But now Jerry’s take took it to a different level, contemplating that Maya herself might have been the prime mover, and armed with political connections and possibly even police protection, she would have been all but invulnerable to suspicion, much less prosecution.
And then-instead of this imagined blackmail about what she’d maybe or maybe not done in her past-the murder had simply been the usual dope deal gone bad. Maya had killed her employee because of any number of common reasons-he wanted a bigger cut, he was selling to his own customers and leaving her out, he was either getting sloppy or hard to control.
Now Jerry Glass settled back into his chair, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him, a faraway glint in his eyes over a tight-lipped smile. “I know how we can get these people to talk,” he said.
Back in his office once again, Glitsky sat slumped, his elbows on the armrests of his chair, his hands joined in front of his mouth. He was back in at work because what else was he going to do? Zachary was coming out of the coma, although they were going to operate on him again to close up his skull tomorrow. Rationally, he knew that there was reason for hope, and yet all he could feel was a deep self-loathing. Regardless of what Treya or Hardy or anyone else said, he knew that all of this was his fault.
Through his lack of attention he’d allowed his son to be hit by a car-there was still a reasonable chance that his boy could die. Even if he didn’t die, he might never be completely right in the head again. And they might not know the extent of those injuries, if any, for years.
He’d left the lights off at the door, so again the high windows provided the only illumination, and not much of it at that.
He clearly wasn’t welcoming guests.
Nevertheless, somebody knocked and he straightened up and intoned, “Come in.”
Bracco poked his head in. “Sir? Lights?”
“Sure.”
Glitsky covered his face with one hand against the sudden brightness, then lowered the hand and faced both of his inspectors with a flat eye. “Come on in. Have a seat.”
Bracco was on his way over to a chair, but Schiff saw him and noticed something and stopped in the doorway. “Are you okay, Lieutenant?”
He turned to look at her and surprised himself when he said, “My son’s in the hospital. He got hit by a car. He came out of a coma this morning, but he’s got another operation tomorrow. I’m sorry I’ve been out. What can I do for you two?”
Both of the inspectors broke into condolences and questions, and he responded and answered dutifully without really hearing many of the individual words. They were just noise against the constant thrum of the guilt in his head.
And then finally he became vaguely aware that they were talking about something else, something to do with their case, and after a couple of minutes of that-mostly more white noise-he held up a hand. “Whoa up,” he said to Schiff, who appeared to be acting as spokesperson. “Can you repeat that last part? Are you talking about Jerry Glass? Federal Jerry Glass?”
“Yes, sir, but that’s what makes this so good, at least potentially. He says the dope is enough, especially in the quantity we found at Vogler’s place, to trigger a forfeiture.”
“Forfeiture?”
Schiff nodded with enthusiasm. “Confiscating their property.”
Glitsky said, “I know what forfeiture is, Debra. But whose property?”
“Maybe Vogler’s, if for example we can prove that he used any part of the profits from the drug sales to pay off his house. But also Maya Townshend’s, and even better, maybe her husband Joel’s.”
“Townshend Real Estate?” Glitsky asked.
Bracco finally spoke. “It could be huge, Abe. Millions and millions.”
“They were in the drug business? I thought she didn’t know anything about that.”
“Well, that’s her story,” Schiff said. “But Darrel and I don’t really believe it. And Jerry Glass doesn’t believe it. And he thinks he can get a federal grand jury motivated to prove it.”
“Well, all that’s well and good, but how’s it relate to the homicide you’re trying to bring to trial? We’re still doing homicide here, right? That hasn’t changed during my short absence?”
“Jerry thinks there’s much more going on, and that Vogler’s murder’s in the middle of it. He gets these people into a forfeiture situation on the civil side, then he gets to ask them anything on the criminal side in secret with the grand jury, they look into their assets, get connections we wouldn’t have a chance at.”
“Plus,” Bracco added, “the threat alone. It’s pretty powerful leverage. They tell us the truth or-”
Glitsky cut him off. “I get the concept,” he said, “but I can’t say I really like it.”
“What’s not to like?” Schiff asked.
“Well, for starters, if you don’t have any evidence, how do you decide that these people are your suspects? Or that one of them is. You leaning toward any one of them?”
“Maya doesn’t look bad for it, Lieutenant,” Schiff said. “She was down there, it was her gun. We know her relationship with Vogler was squirrelly at best.”
“So bring her downtown and sweat her.”
“Not so easy,” Schiff said. “She’s already lawyered up. Your friend Diz Hardy.”
“Wonderful.” Glitsky studied the ceiling for a moment. Then, “What about this list of Vogler’s customers? You don’t think it’s reasonable he was killed by one of them?”
“Why?” Bracco asked.
A shrug. “The usual stupid reasons, Darrel. He cut the dope with parsley and somebody didn’t like it. Or one of ’em graduated to crack and just went psycho. Or he stiffed a guy for five bucks. Or any one of a hundred other reasons. Have you talked to any of these people?”
“Some,” Schiff said. “There’s seventy-two of them, Abe.”
He nodded soberly. “I’m sorry about that, I really am. But it seems to me that at least you’ve got to talk to them, if only to eliminate. Find out who was where on that Saturday morning. I know it’s tedious, but that’s the job. Sometimes we’ve just got to grind it out.”
“What about Jerry Glass?” Schiff asked.
“I don’t know,” Glitsky said. “If I’d have been here, I might have suggested you two hold off on going that route for a while, at least until somebody pops up as a bona fide suspect that the forfeiture or the grand jury might squeeze. Now I think we just gotta hope he doesn’t get too much in the way.”
12
As was often the case early on a workday, Craig Chiurco was lounging in the small reception area of The Hunt Club, Wyatt’s office in the heart of Chinatown, chewing the fat with his girlfriend, Tamara Dade, who answered the phones and occasionally did fieldwork-taking pictures, tailing female witnesses. Tamara, twenty-six, tended to dress for the office in brightly colored miniskirts with form-hugging tops, and there was ample form to hug over the tight, and often exposed, stomach with its tasteful little gold naval ring. Today only the ring’s shape showed under the orange leotard an inch or two before it disappeared into her black skirt-Halloween was coming up.
Craig, maybe five years her senior, had been going out with her now for about three years, although they still maintained separate apartments. After four years working with Hunt, doing anything he was asked to do, but mostly subpoena service and stakeout work, Craig had acquired enough hours in the profession to start the application process for his own private investigator’s license. But, of course, being on Vogler’s list, his career plans were in jeopardy. And he was saying so to Tamara.