by J. B. Turner
“What the hell is in Sag Harbor?”
“The cop Robert O’Keefe was in touch with. Someone that may know more about this whole fuckup.”
“Look, I cut you some slack to follow up a lead. But I’m not so sure Sag Harbor is where you need to be right now.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I think Robert O’Keefe is credible. I believe him. And I’d like to hear what this cop has to say.”
“You could be on a wild goose chase. The omission from the file might be entirely innocent.”
“Maybe. But I’m convinced that at least some people in the FBI and the NYPD knew a hell of a lot more than you and I have been told.”
“That is a big, big call, Jon.”
“You better believe it. But something doesn’t smell right.”
“Look, I think your particular . . . skill set . . . might be better deployed back in the city. I’m worried Todd O’Keefe is going to pop up again. And the next time, God knows what he’ll do.”
“Gimme an hour.”
“Not a second more. Then you head back to Manhattan.”
“You got it.”
The Corner Bar was a run-down saloon in decidedly upscale Sag Harbor. Faded flag decorations hung above the front door, fluttering in the summer breeze. Reznick pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. It was like an old fisherman’s haunt, a few old-timers hanging around. The TV was showing live footage from lower Manhattan, the scene of the attack on the two female cops.
An old man wearing a Mariners cap, sitting on a stool beside him, was shaking his head, nursing a whiskey. “What sort of animals do that?”
Reznick nodded and took a couple of welcome gulps of cold beer.
“Cops? Killing cops? On the Fourth of July? What the hell? Is this America?”
Reznick stared at the TV. The old-timer beside him wouldn’t believe what sort of day he’d had. Which was probably just as well. He had been in the thick of it. And then some.
“What the hell is going on in this country?”
A voice behind him said, “Nobody respects cops no more.”
Reznick turned around and saw a red-faced, burly guy sitting alone at a table, drinking a pint of beer.
“It’s a fucking disgrace,” the red-faced guy said. “You hear what I said?”
“I hear you,” Reznick said. “You’re 100 percent correct.”
The guy had tears in his eyes. “Fucking outrageous. Killing cops? Back in the day, that was rare. But now, it’s like every fucking second day, I hear about a cop being shot or killed or targeted. On duty outside a ball game? And now two officers gunned down on a coffee break. What the hell is going on?”
The old man with the Mariners cap whispered in Reznick’s ear, “Guy used to be in the NYPD. That’s why he’s so upset.”
Reznick nodded. He finished his beer and ordered two more. He picked them up and went over and sat down opposite the red-faced guy. He pushed the bottle toward him. “Here, on me.”
The guy stared at the TV screen, shaking his head. “Sorry, I don’t know you. What’s that for?”
“Take it.”
“I’m sorry about getting all emotional over this shit.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” Reznick reached over to shake the guy’s hand. “My name’s Jon Reznick.”
“Hey, Jon . . .” The guy had a viselike grip. “Jimmy Greer. Unbelievable. Independence Day, and they’re killing cops in New York City.”
Reznick sipped his beer as his gaze wandered around the bar. He looked at Greer. “It’s a bad scene outside Yankee Stadium. I got caught up in the shootings this morning.”
“You serious?”
Reznick nodded.
“In the name of Christ. This morning? You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where you from?” Greer asked.
“Maine.”
“So, you visiting New York. Long way to take in a Yankees game.”
“Daughter lives in New York in the summer.”
“Maine, huh? Never been there. Supposed to be nice.”
“It’s like Sag Harbor. On the water. Quiet. Decent.”
“You a Yankees fan from Maine?”
“No, just wanted to take my daughter to a game.”
“And you and her were there this morning? That’s bad fucking luck, man.”
Reznick nodded. “We were both there, waiting in line.”
“She OK?”
“Yeah, she’s back in Manhattan.”
“She needs to stay off the streets.”
“That’s what I told her. Whether she does or not is another matter.”
Greer nodded. “Kids never listen. My kids are the same. Fucking law unto themselves.”
Reznick went up to the bar and got two more beers, then sat back down beside Greer.
“You don’t need to do that,” Greer said.
“Forget it.” Reznick took a few gulps of the beer and looked up at the TV. He turned to face Greer, lowering his voice. “Jimmy, I was speaking earlier to the FBI about the shootings . . .”
“The FBI? Yeah?”
“They figure it was two brothers who did this.”
Greer’s gaze shifted from the TV coverage to Reznick. “What did you say?”
“The two snipers outside Yankee Stadium. The O’Keefes, apparently. But the police haven’t revealed the names yet.”
Greer’s reddened eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you? You seem to know a lot about what happened.”
Reznick nodded. “I know because I killed the O’Keefe brothers.”
Greer just stared at him. “Fuck are you talking about? You here to cause a scene?”
Reznick shook his head. “I’m going to level with you. I work on a consultancy basis for the FBI. And I was caught up in the sniper shootings this morning, like I said. And I did pursue the O’Keefe brothers and kill them.”
“Who in God’s name are you?”
“Like I said, my name is Jon Reznick. I’ll give you the number of the FBI’s assistant director who I report to if you want to verify that.”
