“Major Case Squad, then SVU,” Rogan said.
“Okay, so a citizen-driven warrant is this thing we came up with, but it’s really a community policing tool. You know, after nine-eleven, we’ve got these ads all up and down the MTA, telling people, ‘If you see something, say something.’”
“But we’re not always talking about the next Zacarias Moussaoui.”
“No, knock on wood, not in most cases. Instead, we get these nosy neighbors convinced that someone’s up to something. So the citizen-driven warrant puts them to work. They write down every suspicious thing they see. They turn in the pages to us. If it adds up to probable cause, we ask for a warrant. If not—”
“You assure them you did everything you could, and then tell ’em to pound sand.”
“Pretty much. So that’s what we’ve got here on the DD5. The two ladies walk in to the help desk in March. A couple weeks later, after a few more streetwise Laurel and Hardy routines downstairs, they hook up with the community policing liaison, who tells them about the citizen-driven warrants. We take a look at it after a couple months, and there’s nothing there.”
“You’re sure?” Ellie asked.
“No doubt. You work drugs a little while, and you get super-honed spidey senses. Homeboy’s getting his party on like any other single man with that kind of money in Manhattan. And so we could say we did everything we could, my partner and I even did a little knock and talk with the guy. That’s the entry in June there. Truth be told, I just wanted to score a peek at the place.”
“And?” Rogan nudged.
“The condo was sweet. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows—”
“The resident. Drugs? Dealing?”
“Nah. Dude’s Eurotrash, buying up Manhattan real estate while the dollar’s in the toilet. Goes clubbing every night. Picks up bridge-and-tunnel skanks looking for a short-term sugar daddy, a place to party for the night. Had no problem letting me search. The place was clean but for some personal-use marijuana in the nightstand. He didn’t seem fazed that I found it, and I really didn’t want to process him for it, so he flushed it. No hard stuff. No paraphernalia. No packaging materials. No cash or books.”
“No dealing.”
“No dealing.”
“You got a cell number in case we need you to nail this down for court?” Ellie asked. “Sparks’s lawyer made it sound like Pablo Escobar lived next door.”
She jotted down the number in her notebook, and they began to make their way out of the squad room. Guerrero had been blowing smoke with his claims of a drug operation going down across the hall at the 212, but she still wondered how the lawyer had even known about it. Then she realized the likely source.
She turned toward Carenza. “Hey, you don’t happen to know Nick Dillon, do you?”
“Sure. My brother’s on the job, too. He and Dillon were in the Major Case Squad before Dillon sold out to the man. We play cards sometimes. Takes my money big-time.”
“Any chance you mentioned this whole citizen-driven warrant thing to him?”
“Yeah. He used to work Narcotics, too, you know? I thought he’d get a kick out of his boss’s neighbors practicing their slang over mah-jongg. Hey, that didn’t cause any problems for you, did it? I mean, there was nothing to it, so—”
Rogan waved him off. “Don’t sweat it, man.”
Rogan caught Ellie’s eye on their way out of the precinct. “The man’s got ears, right? That guy makes a friend, he keeps a friend.”
“Well, being his pal didn’t save me from a jail cell. Maybe next time you can be the one who does our time.”
“Would never happen,” he said, holding open the precinct door for her to exit. “I’m way too pretty for central holding on some chippy contempt rap. Someone like me goes down, it’s got to be major. I would need some serious federal corrections facility—golf course, croquet…”
“Rogan, you were raised in Brooklyn. Do you even know what croquet is?”
“I know it involves a round thing called a ball, which means it’s yet another sport a brother could dominate if we only gave it a shot.”
“When you’re done, you think you might get around to letting me in?” Ellie tugged on the Crown Vic’s locked passenger handle to make her point.
Inside the car, she flipped open her phone and saw a new voice mail from Max Donovan. Opting to wait for some privacy, she clipped the cell back to her waist.
The drive from Chinatown was slowed by end-of-day traffic. Even with the assistance of wigwag lights, they didn’t pull up in front of the Thirteenth Precinct until nearly six o’clock.
Ellie was about to log onto her computer when she caught sight of Max Donovan through the open slats of the blinds that covered Lieutenant Robin Tucker’s office. Tucker stood, walked to her office door, and poked her head into the squad room.
“Good timing, you two. A quick word?”
Rogan shot Ellie a look that made her wish she’d checked Max’s message in the car. “This can’t be good.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
6:00 P.M.
“ADA Donovan has an update for us on the Sparks case.” Robin Tucker leaned back in her chair and smiled in Ellie’s direction. “We should thank him for the special attention he’s shown by coming here in person to deliver the news.”
Ellie knew it was a dig from her lieutenant about her personal relationship with an assistant district attorney—a relationship that was undoubtedly behind Max’s decision to make the trip from the courthouse.
“Apparently yesterday wasn’t a big enough win for Sparks. I got papers delivered to my office this morning from Ramon Guerrero.”
“What more could they possibly want? Our motion for access to Sparks’s files went down in flames. I got smacked with a contempt charge.”
“They fucking slaughtered us,” Rogan said.
