Blood in Babylon

by Blake Banner

  “Sir.”

  He looked up at me.

  “Both she and Justinian seemed to be very concerned about what the other siblings had said to us. Justin, in fact, came to us because he wanted to know what Maximilian had told us. Annunziata was worried about what Justinian might have told us. I think she’s panicking and trying to cover her back.”

  “Has she asked for immunity?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  I looked at my watch. “Chevronne Brown is here waiting to talk to us in interrogation room three. She says it’s urgent, and I am very curious to hear what she has to tell us. I think I’d like to let Annunziata sweat for a bit while we talk to Chevronne. Meanwhile, we need a DNA sample from Ned Brown. I’ll see if we can get one from his mother.”

  He nodded and sighed heavily. “Fine, go ahead. And keep me posted. If it is still possible to avoid a scandal…” He trailed off and studied me a moment. “Your requests, by the way, the three court orders…”

  “They were declined. I figured they would be, but we had to try.”

  “I suppose so.”

  We left his office and I made my way to the coffee machine with Dehan beside me. She shook her head when I asked if she wanted a drink and leaned against the machine while I got coffee for me and for Chevronne.

  “You really think you know who did it?”

  “Maybe. I need to confirm a couple of things. Right now it’s a hunch—a pretty good hunch, but just a hunch.”

  She stared at me a moment. “It’s Max, isn’t it? You knew from the beginning. The simplest answer, Occam’s razor. He had the most to lose from Al staying alive, and the most to gain from his being dead. All that stuff about the box of money in his house, those kids knew it wasn’t true. And there was no way Ned was going back with his system full of diazepam and two broken fingers. It had to be Max, all along.”

  I grunted. “It’s looking that way. Listen, let’s do something. You talk to Annunziata. See if you can get her to tell you why she dropped the dime on her brother.”

  A slow smile crept across her face. “Dropped the dime?”

  “Yeah, I picked it up from one of those Mickey Spillane novels you read in the can.”

  She went away laughing and I headed for interrogation room three.

  Chevronne was sitting at the table and watched me sit, with resentful eyes. I slid a paper cup of coffee across to her with milk, sugar and a plastic stirring stick. “It’s almost like coffee,” I said, but she didn’t smile. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I told you almost two hours ago that it was urgent, and this is the first time I get to speak to you.”

  “I’m investigating a murder, Mrs. Brown. I can’t always be where I want to be or do what I need to do when I need to do it. People don’t make it easy for you, you know? You go to their house to ask them a simple question, and they kick you out and refuse to talk to you. Then they phone you up an hour later and demand to see you. I guess we just don’t always get what we want. Now, are we going to waste time playing the blame game, or are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  She rubbed her fingers across her brow and closed her eyes. “It’s Ned.”

  “What about him?”

  She opened her eyes to look at me. I picked up my coffee and sipped it.

  She said, “He’s gone.”

  I frowned at her and rubbed my own forehead. “You need to tell me what that means. Gone how?”

  “He’s not at his house. His wife don’t know where he is. He’s not at his workshop. The place is all locked up. He ain’t left nobody a message. He’s just gone. You pigs frightened him with your crazy investigation. Now he panicked and he’s gone!”

  I thought for a moment, stirred my coffee and studied her a moment. She picked up her own paper cup and sipped.

  I said: “Since when?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I repeated the question. “Since when, Mrs. Brown?”

  “He went out last night, about eleven. He never told his wife where he was goin’. He said he’d be back, but he never came back. This mornin’ she call me, worried sick.”

  “Why didn’t she call the cops?”

  She sat up rigid, with wild, angry eyes. “Why do you think? Because you will take it as proof that he killed that stupid old man! Because you will hunt him down, like some kind of dog! But he didn’t run because he was guilty! He run because he is innocent! And that’s what you stupid cops cannot understand!”

  I frowned, picked up my coffee and stared into it, still frowning. I took a long pull, then put the cup down with a sigh.

  “So, why are you here? You just told me you don’t want the cops looking for your son. I’m a cop…” I spread my hands.

  Something weird happened to her face: her eyes half closed, her brows knitted together and her bottom lip curled up under her top one. Then she made a horrible, guttural noise and buried her face in her hands. She sobbed violently for a long while. When she finally stopped and raised her face from her palms, I handed her a clean, white handkerchief. She took it without saying anything, blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

  “He got a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “It was anonymous, letters cut out of a newspaper, pasted together. It said, we gonna kill you.”

  “Have you got it?”

  She reached in her handbag, pulled out a creased envelope and handed it to me. I pulled some latex gloves from my pocket, snapped them on and pulled over the envelope. It was plain white, long and creased down the middle where it had been folded in half.

  I pulled out the note, opened it and read it. It said simply: We will kill you and your family, you black bastard.

  “When did this arrive?”

  “This morning.”

  I examined the individual letters, but they didn’t tell me much beyond the fact that the fonts were of a medium size favored by certain types of newspaper.

  “Has he received any of these before?”

