by JP Ratto
Ray left to go back to the precinct. Maddie helped clean up the terrace and retreated to my office to begin a search for Loretta Turner. I decided not to call Douglas Cain for an appointment and instead grabbed a cab uptown.
The first barrier was at the lobby desk, where I was told I wasn’t on the list of visitors. This was new, and I thought Cain, who might be a candidate for Grayson’s chief of staff, was already acting as if he were in the White House. I wasn’t deterred and called up to his office. Mrs. Grimes informed me that her boss wasn’t in. I told her it was urgent that I speak to Cain, and it was in his, and Senator Grayson’s, best interest if he contacted me right away. I only half expected the threat to work, but within five minutes, Cain called me back. He was, in fact, out of the office, and we agreed to meet at the Central Park Mall.
I spotted the lawyer on a bench, attempting to find a comfortable position. A flock of pigeons pecked nearby. Cain shooed one away that had come begging for food. He stopped fidgeting when he saw me, but made no move to get up. He removed the newspaper spread out next to him, and I sat.
Without preamble he spoke. “What’s this about? I’m a busy man and don’t have time to humor people who sling idle threats at me.”
I leaned against the bench, resting one arm on the back and twisted slightly to look at Cain. The birds were back. Cain waved the newspaper at them. I grinned. “I can see how busy you are.”
“Don’t piss me off, Holt. I agreed to meet you, now tell me what you want.”
“There’s so much to talk about, Counselor, but I’ll get right to the point. I know what happened to my daughter. I know she’s alive and living upstate, since Rose Bardinari allowed her cousin to take her there.”
Cain’s reaction was to remain silent and stare straight ahead while gripping the rolled-up newspaper.
“I know this because I had a conversation with retired Officer Scott Hamlin, former partner of the Twelfth Precinct’s Captain Roy Burke. He told me how Sheppard controlled the investigation of Marnie’s kidnapping and made sure certain leads were never followed. One of those leads was the name of Bardinari’s cousin, Ellie Clarkson. Unfortunately, Clarkson died shortly after abducting Marnie, but I persuaded her husband to talk to me.”
Cain sighed. “So far nothing you’ve said has anything to do with me.” His phone buzzed. He shifted to take it out of a pocket, checked who called, and slipped it back in his jacket. “I have another meeting, so if that’s all you’ve got—”
“I’m just getting started, Cain.”
This time the lawyer turned and looked at me full on. It had been less than two months since our last meeting, and he appeared to have aged years. More gray than I remember laced his thin sandy hair. The skin under his eyes had a noticeable tinge of bluish green. His lips tightened, but he said nothing.
“Clarkson told me that after his wife died, he gave the baby up for adoption. It just so happened that Frank Giaconne had visited him a few months ago and offered him a lot of money for the name of the lawyer who facilitated the adoption.”
“So?” Cain asked, unimpressed with my story.
“So, it’s my contention that Giaconne got the money to pay Clarkson from you after he blackmailed you.”
Cain laughed. “I don’t even know this Giaconne.”
“I submit you do, and that you hired someone to kill him to end the blackmail.”
“You’re crazy, Holt.” Cain’s sudden rush from the bench caused the pigeons to scatter in a flurry of confusion. He tossed the newspaper into a nearby trashcan and came back to loom in front of me. “I won’t stay here and allow you to make inane baseless accusations, and if you attempt to spread any unfounded rumors, you’ll find yourself at the center of a lawsuit.”
When I stood, Cain took an awkward step back. “I guess I should consider myself fortunate that all you’d do is sue me. Giaconne wasn’t so lucky. But I’m going to push my luck and tell you I believe you also ordered a hit on Ray Scully. Unfortunately for you, Detective Scully got a good look at the man we believe is the sniper as he left the area.”
Cain jerked and his mouth dropped open as if I’d hit him. Although I could see heat color his face, he was at a loss for words. I almost laughed at the notion of a speechless attorney. I decided to land the final punch. “That same man fits the description of someone seen at the home of Joseph Clarkson a few hours before I arrived. It seems your guy is picking up where Giaconne left off.”
