palermo, either. Or for Rajiv Visnawana, who would soon be taught a painful lesson: Never trust a cop.
SIXTEEN
Shoulder to the wheel. For the remainder of that week, Boots arrived at the Six-Four on time and worked his tours enthusiastically. On Tuesday, he helped Narcotics track down Spiros Condraconis, wanted for selling cocaine out of the Grand Street Diner. On Wednesday, he handled three robberies committed within an hour of each other near the western boundary of the precinct. As these robberies all took place within a few blocks of Bushwick Avenue and the perp displayed a knife each time, Boots drew a pair of assumptions: the mugger was local and a drug addict.
Ear to the ground. Boots spent the final hours of his tour putting the word out to his snitches. If his assumptions were correct, he’d be cuffing the perp within a week. Or so he was vain enough to believe.
Thursday was devoted to interviewing burglary victims. Though Boots couldn’t do much for these folk, he maintained a properly sympathetic demeanor as he took their complaints, even when they berated him for the NYPD’s failure to protect their property. He stopped by the local shops in Greenpoint and Williamsburg, too, the ones that provided him with a professional discount from time to time. These were stores owned by people Boots knew well and he put his request boldly.
‘If anybody should come by askin’ questions about me, especially if those anybodies are cops, give me a call.’
‘You in trouble?’
‘Not yet.’
It was that ‘not yet’ that stuck in Detective Littlewood’s craw as the week drew to a close. He’d not only been looking over his shoulder and to both sides, he’d been looking straight up in the air. Just in case the other shoe was dropping.
Too much. That’s what he tried to tell himself. He just wasn’t that important to men like Chief of Detectives Michael Shaw and Inspector Mack Corcoran. The problem was that he couldn’t make himself believe it.
On Friday, as Boots was about to call it a week, his cellphone rang. He answered on the third ring.
‘Detective Littlewood.’
‘Yo, detective, it’s Flint Page.’
Boots nodded to himself, the wheels already turning. A small-time crook, Jimmy ‘Flint’ Page was a legendary snitch. He snitched for money, for a competitive advantage, to stay out of jail, for revenge. He snitched so much, and to so many cops, that Boots had come to wonder if the man didn’t have a rare psychological disorder that compelled him to snitch. Like Vinnie Palermo was compelled to steal cars.
‘What’s up, Flint?’ Boots’s tone was businesslike. Flint Page was a self-styled actor. If you didn’t keep him on track, he’d go on forever.
‘Man, you don’t sound too happy to hear my voice. And me, I have some excellent news for you.’
‘Like what?’
Flint’s voice grew sly. ‘You remember last Wednesday, all that crazy knife shit up on Bushwick Avenue?’
‘Yeah, I—’
‘Yo, detective, I gotta book. Call you later.’
Boots spent the last hour of his tour waiting for Page’s call. When it didn’t come, he silently cursed himself for not running Page down while he was on the clock. Now he would have to do it over the weekend. Nevertheless, Page was not first on his Saturday morning schedule. In fact, as Boots rang Frankie Drago’s bell at ten o’clock in the morning, his anticipation of the next few minutes was so keen that he forgot Page altogether. And not even when Mama Drago opened the door was he distracted.
‘Boots.’
‘My condolences about Angie,’ Boots said. ‘Is Frankie in?’
‘You, you, you mascalzone, you traitor, you dare to come my house? Tu puzzi.’
Boots nodded agreeably. Mama Drago was old school when it came to family. She’d defend her son if he was a serial killer.
‘I need to see Frankie, Mrs Drago,’ he repeated. ‘It’s business.’
Frankie Drago chose that moment to make an appearance. Though not a tall man, he towered over his diminutive mother. ‘Ma, why don’t you go upstairs?’
Before complying, Mama Drago assaulted her son with a burst of Italian that reddened his ears. Frankie watched her climb to the second floor, then released an involuntary sigh. His life had turned into a horror show, no doubt about it. The monsters just kept coming.
Frankie led Boots into the kitchen. Even taking the short odds, Boots was up more than five hundred dollars. And it would have been a lot worse if the Yankees’ relievers hadn’t blown last night’s game. Reluctantly, Frankie opened a small tin box next to the sugar bowl and counted out Boots’s winnings.
