Evidence.
There was no other Eddie it could be, not since Vincent Marcozza had worked for Eddie Pinero. The speculation around town was nearly unanimous – Pinero had ordered the hit. Now, word for word, it was more than just speculation.
“I have a message from Eddie.”
The killer delivered it, all right. I listened to his words once, twice, three times.
Then I pushed back from my desk, the wheels of my chair carrying me nearly all the way to my bed. On the bench by the footboard were the trousers to the suit I’d worn to the benefit at the public library. I dug through the pockets looking for the business card David Sorren had handed me. I hadn’t lost it, had I?
No. There it was, along with my money clip, a half-eaten roll of Cryst-O-Mint Life Savers, and two pieces of Trident bubble gum.
Right below Sorren’s office number was another number for his cell. I looked up, checking the clock on my bedside table. It was almost three a.m.
Don’t be crazy, Nick. You can’t call Sorren now. Wait until morning.
On the fourth ring he answered.
Chapter 18
“HELLO?”
“David, it’s Nick Daniels,” I said. “Sorry to call so late.”
It took him a few seconds to respond. “Oh… hey, Nick,” he said in a whisper. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”
I knew why he was whispering. He wasn’t alone. Sure enough, I heard another whisper in the background.
“Nick Daniels? At this hour?”
It was Brenda.
Don’t sweat it, I felt like telling him. You’re in bed with my ex-girlfriend. I get it. You weren’t playing Boggle.
Instead, I pretended I hadn’t heard her and quickly explained why I was calling him in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure the sound I heard next was his shooting up in bed like a nuclear missile.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Dead serious,” I answered. “I just listened to the tape several times.”
I expected his next question to be a breathless Can you play it for me over the phone? Or maybe even How fast can you meet me?
Who cared what time it was? This was the guy who only hours before had looked me straight in the face and declared, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down.”
Thanks to my tape recorder, I was all but doing it for him. I had what he desperately wanted and needed to drop the hammer on the biggest mobster in New York.
That’s why I was so surprised by what David Sorren said next.
Chapter 19
I WALKED INTO the Nineteenth Precinct on East 67th Street at a little after nine the next morning and was greeted by Detective Mark Ford, who led me back to his desk. It sat in the middle of a slew of other desks, in a large open area that reminded me of every police drama I’d ever seen on television, albeit without the ridiculous “extras” of gum-chewing hookers in fishnet stockings and belligerent drunks hand-cuffed to benches.
Then again, maybe Saturday mornings were just a little slow around here in the real world.
“Have a seat,” Detective Ford told me, pointing to a metal chair that rode sidecar to a file cabinet.
“Thanks,” I said. My butt was still hanging in the air, though, when he cut straight to the chase.
“So, do you have it?” he asked. “Did you bring it with you, Mr. Daniels?”
What, no small talk first? No chitchatting?
Of course not. From the moment Detective Ford had taken my statement at Lombardo’s, I knew that everything about this guy was direct and to the point. His short, cropped gray hair. His rolled-up sleeves. The way his sentences were all about finding the quickest route to either a period or a question mark.
“Yeah, I have it,” I said. “But there’s something I want to talk to you about first. Something I need to know.”
Oh, great, said his expression. It was as if I’d just told him some god-awful, horrible news, such as the TV show Cop Rock was returning to the air. All Detective Ford wanted to do was listen to the recording, and here I was telling him, Not so fast.
Just like David Sorren had told me.
As happy as the Manhattan DA had been to learn about my recording, he didn’t want to hear it himself. At least not yet. Not until certain “protocols” had been met, he had explained.
“I can’t be seen playing detective, you know what I mean?” he told me.
I did. Even though that’s precisely what he had been doing with me on the steps of the New York Public Library.
So now here I was, sitting in front of Detective Ford, following protocol. There was just one problem.
“So what is it? Tell me,” said Detective Ford. “What do you need to know?”
I cleared my throat. Twice, actually. “It’s just that… well, I’m a little concerned about -”
He cut me off with a raised palm. “Let me guess – you’re scared shitless that Eddie Pinero will want to carve your eyes out, too? That it?”
Maybe “scared shitless” was a touch extreme, but I wasn’t about to quibble over semantics. I just would’ve preferred to slip the recording to David Sorren as an anonymous source and then get far, far away from this murder case, police protocols, and anything else that might eventually pop up.
“Will Eddie Pinero know I’m the guy supplying this?” I asked. “Seriously, detective. I’d like a straight answer.”
Ford quickly folded his arms. “Here’s the deal. For the time being, Pinero can’t even know this recording exists. If it is what you say it is, then the first time he’ll hear it will be after he’s indicted.” He shrugged. “Now, can he find out that you’re the Good Samaritan who came forward with it? Sure. I won’t bullshit you on that. Will he want to kill you because of it? I highly doubt it. Killing you would serve no purpose. How could it?”
I nodded as Detective Ford leaned back, the legs to his chair squeaking loudly as they scraped against the linoleum floor. If I had to guess, that had been the most uninterrupted string of sentences the guy had put together in a long, long time.
“If killing me would serve no purpose, then what was the purpose of killing Vincent Marcozza?” I asked. “It would seem to be no different – simple revenge.”
I stared at the detective, waiting for him to alleviate my fears, to give me some great and compelling explanation as to why I had nothing to worry about. But that clearly wasn’t his style.
“Look, Mr. Daniels, it’s like this,” he said. “Eddie Pinero is a sick and twisted motherfucker who kills with little provocation and even less remorse. Personally, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Then again, Vincent Marcozza probably thought the same thing. So it’s your call. Now, are you going to give me the recording or not?”
“OH MAN, oh man, oh man.”
Dwayne Robinson sat alone in the darkness of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. The place was barely furnished, almost as empty as the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black tipped over by his feet.
He was mumbling to himself, thinking that he missed his kids so much, it felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. For years now their mother had Kisha and Jamal out in California, as far away from him as possible. But even if they lived next door he knew he’d probably be too ashamed to see them. He hadn’t paid child support for over a year. The last time he did, the check bounced, and he was ashamed about that, too.
There was nothing more to hock. His two Cy Young awards were long gone. So were the old Yankee jerseys. On eBay, the highest bid for one of his signed baseballs was $18.50. His rookie baseball card had no bids at all.
Again, the phone rang.
It had been ringing all afternoon and into the night. Not once did he answer or even check the caller ID. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was.