“Well, Guerrero wants another pound of flesh. His motion demands access to all evidence gathered by the NYPD in relation to the death of one Robert Mancini.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ellie said.
Rogan chimed in. “Tell them to take their motion and stick it up—”
Robin Tucker made a T sign with her hands. “Will you two let the man speak? He’s trying to tell you where things stand.”
“Well, of course the motion’s frivolous,” Donovan said. “The mere fact that Sparks has a connection is insufficient to give him any claim to access to the investigation. And they can’t rely on public records laws because it’s obviously an ongoing investigation.”
“So is this just a big-firm lawyer trying to run up his bill?” Rogan asked.
Max ran a hand through his already tousled brown hair. “No, or at least, that’s not the only reason. Guerrero’s good. He knows he’s got a judge who wants to please him.”
“But supposedly Bandon’s solid,” Rogan said. Judges earned reputations with law enforcement. Bandon was known as a straight shooter—tough on crime, but fair to both sides.
Max nodded. “That he is, but for a reason. Bandon’s not the kind of guy whose career ends with the state trial court. He was a major player in DOJ in the nineties, then got a sweet special counsel hookup at a major law firm. He’s only pulling duty as a local judge to perfect his resumé for the federal bench, and rumor is, his name’s finally coming up. No more elections. Better cases. Higher prestige. It’s basically every lawyer’s dream gig. So, yeah, for three years, he’s been as solid as solid comes. But for our purposes, on this case, at this particular time, he might be a little too solid. Someone like Sparks’s got the ear of the machine that pulls those political appointment strings.”
“So he’s just going to turn over our entire case to Sparks? That’s blatantly illegal.”
Max shook his head. “No. Bandon knows there’s no merit to Guerrero’s motion. In fact, his clerk called me this morning right after the papers were served and basically said the whole thing is bullshit. But then something must’ve changed his mind, because Bandon’s clerk ca
lled back again about”—he looked at his watch—“a little under an hour ago.”
Rogan threw Ellie a worried look as she was already picturing a loose-lipped Kristen Woods, with freshly arched brows, dishing to her boss about this afternoon’s surprise fishing expedition.
“So what exactly are we looking at?” she asked.
Max frowned. “Bandon wants to throw Guerrero a bone. I figure he’s trying to send a message to Sparks that he did all he could.”
“Which is?” Rogan asked.
“Bandon wants a briefing, under oath, about where things stand. And then from there he wants updates on the case.”
Ellie and Rogan were only two people, but from the cacophony in Tucker’s office, they could have been the entire studio audience of The Jerry Springer Show.
“Can he do that?” Rogan finally demanded.
“Not typically,” Max said. “There’s a separation of powers issue. We’re the executive. He’s the judiciary. He has no claim to a general right to access information that we possess in an investigation.”
“Okay, so once again, tell them where they can stick that motion.”
Max looked at Ellie, and she knew what was coming. “He says this isn’t a typical case. He says there’s at least a colorable claim that the NYPD is harassing Sam Sparks—”
Rogan was already shaking his head, but Ellie held up a hand, wanting to hear the rest of the explanation.
“Bandon says it’s a colorable claim, that’s all. And that in light of the jurisdiction he has over the matter given Guerrero’s demand for discovery, he’s ordering this process as temporary relief. It’s basically a middle ground. The way he explained it to me, he’s essentially protecting us—you, really, the police”—he looked again at Ellie—“from a harassment suit by intervening.”
“Tell him to bring it on,” Rogan said. “He’s gotten kid gloves compared to anyone else who’d be in his position. Bring it the fuck on. Let him sue.”
Rogan looked to his partner for validation, but Ellie just stared at the speckled earth-tone linoleum of Tucker’s office floor. If Max was here, instead of the courthouse, it was because he had already tried to fight on her behalf.
“I already ran it up the chain,” he said, confirming her suspicions. “Knight thinks it’s best if we play along.” Knight was the chief prosecutor of the trial unit at the district attorney’s office and was also Max’s boss. “It’s just a matter of meeting with Bandon in chambers—in camera—no Sparks, no Guerrero, not even a court reporter—and then I’ll informally notify him of any further material developments. Like I said, it’s really just for show. Bandon comes out looking good to Sparks. Nothing on the record shows he’s doing some rich ass a favor—”
“And we’re going to play along,” Rogan said. He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm.
Ellie finally spoke up. “Donovan’s right. Bandon’s probably helping us out.”
Robin Tucker looked at Ellie with raised eyebrows. It was a look of surprised approval.
“And Rogan should be the one to do the in camera session with Judge Bandon.”
“What? So I can serve some time, too?”
“So I won’t be an issue. So Bandon will see we’ve dealt with Sparks on the up-and-up.”
“That’s a good idea,” Max said quietly. “Thank you.”
“Okay, so we’re all done here?” Tucker said. “Happy campers all around?”
No one looked happy, but no one was protesting. “That was easier than I thought. Now get out of here. I’ve got a kid waiting at home for dinner.”
Rogan didn’t bother waiting until they were back to their desks before reconstructing the events that must have led to Judge Bandon’s phone call to Max Donovan that afternoon.
