Bronx Requiem(48)

Wilson shot back. “No. That’s how mistakes are made. Beck is going to have first-rate representation. Look at his history. Very few people get a conviction overturned like he did. When you arrest him, he’s going to argue for bail and most likely get it, and most likely have the financial resources to post bail when it’s granted. And then what? Then we have a major problem. If this case does become as strong as we hope it is, Beck gets to decide whether to stay, or run, or eliminate witnesses. Or, sue us for false arrest. I want to arrest Beck as much as you, but when we do, I want it so no judge would even consider granting him bail.”

Again, Ippolito spoke before Palmer. “Fair enough. It’s your call. We’ll get you the evidence you need.”

Lieutenant Levitt stood up and said, “Okay, gentlemen, we all know what we have to do. Let’s go do it. Let’s keep this case on track.”

Palmer forced himself to stop arguing. Wilson and his assistant left the office. Nobody offered a handshake.

Levitt told Palmer and Ippolito, “You two have a lot of work to do.”

Ippolito led the way back to the detective bullpen, followed by the fuming John Palmer. Tyrell Williams was still at Ippolito’s desk, but now with his arms on the desk pillowing his head, sleeping.

“Jeezus,” said Ippolito. “He’s probably drooling all over my stuff.”

“Take it easy,” said Palmer. “And please don’t tell me how much he’s going to f*ck me again.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t tell me you were right about the ADA.”

“I don’t have to. Meanwhile, don’t overlook his fat Chink assistant sitting there. Every time you said something she looked like she wanted to take a shit. Guarantee you that see-you-next-Tuesday is going to yammer at Wilson all the way back to their office about all the stuff we don’t have: murder weapons, timelines, motive, corroborating witnesses, blah, blah, blah.”

“Well f*ck her, too. I sent all those guns from the murder scene for ballistics. Maybe one of ’em will match the bullet they took out of Johnson’s head, and we’ll have a murder weapon for the Johnson hit.”

“Good. I hope so.”

“Shit. Sorry, Ray. I’m just pissed at that * ADA.”

“That’s his job. He’s going to break our balls for as much as he can get before he steps into a courtroom.” Ippolito lowered his voice. “So where are you on the other thing?”

Palmer tipped his head and they walked slowly toward a far corner of the detectives’ bullpen.

“Okay, you were right. I’m with you on the witness thing, but tell me—what can we give Jackson to make him help us without jamming ourselves up?”

“It shouldn’t take much. Like I said, Eric Jackson will want to make this go away as much as we do. Listen, you’ve been nurturing your contact at the FBI for months. Now’s the time to get something out of it. Go to your guy. Find out what they have on Jackson and his boy Bondurant, we’ll give it to him, and keep this shit show moving.”

“Man, that’s a big one, Ray.”

“What the f*ck, they’ll never know where Juju got the info from.”

“The FBI isn’t stupid.”

“But they’re busy. And they’re running tons of investigations.” Ippolito dropped his voice even lower and said, “And listen, a little way down the line, we feed your FBI guy something that’ll help him. Maybe even help them take down Jackson and Bondurant. Tie up all the loose ends, you know what I mean?”

Palmer stared at his partner. Reality began to set in. The ruthlessness of it. The willingness to double-cross everybody if necessary. But it would have to start with betraying Gregory McAndrews.

Ippolito watched Palmer struggling with the risk involved. He had no doubt Palmer would do it. As soon as he convinced himself he could do it without getting caught.

“All right, Ray. Set it up.”

“It’s the only way, John.”

“I know. I know.” Palmer rubbed his face, rousing himself for the next task. “All right, let me get Tyrell home. I want to see where he lives. It’ll help me keep track of him.”

“Sure. And John, go home after you drop off that shit bag, crank one out, and get some sleep. You look like hell.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

Ippolito watched Palmer head over to get Tyrell. He smiled to himself. Now we’ll see what the boy wonder is made of.





28

Walter Ferguson had lived in the hundred-year-old building on Livingston Street at the southern edge of Brooklyn Heights for twenty-seven years. Some would have avoided such an old building, but it very much suited Walter and his wife, Phyllis. They had an affordable one-bedroom on the fourth floor with a classic layout that had everything they needed, including a surprisingly spacious bedroom overlooking Packer Collegiate Institute across the street.

The building went co-op in 1989, and with their two incomes they managed to scrape together the down payment and qualify for a mortgage. Phyllis taught in the New York public school system. Walter worked as a paralegal in a law office on Joralemon Street after graduating from Hunter College. During his time at the firm, he’d considered enrolling in law school, but Walter worked such long hours it didn’t seem feasible. Nor was he at all sure the never-ending relativism of a legal practice aligned with his core values.