Now I'm not too worried about the Hobbs police. If anything they're doing a good job protecting what we've created. But that Parker reporter, we can't give him anything more to latch onto. The New York media gets hold of this, it goes national. Nobody gives two shits about a poor kid in a poor city."
"I hear you, Ray. Geez, it's not like I don't know this already."
"Fucking Parker," Ray said. "Never been so stupid in my life. Ten years ago, no way that kid gets the jump on me. Never used to underestimate folks. All of a sudden
Parker can ID me and probably you. His word against mine, and I've already spoken to our friend who's good with tools who'll claim I was working late that night. So here's what happens. If it even looks like this guy might throw a wrench into things, we don't wait for him to fall into our lap. We take him out. And the girl if necessary.
No more cigarettes, no more nicey-nice. Quick, simple, and they disappear."
"Like those kids we nabbed," Vince said, satisfied.
"No. Not like those kids. Parker and Davies have to stay gone."
31
Manhattan's 19th Precinct was located on Sixty-Seventh
Street between Lexington and Third Avenue. I'd only been there once, just a month or so after I'd arrived in New York.
It was to report a lost or possibly stolen cell phone. I'd filled out a form with my information, handed it to the cop behind the front desk, and that was the last I ever heard about it. Probably for the best. The NYPD has more important crimes to worry about than who took my Nokia.
Curt had worked at the 19th going on three years. I knew he was well respected within the department, one of those up-and-comers that are a rare breed in that they're both clean-cut enough to stick on a recruiting poster, but hardworking and intuitive enough to gain the respect of the rank and file.
It was this respect that I was counting on as Amanda and I entered the precinct. The majority of cops had no love lost for me, and despite being vindicated many still considered me responsible for the death of one of their own. The irony was that even though the department loved
Curt's image, he couldn't have cared less. That's the only reason he agreed to bring me into his precinct. It wouldn't win him any friends, but it would help uncover the truth.
The precinct was up a short flight of stairs. It had a red brick facade and an arched entryway, bracketed by two green lamps, above which hung a yellow banner that read
"Thank you for your support." The banner was bookended by two images: the American flag and the badge of the NYPD.
Curt led Amanda and me through the precinct, though not nearly as fast as I would have liked. I could feel eyeballs boring holes through me as we snaked through the corridors, and knew that many of these men had worked with, probably known, John Fredrickson. A few years back, I defended two people Fredrickson was beating to death, and in the struggle the man's gun went off, killing him. I didn't know he was a cop, and his death was the result of choices made long before I came along. Yet perception was reality, and the feeling was if I hadn't stuck my nose in, he'd still be alive.
"Just this way," Curt said. We followed him down the hall into a row of cubicles, each one set up with large, likely obsolete computers. We entered a larger cubicle which was set up in a U-shape, two computers at either end. The walls were covered with crime-scene photos, mug shots, business cards. Curt pulled up a pair of chairs, then sat in a larger one. He shifted around a few times, then leaned forward and scratched his ass.
"That's lovely," Amanda said.
"Hey, if you can convince Chief Carruthers to spend an extra nickel on chairs that don't make your ass feel like it's the wrong side of a Velcro strip, you'd be spared seeing illicit activities such as these."
"Is it really that bad?" I asked.
"Man, come around here during lunchtime when the detectives are all eating at their desks. You'd think a family
of porcupines must have made a nest in every seat. Like a messed-up orchestra, all scratching at the time same."
I said, "Think I'll file that under 'visual imagery I hope to file away and never see again.' So what is this here?"
"Here is where we find out about the criminal record for this guy Benjamin, the dude listed on the property deed on Huntley Terrace. You're sure this Ray Benjamin is the same cat who hung you out to dry in that tinderbox out on Huntley?"
"I can't be sure, but that's what we're here to find out."
"Now, you said this guy made a comment about serving time up at Attica, right?"
"That's right."
"Then our boy's damn sure got a record. Which means he's just a mouse click away from being ours."
Curt logged in to a database, then proceeded to enter first name "Raymond," last name "Benjamin," into the fields. He plugged the years 1968 and 1972 into another field marked "date range." He clicked a box marked "Caucasian" and pressed the search key. One of those helpful little hourglass icons appeared on the screen. On my computer, the sand fell through the hourglass at roughly the same speed as cars cruising Fifth Avenue during the
Puerto Rican Day parade.
A few minutes and ass scratches later, the hourglass disappeared and a file appeared on the screen. A mug shot appeared in the top-right corner of the page. I recognized the man in the image at once.
"That's him," I said, pointing to the screen like I was picking him out of a lineup. "Holy shit, that's the guy."
"From the other night?" Curt said. "This is Raymond
Benjamin."
I nodded. "No doubt."
Despite the picture being at least twenty years old, it was easy to tell this was the same man. The man in this photo had a fuller head of hair, fewer lines cutting across his face, but the look in his eye was the same. Defiance. Anger.
"There's no scar," I said. "When I saw Benjamin that night, there was a faint scar on his right cheek. There's nothing like that in this picture."
"Let's see here," Curt said. He clicked a button, then the photo enlarged. Curt highlighted a line below the photo.
"Mug shot, dated 1969."
"Probably the last shot taken before he was sent to
Attica," I said.
Amanda traced her finger down the man's cheek on the screen. "So if this photo was taken before he went to prison, there's certainly a chance he either got that scar in jail or afterward."
"Yeah, the scar actually did zigzag a little bit, like it had been stitched up by someone who got their medical license at the local butcher shop." I looked at Curt. "This is the only photo on record for this guy?"
"Afraid so," he said. "So what I want to know is how a dude who got busted for armed robbery in the sixties ended up buying a house that got burned down over thirty years later?"
"After he almost barbecued my balls," I added. "And if the house is owned by a three-time loser, why did the inside look fit for the Huxtables?"
"Obviously the house was in his name, but that was to hide whoever actually lived there," Amanda said.
"What I think happened," I said, "is that this guy
Benjamin bought the house as a front. I'm not quite sure what the catalyst was, but a husband and wife named Robert and
Elaine Reed have actually been the ones living on Huntley."
"They weren't in the fire though," Amanda said.
"No, no bodies found. Not that Russian doctor or anyone else," Curt said.
"So the papers are in this guy Benjamin's name, but he sublets it to the Reeds. Only there's no paperwork or documentation. The Reeds have a young son, Patrick, but according to receipts from a local toy store they'd been purchasing gifts for a young girl within the past month. I think very recently, the Reeds added a young girl to their family. Only I don't think they did it through conception or adoption."