In This Rain (32 page)

“Maybe he forgot where he put it. Maybe the French maid moved it. Who the hell knows? But we do have the bling. It was him and everything else still points to him. We’ve got him, Luis, and I’m not letting him go. We’ve got him.”

Perez shook his head. “Princess, I hope to hell you’re right.”

*

She was wrong.

The first to recant, early Monday morning, was the jeweler, Levi Morgenstern.

“I told you I thought so,” he said. “I said I needed a few days to make sure.”

Ann, in answer to Morgenstern’s call, had gone up to the cluttered third-floor warren on Forty-seventh Street that served as the jeweler’s office, showroom, and workspace. She stood before his desk as he said, “Those pieces, the chain and the ring, plus also the pendant with the K on it, they did look like the ones I made for the gentleman.”

“Gentleman?” Ann snorted.

The jeweler blinked. He was shorter than she, his white shirt tieless and buttoned to the neck, his black yarmulke bobby-pinned to his thinning hair. “Here, my customers are all gentlemen,” he reproved mildly. He gestured to a wall crowded with photos of lesser-known rappers and minor NBA players.

“And now you’ve looked more closely at the pieces?”

“The pieces, you didn’t leave. I looked at the photographs you gave me. I compared carefully. The authorities say it’s important, who wants to make a mistake? I’m telling you, these are three good copies but they’re not my pieces.”

“You mean they’re fake?”

“The stones? For that I would have to examine the real thing. From the pictures, I suppose they could be diamonds, the chains could be platinum and gold. But I didn’t make them.”

“But Kong did come here?”

“Yes, of course. And I made him some fine pieces. Which someone must have seen, to copy like this. But the pieces you have, these are not the ones that belonged to Mr. Kong.”

“You’re sure?”

“From the pictures— ”

“I’ll bring back the pieces themselves. So you can look again.”

He shrugged. “Bring, if you want. I’ll look. But if you’re asking me, I have to tell you: this is what it is.”

*

“Ann— ”

“He got to him, Greg.”

“Sit down.”

“What’s the difference if I sit or stand? Walter Glybenhall— ”

“Sit down!”

She met his glare and abruptly sat.

“Sure,” he said, and his voice seemed to have weight, actual tonnage in each word. “Got to him. It’s possible.”

“For God’s sake! Even if they are fake! What are the chances of Walter Glybenhall having copies of Kong’s bling? A diamond-crusted chain and a ring big enough to choke a goddamn horse, just happening to be in his safe? And the K O’Doul found at the Mott Haven site— ”

“Dammit, Ann, there’s no connection between that K and Glybenhall except in your mind! And Glybenhall doesn’t have to explain why he has copies of Kong’s bling. If those pieces aren’t actually Kong’s we lose a big link between the two of them.”

“How about this: Kong sold the real stuff off, had these copies made, and was wearing them when Walter shot him. It’s possible.”

“Oh, sure. And it’s also possible we arrested one of the most powerful men in New York and we have no goddamn case!”

“No, it’s not! Dammit, Greg! We were careful. We checked and cross-checked. Everything fit. If it were anyone but Glybenhall we’d have gone to the DA with half of what we had!”

“And if it were anyone but Glybenhall nobody would give a damn that the case is falling apart.”

“That’s pretty cynical.”

“Your ass is on the line, Ann. Your buddy Perez’s, too. And Mark Shapiro’s. And mine.” He stood and began pacing. Ann almost sprang up to join him, but he hit her with a look that spoke very loudly about whose office it was. Chafing, she stayed in her seat. “I thought going after Glybenhall was crazy from the start,” Lowry said. “But you got to me. What you had sounded solid. I went out on a limb to talk Shapiro and the mayor into it and now— ! If it were anybody else. Well, it’s not anybody else! You may think you’ve seen trouble in your life but I’m telling you, none of it comes near what you’ll see if this blows up in our faces.”

“We had a case,” she insisted. “We still have one.”

“Then get the hell out of here!” He backhanded the air as though chasing a fly. “Get to work. Double-check and triple-check and make damn sure there are no more surprises. If we— ” His phone rang. He mashed the speakerphone button. “What?”

“It’s Detective Perez,” said the receptionist defensively. “He’s looking for Ann. I told him to leave a message, but he says it’s urgent. He says there’s a problem.”

