Crosshairs, page 16
I needed to bounce a few things off Walter Jackson before he left for the day.
CHAPTER 65
WALTER WAITED FOR me at the office after I texted him. He liked coming in early so he could be home at a decent hour to spend time with his daughters. I know what it’s like to fight for time with your family. I hated taking him away from that. But if ever there was a case that was important to me, it was this one.
As soon as I walked in the door, Walter said, “I don’t need to be home early today. I already gave my wife a present.”
I was confused but managed to ask, “What’d you give her?”
“A little model of Mount Everest.” He paused, and when the smile came over his face, I realized what he was doing. “She asked me if it was to scale. I told her no, it’s just to look at.” His belly laugh lifted my spirits.
I grinned, then quickly got Walter up to speed. I said, “I can’t believe the victims are just random choices. But looking at them, I can’t find a pattern. It’s driving me crazy.”
Walter opened a folder on his computer. I could see it held newspaper and internet articles. Some had been scanned, so I could see the headlines. Others were just electronic files in small fonts.
Walter said, “You know I always keep every media report about a case someone on the squad is working. It helps me keep an open mind about cases. I find that occasionally reporters will see something or interview someone that we didn’t. They may not know the significance of what they saw. Maybe you’d want to look through these files?”
“Have you seen anything that would be of interest?”
“I haven’t had time to do anything but save the articles. But they’re from a wide range of media. From straight-up newspaper reports, like the articles Lois Frang has been writing for the Brooklyn Democrat, to business journalism covering Adam Glossner’s company. There’s a lot in there right now.”
I had Walter email the files to me so I could look through them.
Walter said, “By the headlines, the media is portraying each of the victims as a hero in their own right. A single mother, a firefighter, a family man, and a community activist.”
“The question is, how accurate are those portrayals?”
“You know how the media can twist things to their own narrative. And no one likes to talk badly about crime victims or the dead. Hell, even if someone like O. J. Simpson died, some sports reporter would be talking about what a great running back he was and leave out the double murder and armed robbery. It’s just a way to get readers interested.” Walter added, “Look at Gus Querva. The media’s about to anoint him a saint. But no one’s talked about how he extorted businesses and is a suspect in four different homicides.”
I thanked Walter for his information and for giving me the chance to just run ideas by him. He had a good head on his shoulders, and sometimes that’s all you need to see something more clearly.
I had to find time to read Walter’s media reports. That meant I’d have to steal some time away from my family. Just like most cops.
CHAPTER 66
I GOT HOME late and scrounged a few leftovers. The kids had already dispersed to do homework and other projects. Trent and Ricky tried to make it look like they were studying, but I knew they were on their phones playing a game together. I didn’t have the time or energy to comment.
Mary Catherine knew I had a lot to do and gave me some space. I was looking down at my iPad, which was usually reserved for watching movies or following New York sports teams. Tonight I was using it to read the files Walter Jackson had emailed me.
I saw what he meant about no one wanting to say anything negative about the dead. Each of the victims was painted in the best possible light. The first victim, Marie Ballard, had worked at the Housing Authority for over twenty years. She also had raised two children by herself—Duane Ballard, the young man we spoke to the day Trilling and I went to the house, and his younger sister. As far as I could tell, she’d done a good job raising the kids.
The firefighter, Thomas Bannon, had coached Little League baseball on his days off.
The New York Post shared four different photographs of Adam Glossner with his wife and kids. Anyone would be moved by those family photos.
Most of the articles about Gus Querva were glowing. Only Lois Frang at the Brooklyn Democrat was brave enough to mention that Querva had done prison time for strong-arm robbery and had beaten his first wife so many times she fled and stayed at various women’s shelters until she could move out of state.
The last thing I read was an older article from a financial journal. It talked about the company Glossner had run, Holbrook Financial. There was a photograph of Glossner at a conference table with six other professionals, but nothing about his family.
Mainly, the article talked about a fine the company had recently paid due to a complaint from the Securities and Exchange Commission. There wasn’t much else I picked up from the article other than the attorney’s name at the SEC: Chloe Lewis.
Then someone said, “Hey, Dad, can I talk to you?”
I looked up from my iPad to see Juliana standing next to me. “Of course. You can always talk to me.” She slid onto the seat beside me. Her eyes looked a little bloodshot. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Did you and Rob have a fight?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“I was texting with him, and his last message said he couldn’t talk to me for now until you and him got something straight.” She wiped her eyes with her finger. “Was it a fight about me?”
“No, sweetheart, it has nothing to do with you. But it could be a pretty big deal. Maybe try not to have any contact with Rob until we resolve it.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“I wish I could. But it has to do with work, and I’m not allowed to discuss it.” That may have been the truth, but the look on my daughter’s face made me feel like shit for saying it.
I didn’t like how threads of this case were getting entwined in every part of my life. Maybe I’d get some clarity tomorrow. I try to keep my work and home lives separate. This whole situation with Trilling blurred that line.
