by James Lepore
“Jay?” Linda’s voice came to him over the wire.
“Yes?”
“How are you?”
“I’m okay, Linda. I’m getting better.”
15.
6:00 PM, December 8, 2004, Newark
Frank Dunn had not been involved in the hands-on investigation of the Powers case. That had been conducted by the two homicide detectives attached to Al Garland. But he had talked to them, and he had read the file, and he was not comfortable with the rapidly reached conclusion of murder-suicide. Normally he would not care, especially in a case involving the death of two rich socialites. But the Powers murder-suicide was linked, via Donna Kelly, to the torture and death of Frank’s friend, Dan Del Colliano. And so he took an interest. Naturally, he related Jay Cassio’s account of Donna Kelly, her cash, and her hiring of Danny, to Ralph Greco, the detective in charge of the case, the obvious point being: where there is five hundred thousand in cash floating around, there is a motive to murder. Greco took a statement from Jay, but was not inclined to reopen the case.
On the surface, Greco’s reasons were sound. There was no sign of forced entry into the Powers house; they had found a bloody kitchen knife with Bryce’s fingerprints on it; Kate’s headless body had been found in her bed, the sheets a bloody mess; Bryce’s body had been found slumped at his desk, his insulin paraphernalia and hypodermic needle nearby; the autopsy on Kate’s body had revealed traces of the antidepressants Prozac and Haldol, as well as a very high blood-alcohol level.
Greco and his team quickly discovered that Mesa Associates had been losing money. They knew about the contentious divorce. They surmised that Bryce had found Kate passed out, as usual, in her bed, had beheaded her, driven to the river, only a few miles from their home, dropped the head in, returned, and calmly injected himself with five hundred cc’s of insulin, enough to kill an elephant. Yes, they had found some cash deposits in some of Bryce Powers & Company’s banking records, but didn’t tenants frequently pay their rent in cash, especially garden apartment tenants?
In Florida, Danny had last been seen by the clerk at the South Miami Beach Motor Hotel when he checked in, alone, on the night he was killed. His body had been found the next morning by a cleaning woman. There were no prints in the room that matched anything on record, and no one had heard or seen anything unusual. Seven Donna Kellys were listed in the phone books for the Dade and Broward County area, but none matched Danny’s description. There was no record of a Donna Kelly working currently or in the past for any of Bryce Powers’s companies or properties.
The Miami Beach PD’s working theory was that Danny was carrying stolen drug money and had been killed by its rightful owners, with a little torture thrown in to see if they could find out who he was working for. But, with no description of the killer or killers, no weapon, and no leads of any kind, a quick resolution was not likely.
The Florida findings Frank learned from his friend, Angelo Perna, who had been advised of the status of the case by his contact, a homicide detective at the Miami Police Department. One thing that Angelo told Frank intrigued him, that is, that the FBI had taken an interest in the crime, that a Special Agent Chris Markey had reinterviewed the clerk at the hotel, and even visited Jupiter, where Danny, because of his postcard to Jay, was known to have been.
Now Frank reads in the paper that the same Agent Markey is investigating Dan’s murder in Jersey, looking for “two swarthy young Mexican men”—who he has photographs of—and that Jay Cassio is the person who has uncovered this. Frank had been in law enforcement long enough to know that the FBI would be furious that such information had been disclosed to the public without its consent. Sipping his scotch at his usual back booth at the Colonial, the Star-Ledger opened to Linda Marshall’s bylined article, on the table in front of him, Frank was fairly certain that the FBI, whose denial he did not believe for a second, had made a major mistake in not talking to Marshall. It was always a pleasure to see them suffer, especially when it was their own arrogance that brought them low.
Lost in his thoughts, reading his paper, Frank barely looked up when Jay Cassio sat down across from him, a scotch over ice in his hand. Frank continued to read the paper. He looked at Jay a couple of times, but otherwise just read and sipped his drink and smoked his cigarette. The minutes passed. Finally Jay touched his glass against Frank’s and said “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
“Always a pleasure to pass the time of day with you, Jay,” Frank said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing, what’s on yours?”
“I was thinking,” Frank replied, “of how pissed off Special Agent Chris Markey is at you at this moment.”
“He should have spoken to Linda,” said Jay. “He could have spun it his own way.”
“They don’t like it when their mistakes are made public.”
“It’s good to know they’re doing something.”
“That I agree with.”
Jay took a sip of his drink and remained silent.
“Al Garland wasn’t too happy, either,” Frank said.
“You talked to him?”
“Early this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He says you’re a troublemaker and a wise guy. He was trying to be calm, but you could see his eyes starting to bulge.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Markey, probably.”
“Speak of the devil,” said Jay, looking over Frank’s shoulder. Al Garland, lanky, wearing thick glasses, an ex-Marine still with a military haircut, approached and stood in front of the booth.
“Jay, Frank,” Garland said, nodding to each of them. “Can I join you?”
“Sure,” Frank answered, sliding over to make room for his boss.
“You want a drink, Al?” Jay asked.
“No, I can’t stay.”
