Payback Page 6

  “If someone does leave, and for the sake of this conversation let’s say they leave here still breathing, do you make an effort to keep them on?” I asked. “Offer them a salary bump, a bigger bonus, corner office, more vacation time—that sort of thing?”

  “If we feel the employee is of value and worth keeping,” Randolph said, “then of course we would do all we could to keep him on our team.”

  I could tell from his manner that he was growing tired of my questions. As any seasoned detective will tell you, that’s the perfect time to zero in on the answers you came to hear.

  “Did my brother have to sign a nondisclosure form in order to work with your clients?” I asked.

  Randolph nodded. “All members of the accounting staff do,” he said. “It’s standard protocol.”

  “Does the nondisclosure also cover talking to the feds?” I asked.

  Randolph stood, his hands balled into fists, his face flushed red, glaring at me. I figured him to be a guy who had never thrown a fist in anger in his entire life, but if he were, he’d be swinging lefts and rights in my direction.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Rizzo—”

  “It’s Tank,” I said, smiling.

  “Either way,” Randolph said, “it’s time for you to leave.”

  I stood, turned, and started toward the door, not bothering to reach out a hand for him to shake. “You’re right,” I said, looking at him over my shoulder. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Besides, I shouldn’t be bothering you with these questions. I have a pal downtown who’d be happy to give me all the answers I need. And all it will cost me is a nice bottle of wine.”

  “And who might this pal be?” Randolph asked.

  “The U.S. Attorney,” I said.

  14.

  VISITING CENTER, ATTICA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

  THE NEXT DAY

  RANDY JENKINS KEPT HIS HANDS folded and resting on a small counter, leaning forward and staring at me through a double-glass partition. He was sitting on a thick aluminum chair, wearing a prison-issued olive-colored top and bottom, white socks, and thick-soled flip-flops. Several minutes passed before either of us spoke. He looked at least ten years older than he was, but his body was workout hard, and the areas of his arms that were visible were lined with prison tattoos.

  “So, you the one Pearl’s always talking about in his letters,” Randy finally said. “From the way he describes you, I thought you might be a brother, not a white guy.”

  “Me and Pearl are brothers,” I said. “Color’s got nothing to do with it.”

  Randy smiled. “Try selling that line of shit behind these walls,” he said. “Those Aryan boys will slice you like a piece of ripe fruit.”

  “There are quite a few on the outside of these walls feel that same way,” I said. “Lucky for me and Pearl, we don’t give a shit about any of them.”

  Randy leaned closer to the glass and lowered his voice, the words taking on a sudden weight. “Just got Pearl’s last letter,” he said. “In it, he says you’re going to do what you can to get me out of here. Now, something like that’s a heavy lift. I heard tell you were a great cop and all back in the day, but how you expecting to pull off something like that? I ain’t in here for no overdue parking ticket. I’m in on a murder one, and there’s no easy walk on that count. And it’s even harder if you got the color skin I got.”

  “You’ve been doing too much hard time for me to sit here and sell you a line of shit,” I said. “It is not going to be easy. You checked off every box on the murder-suspect board: multiple priors; you not only knew the victim, you were the last one seen with her before she died; you signed a locked-down-tight confession; you had a connect-the-dots criminal lawyer who took the case because his number was called; and in the courtroom you looked and acted exactly like the prosecutors wanted you to look and act—guilty.”

  “That’s all true,” Randy said. “And yet here you are, sitting across from me. Now, why would you make the trip from the big city if you have your doubts?”

  “I needed to see you and hear it for myself,” I said. “Before I take this on full throttle, I need to believe, without a hint of hesitation, that I’ll be out on those streets busting hump to free an innocent man.”

  “Me telling you I didn’t kill Rachel won’t get me very far,” Randy said. “Stop any con in the yard and he’ll try and sell you that same line. But I don’t know how else to convince you other than with those very words—I did not kill Rachel.”

