I woke up to the sound of the hotel phone, loose pages scattered across the bed. My heart raced at the thought of Maggie at the other end of the line. All I could think about was how badly I had handled the situation, from the moment she told me about getting the part to making her leave town early. But it wasn’t Maggie at all.
“Have you forsaken me, ya bastard?”
It was Bill, and though the sound of his phony lilt was a distant second to Maggie’s voice, I couldn’t recall being happier to hear it.
“Never. I’m glad you called.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m low, Bill. Feeling very low.”
“We can’t have that, now, can we? Come my way. Pick us up some chow and I’ll supply the wine. What do ya say, boyo?”
“I say that I’ll see ya in an hour.”
“Whatever food you choose is fine with me. You can only imagine some of the food I’ve been forced to suffer through over the years. Christ in heaven, if I see another green-bean casserole, I’ll be unable to turn the other cheek.”
“No green-bean casseroles, Bill. I promise.”
44
(TUESDAY MORNING)
Asher Wilkes looked the part, which was another reason why he was always the guy singled out for the bright future and the brass ring. At six-three, two hundred ten pounds, he had a commanding presence and an athletic physique. If that wasn’t enough, he was a handsome son of a bitch, with flawless dark mocha skin, a shaved scalp, and perfectly groomed facial stubble. Asher could have been Kobe Bryant’s older, better-looking brother. And anyone who tells you good looks aren’t a huge advantage in life is either willfully stupid or blind. The only crack in his armor was that he could no longer afford to dress as he once had. When your practice is grounded in lost causes, custom-tailored suits aren’t part of the scene. I didn’t mind that his blue suit didn’t hang on him just so or that the collar of his white shirt was pilling. I’m sure none of his other clients much cared or even noticed. With Asher Wilkes at your side, no matter how bleak the outlook, you always felt like you had a puncher’s chance.
“Nice ride,” he said, folding himself into the front seat of the Mustang.
Asher turned to me and shook my hand. That was where the small talk and pleasantries ended. From that point on, he was all about business. He had me explain to him everything I could about the night in Coney Island when Goran Ivanovich was executed. I was careful to do it in such a way as not to cause Asher any ethical dilemmas. People forget that lawyers are officers of the court and that there are certain things they cannot know and do not want to know. Cops never forget that. You learn early on how to skirt up right to the edge of things with the ADA and defense lawyers. Funny, everybody makes a big thing about cops lying in court—testilying, they call it. Maybe they should make a big deal about it, but you know what? Everybody lies and the biggest lies I ever heard in court didn’t come out of a cop’s mouth. It doesn’t make it right. I know that. I haven’t changed that much. I just wish the truth wasn’t always in such short supply.
I told him about my previous encounters with the detectives and gave him my assessment of the partners handling the case.
“Narvaez is a prick and as subtle as a howitzer. He assumes everybody’s lying and he goes from there. Dwyer is sharp and plays it close to the vest. She doesn’t give much away. I don’t think there’s a lot of love between them beyond partner loyalty. Maybe you can use that.”
Then I gave him some deeper background about Slava, Mikel, and Goran Ivanovich, but I neglected to mention the bombings and the three hundred murders they had been duped into committing. Were they duped? I only had Slava’s word for it. It was odd that I trusted Slava without question. I hadn’t asked myself whether I would have accepted the same story from another human being. From Spears? Maybe I hadn’t asked myself because I knew the answer.
“Okay, Gus. Do you know where Slava is?”
“No.”
“That the truth or something approximating it?”
“In between,” I said. “I have an emergency number for him, but it’s not for the cops.”
“Who, then?”
“You don’t want to know that and you don’t want to know why.”
“So we have no real bargaining chip if they decide to squeeze you?”
I knew what he was asking without asking directly. He wanted to know, if push actually came to shove, whether or not I’d be willing to give Slava up.
“If I was willing to give him up, Asher, I wouldn’t have bothered you. I could have gotten any half-assed schmo to bargain me out of this. I could have done that myself.”
“Fair enough. You let me do all the talking. All of it. You just sit there and look pretty.”
“I can sit there. The other part . . .”
We didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.
Inevitably my mind drifted back to my dinner with Bill the night before. He did have the gift of making me feel better about things even if there was no logic to it. Bleak didn’t seem to be part of his vocabulary. I had to give him that. I’m pretty sure the two bottles of Sangiovese we drank with the fried chicken and biscuits didn’t hurt. But now, out of Bill’s orbit, the wine having long worn off, bleak was exactly how things looked.
Maggie still hadn’t called. I was no closer to finding the reason why Rondo Salazar had killed Linh Trang Spears, nor did I have any idea if Bogdan Lagunov had gotten to Slava. I didn’t know if I would ever have that answer. It was hard enough imagining my life without Maggie in it. I didn’t want to think about my shifts at the Paragon without Slava there to pass the time. I hated the way people could become important to me without asking my permission.
