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  “There’s not much for him to know,” Randolph said, taking a long cool sip from his drink. “I doubt Jack told his son much about what was going on here. And if he didn’t bother to list a sibling on any of his forms, I would wager he told his brother even less.”

  “In other words, you’re not as concerned about this as I am?”

  “I see no cause for concern, Samuel,” Randolph said. He was once again relaxed and sat back in his chair, at ease. “Jack is dead, and all he knew or thought he knew is buried with him. And as for the boy, what could he possibly know?”

  “And the cop?” Butler asked. “Or I should say the ex-cop?”

  “Even if he looks our way, there’s nothing for him to see,” Randolph said. “It’s not like he’s going to come barging into my office and start asking questions.”

  “You’re right on that, Randolph,” Butler said. “He’s not going to barge in. He’s going to be invited in and given a cup of coffee by your secretary.”

  “What are you talking about?” Randolph asked, the edge now back in his voice.

  “I asked your office to keep me in the loop in case he called to make an appointment,” Butler said. “Which he did. About ten minutes ago. Your secretary texted me the details. He’ll be in to see you day after tomorrow, at three forty-five.”

  Randolph downed the remainder of his drink and wiped at his lips with his left thumb. “What’s his name?”

  “Tommy Rizzo,” Butler said. “But everyone calls him Tank. And if I were you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting long.”

  “I can handle myself, Samuel,” Randolph said.

  “With those who travel in your circles, no doubt,” Butler said. “But don’t come off tough with this guy. He’ll see right through the act. Keep it simple. Keep it polite.”

  “What’s he looking to see?” Randolph asked.

  “Who he’s up against, would be my guess,” Butler said. “And if he gets even a whiff of something not right, he will take you down.”

  Samuel Butler finished his drink, pushed his chair back, stood, and walked quietly out of the Library.

  6.

  THE WINTHROP, WESTCHESTER COUNTY

  LATER THAT DAY

  I SAT ON A BENCH, STARING out at the manicured grounds of the rehab facility. I waited as Pearl read through the three files Chris had put together, making his case that his parents did not die in a car accident. That their car had been tampered with and they had been sent to their death. Pearl was more than my former partner and best friend. There was no one, and I truly mean no one, who could break down a case file like Pearl. His body might be confined to a wheelchair, but his mind was Steve Jobs sharp, and he could work up a solid plan to crack any case I brought to him.

  “The boy’s got himself some serious skills,” Pearl said. “Back when I was his age, I was lucky if I could finish a damn crossword puzzle. He has put together a very convincing set of facts. Based on what’s in these files, that sure as shit wasn’t a car accident.”

  “We need to prove motive,” I said, nodding. “It could be Jack caught wind they were double-dealing some clients and putting the skim money in play.”

  “With no one the wiser,” Pearl said. “You do have to ask yourself the why of it. This firm your brother worked for, they were pulling down big numbers just by going at it legal. Well respected by all accounts, a boatload of clients trusting them with their money. Based on the numbers, the three partners had to be taking home high-six figures easy. So why go dirty?”

  “Same reason why anyone goes south, Pearl,” I said. “Making good money doesn’t make you immune to debt, divorce, living beyond even the means found on the big table. Most folks, given the chance, will always spend more than they should, no matter how big the wad of cash they hold.”

  “We’ve never gone up against a white-shoe firm,” Pearl said. “These folks got means. I’m not saying don’t go after them. I’m just pointing out we’ve never ventured into these waters.”

  “If we’re right—and based on what’s in those files, it looks like we are—then white shoes or no, they’re just another band of crooks and killers,” I said. “They may wear fancy suits and eat in bend-your-wallet restaurants, but they’re no different than any gangbanger we hunted down.”

  “You talk to the chief of detectives about this?” Pearl asked.

  “He’s aware and has read through the files,” I said. “We work this on our own, but he’ll be there if we need a helping hand.”

  “What about the team?”

  “Chris is going to be on it,” I said. “He’s done all the grunt work, and even if I wanted him off the case, there’s no way he’d listen. This is about his dad. There’s no out for him on this one.”

  “And the rest of the crew?” Pearl asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, Pearl,” I said. “I can’t offer them cover like I can on the cases Chief Connors hands us.”

  “So, it’s just you, me, and the kid?”

  “And Carmine,” I said. “He’s going to flash a full load of cash in front of them and see if they bite. On paper he’s a perfect client. They’ll want his money and his contacts.”

  Pearl cracked a smile. “They take a nickel of Carmine’s money, there’s going to be some missing persons missing body parts. No doubt about that.”

  “They won’t make a move for his money,” I said. “They’ll want him to trust them. Bring them more clients with cash in hand. Down the road, it might be a different story.”

  “So, when’s the ball start to roll on this?” Pearl asked.

  “Soon as we get you settled,” I said.

  I stood and stepped behind Pearl’s chair and began to wheel him toward the entrance to the physical-therapy wing. “Settled where?” Pearl asked.

  “I’m checking you out of here, Pearl,” I said. “You’ve spent more than enough time in rehab, even one as nice as this. Time you had a place you can call home. A place of your own.”

