Outrage bkamc-23

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Brock had seen it before, detectives who got so myopic about one particular suspect that they missed clues that could have prevented a mistake. Graziani had been so desperate to get out of the Bronx and saw Acevedo as his ticket, but if Cassino was right, he might wish he was back at the Four-Eight.

  He was still thinking about the ramifications when he saw Graziani enter the pub and stand for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. He turned and spotted Brock, then walked over with a big grin as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. He held out his hand. “Hey, paisan, how ya doin’? Still enjoying the hellhole they call the Bronx?”

  “I’m okay, Joey,” Brock said, shaking the other man’s hand without much enthusiasm.

  Graziani didn’t seem to notice or care. “Glad that you called, glad that you called,” he said. “Been meaning to give you a jingle and ask why the Bronx DA hasn’t filed on Acevedo yet. Can’t get Hartsfield to move his fat ass?” He chuckled as a waitress walked up. “Couple of Brooklyn Locals work for you?” he asked Brock. “I’m buying.”

  Brock shook his head. “Nothing for me, thanks. I quit drinking ten years ago after wife number two left me.”

  “Good for you.” Graziani smirked as he held up one finger to the waitress. “Though as my old man used to tell me, ‘I don’t trust a drinking man when I’m sober or a sober man when I’m drinking.’ So why haven’t you guys filed?”

  Brock shrugged. “They’re still putting it together. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to wonder if Acevedo is my guy.”

  Graziani frowned. “What do you mean? You got a solid case-in some ways better than mine, with a witness ID, and he confessed to the attempted rape and the Atkins murder.” His voice was tense and the bonhomie was gone.

  “Yeah, but I’m still bothered by a couple of things,” Brock said. “For instance, the assault victim, Marianne Tate, described hitting the guy who grabbed her with her left elbow, striking him on the left side of the face.”

  “So?”

  “So, Acevedo’s face was bruised on the right side.”

  Graziani rolled his eyes. “Big fuckin’ deal. It wouldn’t be the first time a victim got mixed up. Or maybe he turned his head. It don’t mean shit.”

  “Maybe,” Brock said. “But I also talked to his mom, who said his dad hit him the night before he was arrested. She described it as a backhand blow to the right side of his face.”

  Now the other detective was scowling. “So what? Maybe the victim didn’t hit him hard enough to cause a bruise. Or the mom is covering for her kid. He told the ADA the same thing he told me.”

  “Yeah, and my gut tells me that kid was just parroting everything we gave him,” Brock said, “and he picked up on it real good. I looked back at my interview with him and it’s clear he followed my lead. I knew better, but I wanted the killer, too. And you practically spoon-fed him the answers you wanted.”

  Graziani’s eyes blazed and he started to say something but stopped as the waitress delivered his beer. He picked it up and drank half of it before setting it down again. “I didn’t threaten him, didn’t hit him,” he said with his jaw clenched. “He was caught and he knew it. He was just hoping to get a deal if he cooperated. You’re throwing away a perfectly good case on bullshit technicalities and your ‘gut.’ I’m glad the New York DAO wasn’t so chickenshit.”

  Brock stared hard at Graziani for a moment. The guy was an asshole but this didn’t mean he was a bad cop; they’d both made mistakes on this one. “What I think isn’t your biggest problem,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Graziani scowled.

  Brock told him about Vinnie Cassino’s accusations against Kadyrov.

  “Bullshit,” Graziani spat, and finished his beer. “He’s just another scumbag drug dealer trying to cut a deal.”

  “He knew about the missing blue shirt.”

  “Maybe he read about it in the newspapers.”

  “I looked,” Brock said. “I couldn’t find a single story that talked about the shirt.”

  “Maybe he heard it from Acevedo,” Graziani said. “Kid’s probably a meth head and bragged about doing these women. Maybe Cassino heard about it but got him mixed up with this Ahmed Kadyrov. Or maybe somebody on the task force let it out. There must have been a hundred people who could have seen the investigation reports.”

