“No. I didn’t even talk to him.”
“What was he doing? Did you happen to notice? Anything at all?”
“I don’t know. I was busy with other customers. I just remember seeing him at one point. He was looking around.”
For me?
Had he thought we were meeting at noon instead of twelve thirty?
I stood there utterly perplexed, trying to think this new mystery through. All I knew for sure was that Dwayne had been at the restaurant the following day at twelve thirty. Courtney had said she’d never bothered to ask his agent why he had stood me up. Could Dwayne have thought I had stood him up? But then why would he have gone to the trouble to meet with me the next day?
For the past dozen years, asking questions has been second nature to me. It’s how I do my job. I ask questions, I get answers, I find out what I need to know. Boom, boom, boom. Simple as that. Especially when I’m really into a story.
But this was different. The more questions I asked Tiffany, the less I understood about what had happened.
“I’m sorry to keep pressing, but is there anything else you can remember?” I asked. “Anything at all?”
She turned her head away, thinking for a moment. “Not really. Except…”
“Except what?”
“Well, he did seem really nervous.”
“You mean, like, he was pacing?”
“Nothing quite so obvious,” she said. “It was more his eyes. He was a big guy, but he looked almost… scared to be here.”
I literally smacked my forehead as a Latin expression from my school days at St. Pat’s came rushing back to me. “Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”
I was always so-so at Latin, yet this mouthful I’ve somehow never forgotten. It’s the basis for what’s commonly referred to as Occam’s razor. Translated, the phrase roughly means “entities should not be multiplied more than necessary.” In other words, all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.
And what was I simply forgetting about Dwayne Robinson?
His anxiety disorder. Of course.
It made total sense now. He had arrived early to meet me for lunch that first time. He looked scared, according to Tiffany. That’s because he was. He was nervous about doing the interview and perhaps just nervous to be in the crowded restaurant, period. People could see him; some of them would definitely recognize Dwayne Robinson.
So he got cold feet and left.
I thanked Tiffany for my jacket and her time and help. I thought she’d thrown me a curveball about Dwayne Robinson, but as I walked out of Lombardo’s, I was convinced I had it all figured out. “Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”
Unfortunately, what I didn’t know at the time – what I couldn’t know – was that I actually had it all wrong. Because as theories go, Occam’s razor isn’t foolproof. Sometimes, the simplest solution isn’t the best.
Like I said, I wasn’t terribly good at Latin. Downright horribilis, to tell the truth.
Chapter 30
DAVID SORREN JUST loved one-way mirrors. To him, they represented the heart and soul of his job as Manhattan DA, a literal metaphor for his success.
I’ve always got my eye on you.
And I never blink.
Ever since he’d been a rising-star prosecutor out of NYU Law, he’d been standing behind these one-way mirrors, his arms crossed, tie loosened – watching, gauging, sizing up hundreds and hundreds of criminals. Occasionally there’d be an innocent person thrown into the mix, but they were few and far between.
The simple truth was, if you ever found yourself in a police station, on the wrong side of a one-way mirror, the over-whelming odds were that you had something to hide.
And David Sorren’s job – no, his mission – was to find out what it was.
Then nail you to the wall for it and throw the proverbial book at you.
“I say we play the recording for this douche bag bastard and watch him squirm,” came a voice over Sorren’s shoulder. “Make ’im squirm, make ’im turn.”
As in, turning state’s evidence.
Sorren heard every word of what his assistant DA Kimberly Joe Green was saying, but his eyes remained locked on Eddie “The Prince” Pinero on the other side of the glass.
Dressed in a natty gray-pinstriped suit with his trademark black handkerchief stuffed into his lapel pocket, Pinero was seated with his attorney – his new attorney – in the second-floor interrogation room of the Nineteenth Precinct.
No stranger to these rooms, Pinero clearly knew he was being both watched and recorded. He wasn’t saying a word to his attorney, and he was staring straight into the one-way mirror with a smile on his handsome, ruddy face that declared, Here I am, folks. Stare at me all you like!
“Yeah, play him the tape,” came a second voice behind Sorren in the observation room. It was Detective Mark Ford. “Pinero’s about to return for sentencing. If there was ever a deal to be made, the time is now. Hate to admit it, but I’m with Kimberly Joe on this one.”
Ford, a first-grade detective, and Green had an openly contentious relationship, to put it mildly, having endured numerous run-ins over the years. That said, they both knew how good the other was at their job. Respect, even when it came begrudgingly, trumped just about everything in law enforcement.
Finally, Sorren turned around to face Green and Ford. He could feel the heat rising to his head.
“A deal? Fuck, no,” he said. “There’s no way I’m ever giving that son of a bitch immunity.”
“But -”
Sorren cut Green off. “The hit on Marcozza got two detectives killed. Two good guys with wives and children, seven kids between them. No, there’s only one way I want Pinero, and that’s with his head on a plate,” he said.
But even more than the words, it was the way he said them.
Teeth clenched.
Eyes unblinking.
As if the life of everyone in the room depended on it.
“Christ, did I say immunity? What was I thinking?” joked Green, dialing up her deadpan sense of humor. As an assis.tant DA she was smart enough to know when to fall in line behind her boss. “Okay, so let’s wait on playing the tape. Who knows? Maybe Pinero will dig his own grave.”
Sorren’s scowl crept up slowly into a satisfied smile.
“Exactly,” he said. “Now let’s go give the prick a shovel.”
EDDIE PINERO GAVE a quick tug on the starched French cuff of his Armani spread collar shirt as he watched the three people enter the interrogation room. Look who it is, the Three Stooges!
If he could whack each one of them and get away with it, he would. In a heartbeat. He’d pull the trigger himself, smile while he did it.
Especially when it came to Sorren, that Eliot Ness wannabe!
Pinero was sure that if it weren’t for the DA’s hard-on for organized crime, he wouldn’t be on his way to serving two to four years upstate. Of course, his former lawyer, Marcozza, hadn’t exactly helped the situation. Pinero still couldn’t understand how his consigliere had allowed him to take the fall for some trumped-up loan-sharking charges. At the trial it had been as if Marcozza had been phoning it in.
Pinero had a new attorney now, Conrad Hagey, called the “White-Collar Knight” among New York defense attorneys. His usual clientele were Wall Street and CEO bigwigs, mostly WASPs. In fact, Hagey had originally turned down Pinero’s request to represent him because he hadn’t wanted to sully his image.
That’s when Pinero had taken out his checkbook and a diamond-encrusted Montblanc pen. A half-dozen zeroes later, the tall and lean Hagey had had a sudden change of heart. Funny how that happens.
“Gentlemen,” began Hagey. “I’d like to reiterate for the record that my client has come here voluntarily and will certainly leave here voluntarily. It’s further understood that the sole purpose of this meeting is to ask him about the death of his -”