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.
Who dismissed the idea with a wave. “Wyatt already told you not to worry about that.”
“Oh. Okay, I won’t then.”
“Craig. Really. He’s the one paying you, so if it doesn’t bother him, how is it going to hurt you?”
“It goes on my record and I have to put that on my application…”
Tamara shook her head. “It’s a misdemeanor at most, Craig.”
“That would do it, though, Tam, which is kind of the point.”
“But you don’t even have that. The only way that happens is if they catch you with the actual weed. Being on this list isn’t proof of anything. And you’ve gotten rid of all your stuff, so even if they come and search your place-as if-then so what?” She gave him a tolerant look. “You’re just upset because you got caught. And because now Wyatt knows.”
“Maybe some of that.”
“Except he doesn’t care. You don’t think he’s smoked a little weed in his time?”
“I’d bet not much.”
“Well, you might be right there. But don’t you think he supposes you and me maybe were together a time or two that your alleged dope-smoking took place?”
Craig, reclining sideways with his knees up over the edge of the small love seat that was the only place for a guest or a client to sit, broke a small smile. “I didn’t rat you out, Tam. Promise.”
She favored him with her own smile. “I didn’t say you did, Gala-had, and I know you wouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean that Wyatt wouldn’t have put two and two together-or in our case, one and one.” She picked up an emery board from her desk blotter and started working on one of her fingernails. “I think the smart thing for you and me to do, which we’ve already done, is just take it as a wake-up call to be a little smarter, give the stuff up altogether.”
Chiurco, arms crossed, pursed his lips at that request.
“What?” Tamara asked. “Would that really be so hard?”
“Not really hard. More like just unnecessary. I like the stuff. You like the stuff. Everybody agrees it shouldn’t be illegal. So why should I be coerced to give it up entirely?”
Tamara held up one finger. “Me, me, Monty, call on me. How about because it is illegal? Whether it should be or not. And you want to work around law enforcement. You get caught with it-you said it-it’s on your record. It can affect things-your application, for example. So there’s a reason to give it up right there.” She pushed back her chair and turned to face him. “The thing is, though, in real life nothing’s going to happen around this. Your name is on a list that may or may not have been this guy Vogler’s clients. It might have just been people who owed him money.”