Harlem: Frederick Douglass Boulevard

Blowfish came strolling into Ford’s office fifteen minutes late, like any powerful executive who’d called a meeting. “Nice of ya’ll to come.” He flashed his gold-capped smile around the room.

“Skip the bullshit,” Luis Perez snapped. “I’m this close to taking you in.”

“And I’m closer,” said Ann Montgomery, beside Perez. Tom Underhill said nothing, but he didn’t look any happier than the other two.

“Fuck you say, taking me in? I ain’t done nothing and I ain’t gotta be here.” Blowfish spun and headed for the door.

“All right, that’s enough!” Ford stood. “Blowfish, these people are here because you wanted them here. You have something to say, say it.”

“Fuck that! This asshole— ”

“Skip it, Blowfish,” Ford told him calmly. “Or I’ll swear you were trespassing, and someone will arrest you.”

“Trespassing? You are fucking shitting me.”

“It would get you a few nights in jail. Nothing you couldn’t handle, I’m sure, but you probably have better things to do. So go ahead and say whatever you made everyone come here to hear.”

Blowfish rubbed his chin, appearing to consider this. “Well,” he drawled. “Like I already told Mr. Corrington. It ain’t him.”

“Not who?” Perez’s question came through clenched teeth.

“That guy. White bread with the fucked-up name.”

“Walter Glybenhall?”

“Yeah, him. The dude I saw with my man Kong, it ain’t him.”

“You identified his picture, Blowfish. You picked him out of a lineup!”

“Yeah, well, must’ve been a bad picture. And that lineup— shit, all them tall, pointy-nose white dudes look alike. Know what I’m saying? Now I seen him on TV couple times. I’m telling you, it ain’t him.”

“You’re lying,” Montgomery said. “Perjury’s a bad crime, Blowfish. It could get you some serious time.”

“Shit. This what a citizen get, trying to help out?”

“How much did he pay you to change your story?”

“No one ain’t paid me nothing. Shit, guy like me get nervous in a cop shop. Them pictures, I thought they was the dude I saw. Then one of them fuckers in the lineup look like the picture. So I pick him. ’Cause that’s what you wanted.” Blowfish grinned. “But now I been seein’ Glyben-what-the-fuck on TV, like 24/7. And word: he ain’t the guy. It just ain’t him.”

Harlem: State Office Building

Edgar Westermann was enjoying himself. Long time since he’d stood in the back row at anybody’s press event, and longer— maybe since never— that he’d stood up with a white man like this. Something to be said, he had to admit, for being able to just watch the reporters’ faces, not have to decide what to say next or how to play anyone. All he needed to do was look sorrowful, determined, and outraged all at once, which in all humility he could say he had down. After that it would be up to Walter Glybenhall, and damn, he had a feeling the boy was going to be giving it his all.

City Hall

Don Zalensky blew into the mayor’s private office.

“Where’s the fire?” Charlie, reading a briefing on an upcoming union negotiation, looked up.

“Glybenhall’s holding a press conference.” Don yanked open the armoire doors and clicked the TV on. Walter Glybenhall flashed into view, standing at a podium in front of his midtown office building.

Out of nowhere, Charlie had the election-night jitters. “Jesus Christ. Is that Edgar with him? What the fuck’s that?”

Don slipped a cigarette from his pocket. “The bald guy on the other side’s his lawyer. George Bradhurst.”

“— my recent arrest,” Glybenhall was saying. “It saddens me to be forced into this. But what choice did I have? To permit the vast power of the City of New York to be used in a witch hunt, without vigorous protest, would be irresponsible. If accountability is demanded of the private sector, how much more must that be true of government?”

“The son of a bitch is quoting me!”

Glybenhall looked straight into the camera, as though he’d heard Charlie. “You all know me. You know how deeply I care about this, my adopted city, my home, and how hard I’ve worked— and the resources I’ve expended— for civic improvement. The Mott Haven project, in one of the city’s most blighted neighborhoods, is a private development. I’ve taken no city money, and frankly spared no expense, in an effort to afford poor New Yorkers what rich New Yorkers have always had: safe, functional housing.

