by Frank Zafiro
“Sure. I didn’t promise Monique I wouldn’t, and it doesn’t compromise what she wants, which is to know the truth. And it sure as hell doesn’t compromise Rolo, because all he cares about is who beat up Monique. So I can give Browning anything I find on a silver platter.”
“Maybe,” Adam said, thinking. “But if you go poking around, talking to people, you might screw up his interviews.”
I didn’t answer. He was right. We sat in silence, sipping our coffee. I waited him out.
“The thing is, I just don’t know,” he said after a full minute. “Maybe Browning will never use any of it. But if he does, and you’ve gone and muddied the waters...”
“Don’t give me anything,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Are you kidding?”
“No. You still have a career. And you don’t owe me anything.” I pointed at his cup of coffee. “Except for that. Two-fifty. Cough it up.”
Adam chuckled at that. Then he shrugged. “I can give you the background, if you want. Nothing in writing, though. And you can’t go bothering any of these guys until I’m sure Browning is off the case, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. It was a promise I hoped I could keep.
Adam took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay.”
Then he dove in.
He was right. It was a lot of work. As he told me about the three contractors, I was amazed at the level of detail he had learned and how he was able to recall it so easily for me.
He took them in the same order I did. Markham came first.
“He inherited a ton of money from his dad,” Adam said. “But he isn’t quite the same caliber of businessman as his father was. Not even close, from what I can see. He lost almost the entire fortune speculating on Internet stocks. When the dot com bubble burst, he went from flush to just about broke.”
“That would explain what I saw in his offices. They seemed empty. Gave me the feeling of a factory without enough workers.”
“Well,” Adam said, “from what I can see, his company is deep in the red. This development deal with the city probably represented his best opportunity to get back into the black.”
“And that gives him a motive.”
“What, to kill Tate?”
I nodded. “Imagine that he was counting on getting the bid for this job. And counting on Tate to give it to him. If Tate didn’t come through, he knows he’ll lose his company. That’s motive for murder.”
Adam shrugged. “That’s a stretch. Besides, how would he know he didn’t get the bid? It wasn’t resolved yet when Tate died. It still isn’t.”
“I don’t know. But if I’m right, that’s a motive there for Markham.”
“If you want to speculate like that, there’s a thousand motives out there.”
“And all of them come back to love or money,” I said, smiling.
Adam eyed me curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just something Clell said, is all.”
“So, now you’re taking advice from a third rate security guard from North Dakota?”
“Clell’s a good sounding board.”
Adam shrugged. “Whatever you say. Anyway, where Markham’s concerned, I think you can throw pride into the mix, too.”
Adam moved on to Beurkens. “Yeah, well, how about greed?”
“Greed is good. Why?”
“Beurkens is backed by mob money.”
“What? Really?”
Adam nodded. “Yep. Right here in River City.”
“Are you talking Russian mob, or…?”
“Good old fashioned Italian Mafia,” Adam said.
I shook my head in amazement. “Since when?”
“It’s a fairly recent development,” Adam explained. “Dominic Bracco. He's a transplant from New Jersey. He’s Angelo Bracco's nephew. Angelo's a pretty heavy hitter.”
I leaned back and turned up my palms. “Well, that could be it. I mean, that’s the simplest explanation. Beurkens was fronting for the mob. Tate double-crossed them and so they hit him.”
Adam shook his head. “There’s a few problems with that.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a faked suicide isn’t exactly a Mafia signature.”
I considered. “No, but…”
“And as far as we can tell, Bracco is pretty clean here. What little he is up to doesn’t even put him on the map as far as our gang guys are concerned. They were more concerned with the Russians, but now it’s back to the blacks and the Hispanics. The West Side Diablos and the West Side Crips have been sniping at each other for almost a year.”
“Over what, naming rights?”
Adam chuckled. “What else? Territory. The point is that no one has time to go after Bracco for his illegal gambling. It’s a victimless crime.”
“Most of the time it is. But not you don’t pay off when you lose.”
Adam shrugged. “Either way, Bracco’s not such a big fish. In fact, when I called back east to New Jersey and talked to their OCB guys, they said our Bracco was a joke. That Angelo kicked him out of New Jersey for some kind of screw up, and he’s here in River City paying penance or something.”
“What kind of screw up gets you kicked out of New Jersey?”
“They didn’t know. Or they wouldn’t say. I guess the point is that while he looks good at first, the shine fades when you take a closer look.”
“But he does back Beurkens?”
Adam nodded. “Yeah. I think it’s a way to launder his money, but I can’t prove it. At least, not the kind of proof a judge and jury would need.”
“Okay, so we’ve got a wannabe tycoon in Markham and a guy backed by a wannabe gangster in Beurkens. What about Rossiter?”
“He’s interesting.”
“How so?”
“Well, first off, he’s the cleanest one of the three. I didn’t see anything about him that looked shady. Plus, he’s active in the community, giving money to the rec center and funding youth sports teams. All kinds of stuff like that.”
