Joel Goldman - Shakedown

“It’s Jack,” I said when I returned her call.

“I know. I’ve got caller ID.”

“Another amazing advance in crime-fighting technology.”

“Nights and weekends at no extra charge. How’s Kate?”

“She’s got a headache but the doc says she’ll be fine. Probably going home tomorrow.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Me, too. What’s up?”

“We checked the phone records. If Jill Rice called our office anytime since her husband was arrested, she didn’t do it from a phone in her or her husband’s name. That doesn’t mean she didn’t call. It just means we can’t prove it.”

“Except she denies making the call. At this point, I give her the edge in the who-do-you trust sweepstakes.”

“What’s your read?” Ammara asked.

I had to be careful. Ammara would be suspicious if I suddenly stopped talking to her about the case. I needed information I could only get from her, but I wasn’t ready to tell her about last night and jeopardize Wendy’s slim chances. I needed to know how close they were to picking up Colby, but I didn’t want to ask the question.

“Colby crossed the line. He made a deal with Thomas Rice to buy his house and car, probably as a way to launder drug money. I’d look at Colby’s bank account. And while you’re at it, check the records at Leavenworth. See if Colby visited any of the inmates.”

“Like Thomas Rice?”

“No. Someone else. Marty Grisnik already checked on Rice’s visitors. His wife and his lawyer were the only ones who came to see him. Maybe Colby used someone else to deliver messages to Rice.”

“What about the cash and drugs that were found in Colby’s house? You think they could have been planted?” she asked.

“It’s possible, maybe even likely. Colby was too smart to leave that stuff lying around.”

“Except it wasn’t lying around. It was hidden in a?oor safe. The U.S. Attorney is pissed. He says the agents who found it didn’t have probable cause for that kind of search, which means it can’t be used as evidence against Colby. Ben Yates told Troy to bring him Colby’s head on a pike.”

“Troy will have to figure out who else is playing this game, starting with Tanja and Nick Andrija.”

“Who are they and what do they have to do with this?” Ammara asked.

“They’re sister and brother and they run a bar and restaurant on Strawberry Hill, the place I told you about where they sell the sausage sandwiches. Colby has something going on with Tanja. It may be connected.”

“What about Marty Grisnik? He may know something.”

“I’ll ask him, but that could be tricky. He’s a stand-up guy but he’s also close to the family and cops aren’t any different than civilians. Everyone gets real defensive about their friends, even the guilty ones.”

“I know you’ll be diplomatic,” she said.

“Do you have anything else? What about Bodie Grant? Did his lawyer cut a deal with the U.S. Attorney?”

“Bodie is still in the wind.”

“Running or twisting?” I asked.

“I’ll let you know when we find him. Any predictions?”

“Yeah. Bodie’s dead.”

“Why so certain?”

“I think someone has been cleaning house. First, Marcellus Pearson, then Javy Ordonez. Bodie was cutting in on Marcellus, maybe with Javy’s help. It makes sense that Bodie is next.”

“You can’t put that all on Latrell Kelly.”

“I’m not. Latrell had his own agenda. He just did the killer a favor.”

There was dead air on Ammara’s end. I didn’t break the silence. She finally did. “You think Colby…” She let the words trail off, unable to complete the sentence.

“I think a lot of things, but the ones I can prove are the only ones that matter.”

“And we can’t find Colby. We don’t even know where to look,” she said.

That’s what I wanted to hear. “What about his friends or family or the dopers he hung out with when he was on the job?”

“His parents live in Utah and say they haven’t talked to him in months. Their phone records bear that out. Turns out he didn’t have any friends, at least none we can find. And the dopers aren’t talking. It’s like he disappeared.”

Colby had crossed his line and now I was crossing mine, withholding information that could lead to his capture. “Keep at it. He’s bound to surface.”

“We’ll be there when he does. What are you going to do?”

“Find my daughter,” I said and hung up.

I paced around my house, stopping in front of the mirror in the front hall, looking at the man staring back at me who had just thrown away what was left of his career. I’d always thought it was easier to talk about risking everything than actually doing it, but I was wrong. I felt no remorse or guilt over not telling Ammara that I’d seen Colby less than twelve hours ago. If anything, I was too pleased with myself.

I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator in the hopes that the food fairy had been there and had left me something to eat. It was as empty as the rest of the house. My stomach was talking to me, demanding to be fed.

I’d left my wallet in yesterday’s pants. When I fished it out, I found the?ash drive Joy had given me. I decided to read what I’d copied from Jill Rice’s and Wendy’s computers instead of the morning paper while I ate breakfast. I grabbed my laptop and headed out, looking for food and answers.

I went back to the same place where I’d had breakfast the other day. The food was good, the price was right, and the Internet access was free.

The place was full and smelled of bacon grease and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and hot coffee. The chatter at the two-dozen tables clashed with the sounds coming from the open kitchen of banging pots and pans and orders placed and filled. Harried servers dodged between tables, sweating to keep up, their heavy feet slapping on the hardwood?oor, laying down a percussion track.

A few customers wore athletic shorts and T-shirts stained from just-finished workouts. Those who had contented, full faces and round bellies lingered over the New York Times. Three couples in skintight, multihued bicycle gear sat at two tables they’d pushed together, shoveling down pancakes and trading jibes about who had dogged it the last five miles.

Two women, perfectly coiffed and made up, sipped coffee and nibbled on fruit, their tennis bracelets catching the light, their rackets resting beneath their table. A cute, dark-haired woman near fifty sat with a white-haired man, the two of them laughing the way a father and daughter should. One man sat alone, hunched over his plate. He looked up as I passed, his red bleary eyes and haggard jowls testament to an ill-spent night.

A corner booth opened up and I slid in as the busboy wiped the table and the server, a woman with beehive hair, pinched eyes, a sour mouth, and a build that spread out the same way the Mississippi pours into the Gulf scooped up the tip the last customer had left, quietly cursing the few quarters she dropped into her pocket.

“I’ll have two eggs up, crisp bacon, hash browns, toasted rye, and coffee. Hold the apologies to my arteries.”

“Better you hold the jokes, honey. I’ve heard them all,” she said.

By the time my food arrived, I was deep into Jill Rice’s tax records. She and her husband filed separate returns, which was common for spouses who wanted to keep their assets separate. Joy and I never did. Neither of us had had more than lunch money when we got married, and what we’d saved since then, we’d saved together. Money hadn’t driven us apart.

The records Jill gave me didn’t include her husband’s return. Hers was pretty simple. She had interest income from CDs and bonds, dividend income from stocks, and capital gains from the sale of an office building she’d purchased ten years earlier. The interest income and dividends totaled approximately three thousand dollars. She made another hundred twenty-five thousand on the sale of the building. Neither amount was a red?ag.