'I'm with you so far,' Davenport said.
'That's the gun that killed him,' I said. 'Those are the shells.'
'And what's behind door number three?' Davenport asked.
'The prints on the gun belong to Adam Styler,' I said.
'Do me a favor, would ya', Ness?' Davenport said, putting the gun in his pocket.
'What?'
'I ever make it onto your shit list, give me a call,' he said. 'Give me a chance to apologize.'
'You'll find a woman's name and phone number in the folder,' I said. 'Pay her a visit. Her English isn't too good. But it's good enough to tell you she saw Adam Styler put the gun to Lopez's head and pull the trigger.'
Davenport lit a fresh cigarette, folding the spent match in his hand. He put Styler's folder back together and slid it into the envelope.
'I'll take it from here, Ness,' Davenport said, putting out his hand. 'You did your part.'
'You need anything else, Frank knows how to reach me,' I said, shaking hands.
'Want us to drop you off anywhere?' Frank asked, turning to face me.
'No, it's okay,' I said. 'I'll get out here.'
'Say hello for me,' Frank said.
'I will,' I said, opening the car door. 'And thanks, Frank. Thanks for all your help.'
'Take care of yourself, kid,' Frank said, winking at me as I got out of the car. 'Water gets choppy out your way.'
'I'll do what I can,' I said, leaving the car and closing the door behind me.
'Hey, Ness,' Davenport said, sliding over to where I had been sitting and rolling down the window.
'What?' I said, standing by the curb.
'You ever think of becoming a cop?' he asked, smiling.
'And leave the good guys?' I said with a laugh. 'Never happen.'
TWELVE
By the end of the first week of the trial, Michael had done all that could be expected of an assistant district attorney seeking a conviction in the murder case of People vs. Reilly and Marcano. He had presented a detailed drawing of the interior of the Shamrock Pub, giving the jury a picture to go along with the verbal scenario. He had a replica made to scale, with little wax figures sitting in place of the patrons and employees. He then showed the jury how it was possible for two wax figures to walk into the pub, sit at a bar, have a few drinks, move to the rear booth, shoot dead another wax figure and leave the pub without a problem.
He just never put faces on the two wax figures.
He had the crime scene photos blown up, with Nokes' riddled corpse surrounded by two plates of jelled food and a cold cup of coffee, then displayed them for the jury. He had a forensics expert detail the make and caliber of the gun that killed Nokes and encouraged the coroner to drone on about the bloody manner of his death.
He just never had a weapon, the murder weapon, to show them.
The officers at the scene all testified as to what they found when they first arrived at the Shamrock Pub on the night of the shooting. They ran through the statements presented to them by those present. Michael then brought on the detectives assigned to the case, two veteran cops who combined those statements with other information they gathered to bring in John Reilly and Thomas Marcano.
He just never gave the jury a motive for the murder.
Michael kept to the plan, a plan that called for the action to stay simple.
He had left doubt in the minds of the jury. He had given them dozens of facts, but no weapon, no motive and, more importantly, no prints that would put John and Tommy at the scene that night. The gloves they wore helped some. Jerry the bartender quietly took care of the rest. Michael had brought two eyewitnesses to the stand, but both were shaky and one, David Carson, had his back to the shooting and saw nothing but leather jackets and blurred faces come in and out of the Shamrock Pub.
Danny O'Connor did his part as well, asking the questions he was told to ask and occasionally throwing in pertinent queries of his own. His sloppy attire and lack of finesse played well with the working-class jury Michael had helped to select. He came off as a seasoned pro, a ruffled man of the people who had seen his share of victories and defeats. He talked to them and never lectured, but always made time, when the moment called for it, for a touch of Irish drama.
Michael had been right. Danny O'Connor was perfect.
At two-thirty p.m., a half hour before the close of the Friday session, Michael Sullivan prepared to announce the final witness in his prosecution of case docket number 778462. Judge Weisman asked him to hold the witness until Monday morning, as Michael knew he would. He agreed and wished both the Judge and jury a pleasant weekend, then sat down, the first part of his job nearly finished.
He looked about five years older than he did when he and I met on that rainy night nearly four months earlier. The tension of his task, the hours we were all keeping, the uncertainty about the outcome all weighed heavy. If the plan worked it would be everyone's success. If it failed, the fault would fall to Michael.
We still didn't know if we had Father Bobby locked in as a witness and wouldn't know up until he walked into that courtroom. We decided it would be best for him to deal directly with O'Connor and not risk being seen talking to either me or Carol. If Father Bobby were to take the stand, we wanted it to be as late into the trial as possible, allowing the impact of his testimony to stay with the jury as they headed into the deliberation room.
Father Bobby Carillo, a priest with the best outside jump shot on the West Side, remained the key to a plan that called for all involved to get away with murder.
THIRTEEN
King Benny stood in front of his club, hands folded at his back, eyes staring straight ahead. Three of his men huddled close by, stamping their feet against the cold. The door to the club remained open, the lilting sound of Doris Day singing 'Que Sera, Sera' easing its way onto the street.
It was King Benny's favorite song.
'I see you've still got a thing for Doris Day,' I said, coming up next to him.
'She's a good woman,' King Benny said.
'You like her movies?' I asked.
'I don't go to movies,' King Benny said. 'C'mon, let's take a walk.'
We crossed llth Avenue and walked down 52nd Street. I kept my head down and my collar up, the wind blowing hard, the air now cutting sharp as ice. King Benny was, as usual, dressed in black shirt, slacks and jacket. His hair was slicked back and his bum leg dragged, but he walked with a slight jaunt and seemed not to notice the weather.
'This guy Addison,' King Benny said. 'The one works for the Mayor.'
'I know him,' I said.
King Benny went after Henry Addison with a vengeance. It went beyond mere business. King Benny took Henry Addison and made it personal. He knew that he was part of a young, well-to-do crowd that paid lots of money for sex parties with little boys. It didn't take King Benny long to find out who supplied those boys and how much their bodies were worth. The East Side pimp with the street name of Radio gave up everything – names, dates, videotapes and photos. Enough material to cost Henry Addison a cushy city job that was handed to him by a friend in the Mayor's office.
It took King Benny even less time to find out that, unlike his other friends, Henry Addison didn't have much money. So, he was forced to borrow for his pleasure. This put him in debt to the kind of people who charged interest in return for their loans.
'He's gonna quit his job in two weeks,' King Benny said.
'Why's that?'
'He don't want nobody to know the kind of guy he is,' King Benny said. 'Don't want nobody to see pictures of him they shouldn't see.'
'He knows this?'
'He will,' King Benny said.
'That it?' I said.
'The boys he buys for parties are expensive,' King Benny said, taking a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping the edge of his nose. 'Addison makes good money. He don't make real money.'
'What's he owe?'