• • •
THE SIXTIETH PRECINCT wasn’t exactly a garden spot. A ’70s concrete-and-light-brick shitbox, it lacked the character of the classic New York City cop houses and it was just old enough to be falling apart. A bored-looking uniform led us to the squad room, and when Asher and I walked in, Narvaez checked his watch to make sure we were on time.
“You’re three minutes late,” he said, that familiar nasty tone in his voice.
“Parking. We were actually ten minutes early.”
Dwyer sat at her desk, facing her partner. She looked on impassively: always watching, always listening, always waiting for her opening. Behind Dwyer was a rumpled suit of a man. A rumpled, fifty-five-year-old brown suit, to be exact. He had unkempt gray hair and dandruff-speckled glasses and lapels. He looked like a lifer. The type who’d gone to New York Law at night, finished in the middle of his class, barely passed the bar, and who was thrilled to get a civil service job. It didn’t make him incompetent, but he wasn’t making me shake in my shoes, either. Asher’s face didn’t give anything away. I didn’t introduce Asher. I wasn’t going to talk. I knew he had meant what he said. Once we got up to the squad room, my mouth was only there for breathing and drinking water.
Asher stuck out his right arm to the rumpled suit. “Asher Wilkes,” he said.
Rumpled Suit’s eyes got big behind his glasses, real big. “Asher Wilkes,” he repeated in a half-whisper. “The Asher Wilkes?”
Asher nodded.
“I’m Assistant District Attorney Michael Cohen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
They shook hands, Asher resisting any impulse he might have to ask Rumpled Suit if he was the Michael Cohen.
Asher nodded. “Pleasure’s mine, Michael.”
And then, as if on cue, Narvaez said, laughing, “Asher Wilkes, like in Gone With the Wind. Miss Scarlett, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothing ’bout birthin’ no babies. That Asher Wilkes? Like that?”
The only one laughing was Narvaez. Asher remained cool, his face impassive, but on the inside I knew he was clapping his hands together. Cohen looked like a pigeon had flown into his mouth and lodged in his throat. I stared down at the floo
r. Dwyer rolled her eyes, shook her head, and said, “You asshole!”
“What?” Narvaez asked. “What? I was only busting the counselor’s balls a little. He’s a big boy. He can take it.”
Cohen moved his lips, but nothing came out.
“Excuse me, Detective Narvaez, but, for the record, that was Ashley Wilkes. And, just out of curiosity, did you just call me a boy? Do you have any notion of how racist and offensive your behavior is?”
“What? You’re kidding me, right, Counselor? You telling me nobody ever—”
“Shut up, Detective Narvaez. Now!” Cohen found his voice, not as much of a rumpled suit as he appeared. He turned to Asher. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Wilkes. Detective Narvaez is a little overzealous at times and—”
Narvaez shot out of his chair. “Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me to shut up, you little weasel?”
“Shut up, Richie!” Dwyer screamed, coming around her desk. “Just shut the fuck up.”
She grabbed him by the sleeve and marched him out of the squad room. Listening to her alternate between screaming at her partner and trying to calm him down was sweet music to Asher’s ears. I didn’t mind it too much, either. Asher kept his expression fairly unreadable. Me, not so much.
After a minute of listening to the two partners going at it, Cohen said to Asher, “Do you think the two of us could have a quick chat?” He pointed at the interrogation rooms. “We could probably arrange to get your client out of here without much more bother.”
“Let me consult with my client.”
“Absolutely, Counselor. I think I need a drink of water. Take your time.”
When Cohen walked away, Asher smiled at me and said, “Your take on Narvaez was dead-on. What a putz. I think I can make sure these two don’t bother you again, or at least not until there’s more violence connected to your friend Slava. There is going to be more violence connected to him, isn’t there?”
I said, “You told me to keep my mouth shut.”
He shook his head and made a face. “I’ll take that as a yes. But let me see what I can do.”
When Cohen came back in, Asher headed straight toward the interrogation rooms. Cohen followed. Dwyer came back into the squad room without Narvaez in tow.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked, no gloat in my voice.
“Taking a walk to cool off.”
“Where’s he walking to, China? He was pretty hot.”
She ignored that, pointing at the ADA and Wilkes, who were visible through the interview room’s glass. “Cohen busy bargaining away our leverage with you?”
“No comment.”
She twisted her mouth into what passed for a smile. Cohen stuck his head out of the room and asked Detective Dwyer to step inside.
“Here’s where he tells me to leave you alone. But remember, Murphy, anyone innocent gets hurt, it’s on your fucking head. Remember that, because I will.” She put her face very close to mine, her breath smelling of stale coffee and failed peppermint. “Blood gets spilled and I don’t care what the suits or the brass say. I’m coming straight for you. My partner will be the least of your worries.”
She about-faced and marched into the interrogation room. I took her words to heart. As I’d suspected from the first time I met the partners, Dwyer was the dangerous one.
45
(TUESDAY AFTERNOON)
Lunch was part of my deal with Asher and he chose pizza instead of Nathan’s, so we went to Tony O.’s. I may not have known much about this part of Brooklyn, but I knew about Tony O.’s. It was one of those pizza places, like Di Fara and Spumoni Gardens, that everyone knew about. Tony O.’s was all about the super-thin crust. We ordered two pies and waited.