  “Yeah, it’s all possible,” Brock said, unconvinced. “You ever hear of Kadyrov? He’s got a rap sheet for a few B amp; Es in Manhattan and Queens.”

  “Never heard of him,” Graziani said.

  “Well, maybe if you tracked him down, and this Cassino has what he says he does, you still get the collar, and all else is forgiven.”

  “Yeah, right,” Graziani sneered. He rubbed his face with his hand. “The DA and NYPD brass will throw me to the wolves. I’d be the guy who made them look like fools. I’ll be pulling traffic detail in Staten fucking Island until I’m pensioned.” Graziani stared at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head and looked Brock in the eyes. “I don’t believe Cassino. I know we got the right guy for this. The rest of this is bullshit. But if you let this out, a defense attorney will use it to jack up my case and put doubt in the minds of the jurors. And that means a psychopath gets off scot-free.”

  Brock tilted his head and shrugged. “Sorry. You know I have to turn in this report.”

  Graziani looked for a moment like he wanted to bust his beer glass on his colleague’s head, but then he relaxed. “You didn’t file the report yet?”

  Brock hesitated; he didn’t like Graziani to start with and liked him even less now. “Not yet,” he said. “I wanted to give you a head start so that you could run this Kadyrov to the ground and figure out if Cassino is telling the truth. But I’m going to have to tell Sergeant Marks soon. We’re supposed to meet with the assistant district attorney assigned to the Atkins case early next week.”

  Graziani thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry; don’t know what I was thinking. Can you give me a couple of days to find this Ahmed Kadyrov before you let the cat out of the bag? Maybe I can still make this come out all right. At least get the bad guy off the streets even if my ass gets fried for it.”

  Brock nodded. “Yeah, I can hold off for a few days. Maybe Kadyrov is connected to the Atkins murder, in which case you’d be doing me a favor, too.”

  “That’s right, you’d owe me one,” Graziani said, and signaled the waitress for another beer. He smiled. “You know, this might just work out fine after all.”

  19

  Zak stared down from the mound at the catcher, who glanced over at Coach Newell for the pitch sign. Chase Fitzgerald nodded and grinned as he looked back at Zak and gave the signal. High and tight. A brushback pitch-a head-high fastball meant to intimidate a batter and move him off the plate.

  Or in this case, he’s hoping I’ll hit Esteban or at least scare the shit out of him, Zak thought.

  Coaches weren’t supposed to be encouraging, or teaching, brushback pitches at the high school level. There was too great a chance of someone getting seriously injured. But Newell’s ethics were always questionable when it came to getting an edge on the competition. And in this case it was no surprise that he was calling for it against Esteban Gonzalez even though this was just practice.

  The coach’s previous efforts to chase the young man from the team had failed. Just three days after being cut by Chase Fitzgerald’s cleats, requiring twelve stitches in his leg, Esteban had walked back out on the field as if nothing had happened. And though it was obvious that his leg was hurting him and he was limping by the end of practice, he’d kept up on the drills.

  It was a gutsy performance. But instead of earning even Newell’s grudging respect, the boy’s perseverance seemed to anger the coach all the more. And now he was telling Zak to toss a beanball at him.

  Zak shook the sign off and waited for a new signal. Fitzgerald frowned and looked back over at Coach Ne
well, who emphatically made the same hand signals, only this time he looked directly at Zak as he gestured. There was no question that this was a test. The coach’s eyes said it all: Are you with us or against us?

  Zak looked back at Fitzgerald, aware that Giancarlo was standing in the on-deck circle watching. He nodded to the catcher and went into his windup, then threw hard. The ball caught an inside corner of the plate for a strike. A great pitch and the third strike on Esteban, who smiled and shook his head in admiration as he turned to walk back to the dugout.

  “Again,” Newell bellowed from the dugout.

  Zak and Esteban both looked at the coach and then each other. As the other boy stepped back into the batter’s box, Zak saw a momentary look of fear on Esteban’s face. But the fear was immediately replaced by resolve; he nodded at Zak.