Chapter 22
Cain opened the Chinese burl wood liquor cabinet, then grabbed a glass and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. He poured two fingers of scotch and placed the bottle on a side table in the living room of his East Side residence. With Roberta at work and the housekeeper off for the day, he took advantage of the solace of the empty apartment. He needed to think.
In the short time he’d spent with Holt, he accumulated fifteen phone messages. All related to the campaign—none from Todd Grayson, so he ignored them. He brought his drink down the hall to his office.
Could what Holt said be true? Is Keeler investigating ME?
Slouched in a chair, he held the glass in one hand and rested the other over his brow. Before the ache in his temple became a full-blown migraine, he focused on the mess he was in. He had three people—Lucas Holt, Ray Scully, and now Keeler—investigating what happened to Marnie Holt. If Holt was telling the truth, and it seemed likely, Keeler was planning to blackmail him.
Cain remembered Harold Sheppard’s rebuke for not consulting him when Giaconne first blackmailed him.
“Yes, you should’ve come to me. We would’ve made sure Giaconne had nothing on him that contradicted the theory he was robbed…like his ring and Holt’s business card. As it is, we had to clean up your mess by pinning the murder on a dead drug addict.”
Forget Sheppard; he’s dead. I’m on my own.
Cain decided to solve the easiest problem first. He would ask Kerrigan who Sheppard’s replacement was. It was likely another high ranking police official—perhaps Captain Burke—he could insure the case stays closed.
That left Keeler and Holt.
***
The black burner phone trilled a sappy musical ditty from the seventies, alerting Keeler to a call. Checking the caller’s ID, he set it to vibrate and ignored Cain while he drank his coffee. Unable to control them, now was one of the frequent times Keeler relived moments that haunted him. He found it difficult to forget the bad decisions he’d made and the final act that, in his mind, branded him a failure.
Majestic white oaks surrounded the barracks on three sides, blocking unwanted visitors from stumbling onto something that didn’t concern them. Outdoor lights attached under the eaves of the buildings lit up, as if on cue.
Browne walked to the center of the field, turned his back to Keeler and the spectators, and removed his shirt. He began shadowboxing jabs and upper cuts. Browne raised his knees to his chest one at a time, loosening the muscles.
Keeler took it in. He didn’t see anything that changed his mind. He walked to a midway point between the four remaining candidates and Browne. With a single purpose, he, not Browne, would dictate how events would unfold. He watched Browne stop and shrug off any remaining muscle tension. Turning toward Keeler, Browne’s face was a distorted caricature of hate—his cheeks motley purple, his mouth open and sucking in large volumes of air. He advanced.
Keeler blanched. At that moment, it wouldn’t have surprised him if Browne spat fire.
Shit.
Drawing a deep breath, Keeler let it out slowly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see three of the candidates rooted to the ground. The fourth, Calloway, grinned as if he himself had unleashed a force of nature.
As expected, Browne circled to the right and Keeler paced in the same direction. Browne feinted a forward jump and pulled back. Keeler held his hands high to protect his head and face. His fists were clenched, but relaxed. His elbows were close to his body, protecting his ribs, his stance bearing his weight evenly. L
ight on his feet with his knees slightly flexed, Keeler could make quick movements in any direction. First, I need to get his mind off balance.
Keeler spun and moved to his left. Browne dropped his hands, appearing mildly frustrated, raised them again and moved left. Keeler shifted to the right.
Annoyed, Browne spoke. “Scared, Keeler? You should…” Keeler rushed in, double tapped his chin, and retreated to the edge of their self-imposed arena. He peeked at Washington, who seemed calm.
Knocked backward, Browne managed to keep from falling. Browne’s jaw dropped. Keeler smirked. The first jab to Browne was a surprise; the second was an insult. This bastard is so used to everyone kissing his ass; he’s shocked that an opponent would treat him with contempt. He watched Browne take in the others’ reaction. They appeared to eye Keeler with a new respect.
