Hard breathing from the camera operator; Frost had been in his early sixties after all. The view dropped a little as Frost made some kind of adjustment. He set the camera down on something flat.
“He’s shooting this from behind a Dumpster,” I said.
McAllister nodded in agreement.
The lens refocused as the driver of the Crown Vic killed the lights, Marzone got out of the passenger seat of the car and joined his driver on the sidewalk. Normal police procedure for a stop dictated that they kept their lights on—to dazzle any potential shooters. Roark came into focus then, his face clear beneath a streetlight. It didn’t matter that Marzone had his back to the camera. There probably wasn’t a single other cop in the whole of the country who could match Marzone for sheer size. They talked for a few seconds before they approached the Pontiac.
Roark led the way and bent low to speak to the driver. He stood back as the door opened and Chilli stepped out, willingly, with his hands in the air.
“Roark didn’t get hit in the face with the driver’s door,” said Jack.
I nodded, unable to take my eyes from the screen.
Dressed in blue jeans and white vest, Chilli held his hands high and wide—empty. No knife.
Roark closed the door of the Pontiac and motioned to Chilli to turn around and assume the position. Without complaint, Chilli slowly turned and spread his hands on the roof of the car.
The audio was there, but much too faint to make out. While he searched Chilli, Roark was talking to him. Marzone moved close and took a clear plastic bag from his jacket. He placed the bag in the back pocket of Chilli’s jeans. Then the bag came away. Something shiny and black remained in Chilli’s pocket. At the same moment Marzone whipped the bag away, Roark drew his gun and held it by his side.
“They were going to plant the knife and then shoot him,” said Jack.
Stepping closer to Chilli, Roark turned to Marzone for half a second. Chilli’s hands moved so fast I had to stop the video and rewind it. He must’ve felt the plant, and his right hand swept down and up, tossing the object away from him. It bounced on the sidewalk, and as it came to a stop, I could see it more clearly. The blade shined under a streetlamp.
This didn’t go down well with Roark. He spun Chilli around and pointed at the knife. Even though the audio was terrible, I could just make out Roark’s instructions.
“Pick it up.”
No one moved.
Marzone lumbered toward the fallen weapon and kicked it toward Chilli’s feet. Again, the instruction from Roark. I tried to imagine what Chilli was feeling. He knew if he picked up the knife, he was a dead man. There were no other cars on the street, no people, not even a light on in a nearby row of houses.
Maria had been right about Chilli. She told me he was street smart. I saw then on the screen, Chilli did the only possible thing that could’ve saved him. He screamed for help.
Roark moved toward Chilli instantly, his left hand drawn back to punch Chilli in the face. This time Chilli moved, fast. He stepped toward Roark at the last second and landed a head-butt. The gun fell from Roark’s hand and Chilli shook his head, staggered. Roark dropped, holding his shattered nose and trying to stem the flood. Chilli tried to run, fell forward. You don’t deliver a head-butt like that without feeling it yourself.
That’s when Marzone grabbed him from behind, lifted Chilli clean off his feet. He kicked at Marzone’s ankles and pulled at his arm. It looked like being caught in some kind of terrible piece of machinery that would not let go until you were crushed. Marzone didn’t move. His legs were still. The kicking got fierce, then slowed. For a second Marzone’s arm slipped down just a fraction, before sweeping up again, in a tighter grip.
That second of release allowed Chilli a little air. And one single, raw cry.
“I can’t breathe.”
The grip tightened and held firm. A hollow feeling in my chest grew into a dull ache. I wanted to close my eyes, or look away, and never have to watch this again. I could feel the plastic pen in my hand cracking. But I watched every agonizing second, because I owed it to Chilli Hernandez.
The fight slowly went out of him. After all movement had left Chilli’s body, Marzone let go.
A dead man fell to the sidewalk.
The camera tumbled and bounced. A fleeting glance of Frost’s face came on the screen as he bent down to pick it up. When the view returned to Marzone, he was staring straight at the lens.