  She gave her head three tight, rapid shakes. “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chevronne, if you want me to help your son, you have to level with me. There is no point asking me for help and then giving me the runaround when I try to help you.”

  “I am not giving you the runaround. He never received one of them before.”

  “Have you any idea who might have sent it, any suspicion, however unlikely?”

  Her face flushed with anger. “Probably some neighbor, got to hear about your damned investigation! Now he’s thinking ‘black men always killing white men! Now I’m gonna kill me a black man! How many black men been killed by white men? How many black women been raped?”

  “Please, Chevronne, let’s stay on task. You want me to find your son, we haven’t got much time. Where was this delivered?”

  “To his house…” She started to cry. “Imagine if his children seen it!”

  I sighed, pulled an evidence bag from my pocket and dropped the letter into it. “We’ll have this checked for prints.”

  I stood and opened the door, saw O’Connor and called him over.

  “Do me a favor, will you? Send this to the lab for me. And get me some paper handkerchiefs, will you? Sooner rather than later.”

  He gave a little frown. “Sure thing, Detective.”

  I called Joe at the lab.

  “Stone, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sending you a package. It’s urgent. It’s a letter, a death threat, and the intended victim has disappeared. So a life could be in the balance. I’d appreciate if you could put a rush on them.”

  “Them? You said it’s a single letter.”

  “You heard correct.” There was a tap at the door. “Gotta go, but listen, the font is of interest.”

  O’Connor was there with a box of paper tissues. I took them and closed the door. I carried the tissues to the table, recovered my handk
erchief and sat.

  “Are you prepared to discuss anything else with me? Are you prepared to answer my questions from last night?”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “You understand it might be connected with his disappearance?”

  She wouldn’t meet my eye, but shook her head again.

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  “Have you any idea where he might go if he wanted to feel safe?”

  “If I did, don’t you think I’d be there now instead of wastin’ my time with you?”

  I sighed. “Will his wife be home now?”

  “How should I know?”

  I fought to control the hot anger that was welling up in my belly. “I am trying to help you and your son, Mrs. Brown! Right now you are not helping Ned. So can the damned attitude!” I stood. “Go on, get the hell out of here. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  Outrage tightened her face. “That’s it?”

  “What do you want? You want me to stay here and hold your hand while you insult me? Or you want me to go out and find Ned?” She didn’t answer, so I pulled open the door. “I need your cell phone number and your son’s. And what car he was driving.”

  She made a note, collected her things, shoved the piece of paper in my hands and left.

  I went to find O’Connor again, had a word with him and gave him some errands, then went to find Dehan. She was still in interrogation room two, with Annunziata. They both looked up as I stepped in.

  Dehan said, “Detective John Stone has entered the room,” for the benefit of the recording.

  I pulled out a chair and sat.

  “When exactly, and I do mean exactly, did this meeting take place where you all understood Maximilian was going to have Aloysius killed?”

  She had removed her pillbox hat and now ran her fingers through her black hair.

  “I really wasn’t expecting this. I thought you would be grateful.”

  I waited.

  She shook her head. “I can’t remember the exact day…”

  “The week is good enough.”

  “I suppose it was toward the end of September 2007. I was over from San Francisco for Justin’s birthday.”

  “OK, good. Now, tell me something else, Anne. Why are you telling us all this? If the DA decides to prosecute you, you could be looking at twenty-five years in prison. So what has prompted you now, after twelve years, to come forward with this information?”

  “Well, Justin called me and said that you had been to see him…”

  “Justinian said that we had been to see him.”

  “Yes, and I asked him what he had told you, because he is so liable to exaggeration and, well, you know, he does fantasize, not like Al, but, you know, he does.”

  I spread my hands. “So?”

  “Well, he said he had told you everything. And I thought, oh my God! Everything from Justinian could mean almost anything. Because, knowing him, he has included all sorts of nonsense that was never said or done, but he has imagined was said or done, when in fact it wasn’t…”

  Dehan let out a short laugh that wound up as an exhausted sigh.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You have informed the police that you and your two brothers conspired to murder Aloysius, to avoid us taking Justin’s story at face value, in case it implicated you in Al’s murder? For crying out loud! You just implicated yourself in Al’s murder!”

  She didn’t answer. She just sat and stared at Dehan.

  Dehan made a helpless gesture, looked at me and then looked back at Annunziata. “And you’re a Harvard educated neurologist?”

  “Yes.”

  Dehan shook her head. “This is bull.”

  I said: “What is it you are hoping for, Anne? Detective Dehan is exactly right. In attempting to avoid being implicated by Justinian, you have implicated yourself. It doesn’t make sense. Are you hoping that if we accept your version of the story, Max will go down and you and Justin will be in the clear? Is that the gamble you’re taking? Or are you thinking that if you can get Max put away for the rest of his life, you and Justin can split the company between you, fifty-fifty?”

  She shook her head. “I just want the truth to come out. Justin and I didn’t really, expressly agree to it. It was a tacit understanding that Max would take care of things. He always has. If it had been discussed openly, perhaps things might have been different. But, one doesn’t, you know, discuss such things openly, especially with Maximilian.”

