“You assure them you did everything you could, and then tell ’em to pound sand.”
“Pretty much. So that’s what we’ve got here on the DD5. The two ladies walk in to the help desk in March. A couple weeks later, after a few more streetwise Laurel and Hardy routines downstairs, they hook up with the community policing liaison, who tells them about the citizen-driven warrants. We take a look at it after a couple months, and there’s nothing there.”
“You’re sure?” Ellie asked.
“No doubt. You work drugs a little while, and you get super-honed spidey senses. Homeboy’s getting his party on like any other single man with that kind of money in Manhattan. And so we could say we did everything we could, my partner and I even did a little knock and talk with the guy. That’s the entry in June there. Truth be told, I just wanted to score a peek at the place.”
“And?” Rogan nudged.
“The condo was sweet. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows—”
“The
“Nah. Dude’s Eurotrash, buying up Manhattan real estate while the dollar’s in the toilet. Goes clubbing every night. Picks up bridge-and-tunnel skanks looking for a short-term sugar daddy, a place to party for the night. Had no problem letting me search. The place was clean but for some personal-use marijuana in the nightstand. He didn’t seem fazed that I found it, and I really didn’t want to process him for it, so he flushed it. No hard stuff. No paraphernalia. No packaging materials. No cash or books.”
“No dealing.”
“No dealing.”
“You got a cell number in case we need you to nail this down for court?” Ellie asked. “Sparks’s lawyer made it sound like Pablo Escobar lived next door.”
She jotted down the number in her notebook, and they began to make their way out of the squad room. Guerrero had been blowing smoke with his claims of a drug operation going down across the hall at the 212, but she still wondered how the lawyer had even known about it. Then she realized the likely source.
She turned toward Carenza. “Hey, you don’t happen to know Nick Dillon, do you?”
“Sure. My brother’s on the job, too. He and Dillon were in the Major Case Squad before Dillon sold out to the man. We play cards sometimes. Takes my money big-time.”
“Any chance you mentioned this whole citizen-driven warrant thing to him?”
“Yeah. He used to work Narcotics, too, you know? I thought he’d get a kick out of his boss’s neighbors practicing their slang over mah-jongg. Hey, that didn’t cause any problems for you, did it? I mean, there was nothing to it, so—”
Rogan waved him off. “Don’t sweat it, man.”
Rogan caught Ellie’s eye on their way out of the precinct. “The man’s got ears, right? That guy makes a friend, he keeps a friend.”
“Well, being his pal didn’t save me from a jail cell. Maybe next time you can be the one who does our time.”
“Would never happen,” he said, holding open the precinct door for her to exit. “I’m way too pretty for central holding on some chippy contempt rap. Someone like me goes down, it’s got to be major. I would need some serious federal corrections facility—golf course, croquet…”
“Rogan, you were raised in Brooklyn. Do you even know what croquet is?”
“I know it involves a round thing called a ball, which means it’s yet another sport a brother could dominate if we only gave it a shot.”
“When you’re done, you think you might get around to letting me in?” Ellie tugged on the Crown Vic’s locked passenger handle to make her point.
Inside the car, she flipped open her phone and saw a new voice mail from Max Donovan. Opting to wait for some privacy, she clipped the cell back to her waist.
The drive from Chinatown was slowed by end-of-day traffic. Even with the assistance of wigwag lights, they didn’t pull up in front of the Thirteenth Precinct until nearly six o’clock.
Ellie was about to log onto her computer when she caught sight of Max Donovan through the open slats of the blinds that covered Lieutenant Robin Tucker’s office. Tucker stood, walked to her office door, and poked her head into the squad room.
“Good timing, you two. A quick word?”
Rogan shot Ellie a look that made her wish she’d checked Max’s message in the car. “This can’t be good.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
6:00 P.M.
“ADA Donovan has an update for us on the Sparks case.” Robin Tucker leaned back in her chair and smiled in Ellie’s direction. “We should thank him for the special attention he’s shown by coming here in person to deliver the news.”
Ellie knew it was a dig from her lieutenant about her personal relationship with an assistant district attorney—a relationship that was undoubtedly behind Max’s decision to make the trip from the courthouse.
“Apparently yesterday wasn’t a big enough win for Sparks. I got papers delivered to my office this morning from Ramon Guerrero.”
“What more could they possibly want? Our motion for access to Sparks’s files went down in flames. I got smacked with a contempt charge.”
“They fucking slaughtered us,” Rogan said.
“Well, Guerrero wants another pound of flesh. His motion demands access to all evidence gathered by the NYPD in relation to the death of one Robert Mancini.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ellie said.
Rogan chimed in. “Tell them to take their motion and stick it up—”
Robin Tucker made a T sign with her hands. “Will you two let the man speak? He’s trying to tell you where things stand.”
“Well, of course the motion’s frivolous,” Donovan said. “The mere fact that Sparks has a connection is insufficient to give him any claim to access to the investigation. And they can’t rely on public records laws because it’s obviously an ongoing investigation.”
“So is this just a big-firm lawyer trying to run up his bill?” Rogan asked.
Max ran a hand through his already tousled brown hair. “No, or at least, that’s not the only reason. Guerrero’s good. He knows he’s got a judge who wants to please him.”
“But supposedly Bandon’s solid,” Rogan said. Judges earned reputations with law enforcement. Bandon was known as a straight shooter—tough on crime, but fair to both sides.
Max nodded. “That he is, but for a reason. Bandon’s not the kind of guy whose career ends with the state trial court. He was a major player in DOJ in the nineties, then got a sweet special counsel hookup at a major law firm. He’s only pulling duty as a local judge to perfect his resume for the federal bench, and rumor is, his name’s finally coming up. No more elections. Better cases. Higher prestige. It’s basically every lawyer’s dream gig. So, yeah, for three years, he’s been as solid as solid comes. But for our purposes, on this case, at this particular time, he might be a little
“So he’s just going to turn over our entire case to Sparks? That’s blatantly illegal.”
Max shook his head. “No. Bandon knows there’s no merit to Guerrero’s motion. In fact, his clerk called me this morning right after the papers were served and basically said the whole thing is bullshit. But then something must’ve changed his mind, because Bandon’s clerk called back again about”—he looked at his watch—“a little under an hour ago.”
