Joel Goldman - Shakedown

“But I’m not one of your detectives.”

“Which is a good thing for me. This gate can swing both ways, Jack. If I’m right about the death of Tony Phillips and the disappearance of his mother, I’m likely to learn things that will be helpful to you. Find out what you can, share it with me, and I’ll give you what I come up with.”

I looked away. I had defended Troy out of loyalty to him and the Bureau. That was more than the by-product of my training. It was the way I saw the world. I had never cheated on Joy even when our marriage existed in name only. I had taken a vow. She had released me from it when she left and filed for divorce. Troy was my colleague, the Bureau was my life. I wasn’t ready to turn my back on them, even if they could only see me over their shoulders. I turned toward Grisnik.

“I told you about Luis Alvarez. That’s the best I can do.”

Grisnik pulled to the curb again, this time in the middle of the block down the street from Marcellus’s house.

“Why? Because those people are your friends? Because the FBI is your mother, father, wife, and mistress who’d never treat you wrong so you can’t treat them wrong? I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not already doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“They cut you loose. Maybe because you’ve got the shakes. Maybe because you’re unstable. Or maybe because they blame you for those people getting killed. Hell, I don’t know. But I know this. You’re already acting like a free agent, working the case on your own, telling me about Luis Alvarez. What do you think the FBI is going to do if they find out what you’re doing? Give you a fucking medal and your job back? Give me a break.”

“I’ve got my reasons for being here.”

Grisnik let out a sigh. “I’m sure you do. Why don’t you tell them?” he said, pointing to a dark sedan that rounded the corner in the next block. A man and woman got out and walked up to the first house on the corner. Even at this distance, I recognized two members of my squad, Jim Day and Lani Heywood.

“Go on,” Grisnik said. “Get out of my car. Tell your friends that you’re snooping around on your day off and that you’ll let them know if you find out anything important.”

Kate’s words reverberated in my head: work the people. I had to work myself first. I had told myself that I wanted to avoid seeing the people on my squad because I didn’t want to put them in a difficult situation. That was only partly true. The rest of the truth gave me reason to shake. I didn’t want them to know what I was doing because I didn’t trust them.

“Maybe later. Let’s get out of here.”

My father was a salesman who preached that life was all about opening doors. The ones you could open yourself were the easiest, he said. All it took was guts. The hard ones were the ones someone else had to open for you because people won’t let you in if they don’t trust you. It didn’t matter what his product line was-plumbing supplies, corrugated boxes, or anything else he could buy right and sell smart-he always told me that he was selling the same thing. Trust.

That’s all I had to offer to Ammara Iverson. Troy Clark had told her not to trust me. That didn’t mean she didn’t, only that she was following orders by refusing to talk with me about the investigation. I had to give her a reason to disobey and open her door. I called her cell phone.

“Yes,” she said.

Her voice was quiet but hurried. I didn’t have to ask to know that I’d caught her at a bad time.

“It’s Jack. Call me on my cell when you can talk privately. It’s important.”

I had no place to go and nothing to do when I got there so I drove around, waiting for Ammara to call. I cruised south on Seventh Street, east on Central, winding my way across a bridge that took me back in to Kansas City, Missouri, past Kemper Arena, a modernistic white elephant relegated to tractor pulls after the Sprint Arena opened on the south edge of downtown.

I crept along Liberty Street, turning east on the Twelfth Street Bridge, which rose above old redbrick warehouses now converted to Halloween haunted houses whose faded logos advertising furniture and hardware were now obscured by three-story skulls with gaping, bloody mouths. Halloween was five weeks away, but it was never too early to be scared to death.

I continued across Twelfth Street, wandering south on Broadway into the Crossroads District where the warehouses had become art galleries and studios, lofts and restaurants that drew large crowds the first Friday of each month. Broadway carried me past Union Station and the Liberty Memorial, a towering obelisk remembering the victims and veterans of World War I, and south to the Country Club Plaza shopping district in midtown.

I left Brooks Brothers, Abercrombie amp; Fitch, and The Sharper Image in my rearview mirror, going farther south, where I passed the mansions on Ward Parkway. I turned west on Fifty-ninth Street, across State Line Road, and back into Kansas. More mansions?ashed by in an enclave called Mission Hills.

In the space of thirty minutes, I’d gone from ghetto to grandeur, without destination or purpose. I didn’t know what to do with myself and I began to shake, my hands locked on the steering wheel, my chin jackknifing against my chest. I pulled into a church parking lot, stopping the car while waiting for the spasms to ease. A sign announced that I’d crossed into Prairie Village, another of the ubiquitous suburbs that ran together like colors bleeding from cheap madras. My phone rang as I caught my breath.

“Jack, it’s Ammara. What’s so important?”

She was all business, careful and brisk. There would be no dance. I wouldn’t ask any questions, so she wouldn’t have to refuse to answer. I’d give without asking for anything in return, banking the information I gave her for a future payback.

“Marcellus Pearson gave Oleta Phillips three thousand dollars as funeral benefits after her son, Tony, was killed. She’s probably on the surveillance videotape. Find out if she’s ever been arrested. Check her fingerprints against any prints on the cash I found in Marcellus’s backyard.”

“Why?”

“Because Oleta has disappeared. If that’s her money, she may have seen the killer. If she did, she’s either hiding or dead. You need to find out which it is.”

“How do you know she’s disappeared?”

“Her brother told me.”

“Jack, what are you doing talking to her brother? Don’t tell me you’re working this case on your own! Ben Yates will have your head and Troy will give it to him.”

“Relax. I don’t have anything else to do. I was bored so I took a drive. I ran into Marty Grisnik.”

“He’s the KCK detective.”

“Right.”

“I remember seeing him the other night at the scene. He was not having a good time.”

“He doesn’t like being cut out.”

“I don’t blame him, but I’m not the one with the scissors. What’s the story with Oleta and her brother?”

“The brother’s name is Rodney Jensen. Oleta lives with him. He called in a missing-person report after she didn’t come home for the second night in a row.”

“Grisnik runs Robbery and Homicide. What’s he doing making a house call on a missing-person report?”

“He thinks Oleta’s disappearance is related to the murder of her son, Tony, the kid who got shot on the corner last week. I just happened to drive by Rodney’s house while he and Grisnik were out on the sidewalk. Grisnik saw me and?agged me down. He wanted to know what was going on with our investigation. I told him I was out of it. He introduced me to Rodney and Rodney told me about his sister. So I’m telling you.”