I couldn’t focus with the kids that night and slept in fits. All I kept thinking about was whether Rob Trilling could be the Longshot Killer.
CHAPTER 67
ROB TRILLING DIDN’T exactly wake up. He just sort of transitioned from lying in his bed, unable to fall asleep, to standing up and moving around. Even if he didn’t have sleep issues, he wouldn’t be able to get any rest now anyway. His whole world felt like it was crashing in around him.
He had no idea how seriously the NYPD was looking at him. His ex-partner, Michael Bennett, was probably working the case right now.
Trilling needed some friendly human contact. Some lively conversation. He wasn’t going to find that in his apartment. At least not with his current roommates.
He got dressed quickly and slipped out the door. The cool early morning air invigorated him. The feeling wore off before he reached the sidewalk. Without even thinking about it, Trilling hopped on the subway. He was hoping to catch Darcy Farnan at the VA off-site counseling center in Midtown.
There were only five people on his train as it rolled toward 42nd Street. Sitting by himself in the back of a subway car wasn’t any way to get his mind off his troubles.
Two men stepped onto the train at the next stop. They were both in their mid-twenties, trying to look cool. Light shirts in the cool weather to show they were tough. Maybe it would be okay on the subway, but the wind in the city would cut right through them. Trilling went back to feeling sorry for himself.
A few minutes into the ride, raised voices caught Trilling’s attention. When he looked up from the rear of the car, he saw the two men without jackets were standing over a pudgy guy who’d been typing on his phone.
One of the men looked down and said, “Nice phone you got there.”
The other man said, “Give it here. I wanna take a closer look at it.”
The seated man was older, maybe forty, with wire-rimmed glasses and a heavy parka like he was in Wisconsin.
This was the shit that drove Trilling crazy. That bullies like this would just take things away from people because there was no one to stop them. A bullet in the head might stop them. Maybe a good thrashing on the subway would too.
Trilling sat up straight and watched the confrontation for a moment more. The man meekly handed his phone to one of the bullies. The bullies just turned and went back to their seats with it, satisfied with their effort.
Trilling stood up and held the overhead rail. He tested its strength to see if he could pull himself up and kick if he had to. He realized it was a little theatrical and decided that his heart wasn’t in the effort anyway.
He watched silently as the bullies got off at the next stop with the man’s phone.
Three stops later, Trilling left the subway car. He didn’t even give a look of concern to the man whose phone had been taken. Instead, as soon as he came up onto the street level, Trilling called Darcy Farnan at the VA. But he got no answer.
Trilling wasn’t sure what he’d say to her anyway. That all he was trying to do was help the people of New York? That his meds and lack of sleep had caused too many problems for him, and he needed more serious therapy?
Maybe it was just as well Darcy didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 68
I’D ALREADY BEEN to the office and was out running down leads when my cell phone rang. I was surprised to see that the caller was Lois Frang. I debated picking it up. I really had nothing I wanted to tell her about. But I also knew that she’d met Harry Grissom for breakfast once already this week. If I didn’t answer, she might call Harry. I decided to make it a quick conversation.
“Hello, Lois. What can I do for you on this beautiful morning?”
“Wow. That’s the best greeting I’ve ever got from someone at the NYPD.”
“Part of our new directives. Spread sunshine, then worry about solving crimes.”
“Between you and Harry Grissom, I’d say you guys are working overtime on the sunshine part.”
“Was there something specific you needed today, Lois?”
“I’m trying to follow up on some rumors that I heard.”
My stomach tightened. Had a rumor about Rob Trilling already slipped out of the NYPD? I didn’t even want to think about that.
Lois said, “It’s about the second victim in the Longshot Killer case. The fireman named Thomas Bannon. I thought about talking to his family, but I heard they’re a closemouthed bunch. You know how the Irish Catholics can be.”
“I know all too well.”
“Do you know Bannon’s family?”
“We’ve met.” I flexed my hand, which had been sore since I’d punched one of the brothers who’d assaulted us at Louise Bannon’s home. I added, “What’s the rumor?”
“That Bannon was a pervert. That he’d been caught downloading child pornography on a FDNY computer.”
“You’re not going to run a story like that, are you? It doesn’t do any good for anyone.”
“I’m not sure where I’m going with it. But I was hoping you might verify the rumor.”
“I’ve never heard anything about that.” Even as I said it, I realized I wanted to check this rumor out. It might also explain why Bannon’s in-laws and widow got so bent out of shape when I just asked a few simple questions.
Lois said, “I need to hear it verified from a reliable source. Any ideas who might talk?”
“I thought you and Harry Grissom had breakfast yesterday. He’s a pretty reliable source.”
“We had breakfast today too.”
“Did he say anything about the case?”
“Zilch.”
I chuckled. “He’s a puzzle, that one.”
“And I’ll figure him out one day. But now I’m looking for someone to quote. Even anonymously.”