Greer took a gulp of beer. “So you walking into this bar isn’t a coincidence, then, is it?”
“That’s correct.”
Greer went quiet.
“Your name has come up because you called the older brother of these two guys. Does the name Robert O’Keefe ring a bell?”
“Are you interviewing me here in this bar? My local bar?”
“I’m asking you a question.”
“You must have the wrong guy.”
Reznick shook his head. “Listen, I don’t know anything about you, but I was given your name by someone I trust. I believe you know more than you’re telling me. But I’m going to level with you. The stuff that happened today, the two separate sniper attacks—first Yankee Stadium and now lower Manhattan—I don’t think this is over. If you know something about the O’Keefes, something that can help stop all this . . .”
Greer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, nice meeting you, thanks for the beer, but I’ve got a few things to do today.”
Reznick shrugged. “I can put in a call and get the Feds to come in here, and we’ll take you back to Manhattan, and we’ll begin asking questions the official way. You know the drill, right?”
“You’re bullshitting.”
Reznick shook his head. “I can see you’re a decent guy. On the level. A guy who’s as appalled as any right-thinking person about what happened today.” He took out his wallet and handed Greer his FBI ID. “This is real. And so am I.”
Greer closed his eyes for a few moments as if trying to comprehend what was happening.
“I just want to talk. And find out what you know. There’s no hidden agenda. No ulterior motive. I just want answers.”
“Who sent you?”
“No one sent me. I got your number from Robert O’Keefe and made the connection. You seem to be finding this difficult, Jimmy. It doesn’t have to be. But if you want, I can make your life very d
ifficult if you don’t cooperate.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. I do freelance work for the FBI. And I know you’re ex-NYPD. We just talk, no notes, no nothing.”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? The O’Keefes are killing cops on the streets of New York. Picking them off one by one. What is there to know?”
Reznick’s cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, hoping it would be his daughter saying she had gotten back to her apartment. But the number was Meyerstein’s.
“Jon, there will be a chopper there in forty minutes to pick you up.”
“Got it. Martha, hold the line for a second.” Reznick covered the mouthpiece and reached out to Greer. “You want to check my credentials? That’s the FBI assistant director on the line right now. Here’s your chance to confirm what I’m telling you.”
Greer shook his head. “You’re good.”
Reznick moved his hand away from the mouthpiece. “I’ll be waiting.”
Meyerstein said, “Is that the cop, the one you were telling me about?”
“Yup. Gotta go.” He ended the call and put the phone away. “Listen, I’ll be out of here in forty minutes. I want you to tell me what you know. As I said, the Feds can come get you and take you back to Manhattan on the chopper that’s picking me up in thirty-nine minutes.”
“This is pretty irregular, how you’re going about this.”
“I’m a pretty irregular guy. So, let’s cut the bull. Why did you call Robert O’Keefe? And why did the second call come not from you but from the US Department of Justice?”
Greer sighed and cocked his head. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. I can tell you what you need to know.”
Sixteen
Camila Perez felt a sense of relief as she stepped off the train and onto the platform at Atlantic Terminal, Brooklyn. It had been an hour-long journey from Hempstead. But she was glad to get away from the gangbangers outside her neighborhood diner. The call had shaken her up. Their presence was unsettling. Terrifying. She thought they were trying to unnerve her by issuing veiled threats. But the cold, hard fact that couldn’t be denied was that they had wormed their way into her life as well as Leon’s. They had control over both of them.
The more she thought about it, the more she could see her life was coming apart at the seams.
Perez headed down the stifling main drag to the Armory bar. Her shirt was sticking to her back by the time she arrived. She was glad to get inside and feel the cool air on her skin. It felt good to be enjoying the anonymity and proximity to the city. It was a buzzier, more cosmopolitan atmosphere in the bar, a world away from her day-to-day life out on Long Island. The drudgery of twelve-hour night shifts at her JFK customs post meant she rarely got to see Leon, who worked in Manhattan. Today was a rare day off for her, but not for him. He was probably working flat out because of the terrible events in Manhattan. Probably why he hadn’t called.
She wondered if she had been too quick to jump on the train, especially after the eerie appearance of the two goons. But she was concerned that Leon would worry if she canceled. She didn’t want that.
She ordered a Bloody Mary at the bar and took her drink to the garden at the back. The scent of lavender bushes wafted in the balmy early-evening air. A few couples were already enjoying their drinks.
Perez sat down alone at a table and sipped her drink. The cool taste felt good. She felt the alcohol going straight to her head. Her mind again flashed back to the MS-13 gang members outside the diner. She sometimes wondered if she shouldn’t just move on. The Leon she knew was kind, funny, and smart. And he was, despite his addictions and bad life choices, at his core, a good man. But she wondered if she shouldn’t just go to the Feds herself to tell them what she knew, and to hell with the consequences. Ask for protective custody. For help for Leon.
But in her heart she knew that if she did that, the men he’d gotten tangled up with would find her and kill her. Leon knew too much; so did she. If she changed jobs, they would find her. The gang had people who had access to classified information. Friends, family, and associates. It was just a matter of exerting some pressure on an individual, and someone would give her up. It worked every time.