  I nodded. “How about we start with a couple of building-block questions. Why did you sign the confession?”

  “That detective was going to get it out of me one way or another,” Randy said. “He was not going to let me out of that interrogation room without my signature on that piece of paper. Not alive, anyway.”

  “Eddie Kenwood,” I said. Randy stiffened at the mention of the name. “He wasn’t the one who busted you, though, am I right? Two plainclothes detectives were the ones who brought you in. But he caught the case. How did that come to happen?”

  “The two plainclothes were getting ready to process me,” Randy said. “Then Kenwood called out their names and they went into another room, the three of them. A few minutes later, they were gone and I was sitting there, looking up at Kenwood. He told me I belonged to him now.”

  “What’d they nab you for?” I asked. “The two plainclothes.”

  “Cocaine possession,” Randy said. “Back in them days, I sold some, and what I didn’t sell, I used.”

  “When did you first know that you were the one Kenwood was putting the finger on for Rachel’s murder?”

  “A few minutes after I was taken into the interrogation room,” Randy said. “He told me Rachel had been found dead and he knew I was the one that killed her.”

  “Did you ask for a lawyer?”

  “Would it have done any good?” Randy asked.

  “No,” I said. “But it does matter if you asked for one.”

  “Kenwood never brought it up,” Randy said, “and neither did I. Besides, any lawyers I ever had weren’t of much use. What they saved me in expense, they cost me in prison time.”

  “Had you ever met Eddie Kenwood until that day?”

  “No,” Randy said. “I’d heard his name mentioned more than a few times. And I knew he was one of those badges who only nabbed brothers and pinned heavy prison sentences on their ass. Rachel knew him, though.”

  “Rachel?” I said. “How did she connect to Kenwood?”

  “He’d come around to see her now and then,” Randy said. “She was a pretty girl, you know? He’d stop by her place looking for any information she could pass his way. Sometimes that was all he wanted. But sometimes he would want more.”

  “So she puts out for Kenwood, and in return he doesn’t bust her for cocaine possession,” I said. “That the long and the short of it?”

  “Pretty much,” Randy said. “He’d bruise her up some, too. He liked to go at it rough. That was his thing, at least with Rachel.”

  “The connection between Rachel and Kenwood ever come up at the trial?”

  Randy shook his head. “No reason that it would. Kenwood made Rachel one of his CIs. And you can’t bring a confidential informant’s name up in court.”

  “Who else knew about Rachel and Kenwood’s connection?” I asked.

  “Most anybody in the neighborhood,” Randy said. “Kenwood didn’t need to bother hiding it. Who were they going to run off and tell?”

  I stayed quiet for a moment. “Back in the interrogation room,” I said. “Did Kenwood lay a hand on you? Did he use physical force to get you to sign the confession?”

  “He would have if he had to,” Randy said. “He paced around the room, acting like a fighter waiting for the bell to ring. I was a kid still, but I’d been around long enough to know a man like Kenwood gets what h
e wants from somebody like me. Held true then. Holds true now. I read the papers and so do you. Tell me, what the hell’s changed from when I first was sent up to today?”

  I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. I glanced around the drab room, the colors on the wall a faded white, the cement floors cold and stained, the windows small, barred, and barely giving a glimpse of the outside world. I’d been inside many prisons in my life, visiting friends and even some family. I find the inside of these places to be where time goes to die and takes along with it many an inmate.

  It is difficult in one short meeting to determine if a man sitting on the other side of a glass partition is guilty of the crime of which he was convicted. Makes it harder when I believe each of us, any of us, under the right circumstances, is capable of taking another life. So I didn’t know—not for sure, anyway—as I prepared to leave that visiting center whether Randy Jenkins was an innocent man framed for a murder he did not commit. I wasn’t sure whether he was cold-blooded or just someone who happened to be in the wrong spot at the worst time.