Boots took the wad of bills Drago offered, recounted it, then shoved it into his pocket. ‘So, how’s it goin’, Frankie? You holdin’ up?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice. I had to give my fuckin’ lawyer ten grand up front and he’s lookin’ for another twenty-five. When I mortgaged the house, Ma went nuts.’
Frankie opened the refrigerator and took out a quart of orange juice. ‘You want?’
‘No, thanks.’
Drago filled his glass and carried it over to the kitchen table. ‘I shoulda called you right away, Boots, right when it happened. Before I did anything else. I shoulda trusted you.’
Boots shuddered. Where had he heard that before?
‘See,’ Frankie continued, ‘it’s the part about Angie bein’ alive for two hours after she fell that’s killin’ me. My lawyer claims it shows evidence of intent. I told him a hundred times that I thought she was dead, but it doesn’t cut any ice, even if it’s true, even if I testify. The jury’s not gonna believe me.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about that.’ Boots tried to smile, but never quite got there. ‘Angie didn’t live for two hours. She most likely didn’t live for two minutes. Your lawyer will know that as soon as she gets the autopsy report.’
Frankie Drago observed a moment of stunned silence as he juggled a pair of conflicting emotions. He was definitely pissed-off, and rightly so, but there was this little drop of hope that kept expanding. Maybe this time the clutched straw would keep him afloat.
‘Are you sayin’ you lied to me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Cops always lie, Frankie. We’re encouraged to lie. We get rewarded for lyin’.’
Drago considered this for a moment, then said, ‘If you have to testify at my trial, what then? You gonna play it straight?’
‘What I oughta do is hang you by your balls. Not for what you did to Angie. No, I should hang you for what you did to Vinnie Palermo. The way it looks now, Vinnie’s gonna die in prison.’ Boots stood up. ‘Put me down for a two bills a game until I let you know otherwise. As for Angie, I haven’t made up my mind yet. The way it is, I’m already givin’ you a break. I could have told Connie Palermo that you were the one who ratted on her nephew.’
Boots was in the Key Food supermarket on McGuinness Boulevard, comparing heads of romaine lettuce and escarole, when his cellphone rang. Across the way, her cart halted beside a table loaded with plum tomatoes, Rose Orlac fiddled with a plastic bag, trying to separate the ends. She glanced over at Boots and smiled.
>
‘Littlewood,’ Boots said into the phone as he returned her smile.
‘Yo, detective, wassup?’
‘You tell me, Flint. It’s your dime.’
‘Yours too, my man. You’re on a cellphone. You pay comin’ and goin’.’
‘Right, and I’m also busy. So let’s get to it.’
‘Man, what is it with you today?’
‘Come to the point, Flint. You’re callin’ on my day off.’
‘Your dime, your day off. What I should do is hang up.’
‘Yeah, but then I’d have to look for you, which would piss me off more than I’m already pissed off.’
Page cleared his throat. Reared in a Bed-Stuy housing project, he’d come up the hard way, yet had acquired enough sophistication to mingle with the bohemians and the yuppies in their little enclave along Bedford Avenue. He used his panache to market drugs to these end-users, mainly powder cocaine and marijuana.
‘For a fact, I know the brother pulled those rip-offs on Wednesday.’
‘The brother?’
‘A Dominican brother, OK? I mean, ain’t we all brothers?’
‘And sisters,’ Boots responded. ‘So, what’s your interest, Flint?’
‘Money. Otherwise, I got no dog in this fight.’
Boots smiled. ‘Fifty bucks. That’s what the name’s worth to me.’
‘How do ya know that? If you ain’t heard it yet?’ Page went on before Boots could respond. ‘Lemme tell ya, this player I’m gamin’ here? He’s crazy evil. Attica? Clinton? Greenhaven? He’s done time in every one of ’em. Slice up your face soon as look at it.’
‘Is that the real reason you want him off the street? Is he lookin’ to slice up your face?’
Flint chose not to answer the question. ‘Three bills,’ he said. ‘And you doggin’ me at the price.’
Eventually, Boots and Flint settled on a figure, $150, a place, Flint’s girlfriend’s apartment on Richardson Street, and a time, ten o’clock that night. Though Boots made a valiant attempt, he was unable to persuade Flint to talk now and let him pay later.
Dancer in the Flames Page 10