“So how are you?” Jay asked the prosecutor, eying him across the table. “I haven’t seen you since the wake.”
“I’m good,” Garland replied, “but I don’t like the article in the paper today.”
“Why not?”
“It’s obvious you called Linda Marshall.”
“The last time I checked it wasn’t a crime to talk to a reporter in this country.”
“It makes you look bad,” Garland said, “like you’re trying to stir up trouble.”
“Is the FBI investigating Danny’s murder?”
“They say they’re not. I believe them.”
“Al, we know each other a long time,” Jay said. “Don’t bullshit me. Up or down, yes or no, you’d know if they were on the case.”
Frank Dunn had worked for Al Garland for five years. The brunt, on several occasions, of the prosecutor’s wicked temper, he was expecting it to flare now, and would not be unhappy if it did. A good melee, he had always felt, was the equal only of a good drunk when it came to clearing a troubled head. Taken together they worked wonders. He was surprised therefore at the tone and substance of Garland’s reply.
“I didn’t come over here to argue with you,” Garland said. “I came over to ask you, as a favor, not to call any more reporters. You’re involved with the estate, you’re representing the Powers sisters. If you come across anything in either case, call me, don’t go to the papers.”
“You’re patronizing me, Al,” Jay replied. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’m not,” Garland answered. “You’ve got it wrong.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Jay said, “you give me your word that the Powers case is closed, and that the FBI isn’t working on Danny’s case, and I’ll promise to come to you with anything I come across.”
“The Powers case,” Garland promptly replied, “is closed, and as far as I know the FBI is not working on Danny’s case.”
Jay sat back in his seat, his body language very open and innocent, and nodded.
“Is that good enough?” Garland asked as he rose to leave.
“Of course,” Jay answered.
“The
new Al Garland,” Jay said after the prosecutor left.
“You pushed him pretty hard,” said Frank.
“I wanted to see how far up Agent Markey’s ass he was.”
“Pretty far, it seems.”
“I’m sorry you were in the middle like that.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You work for the guy.”
“I’m thinking of quitting.”
“Quitting? Why?”
“I spoke to Lorrie today. She says the kitchen knife could have been the murder weapon, but she thinks it was something heavier and sharper. A machete maybe.”
“Did she tell that to Garland?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t interested. He says it’s speculation. He knows you can’t take castings if the entire head is severed.”
“He’s probably right.”
“That’s not all Lorrie had to say. She did a liver stick on both bodies. She says they died within minutes of each other.”
“Is she sure?”
“The numbers don’t lie.”
“What did Al say to that?”
“He said he’d think about reopening the case, but that was two months ago.”
“Why did she wait so long to tell you?”
“She knew how I felt about the case. She was afraid I would do something rash.”
Frank could see that Jay was having trouble covering up his astonishment at hearing him mention Lorrie Cohen, the Essex County Medical Examiner, who Frank had been having an extramarital affair with for the past five years. He assumed that people knew of the affair, but he had never mentioned Lorrie to his friends. This was as close as he had ever come to acknowledging the relationship.
“Maybe Garland is working the case secretly,” Jay said.
“I don’t think so,” Frank answered. “Ralph Greco just got back from a two week trip to Italy.”
“We could call Linda Marshall.”
“We can’t. It would lead back to Lorrie. She’d lose her job, her pension.”
“That leaves the FBI.”
“Right.”
“I could call Agent Markey,” said Jay. “I’ve got the letters. It’s my civic duty.”
“You just told Al Garland you’d go through him.”
“Fuck Al Garland.”
“If you say so.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
Frank listened carefully as Jay told him about Herman Santaria, the bogus subpoena he had served, and the high-powered, almost menacing response it had drawn.
“Jesus,” Frank said when Jay was finished.
“Maybe Angelo Perna can get a line on Santaria,” said Jay.
“And get himself killed for asking.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am,” Frank replied. “Why didn’t you tell me about this Santaria character sooner?”
“I did it on a whim,” said Jay. “I didn’t expect any response at all.”
“The response could have been a bullet to your head.”
“Fuck.”
“Stop with the whims. We’re not playing chess here.”
“What’s got into you?”
“Jay, let me give you my take on this. I’ve been thinking about it hard since I read Linda’s story. Powers’s career is not what it appears to be. Let’s say he acquires some nasty partners along the way. Let’s say he starts stealing from them, or they think he does, which amounts to the same thing. They behead his wife, while he watches, but he doesn’t tell them what they want to hear, like where’s our money? So they kill him, which they would have done, anyway. Donna Kelly, who he’s probably fucking, is holding some of the stolen loot. She hires Danny to help her get away with it, but somehow Danny’s caught and killed. She gets away, which looks suspicious to me, like maybe she set Danny up.