  Fitzgerald looked over at Newell and visibly laughed as he gave Zak the signal again for a brushback pitch. Zak reared back and threw. This time the pitch was high and inside… but about three feet over Esteban’s head.

  Coach Newell stormed across the field and up to the mound. “What are you doing, Karp?” he demanded.

  “Pitching,” Zak answered, his eyes not meeting the coach’s.

  “You ignored my signals,” Newell growled.

  “I’m not going to throw at his head,” Zak stated as he looked the coach in the eyes.

  Newell’s face turned red, and he took a step toward Zak and appeared ready to yell. But the coach looked up and saw that the rest of the team had walked close enough to hear what he was going to say. Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders stood together smirking. But others looked troubled and grim.

  The coach held out his hand for the ball. “Hit the showers and see me in my office in fifteen, Karp,” he said, and yelled over to where the other pitchers were throwing in the warm-up cages. “Worley, get your ass out here!”

  Worley ran out to the mound. Glaring at Zak, Newell handed Worley the ball. “Let’s see if somebody can remember the meaning of ‘team.’ Or if he knows better than the coach.”

  With that the coach turned and walked away. At the same time, Zak walked off in the direction of the locker room. He glanced toward his brother, who smiled and touched the brim of his cap in a salute. Zak rolled his eyes and with a quiet curse changed directions and headed for home plate.

  “Give me the bat,” he said as he walked up to Esteban. Without waiting, Zak grabbed the bat and gently pushed Esteban away. He then stepped up to the plate.

  Sensing something going on behind him, Newell turned. His eyes bugged when he saw Zak Karp in the batter’s box and his red face grew purple. But he said nothing, just signaled the pitch to Fitzgerald.

  Zak saw Worley smile and knew what was coming. “You’re screwed, Karp,” Fitzgerald said, chuckling as the pitcher went into his windup.

  Zak waited until just before Worley released the ball and stepped back out of the batter’s box. But he wasn’t trying to duck the pitch. He knew what the signal had been and knew where the pitch was going, which made it relatively easy to make contact and drive it up the middle of the field.

  The ball skipped off the mound and caught Worley in the shins. The pitcher went down and began to howl. Weller and Anders rushed over to him. As Fitzgerald ran past Zak, he turned and pointed as he said, “Your ass is grass now, Karp.”

  Zak shrugged and tossed the bat over his shoulder and walked to the locker room. Fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door of Coach Newell’s office and walked in. The coach didn’t look up from whatever he was reading and gestured to the chair across from him. “Shut the door and take a seat, Karp” was all he said.

  Zak did as he was told and was left to sit for several minutes before the coach looked up at him. “You mind telling me what you were trying to prove today?” Newell asked.

  “I don’t think it’s right to try to hurt someone,” Zak said.

  Newell acted as if he were shocked. “Hurt someone? Who said I wanted you to hurt someone? I asked for a fastball inside. Your opponent was crowding the plate. If you’re going to have qualms about making that pitch, you’re not going to get any offers to play ball in college.”

  “The signal was ‘high and tight,’ a beanball,” Zak said. “I can pitch inside. But you can’t ask me to take a chance of hurting someone, especially on my own team.”

  “Your own team,” Newell repeated with a sneer. “Do you consider it part of being a good teammate to ignore your coach’s instructions and then, in front of the whole team, treat him and your other teammates with disrespect? And do you think being a good teammate means trying to hit Worley? We’re lucky he’s only got a bruise or we’d be out our number-one pitcher going into the playoffs.”

  The coach stopped talking and looked sideways at Zak. “Or is that what you wanted?”

  The hotter-blooded of the twins, Zak knew he had to control his temper. “I didn’t mean to hit him. But he was trying to hit me.”

  “He was doing what I asked him to do, unlike you,” Newell replied. “It’s good practice for the pitcher and the batter. The pitcher gains the intimidation factor, and the batter learns to get out of the way.”

  “You did it because the batter was Esteban.”

  Newell’s jaw set tight as he tried to stare Zak down. “I’m trying to mold a team here, Karp, to win a state championship,” he said as if trying his best to be patient. “And if I have a player on the team who is a disruption or doesn’t fit into what myself and the other coaches are trying to do here, then it’s part of my job to weed him out.”

