James Grippando - Money to Burn

At the end of the corridor the guard pushed a button, a buzzer sounded, and the iron door slid open. Kevin was on the other side of the chute waiting for me, a look of complete disbelief all over his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Michael?”

“Good to see you, too,” I said.

“You’re lucky I have friends in the D.A.’s office,” he said. “They’re not charging you.”

“They shouldn’t. I didn’t have a bomb.”

Kevin clearly had much more to say, but the guard was standing just a few feet away. We went downstairs to collect my belongings-including Papa’s old trench coat and Italy golf cap. When he saw what I’d been wearing, Kevin just shook his head and said, “We need to talk.”

The lobby of the station house was far from private. Uniformed police officers coming and going, two prostitutes in a territorial dispute, a drunk with a bloody nose, and a homeless guy with vomit all over his shoes sitting on the end of a long wooden bench. It was like something out of that show Hill Street Blues that Papa used to watch when I was a kid.

Kevin led me down the hall to a small room. I could see the stenciled words ATTORNEY CONFERENCE backward on the glass as he closed the door. It was a stark room with yellow walls of painted cinder block, a small wooden table, and two oak chairs. Kevin asked me to sit, but after two hours on the hard benches of the holding cell, I didn’t want to. We just stood on opposite sides of the table.

“You could have been in a heap of trouble,” he said. “Two witnesses said it was the homeless guy-you-who ran off with a college girl’s camera and started the whole panic by threatening to set off a bomb.”

“That’s not what happened. A woman shouted that I had a bomb. And then it was chaos.”

“Did you steal the camera?”

“No. I was taking a group picture for these girls and then I…I saw something, and I had to run.”

“What did you see?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw Ivy,” I said.

Kevin groaned, and then his expression turned serious. “I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

He took a breath, as if to calm himself. “I’m worried that it’s more than you-more than anyone-could handle. The divorce, the identity theft, the attack on Saxton Silvers, the pillaging of your financial accounts, the lack of sleep. You aren’t thinking clearly-dressing up like a homeless guy, setting off a panic attack in one of the most popular urban tourist areas in America, all this talk about seeing Ivy.”

“I know what I saw.”

“You didn’t see Ivy.”

“Could have been someone pretending to be Ivy.”

“Why would someone pretend to be Ivy?”

“I can’t think of a reason. That’s why I say it was her.”

He groaned even louder. I was undeterred.

“And I think she was literally running for her life when she took off and ran from that man who was chasing her.”

“Michael, you’re my brother, and I want to help you. But I’ve had just about enough.”

I could see he wasn’t kidding. It was time to change the subject. “Can we get something to eat?”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

I gathered up Papa’s trench coat and hat. Kevin yanked open the heavy entrance door and together we walked outside. We were at the base of the steps, and I was pulling on Papa’s old coat, when two men approached from behind a construction barrier on White Street.

“Mr. Cantella?”

Kevin and I stopped. I recognized one of the men as he flashed his shield.

“Malcolm Spear,” he said, “FBI.”

It was the same agent I’d met in Eric’s office with our general counsel. Spear had another agent with him, not the computer fraud specialist I’d met before. It was Agent Coleman, the one who had come to my building to investigate the elevator fire. I noticed a spot of duck sauce on his jacket, and I could almost smell it. We were still that close to Chinatown, and I was still that hungry.

“Let me guess,” I said, “you found my money.”

Spear showed no reaction. “Heard you had a temporary change of address,” he said. “Wanted to come by and ask you a question.”

Kevin stepped between us. “He’s not talking to the FBI.”

“Who are you?” asked Spear.

“His lawyer.”

“No tricks here,” said Spear. “I just want to ask him about Chuck Bell.”

“Since when does the FBI investigate homicide?” said Kevin.

“We’re talking about a pattern of criminal activity that includes a number of federal offenses. It’s all our business.”

“Sorry, he’s not talking,” Kevin said.

“I simply want to know if your client can tell me where he was between twelve and one A.M. night before last, when Chuck Bell was shot.”

Instinct told me not to answer, but a flash of excitement came over me. “As a matter of fact, I can,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Hold it,” said Kevin as he grabbed me by the wrist. “For the last time: He’s not talking to the FBI.”

“But I want to answer,” I said.

“Don’t,” Kevin told me.

He was probably right, but as always, something about his tone made it impossible for me to heed his advice.

I showed Spear the ATM receipt-the one that read “nonsufficient funds”-and said, “I was at an ATM on Third Avenue trying to get money to pay my hotel bill.”

He checked the receipt, stroking his chin. “So, if we went to the bank and reviewed the tape from the security camera, we’d see that it was indeed you who conducted this transaction?”

“You sure would,” I said smugly.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Why is that interesting?”

Kevin was about to explode. “That’s enough,” he said. “You’ve got your answer, Agent Spear.”

“I just want to know why that’s interesting,” I said.

Spear narrowed his eyes. “About a year ago I investigated a racketeering case. Mob guy took great pains to make sure he was on camera at an ATM in Manhattan at the exact moment the trigger was pulled in Jersey. He wanted to be able to prove up an alibi.” He paused for effect. “We nailed him on murder for hire.”

My expression fell.

“May I keep this?” he asked.

“No,” I said, taking the receipt back. I gave it to Kevin. “I think my lawyer will want that.”

“Fine,” said Spear. “We’ll see you around, gentlemen.”

I watched as the two agents walked away. Then Kevin looked at me, glowering.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

There was that tone again. “I have an alibi,” I said.

“Not anymore you don’t. Now he knows the correct charge against you is not murder. It’s a murder-for-hire case. That’s why you never talk to law enforcement.”

My stomach was suddenly in knots. Maybe Kevin was right: This was more than anyone could handle. Too much had happened in too short a time, and if I didn’t get some food and sleep, I was well on my way to becoming my own worst enemy.

“Let’s go eat,” I said.

“No,” he said. “You go.”

“Don’t be like that.”

He took a breath, then paused to measure his words. He spoke in an even tone, but I could hear the anger behind it.

“I’m really trying, Michael. But you’re making this way too hard. So please, get something to eat, and get a good night’s sleep. Because if you’re still talking crazy in the morning, you’re going to need a new lawyer.”

He walked away. I started after him, then stopped.

Better to let him go, but as he rounded the corner, it suddenly occurred to me:

I had no idea where I was going to sleep.

FROM THE DETENTION CENTER I WENT TO MY CAR, THEN DROVE TO Long Island, when a thought popped into my mind. I didn’t call first; I knew Olivia would tell me not to come. By the time I pulled into her driveway my thoughts had gelled, and I was so pumped with adrenaline that I nearly flew up the sidewalk to ring the doorbell. It was getting dark, and in the shadows I must have looked like some lunatic on a home invasion. But that wasn’t the reason Olivia left the screen door closed between us.