Frost panicked. Ducked behind the blue Dumpster, then ran into the dark.
“He got away in the alley next to the 7-Eleven,” I said.
The image died, replaced with a blue screen that read, Repeat? Clear? Share?
Only when the video ended did I become aware of the room again. The consultation booth was small, dirty, and soundproof. A quiet space for lawyers to talk to their clients.
“Dear God . . .” was all Jack could manage.
McAllister was staring at me. Watching me think through the possibilities.
“Frost had no probable cause to follow Marzone. Add to that, he’s not officially on duty, and worst of all, he simply sat on this video, didn’t show it to anyone. That’s a big problem.”
“Why didn’t he arrest Marzone and Roark?” said Jack. “The guy lied—he had more than enough to put Marzone away for murder.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “Don’t you remember anything from law school? Article 700 of the Criminal Code—you need a warrant for video surveillance. This evidence is inadmissible in a criminal trial. If Frost had a warrant, the memory card would be in a sealed bag in the evidence locker, not stuffed in the bottom of a stinking gym bag. Frost knew he couldn’t use it in court, and so did Marzone. You saw the end of the video. Marzone clocked Frost. That’s why Marzone took him out on the ferry and not me. Marzone knew I didn’t have anything on him, but Frost did. He didn’t want to take the chance, so he took out the guy who posed the greatest threat.”
As I spoke, I looked at McAllister. I could tell she’d thought of more angles. And the two main reasons why Frost didn’t use the footage.
“Frost wanted the whole squad, didn’t he? The hit man, the cops, everybody. Nothing tied the video to the hit man. He figured he’d get himself a new target—me. He knew Marzone would kill to protect himself, and he wanted to catch him trying to put a bullet through my head. And then there’s the big reason why Frost sat on this, isn’t there?”
“Yeah,” said McAllister.
I didn’t need to say any more. She looked pleased that I’d thought of it.
“Whatever goddamn reason he had for not arresting Marzone with this video doesn’t matter, does it?” said Jack. “Now we’ve got it. We get Vinnie to pay us real money to lose the video. This isn’t a criminal court. We could use it in a civil trial.”
“Not now, we can’t,” I said.
“What?” said Jack and McAllister together.
“There’s no testimony from Frost. Without his testimony as to the authenticity of the video, it could never be admitted as evidence. Thanks to Marzone’s hit man, the video died with Frost. But there’s something else we can do; we can show it to Boles,” I said.
Standing and running his fingers over his arms, Jack said, “Wait, we can’t show this to Boles. This proves Marzone intentionally murdered Chilli. He was not acting as a cop. He’s just a killer. The city walks away with their money if we use this. It proves their defense and kills our entire case.”
“Sure it does, but it gives us a whole new case. One that we can’t lose.”
“What about Marzone?” said Jack.
McAllister stretched her neck, focused on me, and said, “We lean on Vinnie. Roark, too. Separate them from Marzone. Just like we planned. How much do you think Vinnie knows?”
“An operation like this is like a boys’ choir—everyone’s got to sing off the same hymn sheet. The hit man will need to be close to Marzone’s defense. Vinnie mentioned a friend who had an interest in this case. I wouldn’t be surpr
ised if the hit man insisted that Marzone used Vinnie—so he can keep an eye on things. I doubt if Vinnie knows the whole truth of it, but he’s smart—he’ll know there’s something rotten going on. They wouldn’t tell Vinnie about the operation, but I’m sure he’s put most of it together. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We’d spent most of the lunch hour in the consultation room. Fifteen minutes before we were due back in court, we packed up and made for the elevator.
As the doors opened on our floor, I saw Maria standing beside her sister, with their backs to the wall outside the courtroom. A man had his back to me, and he was talking to Maria. I’d never seen this guy before, but that didn’t mean much. A lot of people were watching this case, and I’d expected Maria to get caught by at least one reporter before the trial was over. She’d been well briefed; “no comment” was the stock answer to all media. Only thing was, the guy talking to Maria didn’t look like a reporter.