  “And where would that place be, exactly?” Pearl said.

  “The brownstone,” I said. “You’re moving in with me and Chris. The bottom floor’s all yours. Had a couple of guys from Mike Trucco’s construction crew make it wheelchair-accessible. Both inside and out.”

  “And you went and did all this without asking me?” Pearl said. “Or any of the doctors here?”

  “I checked with your docs,” I said. “Physical therapist will come to the apartment three times a week, soon as the two of you set up a schedule.”

  Pearl pushed down on the brakes of the wheelchair, bringing it to a sudden halt. He turned and gazed up at me. “Don’t go and do this because you feel sorry for me,” he said. “I would hate that and, in the long run, so would you.”

  “I’m doing it because you’re my partner and my best friend,” I said. “I need you by my side working these cases. And Chris needs you, too. He seems to find it easier to talk to you than me. And, besides, after the way you handled yourself on that last case we worked, you proved that you’re a lot more than a smart man in a wheelchair.”

  “Making me what?” Pearl asked.

  “What you always were,” I said. “A great cop.”

  Pearl lowered his head and nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said in a near whisper.

  “Don’t be so quick with the thanks,” I said. “I’m going to need you more than you can imagine. This situation with my brother is going to open some dark doors for me. It’s not just another case. Goes deeper than that. I don’t know how I’ll be when I come out the other end. But I do know I’ll need someone to be there if my biggest fears come to pass.”

  “And be there I will,” Pearl said. “Count on it.”

  “I always have,” I said.

  7.

  THE STRAND BOOKSTORE

  THE NEXT MORNING

  I WAS ON MY THIRD CO
FFEE of the morning, quietly sipping from a Starbucks cup, lost in a long, dusty row of books both new and old. There was a time in New York when you could find a dozen bookstores like the Strand strung along Fourth Avenue and Broadway, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets. Today, this is the last one standing, the others surrendering to time, gentrification, and online commerce.

  If you can’t find a book in the Strand, it means that book has yet to be written. The place smells of history, row after row of used and old, crammed so close together as to almost smother, with a rare-book room on the third floor. The staff, a mix of young and old, half hippie, half book nerd, seem transported from another time. They’re knowledgeable and direct, much like the great and late store owner himself, Fred Bass.

  It is one of my go-to places to drink coffee and think, and I often leave with a tote bag filled with more books than I need. I feel at home here, alone, in a store that is always crowded. It is a great feeling to be invisible in a place packed with books, staff, and customers, practically a city unto itself. And it seemed a good place to sort through my mental checklist.

  My life had grown complicated these past few months, more so than at any other time since I’ve been off the job. Initially, I hated leaving the police department, but I had little choice in the matter.

  It took a while for me to adjust to being a civilian, not to get my adrenaline up every time I heard an RMP race down a Manhattan street or spotted what I knew to be two undercovers closing in on their target. But once I got past those minor hurdles and my wounds healed as much as they were going to, I set about building my new life.

  And I had made that new life a great one, at least to my way of thinking. I own a brownstone in Greenwich Village left to me mortgage-free by my parents. Until a few weeks ago, I was renting out the top floors and I lived on the first two levels. I work out two hours every day, haunt museums and jazz clubs, and eat most of my meals down the street from where I live—at Carmine’s restaurant, Tramonti’s.

  In addition to the food, wine, and jazz, there’s another reason I’ve made Tramonti’s my second home. One other very important reason. Connie, the co-owner.

  She’s been the love of my life since I was old enough to take notice, but I didn’t make a move until I was a few months shy of leaving the job. There were many reasons why I waited as long as I did, but the central factor was this: I cared for her too much to have her be on the other end of a late-night phone call telling her which hospital I was being rushed to or where she could come and ID my body. I never wanted to put anyone through that, let alone someone I cared for as deeply as Connie.

  Plus, she was Carmine’s daughter, and while I never tangled with her dad while I was on the job, it would have been difficult to sit across from one of the higher-ups in the department and explain that situation. But Connie and me, we fit together. We both love wine, Italian food, and sappy romantic comedies. I give her the space she needs, and she does the same for me. She’s drop-to-the-knees gorgeous and doesn’t take a back step to anyone. If she’s on your side, she’s there for life. Unlike most in my profession, I’ve never been married, which means I’ve never been divorced and I don’t have children. Same holds true for Connie. And I don’t play around. I’m an on-the-square one-woman guy. Call it old-fashioned, call it anything you want. It suits me fine.

  On the surface, all seemed perfect. Then my brother and his wife died in an accident that more than likely shouldn’t have happened. That brought their fifteen-year-old son, my nephew, Chris, into my life. I didn’t know much, if anything, about the boy, but he seemed to know a lot about me. He moved in with me and, despite a few bumps in the road, slowly found his place in my tight little world.

  While me and Chris butted heads now and then—which, given the circumstances, was to be expected—he had no trouble blending in with my team. And he was a major help in working our last case, bringing down a top-tier Washington Heights drug dealer.

  Now he wants me to repay the favor and help him bring down the ones who killed his parents.