Browne gritted his teeth, charged, and threw a right jab—but Keeler was no longer there. The punch sailed over Keeler’s left shoulder. Should I end this now with a kidney punch? Keeler inwardly shook his head. Too soon.
Mirroring Keeler’s stance, Browne moved right. Keeler cooperated and moved in the same direction. As he did, he noticed Calloway was gone. He glanced in Washington’s direction and received a shrug.
Always looking for the knockout, he’ll use the right again.
Browne feinted a jab, pulled back, and flung his right fist. Keeler stepped in and blocked the punch with his left arm. He slammed Browne’s jaw. Pivoting on the ball of his foot, Keeler wrapped his arm around Browne’s waist and grabbed his belt. Locking his knees, he pulled Browne over his hip and smashed him to the ground.
Just as Calloway returned with Ramirez.
Almost everything had gone as Keeler wanted. Browne was humiliated and had a broken jaw. His future as a Green Beret was in doubt. But Ramirez showing up was an unexpected blow. Washington speaking up was his last hope.
They stood at attention while Ramirez paced in front of them. “I have never seen a worse group of candidates in my life. I would recommend each of you get a dishonorable discharge except for one thing. It would reflect badly on ME!” Ramirez stopped pacing and caught his breath. A moment later, he asked the inevitable, expected question.
“Who started it?”
For me, everything could turn on the answer.
Washington immediately shouted out, “Sir, Browne did; no doubt, sir.”
Browne sat on the ground and glared at Washington—then at the others.
“Is that right? What do you say, Ryder?
Meekly, he responded. “Sir. It was Keeler, sir.”
He turned his head to eye Browne. “Candidate Gonzales. Give me an answer.”
“Sir. It was Browne, sir.”
“Calloway. How do you vote?”
Calloway was still stunned at the turn of events. Browne was his friend. “Sir. It was Keeler, sir.”
Minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Browne refused a wheelchair and shook off the medics who walked by his side.
The next morning, Ramirez glared at five candidates standing at attention in front of the barracks.
“Keeler, fall out. The rest of you, maintain your normal schedule. Dismissed.”
All eyes furtively regarded Keeler, whose face was like a block of granite. Ramirez watched the other candidates enter the barracks, then turned his attention to Keeler.
“In fairness to you, I’ll tell you something you don’t know. Each evening, I prepare a morning report. In previous reports, I mentioned your name. It took me a while to figure out you may not be the fuck-up I thought you were. I submitted this morning’s report detailing last night’s incident, but offered my own explanation of events. I hope it helps. Report to Administration.”
Tom Keeler stood at attention three feet from a white, six-paneled door. Behind him were two military police standing at ease and a sergeant staffing a desk. Only the sergeant spoke when he arrived. Fifteen minutes passed when he heard, “Enter.”
Keeler opened the door to find an oversized brown banker’s desk sitting square in the center of the large office. A tall, well-built lieutenant in an impeccably pressed uniform stood behind it. The nameplate said Lieutenant Mark Royce. His eyes locked on Keeler.
“At ease.” Royce sat down and vigilantly studied an open folder. “Tell me your side of the story, Candidate Keeler.”
The lieutenant clasped both hands and sat back while Keeler relayed each incident in detail: the belt buckle, the shirt stain and, finally, the fight. Feeling he wasn’t presenting himself in the best light, a headache formed around his eyes. Royce finally spoke.
“You present a number of problems, Keeler. It may not be fair to call you a magnet for trouble given the circumstances you describe, but you didn’t handle it in the best way. Approaching Browne and trying to work it out should have been the first step. Second, you went too far when you broke the man’s jaw.” Royce paced over to the door and opened it. He nodded to the guards. They entered and stood on either side of Keeler. “You’re a bit of a hothead and you make poor decisions. I’m sorry, Keeler. You’re confined to barracks pending transfer back to your original unit. If it’s any consolation, Browne is out too.”
Keeler watched the cell phone vibrate over the rim of his coffee cup. He set the cup down and grabbed it from the table.
Three calls in thirty minutes. Cain might be desperate enough to deal.