“Now you tell me about the Santaria family. Isn’t that what Parker said, ‘the Santaria family’? Not, ‘Herman Santaria’ ; ‘the Santaria family.’ That sounds mafialike to me. They’re probably big-time drug dealers in Mexico and Central America. They’re Powers’s nasty partners. But he fucks them, and they kill him, and Danny gets caught in the crossfire, the poor bastard. So this is who you, bright young guy that you are, serve a subpoena on. You’re lucky, Jay. They think you’re ignorant, that you’re just looking for records in some dumb-ass lawsuit in New Jersey. If they thought otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so polite about the way they threatened you. If you surface again, they’ll put two and two together, and they’ll come after you.”
“I have surfaced again,” Jay said. “I was on page three of the Ledger today, talking about two Mexicans caught in Danny’s apartment.”
“Do you have someplace you can stay for a few nights?”
“I’m staying in my own house.”
“Well then stay off the booze, and the Valium, or whatever it is you’re taking. You need to be alert.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s pretty obvious, Jay.”
It had also been obvious to Frank that Jay had been avoiding him, which ordinarily would have been acceptable, as it was his view that most of what the world called suffering was not suffering at all but just life, and was best dealt with alone and in silence. He had stepped out of character in his attempts to be there—a phrase he hated—for Jay, which for the most part meant a night of drinking and passing out, but even he, with a terrible marriage and no kids, had Lorrie. Jay had no one.
“What about Santaria?” Jay asked.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“Dick Mahoney owes me a favor. His wiseguy friends will tell us who Santaria is.”
“What are we doing, Frank?”
“We’re not doing anything. You’re going back to your law practice, and your life. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and then I’m going to shove it up Al Garland’s ass.”
“What does Angelo Perna say?” Jay asked.
“Perna doesn’t smell any rats.”
“In Miami. But you do here.”
“All over the place.”
“That’s not unusual for you.”
“They’re coming out of the woodwork.”
“So you’ll talk to Mahoney?”
“Yes. He’s at the bar right now, with Bob Flynn. He must have slipped in while I was unnecessarily listening to you. When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
“Five years ago.”
“How do you manage that?”
“We avoid each other.”
“I hear he’s doing well, for a rat-bastard.”
“I’m not surprised.”
16.
3:00 PM, December 9, 2004, Newark
On his way into work the next morning, Jay stopped at his bank and put the originals of Kate Powers’s letters in his safe-deposit box. The day before he had made copies for Linda Marshall, who had stopped by to pick them up, and who had repeated her promise to keep them off the record until she heard otherwise from Jay.
At the office, Jay called the FBI in Newark and asked to speak with Agent Chris Markey. He was run around a bit, but eventually spoke with Agent Phil Gatti. Jay told Gatti that he had information concerning the Del Colliano investigation in Florida and the Powers investigation in Jersey. Gatti, irritated at Jay’s refusal to speak with anyone except Markey, took Jay’s name and number, but did not say whether Markey, or anyone else, would get back to him.
That afternoon Jay was working at his desk when Cheryl came into his office to tell him that an Agent Chris Markey of the FBI was in the waiting room and wondered if he could have a word with him. Markey, blue-suited, trim, a flinty fiftyish, took one of the two client chairs facing Jay’s desk after Cheryl showed him in and he and Jay had shaken hands. Jay sat back in his swivel chair, but before he did he looked out of the window behind him and saw that the afternoon sky was darkening and that snow was beginning to fall.
There were no preliminaries.
“How’s your ex-partner, Dick Mahoney, doing?” asked Markey. “Still representing the boys?”
“You’d know more about that than I would,” was Jay’s answer.
“You represented Kate Powers, I take it,” said Markey. “And now the daughters.”
“Right.” Jay did not feel he needed to mention that he had called Melissa and Marcy the day before and asked them to get a new lawyer. They were model clients and they had promptly paid their first bill—six thousand dollars and change—but his conspiracy with Linda Marshall could be damaging to Bryce Powers’s reputation—now hanging by a thread—and, more significantly, it could jeopardize the assets of the Powers estate, assets that would ultimately belong to the girls. In other words he was now working against the interests of his own clients, a very bad thing for a lawyer to do, hence his quick decision and call yesterday.
“How are they doing, the daughters?” Markey asked.
“Do you know them?”
“No,” Markey replied, “but I know of them.”
“They’re doing okay.”
“We’ve been sent a copy of the lawsuit against them.”
“I’m not surprised.”
The lawyer representing Plaza I and II had threatened several times to file criminal complaints against Marcy and Melissa—their phony maintenance contracts were in fact vehicles for stealing money from the partners—unless Jay acted to settle the civil case quickly. The girls indeed had no viable defense, and Jay had recommended they settle, but, head-strong, greedy, and thinking themselves clever, they had insisted on letting the case play itself out.
“He just wants you to collect his clients’ money for him,” Jay said. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Jay did not respond. Markey’s tone of voice was disdainful. It reminded Jay of Frank Dunn, but without the humanizing touches of alcoholism and illicit sex. He wondered if Markey knew about his affair with Melissa Powers, and was certain, if he did know, of the judgments he would make. Human weakness, according to his friend Francis X. Dunn, was a euphemism for old-fashioned sin. What were Markey’s weaknesses? What sins was he concealing beneath the tough-guy, sneering facade he was showing Jay?