And Leon . . . what he had done was a federal offense. He would go to jail if anyone found out. And even in jail—actually, particularly if he was in jail—they could get to him. Kill him.
Perez sipped her drink, trying her best to relax. Her cell phone rang. She wondered if it was Leon saying he was going to be late. She had half expected that would be the case. After the tragedy in Manhattan, that would be understandable. She checked the caller ID. It was her mother, back in Tijuana.
“Mama,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m OK, mija. Just missing you. Are you OK, honey?”
“I’m fine, Mama. I’m safe.”
“I’m watching the news. About New York. It’s so terrible what’s happened. It’s breaking my heart, all these dead police. I can’t bear it.”
“I know, Mama. It’s shocking.”
“Who could have done that?”
“Bad people, Mama. That’s who.”
“Well, the bad people won’t get into the country with you on duty.”
Perez fought back tears.
“God bless the families of the fallen NYPD officers tonight,” her mother said. “I will pray for them. I hope you will too, Camila.”
“I will, Mama. I will light a candle for each of them. I promise.”
“May God watch over you, my darling girl. I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Mama. How is Papa?”
Camila’s mother sighed. “You know how he is. He’s trying his best to make his business work. But I’m afraid our savings are getting lower and lower.”
“Why don’t you come back to America?”
“Your father is a proud man. He needs to be near his family, you know that. His father and brother need him. And I can’t leave him here. I don’t want to do that. I love your father very much.”
Perez felt tears spill down her face. “I know you do. I love you, Mama.” Her cell phone vibrated, indicating another call waiting. “Mama, I’ve got to go. I think Leon’s calling me.”
“Leon? Good. Well, take good care of yourself, Camila. Love you.”
Perez hung up and picked up the waiting call. “Hey,” she said, “how are you?”
A sigh answered her. “Not so good.”
Perez’s heart sank. Leon’s voice sounded strained. She sensed that he was going to call off their date. “Does it have to do with what happened today? Yankee Stadium?”
“Yeah . . . a lot of crazy stuff going on. And there are two more dead cops down near Wall Street.”
“I didn’t know about that.”
“Yeah, it’s a crazy day. So, look, I’m just calling to say I’m really sorry, but I won’t be able to make it tonight. I thought I could maybe manage, but things are really bad here right now.”
Perez wondered if she should tell Leon about her encounter with the gangbangers. But she didn’t want to give him something else to worry about. “How are you physically? Do you have your medication?”
“Do you want to keep it down?”
“Sorry, I just want to make sure you can get through the day OK.”
“I’ll manage, don’t worry. But I really need to get back to work. Unprecedented day. Maybe the worst in the city since 9/11.”
“So sad. Who could have done this?”
“I can’t say. But it’s not good.”
“I understand. You’ve got work to do. Bad people to find.”
“It’s not good timing. I should’ve called earlier. Are you there already?”
Perez dabbed her eyes. He sounded strung out. “Yeah, I just got here. But it’s fine. I’ll get a train back, I’m good.”
“Look, I’ll make it up to you.”
“You have nothing to make up, Leon. You have a job to do. And I w
ouldn’t have it any other way.”
“How about you?”
“How about me?”
“Your work. Are you busy?”
“You know how it is, just the usual the last few nights. People trying to hide crack cocaine wrapped in cellophane in lots of creative places.”
“Way too much information,” he said, laughing.
Perez smiled. She loved his laugh. It was the same uninhibited laugh her father had. “And don’t get me started on the white guy I stopped, flying back from Cancún with twenty Ecstasy tablets in his ass.”
“That’s just gross, stop!”
It was Perez’s turn to laugh. She sipped more of her drink. “Anyway, that’s my life right now. It’s a work in progress, you could say.”
“I’m not helping your social life either.”
“When will I see you next? I’m working seven nights solid starting tomorrow.”
“That’s tough,” he said. “How about next weekend? My parents said we could use their place in Montauk. We could go out Friday and stay till Monday. Make it a long weekend.”
Perez thought that sounded fantastic. She loved the East End of Long Island. East Hampton, Southampton, Montauk, Sag Harbor. She felt as if she could breathe there, far away from the grime and filth of the city, or even the dreariness of Hempstead. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“That works. I’m off from Wednesday until the following Tuesday, time off for covering emergency shifts.”
“Montauk it is. It’s gonna be great. And I’ll make today up to you.”
Perez took a large gulp of her cocktail. “What time are you working till tonight?”
“I’m really not sure.”
“It’s entirely up to you, but since I’m already close to your apartment, I could head to your place and stay there tonight.”
“I’d . . . I’d love that, but we’re gonna be working nonstop on this, as you can imagine.”
“Look, I’ve got a key. I’m in Gowanus. I’ll make us something nice to eat. I’ll pick up a few things at Whole Foods. A late supper kind of thing. What do you say?”
“Camila, I can’t make any promises. But that sounds great. Let’s pencil in ten o’clock.”
“Deal. Stay safe, Leon. I love you.”
