So far he had not told anybody about his conversation with Cassino. He felt obligated to tell Graziani first. He didn’t particularly like the man; he’d been acting like a rock star ever since the news of the Columbia U Slasher arrest broke, and he declined interviews but somehow details about the crimes and the arrest kept being leaked to the press, with Joey Graziani as the man of the hour. He’d even gotten his wish and had been reassigned to the Two-Six detective squad in Morningside Heights to work the case. But there was still the brotherhood of the gold shield, and if Cassino’s story checked out, it was going to mess up Graziani’s case.
There was a chance that the other detective could redeem himself if he used Cassino’s information to catch the real killer, even if it meant admitting that charging Acevedo was a mistake. A chance, but not much of one, Brock thought. The New York County DAO had indicted Acevedo based on Graziani’s investigation and recommendations. Having to backtrack now would not only cause a great deal of embarrassment to the DAO, which the press would go to town with, but it would also present real difficulties in prosecuting a new defendant.
No, Graziani wasn’t going to be happy about the news. It’s his own damn fault, Brock thought with a touch of anger. He’d been sloppy and determined to pin the murders on Acevedo come hell or high water. And that sort of thing reflects on all of us.
Brock had seen it before, detectives who got so myopic about one particular suspect that they missed clues that could have prevented a mistake. Graziani had been so desperate to get out of the Bronx and saw Acevedo as his ticket, but if Cassino was right, he might wish he was back at the Four-Eight.
He was still thinking about the ramifications when he saw Graziani enter the pub and stand for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. He turned and spotted Brock, then walked over with a big grin as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. He held out his hand. “Hey, paisan, how ya doin’? Still enjoying the hellhole they call the Bronx?”
“I’m okay, Joey,” Brock said, shaking the other man’s hand without much enthusiasm.
Graziani didn’t seem to notice or care. “Glad that you called, glad that you called,” he said. “Been meaning to give you a jingle and ask why the Bronx DA hasn’t filed on Acevedo yet. Can’t get Hartsfield to move his fat ass?” He chuckled as a waitress walked up. “Couple of Brooklyn Locals work for you?” he asked Brock. “I’m buying.”
Brock shook his head. “Nothing for me, thanks. I quit drinking ten years ago after wife number two left me.”
“Good for you.” Graziani smirked as he held up one finger to the waitress. “Though as my old man used to tell me, ‘I don’t trust a drinking man when I’m sober or a sober man when I’m drinking.’ So why haven’t you guys filed?”
Brock shrugged. “They’re still putting it together. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to wonder if Acevedo is my guy.”
Graziani frowned. “What do you mean? You got a solid case-in some ways better than mine, with a witness ID, and he confessed to the attempted rape and the Atkins murder.” His voice was tense and the bonhomie was gone.
“Yeah, but I’m still bothered by a couple of things,” Brock said. “For instance, the assault victim, Marianne Tate, described hitting the guy who grabbed her with her left elbow, striking him on the left side of the face.”
“So?”
“So, Acevedo’s face was bruised on the right side.”
Graziani rolled his eyes. “Big fuckin’ deal. It wouldn’t be the first time a victim got mixed up. Or maybe he turned his head. It don’t mean shit.”
“Maybe,” Brock said. “But I also talked to his mom, who said his dad hit him the night before he was arrested. She described it as a backhand blow to the right side of his face.”
Now the other detective was scowling. “So what? Maybe the victim didn’t hit him hard enough to cause a bruise. Or the mom is covering for her kid. He told the ADA the same thing he told me.”
“Yeah, and my gut tells me that kid was just parroting everything we gave him,” Brock said, “and he picked up on it real good. I looked back at my interview with him and it’s clear he followed my lead. I knew better, but I wanted the killer, too. And you practically spoon-fed him the answers you wanted.”
Graziani’s eyes blazed and he started to say something but stopped as the waitress delivered his beer. He picked it up and drank half of it before setting it down again. “I didn’t threaten him, didn’t hit him,” he said with his jaw clenched. “He was caught and he knew it. He was just hoping to get a deal if he cooperated. You’re throwing away a perfectly good case on bullshit technicalities and your ‘gut.’ I’m glad the New York DAO wasn’t so chickenshit.”
Brock stared hard at Graziani for a moment. The guy was an asshole but this didn’t mean he was a bad cop; they’d both made mistakes on this one. “What I think isn’t your biggest problem,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Graziani scowled.
Brock told him about Vinnie Cassino’s accusations against Kadyrov.
“Bullshit,” Graziani spat, and finished his beer. “He’s just another scumbag drug dealer trying to cut a deal.”
“He knew about the missing blue shirt.”
“Maybe he read about it in the newspapers.”
“I looked,” Brock said. “I couldn’t find a single story that talked about the shirt.”
“Maybe he heard it from Acevedo,” Graziani said. “Kid’s probably a meth head and bragged about doing these women. Maybe Cassino heard about it but got him mixed up with this Ahmed Kadyrov. Or maybe somebody on the task force let it out. There must have been a hundred people who could have seen the investigation reports.”
“Yeah, it’s all possible,” Brock said, unconvinced. “You ever hear of Kadyrov? He’s got a rap sheet for a few B amp; Es in Manhattan and Queens.”
“Never heard of him,” Graziani said.
“Well, maybe if you tracked him down, and this Cassino has what he says he does, you still get the collar, and all else is forgiven.”
“Yeah, right,” Graziani sneered. He rubbed his face with his hand. “The DA and NYPD brass will throw me to the wolves. I’d be the guy who made them look like fools. I’ll be pulling traffic detail in Staten fucking Island until I’m pensioned.” Graziani stared at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head and looked Brock in the eyes. “I don’t believe Cassino. I know we got the right guy for this. The rest of this is bullshit. But if you let this out, a defense attorney will use it to jack up my case and put doubt in the minds of the jurors. And that means a psychopath gets off scot-free.”
Brock tilted his head and shrugged. “Sorry. You know I have to turn in this report.”
Graziani looked for a moment like he wanted to bust his beer glass on his colleague’s head, but then he relaxed. “You didn’t file the report yet?”
Brock hesitated; he didn’t like Graziani to start with and liked him even less now. “Not yet,” he said. “I wanted to give you a head start so that you could run this Kadyrov to the ground and figure out if Cassino is telling the truth. But I’m going to have to tell Sergeant Marks soon. We’re supposed to meet with the assistant district attorney assigned to the Atkins case early next week.”
Graziani thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry; don’t know what I was thinking. Can you give me a couple of days to find this Ahmed Kadyrov before you let the cat out of the bag? Maybe I can still make this come out all right. At least get the bad guy off the streets even if my ass gets fried for it.”
Brock nodded. “Yeah, I can hold off for a few days. Maybe Kadyrov is connected to the Atkins murder, in which case you’d be doing me a favor, too.”