  But I did know Eddie Kenwood. I knew he had plenty of dirt under his nails and he didn’t care who he convicted or why, as long as there was another “closed case” placed next to his name. To me, that made Eddie Kenwood as guilty as any man doing time behind the walls of this prison.

  But I did come out of that visit with a piece of information I didn’t have before I drove up: a connection between Kenwood and the victim. That wasn’t in any of the files or trial transcripts I had read. Now, that could end up being nothing more than a bad cop forcing a young woman to do what he wanted in order to stay out of a jail cell. Or it could just be the missing piece that would help flip the lid on Kenwood.

  I pushed my chair back and knocked my knuckles against the glass. “You’ll be hearing from me and Pearl,” I said. “We’ll keep you updated.”

  “So you’re taking on my case?” Randy asked.

  I nodded. “I’ll meet with the chief of detectives and get him to assign it to me and my crew. Then we’ll get to work. And if you’re as innocent as you say and we catch a little luck, we’ll figure a way to get you out of here.”

  Randy and I stood at the same time and stared at each other for a few moments. There were tears streaming down the sides of Randy’s face. He took a deep breath and then asked, “What makes you so sure? What makes you so damn sure?”

  “There anybody in here you can trust?” I asked. “In your cellblock, in the yard, anywhere? Anyone?”

  “Not a damn soul,” Randy said.

  “Well, now you got somebody on the outside you can trust,” I said. “And if you’re right, then I’ll make it right. You have my word on that, and that’s all you’ll need.”

  15.

  GREENWICH VILLAGE

  THAT SAME DAY

  CHRIS WAS BOUNCING A BASKETBALL, standing on a corner, waiting for the light to turn green. He had taken notice of the dark sedan parked across from the playground but had been too distracted by the three-on-three basketball game he was in the middle of with two new friends to give it much attention. He placed the ball under the crook of his right arm, gave a slight tug to the white towel resting around his neck, and wiped the sweat from his face and forehead. Tank had been right. The neighborhood was friendly, and there were plenty of kids his age up for a game of basketball or playground chess. It had been easy for him to blend in, and it made Chris less apprehensive about the new school he would be starting in a few weeks.

  The light changed and Chris began to slowly cross the street, once again bouncing the ball against the pavement. The day was hot and humid, summer not yet giving in to the demands of the encroaching fall season, yet the streets were still crowded as late afternoon was creeping toward evening. Chris heard the footsteps closing in on him before he had a chance to turn his head. He stopped bouncing the ball, reached the curb, and then turned to face them. He looked up at the two men standing in front of him, both wearing suits much too heavy for the day’s weather. They smiled at him, and the taller of the two reached out a hand and rested it on top of Chris’s sweat-soaked Knicks T-shirt. “You got a minute for us?” he asked.

  “Not until I know who you are and what it is you want,” Chris said.

  “It has to do with your dad,” the shorter man said, still smiling as he spoke.

  Chris looked from one to the other. “What about him?”

  “Look, how about this?” the taller man said. “We walk up to that shop over there, the three of us, and we grab a couple of cold drinks and have a nice little talk. That work for you?”

  Chris leaned against the side of a parked red Subaru and shook his head. “This works better,” he said. “You came here to say something, say it.”

  Both men shrugged and eased off the curb to position themselves on either side of Chris. “Have it your way,” the taller one said, leaning against the car, close enough to Chris for him to smell a heavy dose of his cologne.

  “What are your names?” Chris said. “If you want me to talk to you, I need to know your names.”

  “I’m Franklin,” the taller of the two said. “My sweaty friend to your left there, his name is Jeff.”

  “And you both knew my dad?” Chris asked.

  “That’s not what I said,” Franklin said. “I never met the man. Sorry to hear he died, but him and me never crossed paths.”

  “But what we came here to say has to do with him,” Jeff said. He took out a thick white handkerchief, unfolded it, and wiped at his neck and forehead. “Not to mention you, too.”

  “What is it?” Chris asked.