“Hello.”
“Keeler? You must be rich if you can avoid taking my phone calls.” The snarky remark set Keeler up nicely.
“Not as rich as I’m going to be.”
Cain didn’t respond, and Keeler smiled at the lawyer’s silence.
“Still there, Counselor?”
“Yeah.”
“I know all about Giaconne and—”
“Careful with your next words, Keeler.” Cain’s voice was tight with anger.
Keeler rose from his couch and moved the phone from his ear to in front of his face. “You be careful. I’m in charge here. I’m giving the orders. I know everything, including what happened with Lucas Holt’s daughter. I can bring down the whole house of cards, so be careful with your next words, Counselor.”
He could hear Cain draw a long breath. “What do you want?”
“A hundred grand, and this subject will never see the light of day.” Keeler paced his living room and stopped at the window. Neighborhood’s changing every day. I won’t miss it.
“It’s too much, but I’ll pay it if you do a job for me.”
“That’s extra. You’ll pay it because you want to stay out of the big house and see your boy in the White House.” Keeler began to unwind as he sensed Cain was coming around. He sat on the couch with one arm on the backrest.
“Can I tell you why I called now?”
“Sure.” Keeler felt in control. He knew he could say no if the risk was too great.
“I want Lucas Holt dead.”
Chapter 23
Carrying the plastic storage bag containing the adoption documents, Ray Scully strode to his car. Once inside, he called his partner.
“Hey, Sean. What’s going on there?” Scully could hear muffled voices and ringing telephones.
“Not much. Rodriguez had a court appearance. The captain went out a while ago and hasn’t returned. What are you up to?”
“I need you to cover for me for a couple more hours. I have something for the lab, and I’m calling in a favor. It’s best I bring it myself.”
“Good luck.”
Scully called his friend at the police laboratory in Jamaica, Queens, drove there, and delivered the documents. Navigating through congested traffic in the densely populated towns east of Manhattan reminded Scully of his visit to Scott Hamlin. He’d tried calling him once before, but Hamlin hadn’t answered. In light of Sheppard’s death, he considered stopping by to see the retired detective. He was sure, as Hamlin’s former partner, Captain Burke would have contacted him with the news. Scully glanced at the car’s dashboard clock. Instead of going to Gl
endale, he punched in Hamlin’s home phone number. The machine kicked in after five rings. I hope Scott and his wife are okay. Scully didn’t leave a message and headed back to the city.
***
Emmett Kerrigan kept a steady watch on Mayor Edward Crandall as the mayor spoke to the medical examiner. Crandall’s voice didn’t quiver, but a sheen of sweat glistened on his face. Stay calm, Ed. Make your case. It’s in the best interest of the NYPD.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page. I appreciate your cooperation,” Mayor Crandall said, and hung up the phone. He wiped his face with a shaky hand and glanced up. “Well, it’s done. I don’t like it, but it is what it is.”
Kerrigan smiled. “Relax, Ed. Sheppard had a history of heart problems. All you did was suggest the ME not delve too deep. The NYPD doesn’t need a scandal.”
“I know. It’s just…”
Kerrigan rose and turned to the man seated next to him. “Let’s go, Captain.”
“Ed, it’s going to be fine,” Kerrigan said. The two men shook hands with the mayor and left.
***
Maddie leaned against the back of the soft leather executive chair and pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d been in Holt’s office for hours scouring the internet white pages for Turners residing in Elmira. Using a telemarketer pitch for a fictitious skin product aimed at teenaged girls, she thought two of the contacts were promising. Both women she spoke to, one named Lorette and the other Lorena, claimed to have fifteen-year-old daughters. Twenty calls into the thirty she had on her list, Maddie needed a break.
A small drip coffee pot with fresh, hot Kona and a basket of non-dairy creamers sat on the credenza behind the huge African mahogany desk. She rose to stretch her legs and poured herself a cup. Taking a sip, Maddie sighed. That hit the spot.
She moved to glance out one of the tall windows flanking a cast stone fireplace.
