They split into three distinct groups: Valencia in the lead; Billy and Milton behind her; and the two cops about twenty feet behind them.
The fountain in the middle of the square sprayed water into the air; Valencia looked at it as she walked and made vague promises to herself about vacations and romance. Beyond the fountain stood the arch; it always made her happy to see the arch. Scattered all over the park were college-aged kids who clutched book bags and looked at cell phones. An older man sitting on a bench facing the fountain played the guitar and sang loudly. He looked like a hippie who’d cut off all his hair and shaved his beard. He kept his eyes on Valencia as she walked.
When she reached the path that led to the chess players, Valencia made a subtle circular motion with her fingers up near her ears; Milton and Billy understood she was telling them to split up and cover the north and south side of the area. They separated without speaking.
When she got closer to the chess players, Valencia stopped for a moment and turned away from them. She waited for Wally and the cop to join her. There were eight games going on, and at least half of them involved black players. “Malik is the one at the second table?” she asked the cop.
The cop looked that way and nodded. “Yep,” he said. “Dark dude in the blue hoodie, with the little dookies.”
“Thank you,” she said. As she made her way to the tables, she kept her eyes on Malik Onweno. The game engaged his attention completely. Her training kicked in. She’d been taught to pretend to know the stranger she was approaching. Not to act on that knowledge at all—she wasn’t going to pretend they had a shared history or be friendly—but to carry herself with the knowledge that she already knew whomever she was approaching.
Even when she got within fifteen feet of him, he kept his eyes on the board. Players of varying ages and races occupied the other tables. They played speed matches and smacked their little timers after every move. A couple of African men, who weren’t playing, watched Valencia.
She walked right up to the table and stood behind Malik’s opponent. Malik moved his bishop, captured one of his rival’s pawns, and smacked the timer. He glanced up at Valencia and looked back at the table.
“Mr. Onweno, I need to speak with you,” she said, feeling proud of the way her voice sounded.
“As soon as we’re done,” said Malik, without looking back up.
If he’d wanted to piss her off, he’d succeeded. She stepped around his opponent and was about to knock all the pieces from the board, when she changed her mind, and instead, leaned forward and pushed Malik’s king off the table. It landed on his lap.
“Are you done?” she asked.
The man reacted like she’d poured water on him; he looked shocked. Valencia thought for a moment that he might cry. She could feel the men around her stiffen up like fighting dogs. The air became electric.
“Let’s go,” she said, nodding toward a more private area, and sucking in a deep breath.
Malik raised his hand to his opponent, as if asking him not to interfere on his behalf. The opponent, an older Polish or Russian-looking man, hadn’t responded in any way. He just sat there with his mouth open, staring up at Valencia in disbelief.
Valencia looked back at Malik and focused all her mental energy trying to send a nonverbal message to him: It’s urgent. Do not resist. This can only get worse for you. The man made a face, stood, and together they moved toward a bench about thirty feet to the north of the chess games. Without being obvious about it, she matched her posture and stride to his.
While they walked Valencia tried to summon her most empathic self. She told herself that this man—this African immigrant—was probably scared shitless to see a woman wearing a pantsuit come and ask for him by name. That was fine—in fact, it was exactly what she wanted him to feel. It was perfect. A flock of pigeons flew over their heads.
Up the path, Valencia saw Milton sitting on a bench watching them. Just then, another African immigrant walked by and seemed to ask Malik with his eyes if he was all right. Malik ignored him.
When they got to the bench, Malik gestured for her to sit, as if they were in his office. She straightened her pants and perched herself on the edge of the bench. Malik joined her, sitting down slowly, like he had a stiff back. Valencia saw Wally and the uniformed cop standing about sixty feet away. She didn’t look for Billy, but she could feel him to her right. The hum of the city’s traffic filled the air around them.
“So what is this?” Malik Onweno asked, in an accented voice Valencia guessed was Nigerian.
