Acevedo smiled at the mention of the ring. “I told Detective Graziani I bought it from Al in the park. But he didn’t believe me. He said, ‘You know what, Felix? I think you’re lying about that. I think you took the ring from Olivia Yancy.’ I told him, ‘No, I bought it from Al. It’s for my girlfriend.’ But he said I cut it off of Olivia Yancy’s finger.”
The thought that “Al” might be the killer who cut the ring from Olivia Yancy’s hand quickly crossed Marlene’s mind. Of course, if the cops were doing their jobs, they would have already checked that out and discounted the story. But I still need to follow up, she thought. It wouldn’t be the first time a detective got lazy when he thought he had a case wrapped.
“Do you know where I can find Al?” she asked.
“I see him at Mullayly Park.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s got a lot of pimples,” Acevedo replied. “And white hair.”
“White hair? Is he old?” Watkins asked.
“He’s older than me but not old. I think it’s not his real hair color.”
“So he dyes his hair,” Marlene said. “How tall is he? Is he fat or skinny?”
“A little taller than me. Skinny.” Acevedo hesitated then spoke. “Am I giving the right answers?”
“Are you telling me the truth?” Marlene asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re fine,” Marlene replied. “Was anybody else there when he sold you the ring?”
Acevedo thought about it. “No,” he said. But he must have noticed the disappointment on Marlene’s face because he’d quickly added, “But Raymond was there when Al told me I should buy it for my girlfriend.” Acevedo scowled. “Raymond made fun of me. He said I didn’t have a girlfriend. He might know how to find Al.”
Which is what had brought Marlene and her dog to the park. “Well, Raymond,” Marlene responded to the black kid’s question. “My name is Marlene Ciampi, and I’m a private investigator working on behalf of Felix Acevedo, who you may have heard has been arrested.”
A short Hispanic girl with heavy makeup stepped up next to Raymond. “Yeah, I heard that he cut up some women, which sounded strange to me. I mean, he’s a wimp. I could kick his ass without hardly trying.”
Marlene chuckled. “I bet you could. I don’t believe he’s guilty, either, but to prove it, I may need your help.”
“How’s that?” Raymond asked.
“Well, for one thing, does anybody remember Felix buying a ring from somebody named Al a couple of weeks ago?”
The Hispanic girl started to say something but Raymond stepped in front of her. “Maybe. But this ain’t no tourist booth. Information here costs money.”
Marlene reached in her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “I need twenty dollars’ worth of information,” she said, holding the bill over Gilgamesh’s muzzle. “But it better be good if you want to get paid without losing some fingers.”
Raymond looked from the bill to the dog, who gave a low growl. “Yeah, I remember a dude was trying to get him to buy a ring. Felix said it was for his girlfriend, and I gave him shit about it ’cause he ain’t got no girlfriend. The man’s cherry, if you know what I mean.”
“And this guy with the ring, do you know his name?” Marlene asked, handing over the twenty-dollar bill.
“It’s something Spanish, like Jose,” Raymond replied.
“It’s Jesus… Jesus Guerrero,” the girl said, correcting him. “He tried to hit on me, like I’d do that pizza-faced rat.”
“How would I find him?” Marlene asked.
Raymond gave her a sly smile. “I sure can tell you how to find him,” he said. “But it’s going to cost you ten more.”
Marlene dug in her purse for another ten dollars. “Okay, where’s he at?”
Raymond laughed as he took the money and looked over her shoulder. “He’s heading this way right now.”
16
As he waited for Ray Guma to settle into his favorite chair next to the bookshelf, Karp considered what he’d gleaned from reading the Yancy-Jenkins case file over the weekend. And he was none too happy about it.
Reading for several hours at a time, he digested the entire case file, including the autopsies and toxicology reports, the transcript of the defendant’s taped confession to Detective Graziani, and the Q amp; A statement subsequently given to ADA Danielle Cohn, as well as the initial police reports and supplemental detective investigative reports, known as DD-5s. All told there were some 1,500 pages worth of DD-5s, including a chronology of the events leading to Acevedo’s arrest in the Bronx and subsequent interrogations.
Guma had dropped by the loft Sunday evening after arriving back in town and getting the news about Acevedo’s arrest and indictment. Karp handed him the case file. “Let me know your thoughts tomorrow afternoon” was all he’d said.
Guma had just entered the office-after a quick flirtation with Darla Milquetost-and tossed the case file on Karp’s desk. He then plopped down in the chair and pulled out an enormous cigar. He was no longer allowed to smoke the Diplimatico, both for health reasons and because smoking was not allowed inside any public building in Manhattan. But he still enjoyed chewing on stogies and complaining about “the meddling politically-correct antismoking Nazis.”
“So?” Karp asked when his longtime friend and colleague quit admiring the cigar and stuck it in his mouth.
“So… I think someone screwed the pooch,” Guma responded. “I didn’t get to read the Acevedo stuff as carefully as I would have liked, but what I did is bullshit. I could start with the so-called confessions. I think it’s pretty clear that Acevedo was led to the poisoned well, but why’d he drink the water? The detective got in his face-a little huffing and puffing and a few threats-and when he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted, nothing physical or anything that could be deemed overtly coercive or inappropriate took place. And there’s almost no pressure from Cohn when she took his Q amp; A statement, which is spot-on with what he told the detective. With very little prodding, Acevedo followed the detective’s lead and then stuck to it with Danielle. I find that curious.”
Guma stopped talking and placed the cigar back in his mouth, closing his eyes as though gathering his thoughts. Or tired, Karp thought. He noted how his friend’s once thick and wavy dark hair was now thin and white, the formerly muscular baseball player’s body thin and frail-all casualties of the cancer that had nearly killed him.
The night before, Guma had admitted that he felt old, which was unusual for him. The cancer had beat him “like a rented mule,” he’d said, and he’d never regained the energy levels he had before chemotherapy. “But it’s not that so much. It’s this shit,” he said, holding up the case file. “I’m tired of crime scenes and the tears of moms and dads, fathers, husbands, wives, and especially the children. Tired of all the wasted lives. Tired of the excuses and the senseless brutality. It’s just wearing on my heart and soul.”
Concerned, Karp said, “You don’t have to do this anymore, Goom. You fought the good fight. You could retire.”
“Yeah?” Guma asked. “Lay down the sword and fade away, forget about fighting the bad guys? Forget about justice? Could you?”
Karp smiled and shook his head. “No. Guess we’re in this until they kick us out.”
“Or we die with our boots on, whichever comes first,” Guma said, laughing.
Tired or not, Guma’s dark brown eyes were still bright with intelligence when he opened them again in Karp’s office and said, “But there’s a bigger problem than leading questions and threatening a suspect with the death penalty.”
“The ring,” Karp said grimly.
“Yeah, the ring,” Guma said in agreement. “I figured you’d seen it and that was why you wanted me to speed-read the file.”