“Your girl Kristen Woods gave us up,” he said once they had both crossed the threshold of Tucker’s office.
“I assumed the same thing.”
“So much for the sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits,” he said.
“Well, Woods is more of a miniskirt and stiletto heels type anyway.” Ellie tried to muster a smile as she lowered herself into her worn vinyl-upholstered desk chair. “Given the timing, she must’ve called Sparks the second we left her on the street.”
“And then Sparks makes a call to Bandon.”
“Or, more likely, he calls his lawyer, and then Guerrero calls Bandon. That way it at least looks like an actual legal process.”
“Instead of the bullshit rich-boys club that it is.”
Ellie felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find Max Donovan smiling down at her.
“I’m gonna get my gear from the locker room,” Rogan said.
“You okay?” Max asked once Rogan was out of earshot.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“I know this has to be hard on you.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’m actually grateful that Rogan will be the one to deal with Bandon this time. I probably need some distance.”
“I’ve got another couple hours of work at the courthouse, but meet at my place when I’m done?”
“I’m sorry, Max. I’m really tired. Last night wasn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton, you know?”
“That’s fine. Why don’t you go home and get some rest, and I’ll come to you.”
“I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”
“That’s all right. I’m used to doing all the talking while I watch you chew,” he said, smiling.
Ellie knew she should be grateful for his response. She should be thankful that he wanted to support her, to comfort her, to watch her sleep the way she’d sometimes catch him in the morning. And she wanted to accept his offer. She wanted to be the kind of woman whose first instinct was to run to a man who cared about her when she was under pressure.
But one of the things she loved about Max was that he seemed to understand her, even when she had trouble understanding herself. And he was comfortable and confident and took everything in stride. Unlike other men she’d dated, she never had to worry about Max making it all about him. It was all the more reason to wish she could give him what he wanted.
“I’m sorry. Tomorrow, okay? I promise. Tonight I just need to kick the blankets, squish the pillows, drool onto the sheets, and snore like an old fat man. And I really don’t want you to see me like that.”
“Might kill the magic.”
“Exactly.” She held his gaze and brushed his forearm.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m holding you to it.”
“You better.”
“Well, get some rest, all right? You’ve earned it.”
Outside on Twenty-first Street, to the west, Ellie spotted a familiar figure leaning against the white stone of the building, smoking a cigarette. Jess.
She smiled at her older brother as she imagined all of the one-liners he must have come up with at her expense since she’d called him the night before from jail.
“Hey, you.” She caught a whiff of smoke and wondered when she’d stop missing it.
He removed an unopened pack of Marlboros from his faded jean jacket and handed them to her.
“I quit, remember?” She had, for the most part.
“I hear they’re currency where you’re from.”
“Funny.”
“I’m serious. Anything you want. Soap. Candy. Porn. A shiv. Reefer. The white pony. These bad boys can get you anything on the inside.” He shook the cigarettes for emphasis.
“Is that all you got?” she asked dryly.
“Of course not. I figured I’d go with the prop comedy first. Let the rest of my lines trickle out over the next few days. Weeks. Months, if necessary.”
“Oh, good. Something to look forward to.”
“Are you up for a drink, or are you too jacked up on bootleg hootch from your time in the joint?”
“Oh, I think I can stay awake long enough for a drink.”
“You know I only treat at one place.”
&n
bsp; “You know the torment that awaits me in there?”
The bar in question was Plug Uglies, a classic old watering hole around the corner on Third Avenue. Thanks to its proximity to the precinct and an absurdly cheap happy hour, one could always count on finding a row of cops drinking there at this time of day.
“C’mon. Cheap drinks. A little darts. Some shuffleboard. You’ve got to take your lumps from the house sometime, or it’s only going to fester.”
“The house. Listen to you with the cop talk.”
“Jesus, I’ve been spending too much time with you.”
Ellie and Jess had been raised in the same home, with the same intense homicide detective as a father, but had dealt with their police-dominated environment in opposite ways. Jess had rebelled, shunning any kind of hierarchy or ordered regime that might even begin to resemble a law enforcement culture. Ellie, on the other hand, had breathed it all in and had allowed it to define her.
She pulled the wrapper from the Marlboros. Just one drag. She’d earned it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
6:15 P.M.
Inside the tiny efficiency studio that Glen Forrest Communities called her mother’s “apartment,” Katie Battle filled a green-tinted glass with water from the sink and placed it on the small rosewood table that doubled as both nightstand and end table between the empty bed and the chair that her mother currently occupied. Once she received the e-mail about her mother’s latest fall, she’d wrapped up the tour with the Jenning couple and made it to the assisted living center as quickly as she could.
Katie sat on the bed and watched as her mother slowly raised the glass to her lips with a quivering hand.
“Don’t you…even..think…about grabbing…one of those…ridiculous children’s toys…on top of my icebox.”
Katie had purchased a box of plastic straws for her mother four months earlier, but they still sat unopened on top of the refrigerator. “Those are for children,” her mother had said. “I start using one of those, and the next thing I know, you’ll be trying to feed me with a miniature spoon passed off as an airplane.”
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