Payback Page 5

  We’d been the closest in the sector and had responded to the call. I had rounded the street, Pearl riding in the passenger seat, our eyes on the crowded sidewalks. Pearl was the first to spot them. “Up there on the right,” he said. “The two looking over their shoulder like they’re expecting company.”

  “I’ll move the car two blocks up,” I said. “Then we go after them on foot. That work for you?”

  “I’m wearing my felony fliers,” Pearl said with a smile. “No way those two fools can outrun me with these babies on my feet.”

  “Okay, I’ll play along, Pearl,” I said as I maneuvered the car around a double-parked FedEx van. “How fast are you exactly?”

  “I’m Superman-fast,” Pearl said. “Just like my man Muhammad Ali. There was a time he was on a plane and the flight attendant asked him to put on his seatbelt. And Ali smiles and says to her, ‘Superman don’t need no seatbelt.’ ”

  “And what did the flight attendant say?” I asked, angling the car toward the corner, tossing a police placard on the dashboard and a red light on the roof.

  “She told him, ‘Well, Superman didn’t need no plane, either,’ ” Pearl said, swinging open his passenger-side door and jumping out.

  I was quick to follow.

  They made us as they were about to cross against the light on Broadway. They turned left, the glint of steel in their hands visible to passersby. They sprinted away from Broadway and back toward Amsterdam, me and Pearl in hot pursuit, our shields out, hanging on chains around our necks. We pulled our weapons out of our hip holsters and held them firm against our thighs.

  Pearl and I split up; I took the north side of the street and he took the south, and we chased them past Amsterdam and onto Columbus Avenue. “The park!” I shouted to Pearl. “They’re going to try and make the park.”

  It was an unseasonably hot and muggy spring day, and my thin sweatshirt was stained with sweat. I wanted to avoid a street shoot-out and figured the two thieves would be aware of that and use it to their advantage. They were on my side of the street, about fifteen feet ahead of me, and I was closing in. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Pearl crossing the street and moving in ahead of them. With a little luck, we would have them cornered from both sides.

  The two spotted Pearl in front of them and could sense me behind them. They skidded to a halt, and the taller of the two reached out and grabbed an older woman holding two grocery bags. He wrapped an arm around her neck, the groceries spilling to the street and sidewalk, fruits and vegetables rolling in all directions. He lifted his gun and pressed it against the woman’s waist. She was short, thin, and frightened. The second gunman stood behind his partner and aimed his gun at Pearl.

  I stepped closer to the gunman and his hostage, my gun still resting against my thigh. “Take a beat,” I said to him, “and think for a minute. Right now you’re looking at an armed-robbery charge. Taking a hostage brings this to a whole other level. That’s not something my partner and I can let happen.”

  “You stay where you are,” the gunman said to me. “Or I take this bitch out right before your eyes. That something you want to see happen?”

  I took a deep breath and looked past the two shooters and the hostage. Pearl was standing close enough to the second gunman to take him down, if needed. The pedestrians surrounding us had scattered, seeking shelter behind mailboxes, inside storefronts, and behind parked cars.

  I turned to look back at the gunman. He was thin and wiry, with a runner’s build, and was wearing tight jeans and a cutoff T-shirt. He was breathing heavy and sweating profusely, his skin glistening under the glare of a warm sun. The woman he was holding close to his body, a shaky .38 caliber jammed against her right rib cage, stared at me with trembling lips. “I’m going to make this easy for you,” I said to him, loud enough for Pearl to hear me. “We’re going to take baby steps, you and me. First, I’m going to holster my gun. That’s just to show you I’m not looking to get in a gunfight. That work for you?”

  The gunman stared at me for a few seconds and then nodded. “Be more than a baby step,” he said. “Be a major step to us all getting the fuck out of here.”

  “Now, that’s going to be my move,” I said. “In return, you got to make yours. Still with me?”

  “And what would you want that to be?”