With her hands resting in her lap, Valencia stared into the man’s face. His eyes had gone to the ground. He had long, beautiful eyelashes. It looked like he was busy trying to figure out what he had done.
She let the silence stretch on for a moment, and then finally said, “I’m looking for a phone.”
“I don’t deal in phones,” said Malik, shaking his head. His eyes stayed on the ground. He’d already come up with that line, thought Valencia. He’d been practicing it while they sat there.
Valencia could see a tiny vein pulsing near the man’s temple. “Look at me,” she said. He turned and looked at her. She touched her own cheek with her hand. “Look at my face. Look at who I am. Do I look like a cop who chases after stolen phones?”
Malik pursed his lips and shook his head a little.
“Do I look like a cop at all?”
“No,” he said.
She took a moment to let him think. Then she said, “I’m after a particular phone. It has passed through your hands. I’m not asking about it. I’m telling you.”
“Still, sister, I’m being honest, I don’t trade in phones.”
Valencia reached into the inside pocket of her suit coat. She pulled out a baggie that held about twenty gel-capped pills filled with brown powder. It was her melatonin. “This is heroin, Malik. It’s uncut. Do you want me to put it in your pocket and have those cops search you?” She nodded toward Wally and the uniformed cop.
Malik looked at the bag, then over at the cops, who were now openly staring at him. He stayed silent.
“A Chinese man came and sold you a phone today,” said Valencia.
Malik looked back down at the ground and continued making his calculations.
“Last chance,” said Valencia.
Malik, when he spoke, sounded sad. “A Jewish guy in Midtown, in the Diamond District.”
Valencia turned toward Milton Frazier, snapped her fingers once, and waved him to her.
Leo Katzir’s law office wasn’t fancy at all. It was on the ground floor of an ugly sixties office building in Sheepshead Bay. The walls were paneled in fake wood. Against those walls, leaning and sagging, were stacks of cardboard boxes filled with case files. Two bedraggled-looking Russian immigrants sat in the makeshift lobby waiting for counsel on their DUI cases. Mr. Katzir’s secretary, a twenty-two-year-old Russian woman, sat behind her desk with headphones on, watching YouTube videos and snapping gum.
Yuri Rabinowitz, his brother Isaac, and their friend Moishe Groysman had been in Leo Katzir’s office for ten minutes. They’d brought the thumb drive and they wanted the lawyer to have a look. Katzir—with his lips moving over words—clicked through various documents and read them. He didn’t seem to like what he saw; in fact, each new file seemed to upset him more than the last.
The lawyer was fifty-two years old; he wore a burgundy cardigan over a white shirt with a black tie. He was bald, soft in the stomach, and wore a yarmulke. “Would someone be willing to pay for their safe return?” he asked, leaning back and tapping his pudgy fingers on his desk. “Yes, they would. Do I advise you getting mixed up in this kind of business? No. No—listen to me, boys, I’m serious.”
He looked at each of the three younger men. “And I’m not saying that to cover—to legally cover—my own ass. I wouldn’t do that. I’m saying this sincerely. Do not go down this road.”
Yuri sat and listened. He tried to parse the man’s English for some kind of deeper m
eaning. His eyes went from the lawyer’s face to the plants on the windowsill behind him. They needed water. The office was very warm; the plants definitely needed water.
“You’re a lawyer, though,” said Yuri’s younger brother. “This isn’t lawyers’ work.”
Yuri raised his left hand to his brother, an impatient, Be quiet gesture. He despised it when his brother interrupted him. When he looked back at the lawyer, he saw that his expression had settled into a frown. “What if we asked for less?” tried Yuri.
“It’s not the amount that bothers me,” said Katzir. “It’s the fact that this is a federal crime. The FBI will investigate it. What do you think your uncle will do if you bring the attention of the FBI onto him? Can you imagine?”
“We told him about it,” said Yuri.
“And he blessed it,” said Isaac.
