Joel Goldman - Shakedown

Grisnik goosed the Crown Vic into the traffic on the Intercity Viaduct, catching I-70 East, then cut over to I-29 North.

“Happy?” he asked.

We were on the Paseo Bridge crossing the Missouri River. A casino built on a?oating barge was docked below, tight against the riverbank, its garish pink, red, and yellow neon lights re?ecting off the cloudy water, the promise of something for nothing dragged down by a swift current and then drowned in mud and silt. Though it was still early, the parking lot was half full, gamblers anxious to roll the dice on the rent money. I envied them. My odds were longer and my stakes were higher.

“As a pig in shit,” I said.

“Now tell me again why I’m driving you to Leavenworth.”

“I told you. There’s someone there I want to talk to.”

“Why don’t you talk to him by yourself?”

“I had to turn in my FBI credentials when they put me on medical leave. The Bureau frowns on freelancing.”

“So you have to make an appointment like every other visitor-that whole thing they do there with the visitor lists and the points.”

“Exactly. And today isn’t a regular visiting day. So I need you to get me inside.”

“But that’s not enough. You want me to help you impersonate a police officer, too.”

“No. I want you to help me do my job so I can help you do yours. Think of it as a back-scratching, gate-swingingboth-ways road trip. You know as well as I do that the prison keeps records of every visitor. Doesn’t matter if it’s family or feds. I’d rather keep this one off the radar for now.”

Grisnik didn’t respond for a few minutes, finally shaking his head like he would regret his decision. “We want to see an inmate, always works better to let the warden know we’re coming.”

“Call him.”

Grisnik reached in his pocket,?ipping open his cell phone. “I’ll need a name.”

“Thomas Rice. Went up a few months ago on a drug charge.”

“I remember hearing about that case. Wife turned him in, right?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Why do you want to talk to him?”

“The wife is selling the house.”

“You in the market?”

“No,” I told him. “Someone else is who can’t afford it.”

“This person in the market or just interested in this house?”

“Just this one. Already signed the contract. The wife ended up with the house when they got divorced. The husband gets half the sale proceeds, but the wife has to give him notice of the sale and the price has to be fair market. The buyer says she’s selling the house to him for peanuts just to piss off her ex.”

“Why do you care?”

I didn’t answer, letting him work it out. His eyes narrowed, then widened.

“The buyer is one of your people?” he asked me.

“Yeah.”

“You think the buyer came by the money the wrong way?”

“I don’t think that his rich grandmother died or that he won the lottery. He can’t afford it even if she’s giving it away. The property taxes are more than twelve grand a year.”

Grisnik asked, “Even if you’re right, what’s that got to do with my case?”

“Maybe nothing. Or maybe the money is coming from somebody who needed to wash some cash or pay off a favor.”

“Marcellus Pearson?”

“More likely whoever put the hit on Marcellus, if that’s what happened.”

“I’d put the early money on Javy Ordonez. He and Marcellus have been scuf?ing for a long time,” Grisnik said.

“Could have been him. Could have been Bodie Grant.”

“That jerk-off from Raytown?”

“You know about him?” I asked.

“What do you think, Jack? That I spend all my time writing traffic tickets and waiting for you to call?”

I laughed. “No, I guess not. We think Bodie and Javy may have decided to go into business together. Getting rid of Marcellus could have been their first joint venture.”

Grisnik said, “I talked to one of our detectives that works drugs.”

“You and I both know someone in your department was tipping Marcellus. You think that was a good idea?”

“I’ve known him a long time. If he’s dirty, we’re all dirty. He told me that he didn’t think Javy or Bodie were smart enough or ballsy enough alone to pull this kind of shit but that together, they might talk themselves into it.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but I think it’s someone else, someone further up the food chain. As much business as Marcellus was doing, he didn’t live like he had much money. Someone else was getting fat off his action. That’s who I was after.”

“And you think that’s who could have taken out Marcellus and his people?”

“Makes the most sense to me. Maybe Marcellus had a silent partner who decided to renegotiate his contract.”

“Doesn’t add up to a pass for your home buyer.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You said you had something for me on my case,” Grisnik said. “What is it?”

“Marcellus gave Oleta Phillips three thousand in twenties twelve hours before he was shot. I found three thousand in twenties in Marcellus’s backyard an hour after he was shot. Oleta’s fingerprints were on the money.”

“That friend you still have tell you about the fingerprints?”

“This morning. She thought it would be convenient if I ran into you. Seems she has this idea that you might tell me something she’d like to know.”

Grisnik nodded, smiling. “I can see how she might think that. I might send her the ballistics on the bullets the coroner dug out of Tony Phillips. Let her check them against the ones that killed Marcellus.”

“Her name is Ammara Iverson.”

“I like that name,” he said. “Is she a good enough friend to get me the surveillance videos?”

“Not yet, but Ben Yates, our SAC, is going to ask your chief for pictures of everyone on your force so he can crosscheck them against the video.”

Grisnik laughed. “I can’t wait for that turd to blossom. The chief will ask Yates if he’s got any proof that one or more of his officers are dirty. If Yates does, the chief might cooperate as to those people but he’ll never let the entire force be painted with that brush. Yates has to know that.”

“If he doesn’t, I’m sure your chief will educate him. In any event, Ammara said she reviewed the tapes and didn’t see anybody who looked like a cop.”

Grisnik shook his head. “A cop looks like anybody else when he’s out of uniform.”

I thought about what Ammara had said and realized that I agreed with her. I could pick an FBI agent out of a crowd. “You saying you can’t tell when someone has been on the job?”

“I guess you’re right. Usually I can. I guess if Ammara didn’t see anyone who looked like a cop on the tapes, I should feel better. So how come I don’t?”

“Because you’re like me. You don’t trust people because of how they look.”

“Amen to that. You still think someone at the FBI leaked word of the surveillance camera in the house so that the killer would have known to cut off the electricity?”

“Troy Clark does. He’s having everyone take a polygraph tomorrow.”

“Including your home buyer?”

“Yeah.”

“I take it you’d like to know about the home buyer before the polygraph exam.”

“That would be a good thing.”

“Same question. Why do you care?”

“I’ve got other interests I’m trying to protect.”

“Yours?”

I shook my head. “No, but it’s personal. Leave it at that.”

“You have any proof your home buyer is dirty?”

“Only that it seems strange that he would buy a house at a bargain price that used to be owned by a guy we busted. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.”

“Just one of those gut feelings cops on TV always get?”