  “I’m not going to ask you to toss your gun away, nothing like that,” I said.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Because bullshit like that won’t work on me.”

  “I just want to make it easier for us to talk,” I said. “So keep the gun in your hand. Just move it away from the lady’s side. Because from where I’m standing, she looks about ready to faint. And neither one of us wants to see that happen. What good is a hostage if she’s crumpled up in your arms like a rag doll?”

  “I’ll think about it,” the gunman said, giving a quick once-over to the trembling woman. “Meantime, put that gun back where you said you were going to put it.”

  I moved my weapon away from my leg and slowly jammed it into my hip holster. As I did, I moved a few steps closer to the gunman. “I did my part,” I said to him. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Police sirens were raining down on us from all corners, RMPs squealing to a stop, uniform cops taking their positions behind their vehicles. “I see you called in your friends,” the gunman said.

  “I didn’t call anybody,” I said. “Let’s just keep this where it is: between you and me.”

  The gunman’s hands began to twitch as he slowly moved the gun away from the woman’s side. I held his gaze and waited as his partner turned away from Pearl to look back at his accomplice. Pearl had moved even closer to the second man, who was dressed in a sweatshirt, running shorts, and high-tops. Pearl had holstered his weapon as well. I inched closer to the gunman. Pearl and I were both near enough to the two to make our move.

  The gunman with the hostage—his gun now resting by his side, the woman still clutched in front of him—turned his head and took a quick glance at the patrol cars surrounding the street.

  Pearl and I rushed the two gunmen at the same time, catching both off guard, neither expecting such a sudden and dangerous move. Pearl caught his man at chest level, barreling into him like a linebacker taking down a quarterback. The man folded like a chair under Pearl’s weight and force, his gun sliding out of his hand and skidding against a fire hydrant.

  I shoved both the woman and the gunman to the ground, leaving my feet and doing all I could not to harm the frightened hostage. The gunman landed first, his head bouncing against the cracked pavement, his gun sliding off his fingertips. The woman rested on top of him, her weight and mine holding him in place. I jumped to my feet, kicked the man’s weapon a safe distance away, pulled my gun, and aimed it at the stunned suspect. I kept my eyes on him and reached a hand out for the hostage. She took it and slowly lifted herself to her feet. “Go to one of the uniform police officers,” I said. “They’ll take care of you.”

  I waited as she made her way to a patrolman, walking on unsteady legs and falling into his embrace. I looked down at the gunman and nodded. “You know what to do,” I said. “On your knees, hands behind your back.”

  “You conned me, I admit,” the man said, as he rolled over and used his hands to help him to his knees. “Didn’t see your move coming.”

  “It played out better this way, didn’t it?” I asked. “Hostage is unharmed, and you get to walk away without a murder rap tacked to your record.”

  I pulled my cuffs, slapped them on the gunman, and lifted him to his feet. Pearl stepped up next to me, holding his prisoner by the arm; the man’s hands were shackled behind his back. “Was wondering when you were going to make your move, partner,” Pearl said. “I could have read a book all the time I was waiting out there, baking my ass off in the sun.”

  “Sorry for the delay,” I said, smiling at him. “I w
as a bit distracted by the gun this clown had jammed against some poor woman’s ribs.”

  “I hope you had a Plan B ready,” Pearl said. “Just in case your Lawrence Taylor tackle didn’t pan out as it did.”

  “I did,” I said, starting to walk toward one of the RMPs, my prisoner in tow. “I was going to walk away and let you handle it.”

  “No big deal,” Pearl said, following me with his man in cuffs. “I would have put a pin in this drippy loser and then taken your man out before either one of them could blink.”

  My prisoner glanced at Pearl and then turned to me. “I’m surprised they let wack jobs like the two of you out on the street,” he said. “With guns and badges to boot.”

  I smiled at him. “I wonder about that myself some days,” I said.

  12.