“As work proceeded on that site, a series of mishaps occurred which, anyone could see, were not accidents. The Department of Investigation, which reports to Mayor Barr, assigned an investigator to examine this series of crimes. Of which my project was the target. Unfortunately, this young woman has an irrational hatred of me stemming from an incident in her youth in which I was in no way involved but for which she has always held me to blame. Whether the Department of Investigation knew about her obsession when the assignment was made, I can’t say. They do seem to have had some idea of how difficult she can be. Her career there had a promising beginning, but in recent years she’s been assigned unimportant cases, where, presumably, her headstrong behavior could create little trouble. And then, out of nowhere, she was handed the— I would think— somewhat delicate assignment of investigating me. Why DOI made this assignment I don’t know, but I want to assure you I’m not among those who believe it was in the support of any sinister agenda.

“In any case”— Glybenhall peered around, taking obvious care to find each camera— “whatever DOI knew or didn’t know, it’s certain the mayor himself was informed of this young woman’s problem.” Behind Glybenhall, Edgar Westermann nodded somberly. “Still she remained on the case, with the sorry result all New York has watched over these past few days. There is, of course, the damage to my good name. But much worse, five workingmen and a firefighter were injured; a woman is, tragically, dead; as are two young men in Harlem, one of whom I was accused of killing! The workers on my jobsite continue in peril until the madman behind these acts is apprehended— and the city has squandered the taxpayers’ time and resources persecuting me.

“This administration took office with promises of candor and accountability. Those promises seem to have been less than truthful. On a personal level, I thought I had reason to consider the mayor my friend. It’s distressing to find my friendship has meant so little.

“For all these reasons, I feel I must take action. At the very least, perhaps I can prevent this sort of governmental abuse from victimizing other innocent citizens.”

Glybenhall gave the cameras one more look, then stepped aside to let Westermann take the podium.

“As you all know,” Westermann declared, “Walter Glybenhall and I don’t have much we agree on. Our visions for New York”— he turned to look at Glybenhall— “aren’t the same.” Back to the camera: “But we’re talking here about a serious miscarriage of justice. Now normally I wouldn’t get involved, something like this. No offense, Walter, but I have more pressing concerns than what happens to society people. The kind of resources Mr. Glybenhall has, he doesn’t need my help. New York’s poor, New York’s minorities— communities that don’t have much in the way of their own resources and don’t get much from the city they work so hard to support— that’s where I concentrate.

“But here, you see, I’m involved already. I was the one went to the mayor, told him about Ann Montgomery, the problem she had with Walter Glybenhall. Just seemed so wrong to me. Once you have knowledge, you’ve got to act, can’t just sit back. And black or white, wrong’s wrong. I thought, if Mayor Barr knew, he’d want to hurry to fix things up.

“Well, Hizzoner didn’t hurry, and he didn’t move slow to do it, neither. He just sat back.

“Now, Mr. Glybenhall’s mentioned a ‘sinister agenda.’ I don’t like to hear that kind of talk. I don’t like to think anything the city calls ‘evidence’ is anything else. But black people been railroaded like this for hundreds of years. Might say we’re sensitive to it. So when I saw what was happening, I stepped up, offered to help Mr. Glybenhall out. The outrage perpetrated on Walter Glybenhall is identical to that perpetrated on young black men every day. If Mr. Glybenhall’s visibility is what it takes to force the city into accountability and responseibility, then so be it!”

Keeping his distance from Glybenhall and his eye on the crowd, Westermann stepped away.

Glybenhall’s attorney adjusted the microphone. “On Mr. Glybenhall’s instructions I have filed multiple lawsuits. We’re seeking aggregate damages in the amount of fifty million dollars: forty from the city— specifically, NYPD and DOI— and five each from the investigator in question and from Mayor Barr.”

There was more— details, a brief Q & A— and Charlie watched the whole thing, though he kept getting the odd feeling he might be hearing another language, where the sounds seemed like English words but had completely different meanings. When the new CBS guy asked what “sinister agenda” the city might have had, though, Charlie needed no translator for Walter’s answer.

“All I can do is speculate, of course.” Glybenhall sounded restrained and reasonable. “There were reports in the press soon after my arrest that my motive was insurance fraud. As even the most cursory of looks would show, my financial position is as strong as ever. I am, and remain, a very wealthy man. Other rumors circulated that the situation somehow involved a city-owned building site in Harlem that I’ve been interested in, but which the mayor has apparently, quite improperly, promised to another developer. Perhaps, if anything more than ignorance is operating here, it might be a wish to ensure that developer’s control over this valuable property. Although as I say, this is pure speculation.”