“You didn’t find anything suspicious at all?”
“No. At least, nothing that was at all sketchy.”
“But…”
Adam shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Adam, what is it?”
“Probably nothing. He just strikes me as a pretty hardcore businessman, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons, but I suppose the one that stands out the most to me is minority contracts.”
“What about minority contracts?”
“Well, in government bids, minority companies have an advantage.”
“Like affirmative action?”
“Exactly. The idea is the same. It’s Uncle Sam’s way of trying to level the playing field.”
“Does it work?”
“I don’t know. I’m a technician, not a sociologist. But what I do know is that Rossiter applies for every minority designated contract there is. And almost every time, his company gets it. On top of that, he presses the minority status of his company every time he makes a general bid, too.”
“So what?” I asked. “The way I see it, he’s just using every advantage he has. That’s smart business.”
“You’re right.”
“So what’s the big deal?”
“There isn’t one. I just think it makes him pretty hardcore. Maybe even ruthless. Rossiter's company is in the top ten percent in the city. No matter how you want to figure it – gross income, profit, assets – he’s there.”
“Pretty successful,” I mused.
“Very. And not exactly why those minority bids were put into place, either.”
“So you think—”
“I think anyone who makes that kind of money is hardcore, and anyone willing to use minority status once you’re already in the top ten percent is probably ruthless.”
“Just your opinion.”
“Purely.”
I sat and thought for a moment. “The way I see it, any of these t
hree could be desperate enough or ruthless enough to kill Tate if he double-crossed them.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
“So which one murdered him?”
Adam laughed out loud. “You’re making a huge leap, Stef.”
“Someone killed him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Hey, if you ask me, you just spent the past half hour telling me about three guys who are perfectly capable of it.”
“No, I didn’t. I told you about three businessman in this city who are all probably less than scrupulous. If I went out and grabbed three more at random, at least one of them would be just as tainted. It doesn’t mean they’d kill someone, least of all a public official.”
“Someone killed him,” I said again.
Adam shook his head. “You know Occam’s razor, Stef?”
“Who?”
“It’s not a who,” Adam said. “It’s a what. Occam’s razor is a concept. I won’t bore you with the Latin or the scientific version of it. What it comes down to is this – most often, the simplest explanation is the correct one.”
I heard echoes of my own conversation with Clell. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Lee Harvey Oswald probably killed JFK all by himself. I’m saying that Area 51 is where the Air Force conducts test flights for their leading edge aircraft. I’m saying that Amelia Earhart crashed somewhere and D.B. Cooper is hanging from some tree and we just haven’t found the bodies. I’m saying that Marilyn Monroe was depressed and she overdosed on pills. I’m saying…”
I held up my hand. “I get it.”
“I’m saying that Councilman Tate killed himself,” Adam said anyway. “Probably because everyone was going to find out he was gay.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“It’s the simplest explanation. It’s the most likely. That’s Occam’s razor.”
“Well,” I said, “fuck Occam and his razor.”
Adam's eyebrows shot up.
“But thank you,” I added quickly, and pointed to his coffee. “That’s still on me.”
25
Adam had a point. Theories like Occam's razor only fit usual situations. And this is not a usual situation.
That afternoon, I went back up to the hospital to see Monique. I was more than a little irritated that they hadn’t called me about her condition, but I kept it to myself. My status as stepbrother was tenuous enough as it was. I didn’t need to push things.
She was back in the same room. There seemed to be more tubes attached to her than before. A huge bandage covered the side and rear of her head. I went through some major surgery after being shot, but I couldn’t remember that many tubes or bandages.
The steady beep of a heart monitor was the only sound in the room.
I stayed for an hour, talking to her quietly about the case. I knew it was unlikely that she could hear me but it made me feel better. And I liked the thought that she just might be able to comprehend my words. Maybe they offered her some comfort in her dark, deep sleep.
One of the things that had been nagging at me was the exchange Adam and I had witnessed that first day I saw Monique. I’d been so focused on the fact that Tate had been there that I’d momentarily forgotten about the older man who had walked to his red Cadillac with her.
Who was he?
He wasn’t Markham or Beurkens. Definitely not Rossiter. So who was he?
After getting Adam to tell me what he knew, I was reluctant to return and ask any of the three contractors if they knew anyone in a red Caddy. Besides, my guess is that two of them wouldn’t have a clue what I was talking about and the third one would lie.
Of course, that was if one of them was even involved. For all I knew, Tate had some other gig going on and the exchange at the Rocket had to do with that.
I was tired of guesswork, and wanted some answers.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one.
I returned home and planned to review my notes once more before deciding my next move. As soon as I stepped through the main doors of the apartment building, someone grabbed me. Suddenly, I was flying down the hallway without moving my legs.