“The execution of that guy Ivanovich,” I said.
“What about it?”
“Happened only a few blocks from here. I didn’t realize it until we parked. I drove right past this place when I was heading back to the island.”
He didn’t say anything to that.
“So, Gus, to be clear, you are probably not going to have to do this song and dance with the detectives again. They should stop harassing you now, but as I said at the precinct house, if there’s more violence—”
“I understand. I get it. Dwyer made it pretty evident to me that she would eat my lunch if anybody else is killed. If I was in her shoes, I’d feel the same way.”
“I hope this Slava guy is worth it.”
“He saved my life, and I’m not being dramatic with you, Asher. If it wasn’t for him, you would have either been at my funeral or defending me at trial.”
“Do I want to know any of this?”
I shrugged. “It was all connected with what went down with Jimmy Regan and Pete McCann.”
“Any fallout from that?” he wanted to know.
“Some,” I said, rubbing my abdomen where Tony Palumbo had tried punching through me. “And some of it more subtle than others. People love their heroes and they don’t like it when you expose clay feet, even when those clay feet are covered in other people’s blood.”
“I had a professor at Stanford who was fond of saying that when presented with a preponderance of hard evidence that refuted a popular myth, people will almost always choose to continue believing the myth. It’s an important lesson for a trial lawyer to understand.”
I didn’t bother arguing with him. His professor was right and I sensed that I would be dealing with my destruction of Jimmy Regan’s popular myth for years to come. Maybe for the rest of my life. The pizza came first. We did more chewing than talking, Asher and me.
My mind drifted back once again to my meal with Bill Kilkenny the night before and how I tried to pry more details out of my favorite ex-priest about Micah Spears. I’d detailed for him the strange encounter I’d had with Roberta Malone.
“She kissed you, did she? You do have a way with ladies, Gus Murphy. You surely do.”
But I wouldn’t let Bill slither out of it that easily.
“There was only the slightest hint of sexuality in the kiss, Bill. It was more a way of her to open up to me as much as she could. Apparently, she traded in part of her soul for her divorce settlement.”
“And she said what to you, boyo?”
“Something about Micah Spears not being what he seemed. It wasn’t so much what she said as the kiss and how she said it. It felt like I was cursed with knowledge.”
Bill was a bit unnerved by that. Not much unnerved Bill Kilkenny. In the midst of my family’s implosion following John’s death, Bill was a rock—caring and sympathetic, available and loving, but never shaken by our fury and grief, not even when it was misdirected at him. He had served in Vietnam. He had been forced to kill, yet those few words I’d just said seemed to shake him.
“What is it, Bill? What’s the deal with Spears?”
He tried deflection. “Cursed with knowledge, you say. A positively biblical phrase from a nonbeliever. There may be hope for you yet.”
“Nice try, Bill. What is it with Spears?”
He shook his head at me. “I can’t, Gus. I can’t. I won’t.”
I didn’t press. I owed him too much to push him, and it would have done me no good in the end.
I looked up from my pizza to see Asher taking a rest between slices. There was a distance in his eyes. It seemed I wasn’t the only one whose mind had drifted.
“Where are you, Asher?”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Not what. Whom.”
I knew the answer. “DeShawn Pickette.”
He smiled knowingly, sadly. “It happens when I’m around you, Gus. Hard not to think of him. Worst part is, there is a pile of files on my desk with the next DeShawn in it. Legal Aid lawyers in Suffolk got bigger piles on their desks and the ones in the city have even bigger ones on thei
rs. Sometimes I just want to throw my hands up and walk away.”
“But you won’t.”
He laughed. “No, I guess I won’t.”
I changed subjects.
“Listen, Asher, if you were Googling someone and his history seemed only to go back to 1973, what would you think about that?”
“You mean if I was certain he was born before 1973?”
“Exactly.”
“This a hypothetical?”
“I wish. No. I’ve gotten myself involved in something.”
I told him the sad tale of Linh Trang Spears, her grandfather’s desire to know the motives for her murder, and his offer of a foundation in John’s name and a research donation.
“And this has nothing to do with your friend Slava and the reason we’re here today eating this incredible pizza?
“Nothing at all,” I said, raising my right hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“Sounds like somebody changed his or her name in 1972 or 1973. Easy enough to do. You petition the court for a court order. Name changes are public record, at least in New York State they are, and they have to be accompanied by a public notice in a newspaper. Wonder how that’s going to work after there aren’t any newspapers anymore.” He shrugged, picked up a piece of crust, and said, “Give me the particulars. I’ll have one of my paralegals or another lawyer look into it for you.”
“Thanks, but I’m sure they have better things to do. Remember what you just said about the next DeShawn.”
“I’ve got more volunteers than I know what to do with. They’re young and they don’t know any better. They have yet to develop that flat spot on their foreheads from banging it against the wall.” He reached his arm across the table and put his hand on my shoulder. “Let me do this for you, Gus.”
“Okay.”
What You Break Page 21