  “Esteban’s a good player,” Zak replied. “And he works hard.”

  Newell shrugged. “He’s okay. But Weller’s a team leader, and he’s been around longer. Besides, those people are all about individual stats. They only see sports as a way out of the ghetto and couldn’t give a shit about the team. I think he’d be happier playing for a public school where he’d have more of his people around to habla espanol and play like a bunch of prima donnas. We’re fine without him; in case you haven’t noticed, we’re seeded second in the state and the playoffs start next week.”

  “‘Those people’?” Zak said. “You mean Hispanics?”

  “I mean poor Hispanics who come here and don’t even bother learning the language,” Newell replied. “But they expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter. Well, it ain’t going to happen on my watch.”

  Newell picked up the binder he’d been studying when Zak entered the room. “You know what this is?”

  “A lineup book,” Zak replied.

  “Damn right it is,” Newell said, and pushed it across his desk so that Zak could see it. “And this particular page is the lineup for game two of the playoffs. You can see that at the moment, I haven’t written anybody in as the starting pitcher. Normally, that would be your name there, but as of now you are suspended for conduct detrimental to the team.”

  “What conduct?” Zak asked, fighting to keep back tears.

  “Disrespect and attempting to hurt one of your teammates,” Newell replied.

  “That’s not fair,” Zak exclaimed.

  Newell leaned across his desk and fixed his eyes on the boy’s. “I decide what’s fair around here. Now, I don’t need to remind you that these playoff games attract a lot of attention from college and pro scouts, and it would be a shame for them not to see you. But I will not hesitate to keep you on the bench if your attitude doesn’t improve, and I mean pronto. Do I make myself clear?”

  Zak dipped his head so that the coach wouldn’t see the anger in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, now get the hell out of here,” Newell said, and then softened his tone. “Glad to have you on board, Zak; you’re going to have a hell of a career.”

  Giancarlo was waiting for Zak outside the coach’s office. “Don’t say anything,” Zak said, looking at his brother. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Closing his mouth, Giancarlo fell in step with Zak as they walked down the hallway
toward the exit. But he couldn’t remain quiet. “I’m proud of you.”

  Zak paused. “Yeah? Well you know what you being proud of me means? It means that if my ‘attitude’ doesn’t improve, he’s going to bench me for the playoffs. Right now I’m suspended for conduct detrimental to the team.”

  “That’s crap! We need to tell someone,” Giancarlo sputtered.

  “He’ll say I misinterpreted what he wanted me to pitch and that I was insubordinate,” Zak replied. “And that I purposefully tried to hurt Worley so that I could be the starting pitcher in game one. And this team will back him up, especially the upperclassmen; this is their chance for a state championship and they’re not going to let me, or some Hispanic guy, screw that up for them. Besides, who are we going to tell? We’re getting too old to run to Daddy every time something’s not going our way.”

  The boys left the building and saw Lucy waiting for them in their mother’s high-end truck. She was parked behind a beat-up economy car with threadbare tires and rust spots on the panels. As they approached, the passenger-side door of the beat-up car opened and Esteban got out and walked toward them.

  “Great, now what?” Zak growled.

  “Hey, Esteban, what’s up?” Giancarlo said.

  Esteban smiled at Giancarlo but held out his hand to Zak. “I wish to thank you,” he said in heavily accented English.

  Zak frowned. That’s when he noticed another car in the lot containing Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders. “I didn’t do anything,” he said without offering his hand in return, and walked on to where Lucy was waiting.

  Esteban looked hurt and puzzled as he turned to Giancarlo. “I say something bad?”

  Giancarlo shook his head. “Nah. He’s just upset ’cause the coach got mad at him,” he explained.

  Esteban looked over to where Zak was crawling into the jump seat of the truck. He bit his lip and nodded. “I understand this,” he said, and put his hand out to Giancarlo, who shook it. “Please to tell him gracias again for me when time is right, eh?”