He wore a checkered suit.
Maria nodded politely at this man. It was plain that she was uncomfortable in his presence. The closer I got, the more I thought Maria was beyond uncomfortable—she was scared and trying to hide it.
“Hi,” I said, standing beside Maria, her sister, and the man in the checkered suit.
At first I thought he hadn’t heard me. He was still staring at Maria and smiling. The smile didn’t even look human. I could smell cigarette smoke coming off him, and something else. It was a smell I hadn’t encountered before—the way I imagined a lethal, decaying chemical would smell.
He looked at me finally. The same dead expression. The muscles of his face had pulled his lips into a grin, but you got the impression that a dark, malevolent creature was controlling his body in a poor attempt to hide the true nature of what lay underneath.
His attention turned back to Maria.
“I just wanted to wish you well. Your husband’s death was a terrible tragedy. Bless you. Bless both of you,” he said, his voice high and cracked.
Then, before any of us could react, his hand moved toward Maria’s belly. A thick, nicotine-stained thumbnail touched the top of her stomach. The nail was sharp and pointed. He drew the nail down, sending a ripple over the fabric of her dress, all the way over her stomach. Then he drew it horizontally across her midriff, completing the sign of the cross.
We were too stunned to move. Maria’s mouth lay open, her hands raised. We were simply stunned by the gesture. The sheer destruction of her personal space. It was more than overfamiliarity—there was a horrible intimacy to that touch, a foul violation.
“Bless this child. I hope it lives longer than its father,” said the man as he turned and walked away.
I saw him take a lighter from his pocket, and the cap flicked open and closed as the Zippo rolled around his fingers.
Click, click.
I held Maria and tried to calm her. Looking behind me, I saw that Jack and McAllister had watched the whole thing from a distance. They’d seen the man draw the sign of the cross on the baby. They knew what it meant—the terror of its true meaning.
This was the hit man.
He was coming after Maria and the baby.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It took less than twenty minutes for Vinnie to complete his direct examination of Marzone. They’d gone through the whole story in enough detail to sound convincing. Genarro’s murder, the confidential tip about Chilli waving a knife and boasting about offing some union guy, tracking down Chilli, Roark getting the door in the face, and Marzone saving his partner by grabbing Chilli before he had time to use the knife.
The last five minutes of testimony was devoted to Chilli’s record. Vinnie sat down with a list of Chilli’s convictions for violence ringing in the jury’s ears.
And Marzone’s lie that Chilli had held a knife and attacked them.
And listening to all of this, Mr. Zippo. The man in the checkered suit. The hit man for Marzone’s Morgue Squad. The man who liked to draw crosses with his fingers, with chalk, and with the scope of a rifle as it leveled at Frost’s head.
Click, click.
I wanted to rip into Marzone—destroy him. I wanted the jury to see that video, to see Marzone’s arms and how free they were from knife wounds. His story didn’t add up. I could make it a hell of a lot shakier.
No questions. That was the order.
The idea that I’d had in the consultation room took on a new dimension. Suddenly I could see a way out for Maria, for me, for Jack—and a way to take down the whole damn crew.
“Your Honor, may I have a moment to confer with Mr. Federof? It should take only a few minutes.”
As much as he hated accountants, Judge Winter hated wasting time more. But he could smell something here. He knew if I was talking to Vinnie, there was a chance of a settlement. If the case settled, he would have a clear schedule for a week. I could see his graying eyebrows weighing the possibilities.
I could tell that the judge didn’t much like Vinnie and the smug look he wore on his face. Vinnie probably thought I was coming back to him to take the five grand. Vinnie was in for a surprise.
“Ten minutes, maximum,” said Winter as he rose and headed out of the court.
“Let’s find somewhere private, Vinnie. And bring your friend with the Zippo. This concerns him, too. Trust me, you need to hear this.”
The consultation booth on the tenth floor was even smaller than the one we’d used to view the footage. But family court had finished for the day, so I knew the entire floor would be empty. I went into the room first, followed by Vinnie and the hit man, who was still playing around with his lighter.
