Robert Tanenbaum: Outrage

“Yeah, I checked,” Graziani had replied. “Someone called nine-one-one. They must have seen you going down the fire escape, too, because they got a physical description. So what about the shirt?”

“I couldn’t find it,” Kadyrov said.

Graziani cursed the murderer. “That shirt can sink us both,” he said.

“She’ll get the hint,” Kadyrov said. “Stay out of this or you’ll get the same thing your husband got. And maybe they don’t even have the shirt anymore. I went through everything.”

“Yeah, well, that’s too many maybes,” Graziani said, handing Kadyrov an envelope. “I think it’s time you took a little trip upstate. There’s four hundred bucks and a bus ticket in there. As well as instructions on where I want you to stay so I can reach you. Do what you’re told and there’s more where that came from, and I’ll keep our asses out of hot water.”

Kadyrov reached out and grabbed the envelope, but Graziani held on for a moment as he looked in the younger man’s eyes. “Don’t fuck with me, Ahmed,” he said. “Get on that bus and you be where I can find you. Or if they don’t get you for the Yancy-Jenkins murders, I’ll kill you myself.” He released the envelope. “And I know you’re thinking, They get me, I’ll turn on him. Just remember who’s the cop here when it comes to your word against mine. You’d never live to testify against me anyway.”

With the envelope clutched in his hands, Kadyrov disappeared into the bowels of Grand Central. Meanwhile, Graziani had spent another sleepless night wondering how to find Lydia Cassino and the blue silk shirt.

Then the reporter called with the answer. He was sure Lydia Cassino would be showing up with a blue silk shirt. A couple of bullets at close range, and he’d have only one more problem to deal with. And that would entail only a quick trip to upstate New York and another bullet for Ahmed Kadyrov.

Then the Acevedo trial would proceed unabated. He’d be a hero, doted on by the public, the NYPD brass, and his young wife. It’s all under control, he told himself for the thousandth time as the small dark figure approached and walked up to Stupenagel.

The weight of the. 380 in his hand was a comfort as he crept forward. He regretted that after tonight’s business, the weapon was going in the East River, since it could tie him to Brock’s murder as well as these women. He’d have to pick up another one to finish Kadyrov.

Graziani waited until the two women had talked for a moment. When the smaller woman handed Stupenagel a package, he moved. The shirt, he thought with satisfaction as he stepped from the shadows with his gun trained on the women.

“I’ll take that,” he said.

“What’s going on?” the short woman exclaimed in fear.

“It’s okay,” Stupenagel replied. “He’s a cop and he’s with me.”

Graziani snorted a humorless laugh. “That’s right, we’re together, but not for long, I’m afraid,” he said as he trained his gun on Stupenagel’s face.

The reporter looked stunned. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then a look of understanding came across her face. “It was you.”

“It was him what?” the other woman cried out.

“He’s the one who killed Brock and your husband,” Stupenagel replied.

“As usual, the press gets it wrong,” Graziani said. “If you want to be accurate, I finished off Brock when my boy Kadyrov messed up. But Ahmed is the one who sliced and diced that pig husband of yours, Lydia.”

“Lydia?” the woman said, suddenly standing up straighter and looking him in the eyes as she smiled. “Actually, the name is Marlene Ciampi, you son of a bitch, and your ass is under arrest. Put the gun down unless you want the sharpshooter who has a nice little red laser light from his scope trained on the side of your head to pull the trigger. Clay, you want to come get this asshole?”

His mouth hanging open, Joey Graziani slowly lowered his gun at the sound of running feet. “How?” he asked.

“A little detective work,” Marlene said. “I talked to an officer, Dave Drummond, who confirmed Cassino had wanted to talk to Brock about a blue silk shirt. Then you were seen talking to Brock at the Lino Tavern. My guess is you didn’t like hearing that your case was about to go down the tubes, though to be honest, it was already finished. We found out about the ring, you dolt. But now it’s over. Detectives working for my husband followed you to Grand Central, and they picked up Kadyrov as soon as you were out of sight. I just don’t get it-was it really worth killing another detective, much less Vinnie Cassino and, what… two women?”

Graziani looked down at the sidewalk but he was seeing Brock’s scornful face. Just to get out of the Bronx? Then the image of his wife in bed with another man came to him, followed by the image of himself in prison and what that would be like for a cop, especially a cop who killed another cop-even the guards would enjoy making his life hell. He raised his gun to shoot Marlene.

Instead, a rifle shot rang out in the night and Graziani’s head exploded from the force of the fifty-caliber bullet, his gun striking the pavement only a moment before his body did. Even so, Clay Fulton kept his gun trained on the lifeless man as he kicked the. 380 to the side. “Bag that,” he told another approaching officer before turning to Marlene and Ariadne.

“Boy, I didn’t like using civilians on that one,” he said.

“Too much of a chance he might have seen Ariadne’s photo in a newspaper,” Marlene said insistently, repeating the argument she’d used earlier that afternoon in her husband’s office. “And there was no way you were keeping me off this one.”

The three looked down at Graziani. “I wonder what pushed him down this road,” Marlene said.

There was a moment of silence before Stupenagel cleared her throat and responded. “I guess he just lost his mind,” she said solemnly. “Too bad, he had a good head on his shoulders.”

Marlene groaned. “Oh God, Ariadne! I’m going to try to forget you said that.”

Ahmed Kadyrov sat at the defense table watching the twelve jurors as they filed back into the courtroom. He hoped to see some small sign that they would declare him not guilty. A faint smile, perhaps, from the pretty, young brunette who he’d fancied thought he was attractive, to let him know that after several months since his arrest, he would soon walk out of the Tombs a free man.

What I’d do to you if I got the chance, eh, sooka? he thought, staring at the brunette. But she merely looked him in the eyes once and then turned her head toward the judge as a wave of revulsion rippled across her face.

Next to Kadyrov sat Mavis Huntley, one of the two lawyers who’d been appointed to represent him from a pool of attorneys qualified to argue death penalty cases. A slender blonde, Huntley pretended throughout the trial that she actually believed he was innocent-smiling and laughing, or nodding in agreement, at everything he said, lightly touching his arm on occasion. That was her job. However, he could tell that she was scared to death of him and was repulsed, despite her plastic smile. He wanted to kill her, too.

On the other side of Huntley was the lead counsel, Stacy Langton, who had achieved early success in her career and was noted as a top-flight courtroom strategist. Both of his attorneys’ demeanor just prior to the arrival of the jurors reminded Kadyrov of refugees that he’d known from his childhood in Chechnya, shell-shocked and stupid as cattle as they fled the Russians and their burning villages.

However, when the jurors began filing in, Langton assumed an air of what she probably thought of as “quiet dignity.” She nodded to the jurors with a half smile, as if to say she’d performed as had been required of her but understood if they had not been convinced. There was nothing anybody could have done, her body language suggested.