“Bullshit,” Graziani spat, and finished his beer. “He’s just another scumbag drug dealer trying to cut a deal.”
“He knew about the missing blue shirt.”
“Maybe he read about it in the newspapers.”
“I looked,” Brock said. “I couldn’t find a single story that talked about the shirt.”
“Maybe he heard it from Acevedo,” Graziani said. “Kid’s probably a meth head and bragged about doing these women. Maybe Cassino heard about it but got him mixed up with this Ahmed Kadyrov. Or maybe somebody on the task force let it out. There must have been a hundred people who could have seen the investigation reports.”
“Yeah, it’s all possible,” Brock said, unconvinced. “You ever hear of Kadyrov? He’s got a rap sheet for a few B amp; Es in Manhattan and Queens.”
“Never heard of him,” Graziani said.
“Well, maybe if you tracked him down, and this Cassino has what he says he does, you still get the collar, and all else is forgiven.”
“Yeah, right,” Graziani sneered. He rubbed his face with his hand. “The DA and NYPD brass will throw me to the wolves. I’d be the guy who made them look like fools. I’ll be pulling traffic detail in Staten fucking Island until I’m pensioned.” Graziani stared at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head and looked Brock in the eyes. “I don’t believe Cassino. I know we got the right guy for this. The rest of this is bullshit. But if you let this out, a defense attorney will use it to jack up my case and put doubt in the minds of the jurors. And that means a psychopath gets off scot-free.”
Brock tilted his head and shrugged. “Sorry. You know I have to turn in this report.”
Graziani looked for a moment like he wanted to bust his beer glass on his colleague’s head, but then he relaxed. “You didn’t file the report yet?”
Brock hesitated; he didn’t like Graziani to start with and liked him even less now. “Not yet,” he said. “I wanted to give you a head start so that you could run this Kadyrov to the ground and figure out if Cassino is telling the truth. But I’m going to have to tell Sergeant Marks soon. We’re supposed to meet with the assistant district attorney assigned to the Atkins case early next week.”
Graziani thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry; don’t know what I was thinking. Can you give me a couple of days to find this Ahmed Kadyrov before you let the cat out of the bag? Maybe I can still make this come out all right. At least get the bad guy off the streets even if my ass gets fried for it.”
Brock nodded. “Yeah, I can hold off for a few days. Maybe Kadyrov is connected to the Atkins murder, in which case you’d be doing me a favor, too.”
“That’s right, you’d owe me one,” Graziani said, and signaled the waitress for another beer. He smiled. “You know, this might just work out fine after all.”
19
Zak stared down from the mound at the catcher, who glanced over at Coach Newell for the pitch sign. Chase Fitzgerald nodded and grinned as he looked back at Zak and gave the signal. High and tight. A brushback pitch-a head-high fastball meant to intimidate a batter and move him off the plate.
Or in this case, he’s hoping I’ll hit Esteban or at least scare the shit out of him, Zak thought.
Coaches weren’t supposed to be encouraging, or teaching, brushback pitches at the high school level. There was too great a chance of someone getting seriously injured. But Newell’s ethics were always questionable when it came to getting an edge on the competition. And in this case it was no surprise that he was calling for it against Esteban Gonzalez even though this was just practice.
The coach’s previous efforts to chase the young man from the team had failed. Just three days after being cut by Chase Fitzgerald’s cleats, requiring twelve stitches in his leg, Esteban had walked back out on the field as if nothing had happened. And though it was obvious that his leg was hurting him and he was limping by the end of practice, he’d kept up on the drills.
It was a gutsy performance. But instead of earning even Newell’s grudging respect, the boy’s perseverance seemed to anger the coach all the more. And now he was telling Zak to toss a beanball at him.
Zak shook the sign off and waited for a new signal. Fitzgerald frowned and looked back over at Coach Newell, who emphatically made the same hand signals, only this time he looked directly at Zak as he gestured. There was no question that this was a test. The coach’s eyes said it all: Are you with us or against us?
Zak looked back at Fitzgerald, aware that Giancarlo was standing in the on-deck circle watching. He nodded to the catcher and went into his windup, then threw hard. The ball caught an inside corner of the plate for a strike. A great pitch and the third strike on Esteban, who smiled and shook his head in admiration as he turned to walk back to the dugout.
“Again,” Newell bellowed from the dugout.
Zak and Esteban both looked at the coach and then each other. As the other boy stepped back into the batter’s box, Zak saw a momentary look of fear on Esteban’s face. But the fear was immediately replaced by resolve; he nodded at Zak.
Fitzgerald looked over at Newell and visibly laughed as he gave Zak the signal again for a brushback pitch. Zak reared back and threw. This time the pitch was high and inside… but about three feet over Esteban’s head.
Coach Newell stormed across the field and up to the mound. “What are you doing, Karp?” he demanded.
“Pitching,” Zak answered, his eyes not meeting the coach’s.
“You ignored my signals,” Newell growled.
“I’m not going to throw at his head,” Zak stated as he looked the coach in the eyes.
Newell’s face turned red, and he took a step toward Zak and appeared ready to yell. But the coach looked up and saw that the rest of the team had walked close enough to hear what he was going to say. Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders stood together smirking. But others looked troubled and grim.
The coach held out his hand for the ball. “Hit the showers and see me in my office in fifteen, Karp,” he said, and yelled over to where the other pitchers were throwing in the warm-up cages. “Worley, get your ass out here!”
Worley ran out to the mound. Glaring at Zak, Newell handed Worley the ball. “Let’s see if somebody can remember the meaning of ‘team.’ Or if he knows better than the coach.”
With that the coach turned and walked away. At the same time, Zak walked off in the direction of the locker room. He glanced toward his brother, who smiled and touched the brim of his cap in a salute. Zak rolled his eyes and with a quiet curse changed directions and headed for home plate.
“Give me the bat,” he said as he walked up to Esteban. Without waiting, Zak grabbed the bat and gently pushed Esteban away. He then stepped up to the plate.
Sensing something going on behind him, Newell turned. His eyes bugged when he saw Zak Karp in the batter’s box and his red face grew purple. But he said nothing, just signaled the pitch to Fitzgerald.
Zak saw Worley smile and knew what was coming. “You’re screwed, Karp,” Fitzgerald said, chuckling as the pitcher went into his windup.
Zak waited until just before Worley released the ball and stepped back out of the batter’s box. But he wasn’t trying to duck the pitch. He knew what the signal had been and knew where the pitch was going, which made it relatively easy to make contact and drive it up the middle of the field.
The ball skipped off the mound and caught Worley in the shins. The pitcher went down and began to howl. Weller and Anders rushed over to him. As Fitzgerald ran past Zak, he turned and pointed as he said, “Your ass is grass now, Karp.”
Zak shrugged and tossed the bat over his shoulder and walked to the locker room. Fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door of Coach Newell’s office and walked in. The coach didn’t look up from whatever he was reading and gestured to the chair across from him. “Shut the door and take a seat, Karp” was all he said.
Zak did as he was told and was left to sit for several minutes before the coach looked up at him. “You mind telling me what you were trying to prove today?” Newell asked.
