Marlene pulled the camera out of her purse and pushed a button before turning the screen toward Amy. “I’m going to show you six photographs of different men. Stop me if you recognize any one of them.”
Amy looked at each photograph as it appeared but stopped Marlene at the fourth. “That’s Mr. Pizza Face right there.”
Marlene looked at the face on the screen. Jesus Guerrero, she thought with satisfaction. “Good,” she said. “And if I need you to identify him for the authorities, would you be willing to do that?”
“You bet. Maybe they’ll lock him up for a few years.”
“Actually, I might need him as a cooperative witness,” Marlene said. “I may want him to testify that he sold your ring to another man. It could save that man’s life.”
“Well, that’s more important than putting Pizza Face in jail,” Amy said, “though I’d still like to punch him. But hey, do you think I’ll get my ring back?”
“You may have to wait until this case is resolved,” Marlene said, “but you should be able to after that, and I’ll help.”
“Then I’m good with it,” Amy said, and smiled. “It may be a small diamond, but it was my first. Thank you, Marlene.”
18
Vinnie Cassino sat in the back of the squad car weighing his options. He’d traveled to the South Bronx and a seedy apartment off Anderson Avenue to purchase several ounces of methamphetamine from his favorite dealer, only to learn the hard way that he’d been set up. Now he was looking at a felony drug possession with intent to sell, and they’d popped him with a handgun for an additional count. With two prior strikes against him, another could earn him the unwanted legal title of “habitual offender,” or in the vernacular of the streets a “three-time loser,” looking at life behind bars.
Time to play my ace, he told himself. “Hey, tell Detective Brock that I need to talk to him,” he said. “Tell him he’s got the wrong guy for the Atkins murder. The guy didn’t do the two in Manhattan either, but I know who did.”
The police officer driving the car looked in the rearview mirror at the scruffy, gray-haired drug dealer with the protruding forehead and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Sherlock,” he said in a tone that implied he was unimpressed by suspects trying to make deals on the way to jail.
“Listen, asshole, I’m telling the truth,” Cassino said. “You’ll be walking the two A.M. beat in Bed-Stuy if you blow this.”
“Watch your mouth, punk,” the officer snarled, “or maybe we’ll stop in an alley for a little attitude adjustment before I get you to lockup.”
“Go ahead,” Cassino retorted, “then I won’t have to say nothing to Brock, and I’ll still walk. But if you got any brains, tell him to check and see if a blue silk shirt came up missing in the Manhattan killing.”
An hour later, the police officer was talking to Sergeant McManus when he saw Brock. The officer weighed whether to tell the detective about the drug dealer. It was probably bullshit; then again, most of the scumbags trying to weasel their way to freedom didn’t first offer something that could be checked out. He decided to pass the information on.
“Detective Brock, I’m Dave Drummond,” the officer said. “This is probably nothing but I was detailed to haul a drug dealer named Vinnie Cassino down to booking after a bust this morning.”
“Cassino? Doesn’t ring a bell,” Brock replied with a frown.
“Yeah, and this probably isn’t anything but a line of BS,” Drummond said, “but he was real insistent that I tell you that you’ve got the wrong guy in the Atkins case. He says he knows who did it.”
“And I’m the queen of England,” Brock snorted. “If it would get him a better deal, he’d probably tell me who killed Kennedy, too.”
Drummond laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he would. But anyway, he said to ask you about a blue silk shirt in the Manhattan case.”
The smile faded from Brock’s face. After Graziani connected Acevedo to the Yancy-Jenkins double murder, Brock asked for a copy of the Manhattan file to see if there was something in it that could help him nail down the Atkins case. The file contained a report on items the younger victim’s husband had identified as missing-some jewelry, purses, and a blue silk shirt taken from his closet. He remembered that item in particular as it meant the perp had changed clothes after the bloodbath. It was one of the details that had been kept from the press as far as he could remember, but now some drug dealer knew about it.
“A blue silk shirt, you’re sure that’s what he said?” Brock asked.
“Yeah, positive,” Drummond replied. “It mean something?”
“Maybe,” Brock said, and patted the young officer on the shoulder. “You done good, kid, I’ll pass my thanks on to your supervisor.”
The young officer grinned. A commendation from a senior detective to the higher-ups could speed up the time it took to get his detective’s gold shield. “No problem.”
Twenty minutes later Brock was waiting in one of the interview rooms when Cassino was brought in. “You wanted to talk to me?” he asked.
“No, I think you want to talk to me,” Cassino replied. “But I want a deal, or I ain’t saying shit.”
“What are you offering for this deal?”
Cassino’s eyes grew shrewd and ratlike as he leaned forward. “You got the wrong guy for these killings. And I know who did it.”
Brock shrugged. “Anybody can say that.”
“That cop told you about the blue silk shirt or you wouldn’t be here,” Cassino said.
“What about it?” Brock asked.
“What if I told you the famous Columbia U Slasher wore that to my pad the day of the killings?” Cassino said. “That and that me and my old lady saw blood on his pants. There’s more, too, but that’s all you get for now.”
“I’m interested,” Brock said. “So who is this guy?”
Cassino grinned, revealing missing teeth and serious dental problems with those that remained. “Not so fast, Detective. I can tell you his name, but that won’t do shit for you. Not without me and my old lady testifying, and what’s more, I got a tape of him talking about that other woman, your case in the Bronx. But I ain’t scratching your back until you or whoever has to fix this scratches mine.”
“What are you going to want?” Brock asked.
Leaning back in his chair, Cassino smiled again as if he’d just concluded a big business deal. “I’m a two-time loser and if they get me on this latest charge, they’ll put me away for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life,” he said. “Either way, I don’t like the idea of being away from my sweet Lydia for so long. So first things first, I’m gonna make bail, but I want these charges to go away, and I want the Crime Stoppers reward for giving this guy up. In exchange, you get me and my old lady on the witness stand pointing to that asshole in the courtroom, and you get my tape and the blue silk shirt.”
“That’s asking a lot,” Brock said. “You’ve got to give me more.”
“All right, I’ll give you the fucker’s name,” Cassino replied. “Like I said, it ain’t gonna do you no good without me, but at least you could start looking for him. His name is Ahmed Kadyrov.”
“Know where I can find him?” Brock asked.
“Maybe,” Cassino said. “Or at least where to start looking. But that’s all you get until I get a deal.”
“I’ll talk to the higher-ups,” Brock said. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Then I can’t either,” Cassino said. “If I’m going away for a long time, I’m going to do it without a snitch jacket.”
Two hours later, Brock sat in a booth in the Lino Tavern, a favorite hangout for cops working out of the Four-Eight off Van Nest Avenue. He was waiting to give Joey Graziani some unwelcome news and not looking forward to his reaction.
After sending Cassino back to his cell, Brock had looked up Ahmed Kadyrov and found a young man by that name with a record for crimes committed in Queens and Manhattan. He wasn’t big-time, just a few burglaries committed when the owners weren’t home during the day, but nothing too serious or anything that would indicate a sex killer. People change, he reminded himself, and he was comfortable working daylight hours. He could have been surprised and things turned nasty.