“Vinnie, wait outside for a second, will you?” I said.
“Anything you got to say, you can say it in front of me,” said Vinnie.
The killer was intrigued; his lips turned up at one side. I held my eyes on his face and prayed he couldn’t tell that I was scared shitless of him. I could put on a good front when I needed to, and that moment required me to be cooler than Steve goddamn McQueen. I sat down across the table, leaned back in the chair, and nonchalantly flicked a hand at Vinnie, gesturing for him to leave. If I had a rubber ball, I would’ve bounced it off the wall.
“It’s okay, Vinnie,” said the man. Vinnie didn’t question this guy; he almost fell over, he left so quickly.
The door to the consultation room closed. I could smell cigarettes and just a hint of that other, foul odor.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I want to forget,” I said.
“Forget what?”
“In a word, you. I want to forget that you even exist. I can do that. I’ve done it before. Jack forgets things real easy. He’s already forgotten you. But I need some reassurance that you’ll forget about Maria and me and Jack.”
His eyes looked wet, and the veins in his neck got a little darker as he leaned across the table and said, “Your client, you, and your partner would be difficult to forget. You’ve been on my mind for a while now. In fact, ever since you took that ferry ride, I’ve been thinking about you all constantly.”
“I think you’ve made a mistake. It’s not us you need to worry about. It’s Marzone.”
“Freddy has a terrible memory. I’m not concerned about him.”
“You should be. I’m sure he’s been reliable in the past, but he got sloppy with Chilli Hernandez. I saw the video.”
“I was afraid you might say that. This news makes quite an impression. One I will always remember.”
“I forgot to mention that I’m giving you something in return for your memory loss.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m going to give you the only copy of the video, for a start. But first I’m going to show it to the city’s lawyer. You won’t mind that. He’s old, and he forgets real easy. Besides, there’s nothing in that video that ties you to Marzone. My memory isn’t that good. I’m convinced I won’t remember anything about you when Boles and I have that
conversation. The big question is, when Marzone goes down, do you think he’ll keep his mouth shut about you? Come on. He’ll be the first one to make a deal; give you up in exchange for ten years at a minimum-security prison. Apart from the video, I’ve got one more gift.”
He seemed to relax, and the tense bubble of air around him dissipated. His shoulders fell, and his head came up.
“And what is this gift?”
“Time.”
“Time? For what?’”
“That’s up to you. Vinnie is going to let me adjourn Marzone’s testimony and take a new witness out of sequence—the deputy chief commissioner. Ten minutes in the box and I can rattle him enough into making a deal. I won’t mention you, what Marzone was really up to—nothing. Like I said, you’ll slip my mind completely. But Marzone is done for. I’ve also got this,” I said, handing him over a copy of the traffic camera photo: Roark’s face, lit up behind mine as he choked me.
“It’s coming apart at the seams. With the media attention this case is getting, the NYPD will be under severe pressure to get rid of Marzone. Even if they don’t fire him, he won’t be able to take a leak without Internal Affairs watching him. It’s no longer a question of if Marzone goes down; it’s when. I’m giving you my memory and a head start. That’s the best deal you’ll make all day.”
“How much of a head start?”
“I’m guessing that Marzone and his boys will hang around for a while to watch me question the deputy commissioner. An hour? Maybe more.”
At first he said nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t even appear to breathe. Just a dead stare from those black eyes.
“Call it an hour and a half and you’ve got a deal. How do I get the video?”
“When I’ve shown it to Boles, I’ll hand it over to Vinnie. Fair enough?”
Suddenly he clapped his hands together, and the slap echoed around the small room. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching.
Startling me brought a smile to his lips.
“How’s your memory?” I asked.
“Becoming shakier by the minute,” he said, before rising and leaving the room without another word. I heard Vinnie in the hallway, asking what the hell that was all about. The muffled reply was lost to me.
The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella Page 10