  UPPER WEST SIDE

  MOMENTS LATER

  THE FIRST TIME I SAW Eddie Kenwood was while me and Pearl were walking our two prisoners to a parked RMP. He came up on my left side and tapped the top of my shoulder. “I’ll take it from here,” he said.

  I turned to look at him. He wore a light-brown jacket, tan slacks, and scuffed black tassel loafers. He had his hands on his hips, a gold shield clipped to his waistband, and a curved smile on his face.

  “Take what exactly?” I asked.

  “The two losers you and your partner slapped the cuffs on,” he said.

  I ignored him and opened the rear door of the patrol car. I nudged my prisoner toward the backseat and was preparing to ease him into it when Kenwood stepped in front of us, his right hand on the door. “I guess you didn’t hear me,” he said. “These two belong to me now. So hand them over and we’ll all go happily on our way.”

  “This is our collar and it’s going to stay our collar,” I said, inching closer to him. “And not you or anybody else is going to stop that from happening.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t know who I am,” Kenwood said, still flashing his curled-lip smile.

  “You should also be guessing I don’t give a shit,” I said.

  “Well, you should,” Kenwood said. “Both you and the black guy should take notice of who you’re talking to before you start running your mouth.”

  “Which black guy would that be?” Pearl asked. “The one with the badge or the two in cuffs?”

  “I’m Eddie Kenwood,” he said, keeping his eyes on me. “I’m a gold-shield detective, and neither of you is. So, hand over the two perps and get the fuck out of my way.”

  “Get back in your car, Gold Shield,” I said. “Me and Pearl take these two in, book them, and fill out our paperwork. You want them after that, run it by the chief, and if he feels the need he’ll hand them to you. That’s how it’s going to work. The only way it’s going to work.”

  “And what if I decide that’s not the way I want it?” Kenwood said. His voice was rising, and his pale skin was now tinged with red blotches. “What if I want to take them right now? What happens then?”

  “Then one of us is going to bleed,” I said, stepping closer to Kenwood.

  “I’ve seen you around,” Kenwood said. “You and the black guy. You’re both up-and-comers, at least that’s what I hear. Would hate to see anything get in the way of that.”

  “You call me the black guy one more time, and there will be plenty to get in the way of that,” Pearl said. “Like a possible homicide, if you catch my drift.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Kenwood said to me. “A major-league mistake at that.”

  “It’s mine to make,” I said. “Now, me and Pearl would like to get back to work, if it’s all the same to you. And we can’t do that unless you get the fuck out of my way.”

  Kenwood held his stare for a few moments and then backed away from the car door. “I’m not going to forget this,” he said.

  “It would be a mistake if you did,” I said. I tucked my prisoner into the back seat and Pearl did the same with his from the other side of the car.

  “We’ll run into each other again,” Kenwood said, starting to walk away from the car. “I have no doubt about that. And when that day comes, it’s going to be bad luck for you and your partner. You can make book on that.”

  “Hey, Kenwood,” I said, waiting as he turned around to face me. “I read about that last big bust you made, the kid from Inwood. It was in all the papers. I have to be honest, there was a lot in there that might spell trouble, but nothing in it that even came close to closing in on murder.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re running through the streets chasing low-end bangers and I’m the lead guy in homicide,” Kenwood said, the smile returning to his face. “Catch you later, losers.”

  I nodded. “Unless we catch you first,” I said.

  13.

  161 MADISON AVENUE

  AUGUST 2017

  THE OFFICES OF THE ACCOUNTING firm of Curtis, Strassman, and Randolph were on the seventh floor of a building tucked in the mid-30s. They were plush, large, and well furnished, with expensive artwork hanging on the walls as you exited the elevator. An attractive receptionist greeted me as I stopped by her desk, which was covered with thick manila envelopes, a blinking phone bank, and two large vases full of fresh flowers.