I flailed my hands and feet, but had no strength or balance. Then, just as suddenly, my face was rammed into my apartment door. Pain exploded on my left cheek and eye.
“Open it,” grunted a voice. Hot breath washed across the back of my neck.
I hesitated. He mashed my face into the door some more.
“I’m not playing, motherfucker.”
I recognized the voice. It was Leon.
I fumbled with my keys and got the door open. Leon shoved me through, letting go of me as I staggered into the living room. He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind himself.
“Sit your ass down,” he ordered me.
I hesitated, considering my options. I didn’t see any, so I did what he said. I sat my ass down.
Leon pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed and said, “We’re here.” Then he hung up.
“Look,“ I started to say. “We can—”
“Shut your face or I’ll cave that motherfucker in.”
I fell silent.
We waited.
A few minutes later, the door swung open and Rolo walked in.
The big pimp moved with surprising grace for a man his size. He strolled in, slid out the only other chair in my small kitchen from the table and sat down lightly. He twirled his cane absently between his long, thick fingers. I watched the brass cap spin and wondered how many times he’d cracked someone in the skull with it.
“I hired you, right?” He said, his voice smooth.
I nodded. “You did.”
“To find out who beat my girl.”
“Yes.”
“And you been paid?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“No problem.”
He shook his head. “No, man, there is. Far as I can tell, you ain’t been doing shit to find the fool laid hands on my girl. Word I got is you only been up to the hospital a coupla times.”
“It’s complicated. She’s been—”
“It ain’t,” he said, spinning the cane and stopping it suddenly at the last word. “It’s simple. Monique knows who smacked up on her, or she knows whoever ordered it. She’s got her list and can translate it. So what I want to know is why your narrow ass is not at her bedside, pen in hand, waiting for that important information. Somehow you got something better to do?”
“No,” I said. “But, she’s been in a coma part of the time. And like I said, it’s complicated.”
He spun the cane again, glaring at me. “See, I hear you say complicated, but I worry that what you’re really saying is that a nigger can’t understand.”
Shards of ice shot from my shoulder blades down into my gut. I raised my hands up to placate him. “That’s not it at all.”
“No? Then enlighten me, motherfucker.”
“I think it revolves around Tate,” I said.
“Tate who?”
“Lawrence Tate. The councilman who just died.”
Rolo nodded for me to continue.
“He was a client of Monique’s. Before she fell into a coma and had surgery, she said she didn’t think he killed himself. She thinks he was murdered for something he was into. I think she may have helped him with that something without knowing it.”
Rolo leaned back. He spun his cane and stared at it thoughtfully. “You saying this dude used her as a mule?”
“Yeah. Exactly like that.”
“And so maybe the party on the other end of that transaction wanted to shut her up, too?”
“Yes.”
“So why not kill her?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they thought that since she was a call girl, a beating is all it would take to keep her quiet.”
Rolo thought some more. Then he asked, “So what you been doing?”
“Trying to figur
e out if she’s right about Tate’s death. And if she is, who did it. Which is the same thing you hired me to do.”
Rolo shot me an amused look, then smiled and shook his head. “Man, you sure do have a bold streak, don’t you? Talkin’ back to me like that. How you know I won’t tell Leon here to whup your ass?”
“I don’t.”
“That’s right. You don’t.” He pointed at me with the knob of his cane. “You might be remembering that.”
He stood, and so did I.
Rolo eyed me once more, then gave me a short nod. “You keep me updated. Not like the post office updated, neither. I want updates like Sportscenter. You feel me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He pointed at my eye. “That shit’s gonna bruise up.”
I touched my eye tenderly. “Probably.”
“Ain’t nothing free,” Rolo said. Then he turned and strode out of my apartment. Leon trailed behind, casting me a dark look.
26
After Rolo left, I dug an old T-shirt out of my drawer and wrapped some ice cubes in it. I pressed the ice to my left eye. Then I sat and thought about the whole case some more. It seemed as though I was painted into a bit of a corner.
I remembered how Clell liked the idea of me working harder, continuing to dig. Keep turning over rocks, as we used to say on the job. But as I sat at my kitchen table, the cold ice stinging against my face, I couldn’t think of any rocks left to turn over.
I couldn’t go to any of the contractors without betraying Adam. Lara Monroe had done everything she could for me. And Monique was still unconscious, recovering. Who else?
Rhonda? If she knew anything, she would have told Rolo.
What about one of the secretaries that worked for the contractors? I rejected that idea almost as soon as it formed. There was too much loyalty there. Besides, that would be the same thing as going to the contractors themselves, at least in spirit. And that would screw Adam.
What was left?
And then it hit me. A place where I could still ply some bullshit. Where it might work.
I went to my closet and looked at what was hanging there. A few collared shirts, a windbreaker and one decent suit. The suit was about the only piece of clothing that remained from my days as a cop. I bought it for my swearing in ceremony, and hung onto it for court purposes. The dark blue, classic cut never went out of style.