Katzir’s frown turned into a smirk. “I highly doubt that,” he said. The lawyer then looked at Moishe Groysman, in hopes that the more mature of his three visitors would talk some sense to the two younger brothers.
“He did,” said Moishe, with a shrug.
They were interrupted by Katzir’s secretary, who opened the door and stepped inside. “Sophia Kamenka,” she said.
“I’ll call back in five minutes,” said Katzir.
Yuri watched his brother turn in his seat and look the young secretary up and down. She returned the look with a small smile, stepped back out, and closed the door. The smell of her perfume hung in the air. Annoyed, Yuri dropped his gaze to the floor and reminded himself that there were more important things in this world than the ability to flirt. But he didn’t feel convinced.
“Boys, you wanted my opinion, and I gave it to you,” said the lawyer, Katzir.
“But if our uncle calls, you’ll tell him the documents are worth money?” asked Isaac.
“I’ll tell him what I told you—do not go down this road.”
Valencia stepped through the door of American iPhone Repair and looked at the four men sitting at their worktables. “Can I help you?” asked the one seated furthest from the door. After Milton and Billy followed her in, he rose to his feet. He didn’t say anything more; he just stood there blinking.
Valencia’s eyes swept over the other three workers. They all appeared to be under thirty, and they looked like they lived with their mothers. “I need to speak to your boss,” said Valencia.
The standing man shook his head. “He’s not in.” The other three stayed in their seats and watched with their heads held back. They all looked nervous.
Valencia stepped farther into the room. “Open that door,” she said, pointing at the second door.
“I’m sorry?” said the man who was standing.
“I need you to open that door,” she said.
Milton pulled out his fake badge, and he held it up for the men to see. Valencia could feel the energy in the room shifting; she watched the standing man’s eyes go from the badge back to her. He then raised both hands like he was pleading. “You guys are gonna need to come back with—”
Billy stepped past Valencia toward the closed door. He set his duffle bag down on the floor, and then took a moment to examine the door, paying special attention to the hinges. He tried the handle and confirmed that it was locked. The standing man had withdrawn a few steps and seemed to be considering taking out his cell phone. Billy then bent over, unzipped his bag, and pulled out a two-and-a-half-foot battering ram—an ATF-style doorbuster.
By the time Billy had straightened up and taken his backswing, the man said, “Okay, okay, we’ll call him.”
Somewhere, someone buzzed the door; Billy pushed it open slowly and peeked his head in. He stood in the doorway for a moment assessing the second room. Then he turned to Valencia and gestured for her to go first.
She counted six men when she entered. When she walked in, half of them stood. The room was organized in two rows of worktables. There were no windows, and no visible cameras. On the tables were iPhones and iPads in various states of disrepair; the tables were equipped with tripod lamps and magnifying lenses. There were a few Asian workers and the rest, Valencia guessed, were Israeli. They seemed confused and looked scared; one of them smiled sheepishly, as if he’d been caught doing something stupid.
Valencia felt Billy step past her. She watched him walk around the tables on her left. “I need all of you men to please stand on that side of the room,” he said, pointing toward the south wall.
Valencia turned and saw Milton shepherding the men from the first room toward her. She then walked past them to the office’s front door and confirmed that it was closed and locked. She returned to the middle room.
“Sir, put your hands on the wall and stay there,” said Milton, talking to one of the men. The man complied. Milton stepped back and kept his eyes on the group.
Billy, meanwhile, had picked his doorbuster back up; he was approaching the third door when it opened from the inside.
Valencia watched a bald man in a Giants hoodie step out. He wore glasses and loose pants. He had his hands up near his face like an old person assaulted by too much noise. “Everyone, please,” he said. This was the boss, Valencia was sure. “What is this?” he asked. “What is this?”
“Frisk him,” said Valencia.
Billy pushed him face-first against the wall.
“What is this?” Avram Lessing repeated.
Billy patted him down roughly. He checked his ankles and pockets, squeezed under his genitals, swiped between his buttocks. “He’s clean.”