  So, for the first time in many years, I’m scared. I’m standing here, in the history section of New York’s most famous bookstore, and I am afraid of what lies before me. You see, me and my brother, Jack, did not speak for the longest time. We lived separate lives and went through our days as if the other never even existed. And between us we kept a secret, one that deserved to be buried and stay buried. A secret that, if it got out, could forever damage the life I had worked so hard to build for myself. My secret could damage beyond repair the relationships and friendships that were at the very core of my world—my team, Carmine, the delicate balance I had with Chris, the bond that existed between me and Pearl, the enduring love I had for Connie.

  And taking on a case involving my brother’s potential murder could bring it back out of the dark cave I had long ago sealed it in. I didn’t know who I’d be up against, but I knew from what Chris had dug up that they had the means and the funds to unearth the dirt in my background.

  I stood in the middle of a crowded bookstore and stared down at my shaking hands, one of them holding a now-empty Starbucks cup. My shirt was stained with sweat, and my neck and arms were damp to the touch. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, eager to regain my equilibrium, to catch my breath and gather the strength to move away from a row of books and back out onto Twelfth Street.

  I have faced up to fear many times in my life. You cannot be a cop and not have felt that grip in the center of your stomach, fighting back the urge to vomit, wondering if you’ll ever again be able to take a deep breath, sweat pouring out of your body as if through an open spigot. That is the fear of confronting danger, possibly death. That is the fear a guy in my line of work gets used to over the course of time.

  The fear I felt now I had not felt for many years. It was the fear of the unknown becoming known. The fear of betrayal.

  The fear that all would know that the Tank Rizzo they admired and respected was someone who had once taken a life.

  Not as a cop out working an assignment.

  But as a young man with anger in his heart and a weapon in his hand.

  The fear that I would be revealed as a killer.

  I managed to make my way out of the Strand, using the side entrance leading up to Fourth Avenue, my heart still pounding, my vision blurry, my legs moving as if underwater.

  And for the first time since that day so long ago, I had no answer to my dilemma, no solution to my problem.

  I was alone and lost, walking down the streets of a crowded city that, for the moment, no longer seemed to be my own.

  8.

  TOMPKINS SQUARE PARK

  LATER THAT DAY

  I HELD CONNIE CLOSE TO MY side as we walked down a path closest to 10th Street. “Something wrong, Tank?” Connie asked as we passed a family enjoying an afternoon picnic. “You’ve been pretty quiet. Not just today, but the past few days.”

  It was hard to hide much from Connie. She could read a mood better than a seasoned detective. “It can wait,” I said. “Let’s enjoy the walk.”

  “You always take long walks in a park when you have something on your mind,” Connie said.

  “You grow up in a city big as this, a park becomes your backyard,” I said. “It’s where you play ball, meet friends, sneak in a date, or just sit and read a book.”

  “I didn’t know you snuck dates,” Connie said with a smile.

  “I threw that in to see if you were paying attention,” I said, returning the smile. “Truth is, my dad had a lot to do with my liking parks as much as I do. He loved them. Took my mom for walks any chance he got. And he always made time for me and Jack, too. This one was his favorite.”

  “Why this one?”

  “He had little time for hobbies, working as hard as he did in the Meatpacking District,” I said. “His workday began at three in the morning and ended twelve hours
later. The money was working-man solid, and his one perk was a ten-pound bag of free beef each Friday.

  “ ‘We’ll never hurt for food,’ my dad used to say. ‘Though we’d have a lot more if your mom wasn’t so cozy with the nuns in the parish. Total up the roasts, prime ribs, and steaks she gives the sisters and they eat like they live on Park Avenue.’

  “I would tell him, ‘Mom says they pray for us,’ but my dad would shake his head. ‘Prayers won’t fill your stomach,’ he would say. ‘But a roast sure as Sunday does.’ ”

  “My mom had a soft spot for nuns, too,” Connie said. “Seems like every week me and Dad took platters of baked ziti to their residence. Dad would walk behind me and use the same silly line and I would always laugh.”

  “What was the line?”

  “ ‘This is getting to be a habit with your mom,’ he would say, laughing along with me. ‘You get it, kid? Nuns? Habit?’ ”

  I smiled. “They had good hearts, all of them. Now, my dad wasn’t much on religion, but he loved history. Especially New York City history. He loved to take me and Jack to different parts of the city and fill us in on the hidden history of the places we’d visit. This park fascinated him.”

  “Why?”

  “You know that old parks department building on Avenue B?”

  “The one with the fountain in the walkway,” Connie said. “It has images of children carved into the sides of the fountain.”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “There’s an inscription written under the faces of the kids. ‘They were earth’s purest children, young and fair.’ ”

  “What does it refer to?” Connie asked.

  “This used to be Little Germany, this park, this area,” I said, gazing out at the crowds milling about, the usual mixed bag of families, street performers, the homeless, and older couples taking a walk on another brutally hot day. “Over a hundred and fifty thousand German Americans lived in these tenements. This was around 1904. Within a year, they had all left. One pretty distinct neighborhood, gone in a flash.”