  She took my name and placed a call to David Randolph’s office, listened, nodded, and clicked off the connection. She looked up at me and smiled. “Mr. Randolph’s office is the first door on your right,” she said, pointing down the long corridor.

  I found the door, knocked, and walked in without waiting for a response. Randolph was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, half-listening to a phone call, waving me in with his right hand and pointing to a seat across from him. He was in a shirt and tie, his suit jacket hanging on the shoulders of a leather rolling chair. He hung up the phone, stood, and walked toward me. “I’m sorry to have to meet you under such sad circumstances,” he said in a voice that was clearly trained for just such occasions. “Jack was a very special person. I miss him dearly. We all do. Men like him are difficult to find and impossible to replace.”

  “But you did replace him,” I said. I sat in a comfortable thick red leather chair and crossed my legs. “Or so I was led to believe.”

  “We filled the job, Mr. Rizzo,” Randolph said, stepping back behind his desk. “Out of necessity. But it will never be the same here without your brother.”

  “Were you Jack’s supervisor?” I asked.

  “More or less,” Randolph said. “I recruited him to the firm. And I did his end-of-the-year evaluations. He worked on a number of accounts, not all of them under my supervision, but, yes, if he answered to anyone it would be to me.”

  “Were there ever any issues between the two of you?” I asked.

  Randolph leaned back into his chair, gently rocking it, and smiled. “Are you here as a detective,” he asked, “or a grieving brother?”

  “I’m no longer on the force,” I said. “As I’m sure whatever research you did on me revealed. And I didn’t come here to cry on your shoulder, if that’s where you think this is going.”

  “Then, why, may I ask, are you here?”

  “Curiosity, more than anything,” I said. “Jack and I weren’t particularly close the last few years, so I didn’t really know much about the work he did. And his son, Chris, is living with me now, and he’s a smart kid who asks a lot of questions. Most I can answer. Some I can’t. Figured you might help me out in that area.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “What accounts my brother worked on,” I said. “How involved he was with his clients. Were the clients handed to him by you or the other partners or was Jack allowed to go out and solicit his own. Like that.”

  “Not sure what use such information would be either to you or to your nephew,” Randolph said. “And, to be completely up front, most of what you’re asking about needs to be kept confidential. We never discu
ss our clients.”

  “So the information stays between you and the client,” I said. “And, of course, the IRS.”

  Randolph gave me a weak smile. “They are part of the process, I’m afraid,” he said. “And never a pleasant one.”

  “I’m guessing Jack came up clean in that area,” I said. “He was a stickler for the rules, and I can’t imagine he would do anything to put himself or his clients in IRS crosshairs.”

  “No,” Randolph said, shaking his head. “That is a safe assumption. Jack’s files were impeccable, never a discrepancy.”

  “That hold true for the rest of the firm?”

  Randolph stopped rocking and leaned closer to his desk, his hands resting flat on the shiny surface. “I agreed to meet with you, Mr. Rizzo—”

  “It’s Tank,” I interrupted. “Just Tank.”

  “As you wish,” Randolph said. “I agreed to meet with you, Tank, to express my sorrow and the firm’s over the death of your brother. I also was open to answering any pertinent questions you might have regarding Jack’s time with us. But discussing firm business does not fall under that category. I assume you received the personal contents of Jack’s office?”

  “Chris tells me they arrived at the house the same day as the funeral. Along with a nice flower arrangement. Thoughtful. And efficient. Cleared the decks before anyone had a chance to check out my brother’s office.”

  “Other than the personal materials, there was nothing there for anyone to, as you say, check out. What was left were client files and work Jack was doing for the firm.”

  “That’s something I’ll never know,” I said. “Seeing as how it was cleared out before I could take a look for myself.”

  “It’s procedure, I assure you,” Randolph said. “Nothing more sinister to it than that.”

  “Does your firm have a high turnover rate?” I asked.

  “No more than most firms in our field,” Randolph said. “It’s a very competitive business, as you can imagine.”