Bronx Requiem(29)

Palmer knew he shouldn’t reach out to a federal agency without clearing it through his bosses, but protocol had never stopped him before and it wouldn’t stop him now. Palmer could already see his path forward. Step one, make Detective First Grade. He had to have that. Then a few more years in the Detective Division. After that, start taking the necessary civil service exams and rise through management positions. Palmer’s ambition and hubris would not end until he became the NYPD commissioner. Nothing less. And after that, who knows, maybe even mayor of New York.

Palmer checked his watch. Not quite three o’clock. If he moved fast and got everything in the works, he might even be able to get a bead on Watkins’s location before end of day. Then take five milligrams of Ambien and be in a precinct bunk by around six. Get a good five hours of sleep, and be ready to organize an arrest team and start hitting places after midnight when Ippolito came back on duty. Wrap this whole f*cking thing up in less than twenty-four hours. That’s how you made a name for yourself.

What else? Oh right, the daughter. Find Amelia Johnson. She might be a valuable witness.

And don’t forget James Beck, the guy who got away with killing a cop. Sending him back to jail would go a long way toward making a name for himself. He’d have to find out everything he could about Beck, including his connection to Paco Johnson. But, f*ck, he barely had time to do what he had to do.

Just then, Palmer saw Tim Witherspoon, the youngest detective on the precinct squad. A crew-cut, eager-to-please straight arrow, but with just enough smarts to brownnose his way into a spot with the big-boy detectives.

Palmer watched Witherspoon approach, wearing a buy-one-get-one-free Men’s Wearhouse suit, and a permanent-press white shirt from Macy’s, ready to start his four-to-midnight shift.

Palmer yelled, “Yo, Timster, what up?”

Witherspoon couldn’t resist basking in the glow of John Palmer.

“Ah, you know, the usual, man, how’s it going?”

Palmer mustered up a beleaguered look, taking Witherspoon into his confidence, giving him the impression he could really use his help.

“Ah, you wouldn’t believe it. Suddenly everything went from same old shit, to the shit hitting the fan this morning.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Ray and I caught a homicide just near the end of our shift. I’ve been going full blast ever since.”

“Wow.” Witherspoon knew an opportunity when he saw one. “Anything I can do to help?”

Palmer paused, as if genuinely giving it some thought. As if he hadn’t planned on getting Witherspoon to work for him from the moment he saw him.

“As a matter of fact, now that you mentioned it, there is something you can do.”

“Name it.”

Palmer motioned Witherspoon over to his desk. He opened a folder and extracted a printout of the NYPD file on James Beck. He handed it to Witherspoon.

“This guy is connected to my homicide. He’s got an interesting history. Right now, I’m not sure how he fits in, but I can’t let any lead slide. This could be really important, Tim. Trouble is, I got so much other crap I have to follow up on there’s no way I can get to it now. If you’re up for it and have some time, I’d really appreciate anything you can come up with on him. I’ll clear it with Levitt. Tell him I need your help.”

“Sure, man. No problem. I can fit it in. Anything you’re looking for specifically?”

“Don’t know yet. Just find out everything you can about him. Known associates. Known addresses. Whatever is available.”

“Okay. How much time do I have?”

“ASAP, man,” said Palmer. “ASAP.”





13

They were four serious men. All ready to beat down doors and anybody behind them, walking slowly and patiently toward Derrick Watkins’s apartment on the seventh floor in building six led by a ninety-one-year-old woman riding her Rascal scooter.

She neither looked behind her, nor worried about what was in front of her. Belinda Halsted Smith was on a mission concerning Derrick Watkins, whom she had known from the time he was an annoying toddler and through all the years of his unremittingly destructive criminal life. In Belinda’s firm opinion, the best that could be said of Derrick Watkins was that his older brother Jerome was worse.

Now, for some reason, a day of reckoning seemed to have arrived for Derrick, and Belinda Halsted Smith was eager to lead these men to their task.

She wore plain, practical clothes: a dark pleated skirt, white blouse buttoned to the neck, and support hose. She peered through thick glasses to compensate for failing vision, but it did not prevent her from rolling in a straight line toward apartment 720.

Belinda smacked her sturdy wooden cane on Derrick’s door, demanding in a surprisingly loud voice. “Derrick, open up. You open this door now.”

The four men took up positions on either side of the doorway, Beck and Demarco on the right side, Ciro and Manny on the left, all of them ready to fight their way into the apartment with fists, or guns, or both.

Belinda ignored all of them and banged harder.

“Derrick, open up now. It’s me, Miz Smith. You open up this minute.”

She rapped four times, each one harder than the previous.

Beck was just about to send Belinda back to her apartment and use his crowbar when he heard feet shuffling on the other side of the door.