Jack Davis Mystery - 01 - Shakedown (17 page)

“Won’t help. I’ll sleep on your doorstep, follow you to work, and wait outside your office.”

“I may leave you in Leavenworth.”

“I’ll pack a toothbrush. There’s one other thing.”

I could hear Grisnik grinding his teeth over the phone. “What?”

“You still have that phony ID you loaned me when I served the fugitive warrant at Marcellus Pearson’s house?”

“I’ve got it locked up in my desk drawer. I’d burn it except I’m afraid I’ll be accused of destroying evidence.”

“Good. Bring it with you.”

“What for?”

“They won’t let just anyone into that prison.”

“The easiest way is to take I-29 North to Platte City, then pick up Highway 92 and take it straight into Leavenworth,” I told Grisnik.

He’d hung his suit jacket in the backseat, rolled his sleeves, and put the air conditioning on high. He furrowed his eyes and set his jaw like he wanted to pimp-slap me.

“You don’t think I know how to get to Leavenworth?”

“I’m sure you do. I’m just saying that’s the best way to go.”

“You gonna tell me how to tie my shoes and brush my teeth?”

“I don’t care about your shoes or your teeth. Do whatever you want with them.”

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?”

“More like the gut fear real cops get,” I said.

“Who’s the buyer?”

“I’d rather not say until I’ve got something hard to work with.”

“Suppose Thomas Rice gives up his name?”

“That would qualify.”

Grisnik had the warden’s number stored in his cell phone. Their conversation was brief. He hung up and pulled a KCKPD ID from his shirt pocket, tossing it in my lap. I was about to become Detective John Funkhouser again.

“How about the neighborhood canvass?” Grisnik asked. “Any eyewitnesses?”

I decided to bounce my memory off him. He’d interviewed enough witnesses to gauge how my story would play.

“Not so far. There is one person who may have seen something.”

“What?”

“Someone, probably male, running from the scene.”

“When?”

“After I got there. He could have been watching from the backyard of one of the houses nearby. If he were, he would have had a view of the rear of Marcellus’s house. The tree where I found the money was roughly in a line between where this guy would have been standing and the back door.”

“Who saw him?” Grisnik asked.

I let out a long breath, looked at Grisnik, then looked away, staring at the highway. “I did. Maybe. I’m not sure. That’s when I started shaking.”

Grisnik grunted. “I don’t like eyewitnesses,” he said.

“Me either.”

“Only thing worse is a lineup. Just read a report that said seventy-seven thousand people go to trial each year because someone picks them out of a lineup. Study said that eyewitnesses get it right in a lineup only about fifty percent of the time. Then they looked at two hundred people who were convicted and later exonerated based on DNA evidence. An eyewitness had identified one hundred and fifty of them, usually in a lineup.”

“Numbers like that, the guy I saw, probably not even worth mentioning,” I said.

“Probably not.”

“Unless I could prove who it was and that person turned out to know something about your case and mine.”

“All that shaking, Jack, and you are still a clear thinker.”

“Tell me more about Thomas Rice,” Grisnik said.

We drove past Kansas City International Airport. The Platte City exit was only a few more miles north.

“Rice sold insurance, stocks, bonds—any kind of investment you wanted. Had his own company, a one-man operation. A buddy of his did outplacement consulting. One of his big clients offered early retirement to its employees with at least twenty years of service. A lot of them took the deal, which meant they had profit-sharing accounts they had to roll over.”

“Rice’s buddy hooked him up with the retirees?”

“It was a sweet deal for Rice. Most of these people didn’t know their ass from third base when it came to investing. The stock market was hot so anyone with a series-seven license and a computer looked like a genius.”

“Market cooled off,” Grisnik said.

“It’s called a correction.”

“I remember. I got corrected right up my ass. Put my retirement off by at least five years.”

“Same thing happened to Rice’s clients. Except they hired a lawyer who told them she could get their money back because Rice put them all in high-risk, high-tech stocks that were inappropriate for their retirement plans. They sued Rice and won.”

“Didn’t he have insurance that paid the claims?”

“Yeah, but he lost his licenses to sell investments and insurance.”

“So he couldn’t think of anything else to do except sell drugs?”

“I guess he thought it was just like anything else. Buy low and sell high. He knew someone who knew someone and— boom—he was an instant coke dealer. Really got into the lifestyle, using and selling, got himself a girlfriend. The wife found out and turned him in. Told us that for better or worse didn’t include criminal and stupid. He pled and it was all over pretty fast. His entire career as a drug kingpin lasted all of about eight months.”

“What kind of a deal did the U.S. Attorney make with him?”

“Five years and forfeiture of everything traceable to the money he made selling drugs plus cooperation on other investigations.”

“Which left him with what?”

“A lot. His house was already paid off before he started his life of crime.”

“That all the feds got?”

“Rice helped us make cases against a couple of small-time dealers. Didn’t make much of a dent in the traffic.”

“How was the wife able to hold on to the house?” Grisnik asked.

“Before the lawsuits were filed, he put it in his wife’s name, same for his car, a Lexus. We couldn’t tie her to the drug money, either, so she got to keep it.”

“Was it your case?”

“They were all my cases since I ran the squad, but I wasn’t directly involved with this one,” I said.

“Who was?”

The question threw me. I hadn’t thought about it until Grisnik asked me.