Robert Tanenbaum - Outrage

“Nah, just taking some comp time off,” he replied. “But Amy’s right. Listening to that stuff all day, every day, has made me a little jaded. Sorry, I was being overprotective.”

“Not a problem,” Marlene said. “It pays to be cautious these days. And I thought I recognized you; you’ve been working at the Criminal Courts Building for a long time.”

Al grinned. “Yeah, how ya doing, Ms. Ciampi, I thought that was you, too, but it’s been a while. Small world. Anyway, this tall drink of water is my wife, Amy, and the little guy is my son, A.J.”

“Oh, he’s a doll! What does A.J. stand for?” Marlene cooed.

“Alexander Jenner,” Amy replied.

“Jenner? That’s unusual.”

“He was named for his aunt, Jennifer,” she said sadly. “I’m afraid she passed away last December. A heart condition. She was my best friend, and we all love and miss her very much.”

“I’m sorry,” Marlene said. “I know how it feels to lose someone you love like that. Tears the heart right out of you.”

“Thank you,” Amy replied. “So you found my purse?”

Marlene shook her head. “Unfortunately, no, but did you also report that a ring was inside the purse?”

Amy nodded. “Yes, my engagement ring. I’m afraid I gained a few pounds carrying A.J. and it got a little tight. I took it off until I could lose the weight.”

“Could you describe the ring?”

“Yes, it had a small diamond-”

“It wasn’t that small,” Al interjected.

Amy leaned forward conspiratorially. “It was maybe half a carat. That small,” she said with a laugh, and put her arm around her husband. “But this two-hundred-and-eighty-pound bundle of love has more than made up for it in kisses.”

“I’ll take the kisses any day,” Marlene said. She reached into her purse and took out the photographs of the ring that she’d shown Guerrero. “Would you mind taking a look at these?” she asked, handing the first one to Amy.

“That’s my ring!” Amy replied. “See what I meant about the diamond?”

“Hey, it looked bigger in person,” Al retorted.

“I’m sure,” Marlene said with a laugh as she handed the second photograph to Amy. “Here’s another of the same ring.”

“Oh, he wrecked it,” Amy cried. “It used to say ‘Always, Al,’ but it’s all scratched out.” Tears slipped out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks as her husband patted her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I bet a jeweler can buff that up nice and inscribe it again.”

“Sure he can, and now you’ll have a story to go along with it,” Marlene said. “Do you think you’d recognize the guy who snatched your purse?”

“In a New York minute,” Amy replied. “He sat across from me on the train all the way from Spanish Harlem. The pizza-faced jerk waited until I was on the sidewalk then came out of nowhere and grabbed my purse. Believe me, I got a good look at him.”

Marlene pulled the camera out of her purse and pushed a button before turning the screen toward Amy. “I’m going to show you six photographs of different men. Stop me if you recognize any one of them.”

Amy looked at each photograph as it appeared but stopped Marlene at the fourth. “That’s Mr. Pizza Face right there.”

Marlene looked at the face on the screen. Jesus Guerrero, she thought with satisfaction. “Good,” she said. “And if I need you to identify him for the authorities, would you be willing to do that?”

“You bet. Maybe they’ll lock him up for a few years.”

“Actually, I might need him as a cooperative witness,” Marlene said. “I may want him to testify that he sold your ring to another man. It could save that man’s life.”

“Well, that’s more important than putting Pizza Face in jail,” Amy said, “though I’d still like to punch him. But hey, do you think I’ll get my ring back?”

“You may have to wait until this case is resolved,” Marlene said, “but you should be able to after that, and I’ll help.”

“Then I’m good with it,” Amy said, and smiled. “It may be a small diamond, but it was my first. Thank you, Marlene.”

Vinnie Cassino sat in the back of the squad car weighing his options. He’d traveled to the South Bronx and a seedy apartment off Anderson Avenue to purchase several ounces of methamphetamine from his favorite dealer, only to learn the hard way that he’d been set up. Now he was looking at a felony drug possession with intent to sell, and they’d popped him with a handgun for an additional count. With two prior strikes against him, another could earn him the unwanted legal title of “habitual offender,” or in the vernacular of the streets a “three-time loser,” looking at life behind bars.

Time to play my ace, he told himself. “Hey, tell Detective Brock that I need to talk to him,” he said. “Tell him he’s got the wrong guy for the Atkins murder. The guy didn’t do the two in Manhattan either, but I know who did.”

The police officer driving the car looked in the rearview mirror at the scruffy, gray-haired drug dealer with the protruding forehead and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Sherlock,” he said in a tone that implied he was unimpressed by suspects trying to make deals on the way to jail.

“Listen, asshole, I’m telling the truth,” Cassino said. “You’ll be walking the two A.M. beat in Bed-Stuy if you blow this.”

“Watch your mouth, punk,” the officer snarled, “or maybe we’ll stop in an alley for a little attitude adjustment before I get you to lockup.”

“Go ahead,” Cassino retorted, “then I won’t have to say nothing to Brock, and I’ll still walk. But if you got any brains, tell him to check and see if a blue silk shirt came up missing in the Manhattan killing.”

An hour later, the police officer was talking to Sergeant McManus when he saw Brock. The officer weighed whether to tell the detective about the drug dealer. It was probably bullshit; then again, most of the scumbags trying to weasel their way to freedom didn’t first offer something that could be checked out. He decided to pass the information on.

“Detective Brock, I’m Dave Drummond,” the officer said. “This is probably nothing but I was detailed to haul a drug dealer named Vinnie Cassino down to booking after a bust this morning.”

“Cassino? Doesn’t ring a bell,” Brock replied with a frown.

“Yeah, and this probably isn’t anything but a line of BS,” Drummond said, “but he was real insistent that I tell you that you’ve got the wrong guy in the Atkins case. He says he knows who did it.”

“And I’m the queen of England,” Brock snorted. “If it would get him a better deal, he’d probably tell me who killed Kennedy, too.”

Drummond laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he would. But anyway, he said to ask you about a blue silk shirt in the Manhattan case.”

The smile faded from Brock’s face. After Graziani connected Acevedo to the Yancy-Jenkins double murder, Brock asked for a copy of the Manhattan file to see if there was something in it that could help him nail down the Atkins case. The file contained a report on items the younger victim’s husband had identified as missing-some jewelry, purses, and a blue silk shirt taken from his closet. He remembered that item in particular as it meant the perp had changed clothes after the bloodbath. It was one of the details that had been kept from the press as far as he could remember, but now some drug dealer knew about it.

“A blue silk shirt, you’re sure that’s what he said?” Brock asked.

“Yeah, positive,” Drummond replied. “It mean something?”

“Maybe,” Brock said, and patted the young officer on the shoulder. “You done good, kid, I’ll pass my thanks on to your supervisor.”