  Dehan’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead. She nodded several times before saying, “Murder.”

  Annunziata looked away, at the wall.

  Dehan said, “Such things. One doesn’t discuss such things openly. You’re talking about murder, the murder of another human being—your brother for Christ’s sake! How is the murder of your brother ‘such things’? I mean, what the hell are you lumping it together with?”

  Anne spoke to the floor, as though the beige carpet had asked her the question.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. Subjects that are awkward or embarrassing…”

  Dehan’s jaw sagged and she stared at me. I drew breath to cut the exchange short, but there was a tap at the door. I said, “Yeah,” and O’Connor put his head in.

  “Dr. Chester’s attorney’s here, Detectives.”

  I looked at her, gave a smile that was on the rueful side of bitter, and shook my head. “Thanks, O’Connor, show him in.” The door closed. “What are you playing at? You called us, remember?”

  “I didn’t expect the kind of reaction I got from you. I thought you’d be more understanding. I sent him a text message while I was waiting for you.”

  Dehan exploded. “You confessed to conspiracy to murder! You’re lucky you’re not in the slammer!”

  Annunziata looked at her and smiled. I realized it was only the second direct look she’d given her. “Oh, come, Detective Dehan,” she said. “We both know that’s not true. If you had grounds to arrest me, you would have done it by now.”

  I reached in my breast pocked and pulled out my pen and my notebook. I wrote down the four symbols Led Zeppelin used on their fourth album, tore the sheet from the notepad and handed it to her. “Do these symbols mean anything to you?”

  She took the piece of paper and stared at it. Then shook her head.

  I said, “Have a good look, Anne, it could be important.”

  The door opened and a guy in a charcoal gray suit with the kind of graying hair women find interesting stepped into the room. He was in his mid fifties and smiled as though he’d been doing it all his life.

  “Detective Dehan? How do you do? Paul Hirschfield, attorney at law.” I watched him shake hands with her as a growing sense of unreality descended on me. Then he was smiling at me and actually making me feel warm and welcome in my own interrogation room. “Detective Stone. How do you do? Paul Hirschfield, Hirschfield, Roth and Cohen, attorneys at law.” He shook my hand and smiled at Annunziata. “Anne, lovely to see you. Shame about the circumstances!” They both laughed. “What say we adjourn to someplace a little more cozy?” He turned to me with a small laugh. “I am assuming that you don’t intend to arrest my client.”

  I shook my head. “Nope.” I reached across the table and retrieved the paper with the four symbols.

  “Super. Come, Anne, we have a loooong drive back to civilization!”

  Dehan was watching them both through narrowed eyes. As Hirschfield opened the door, she said, “Yeah, mind you don’t get your butts kicked out there in the Bronx Badlands.”

  The humor vanished from his face. His eyes were sharp and alert. “Is that a threat, Detective Dehan?”

  Dehan smiled sweetly. “Not at all, counselor, simply advice.”

  “Good day, detectives.”

  They left and the door closed behind them. She shook head. “Do you mind telling me what the hell just happened, Stone? And, Zofo? Seriously? Are you as crazy as they are or what?”

  “I�
�ll explain later.” I thrust Ned’s cell number into her hands and said, “Get me the location on that cell. Fast!”

  And I went to look for O’Connor again.

  EIGHTEEN

  Ten minutes later, we were down at her desk and she was shaking her head.

  “It’s switched off. Or he’s gone somewhere where there’s no signal, maybe upstate...”

  “OK.” I gave her Ned’s license plate. “Get the GPS on the car. Find it.”

  While she did that, I called Bernie at the Bureau.

  “I’m not doing you any more favors till you buy me that drink you owe me, you miserable bastard.”

  “Bernie, not one, twenty. But listen, pal. This is urgent…”

  “Oh, Stone, it’s you! I thought it was my wife. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sending you a name and a photo, and a few other details. I need everything you can get me on this person in the next twenty minutes. Somebody’s going to die, Bernie. It may already be too late.”

  “I’m on it, pal!”

  I hung up and went back to Dehan. She was putting on her jacket. “Mamaroneck.”

  “Where?”

  “North of La Rochelle, Mamaroneck, Mamaroneck Motel, 1015 Boston Post Road.” She grabbed my jacket and shoved it at me. “And on the way you can tell me what the hell is going on!”

  I followed her out and as we clambered into the Jag, I said, “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated?”

  She said it like I was four and trying to explain why I just painted big red stick men all over the garage door.

  I reversed out of the lot and turned onto Storey Avenue.

  “Yes, Dehan, don’t give me a hard time. It’s complicated.”

  “So explain it to me!”

  “Wait!”

  I turned down Metcalf Avenue and then turned onto the Bruckner Expressway, headed east and hit the gas. As we passed the Unionport Bridge, she said, “I’m waiting. You told me to wait. I’m waiting.”

  I sighed. “It is really complicated.”

  “What happened to Occam’s razor?”

  “You saw yourself, our simplest explanations did not cover all the facts.” I hesitated. “It is simple…”

  “Oh, now it’s simple?”