  “It’s more a question of who is it,” Franklin said. “Your uncle, the ex-cop, the one who took you in. He might be looking to poke his nose in places it don’t belong. That wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. Not for him and not for you.”

  “But you’re telling me instead of him,” Chris said.

  “That’s right,” Jeff said, casting a glance to his right and left. “We figured a guy like him, he’s not going to pay attention to what we have to say. Like most cops, he’ll take a step back and come at us hard, ready to do a head-to-head. You can’t reason with guys like him.”

  “Look, your dad died, and that sucks,” Franklin said. “You’re left in the lurch and you want answers. Only in this case, there’s only one answer. He and your mom died in a car accident. It’s sad. It’s tragic. But it happened. And that right there is the beginning, middle, and end of the story. There’s no more to it.”

  “But if that ex-cop uncle of yours starts sniffing around places he don’t belong and asking questions he shouldn’t be asking, then people might get hurt,” Jeff said.

  “Was it an accident?” Chris asked. “Did they die because they were driving on a bad road during a snowstorm?”

  “No doubt about it,” Jeff said.

  “Then why are the people who sent you so worried?” Chris asked. “My uncle has never said anything to make me think otherwise. I have to learn to live with it. No easy thing, you know?”

  “I can imagine,” Franklin said, nodding. “But that goes down a lot easier if he eases up on the questions and stops snooping around your dad’s old company. That sort of shit makes people nervous.”

  “Is that what you want me to tell him?” Chris asked.

  “Would be a nice start,” Jeff said.

  “You want me to mention we might get hurt, too?” Chris asked. “My uncle? He’s used to getting threats. He’s not used to me getting them. Not sure if you know this, but I’m the only family he has left. I don’t know how he’ll take hearing something like that.”

  “Look, smart-ass,” Franklin said, moving away from the car and standing over Chris, his shadow helping to shade out the sun. “You pass the word. How he takes it means shit to me. So long as he hears it. We clear, you and me?”

  Chris nodded an
d watched as Franklin and Jeff turned and started the walk back to their car. Only once they were out of his line of sight did he fall to his knees and begin to shiver. He leaned his head against the front fender of the parked car and closed his eyes, letting the full force of fear overtake his body.

  16.

  PETE’S TAVERN

  THE NEXT DAY

  I SAT IN A BACK BOOTH across from Ray Connors, the chief of detectives and my friend for many years. I always chose the same booth when I could, the one with a photo on the wall above it of a previous owner shaking hands with an elderly James Cagney, my all-time favorite actor. Ray and I were both movie buffs, and back in the days before binge-watching TV shows became the norm, we were weaned on the great gangster movies of the thirties and forties. We each had favorite films and actors—Cagney and Bogart topped both our lists, with Edward G. Robinson and John Garfield coming in close behind them.

  Ray glanced over at Cagney’s photo and smiled. “Even as an old man, he still had that smile and that attitude,” the chief said. “He was one of a kind, he was. I read an article a year or two back—they were going to do a remake of White Heat, and I’m thinking, they must be out of their minds. Who could ever top Cagney’s Cody Jarrett? Name one guy working today who could pull a role like that off.”

  “Probably some TV actor neither of us has ever heard of,” I said.

  “And most likely never will,” the chief said.

  Pete’s Tavern first opened its doors in 1864 and is the longest-operating saloon in the city. Legend has it that O. Henry wrote “The Gift of the Magi” sitting in the second booth off the East Eighteenth Street entrance. There’s a plaque on the wall of the booth marking the spot. I used to come here quite a bit during my years on the job—the burgers are top-shelf, the tap beer served cold as a winter morning, and the waiters are fast and efficient. It smells the way an old bar should.

  These days, the patrons are a generation younger and hipper than either me or Ray and there are as many women flocking to the bar as there are men, which suits us both fine. Now, when we meet up for a meal, Ray and I prefer lunch as opposed to dinner, since you can actually have a conversation in daylight hours. Once the sun settles, the noise meter hits the red zone.