“Hold him there.” Valencia turned and looked at the rest of the workers again, and held her finger to her lips, raised the finger in the air, and told them, “Gentleman, please, everyone remain calm, and you won’t be arrested.”
She entered the boss’s office, a medium-sized room with a window that looked out on an enclosed space between buildings. The room smelled like canned soup. A large, framed poster with directions on how to help choking victims hung on the wall. She walked around the back of his desk, bent down, and made sure nobody was hiding behind it. She tried a door on the far side of the office and found it locked. She looked around for cell phones but didn’t see any.
After stepping to the window, looking out, and then lowering the shade, she called out, “Bring him in.”
Billy ushered him into the room, a hand on the man’s back.
“What is this?” Avi Lessing asked again. “You can’t just charge in here. This is bullshit, we have civil rights. I have a lawyer. You’re gonna want to deal with him.”
Valencia stepped within arm’s length of the bald man, and looked into his eyes. He was terrified. She stayed silent for a moment, savoring his fear. “An African kid brought you some phones today,” she finally said, speaking quietly.
“What?”
“A boy named Youssouf sold you some stolen phones today.”
“I don’t buy phones, I repair—”
“Let me explain something to you,” said Valencia, cutting him off. “I’ll make it clear. We’re only going to do this once. I’m not going to go back and forth with—”
“Excuse—”
“I’m not going to argue,” she said. “I skipped my lunch, my blood sugar is low, my feet hurt. If you think I’m interested in your pathetic little stolen phone operation, you’re mistaken.”
She looked as deeply into his eyes as she could. “I don’t care about that,” she said. “I care about a particular phone, a phone you received today. One phone. An iPhone. Did you receive any phones today?”
He looked down. “Yes.”
“How many phones did you receive?”
“From Youssouf?” he asked. “Six, he gave me six phones.”
“Where are they?”
“Right here.” He nodded toward a tote bag in the corner of the room. “Right here. No problem.”
“Get them, and set them on that desk,” said Valencia.
After pulling his pants up, he retrieved the phones and set them down on the de
sk slowly. Then he turned to her with an aggrieved expression. He looked like an upset teenager.
“Get on your knees, and put your hands on your head,” said Valencia.
“What?” asked Avram Lessing.
“Break him,” said Valencia.
“Okay, okay, okay,” said Avram, getting down on his knees and putting his hands on his head. Valencia glanced at Billy, who closed his eyes and nodded once, admiringly.
Valencia then stepped to the desk and looked at the six phones. They were all iPhones. She picked up the first one and pressed the power button. She then went through the other five phones and turned each one on. While she waited for them to boot up, she went to the door and checked on Milton again.
All ten of the workers still had their hands against the wall; they stood with their heads turned toward her. Milton, sitting on the edge of one of the tables, brushed at the space between his eyebrows. He had the room under control.
Valencia stepped back into the office and picked up the first phone. It was passcode protected. She picked up the second phone: passcode protected. On the third, she clicked the home button, and on the home screen saw the painting of a swimming pool that had been in the packet of info given to her by Elizabeth’s investigator. She clicked on the email icon and scrolled through the emails until she saw one from a lawyer at Carlyle, Driscoll, and Hathaway.
She then held it out for the man to see, gave it a little shake. “See, no big drama, no big fuss.”
“Take it,” he said.
“I will,” she answered. She stood there for a moment looking down at the phone. “I have to ask you something, though.” She waited for the right amount of tension to develop between them. “Did you snoop around on this phone at all?”
“No, just to see if they work. I don’t look, I just turn them on, see if the screen works.”
“Did you take anything from this phone?”
“What am I gonna take? No, I’m selling it, I didn’t take anything.”
She turned and looked at Billy. He raised his eyebrows, let them drop. Valencia stepped toward the man’s desk. “Listen to me—we are going to examine the phone forensically. We will be able to see if any files were removed from it. I’m going to ask you one more time, did you take anything from it?”
Clean Hands Page 7