“That doesn’t sound like it’s directly related to our case. You couldn’t get Harry to comment?”
“As I understand it, you and Harry have been friends for twenty years. Have you ever known him to talk about a case or police work with someone other than another cop?”
“Good point. I rarely see Harry talk to anyone about anything. You should consider yourself privileged.”
“He’s a lovely man. But now I feel like you’re trying to distract me.”
“Not really. I’ve honestly never heard that rumor, and I’m up to my eyeballs with other things to worry about.”
All I got was a quick thanks as she hung up.
If Thomas Bannon did download child pornography on a city computer, why was there no mention in any NYPD report? Just one more thing to add to my list.
CHAPTER 69
I HAD NEVER visited the offices of the Securities and Exchange Commission. There’s not a huge call for it when working homicides. The first thing I noticed was that the SEC was not among the agencies in the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building just east of Broadway but in the American Express Tower just west of the 9/11 memorial.
This luxurious skyscraper was a far cry from the near-slum conditions of the VA off-site office. The lobby bustled with well-dressed professionals who might take clients to lunch in the array of restaurants on the second floor or show off the unobstructed western views of the Hudson. Not bad for a government office.
I took the elevator up to the fourth floor and easily found the SEC offices. I marveled at the art reproductions on the walls and realized this was one of the few government agencies that actually brought in money. The fines the SEC levied on hedge funds and banks who’d skirted the law were legendary.
The polite receptionist took my name and then led me down a hallway. I’d called ahead for an appointment and was surprised I could get in so quickly. The receptionist tapped lightly on a solid wooden door, then opened it for me.
I stepped into the wide office with a view to the north. A young woman behind a giant desk was on the phone but waved me into a chair. I took a moment to look around the office and saw the attorney’s personal touches. A full-sized movie poster of Marvel’s Avengers: Endgame dominated one wall; degrees from NYU, including a law degree, hung on the wall directly behind her.
As soon as she hung up the phone, the woman stood to shake my hand. “Chloe Lewis. Nice to meet you.” She had a warm smile that put me at ease.
After we chatted for a few moments, Chloe Lewis said, “What, exactly, can I do for you, Detective?”
I explained that I was investigating the murder of Adam Glossner. I asked her about the article I’d read concerning his company paying huge fines.
The attorney shook her head. “I can’t believe they let him get away with just paying fines. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Glossner personally raided several accounts, and if everything had gone right, no one would have ever caught him. He also hid interests in two different companies that he pushed to clients. I referred the case to the FBI. I assumed they’d go after him, not settle without even an indictment.”
It was an old story. Not just with the FBI but with most law enforcement agencies. With limited resources and manpower, if a case could be resolved quickly, that was usually the route taken.
Chloe Lewis said, “I guess I just expected more from the FBI. They’re nothing like how they’re portrayed in movies and on TV. They let Glossner write a few checks and that was it. I hope he developed an ulcer at the very least.” She cringed, then looked at me and said, “I’m sorry. Is that wrong? I mean, with him being dead.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then I wouldn’t worry about it.” I liked her relieved giggle.
The attorney went through a few other issues on the case. I wasn’t really listening toward the end. All I could think about was that two victims, Adam Glossner and Gus Querva, may have both had criminal backgrounds. And I needed to look into the rumor Lois Frang had brought up to me about the firefighter. It was the only thing I had at the moment.
CHAPTER 70
I TOOK A moment before I walked into the fire station on Staten Island. After my last encounter with the local firefighters, I wanted to think this through. Despite everything, I would’ve felt more comfortable if Trilling were with me. Having him around was sort of like having your own superhero walking the streets of New York. My pistol was on my right hip. To be on the safe side, I also had slipped a collapsible ASP baton into my front pocket and a slim container of pepper spray into my jacket pocket. I didn’t think I’d have to use them. But I like to be prepared.
The fire station where Thomas Bannon had worked was not far from his family’s house. I’d been in dozens of firehouses over the years, and truthfully, aside from a few structural differences, they all looked and felt about the same to me. Big cavernous buildings to hold the fire engines. Echoes from every corner. Millions of dollars in equipment stacked along the walls or in cabinets. And a few easygoing firefighters cooking or doing chores.
This station was no different. The first two firefighters I saw were engrossed in polishing some equipment. They looked up at me but soon returned to what might have been a power saw.
I continued into the administration area, where I found four firefighters sitting in comfortable chairs in a semicircle facing the captain, a tall, fit woman in her mid-forties who was leaning on a counter. It almost looked like they were holding an encounter group.
I waited at the rear of the room until the captain looked up and saw me. I was in an all-weather jacket with no visible police insignia. But the captain was sharp. She said, “Can I help you, Detective?”
I walked closer to the group, men and women in their twenties and thirties, including one man who had to be over six feet tall. All eyes were on me, and I felt a definite hostile vibe.
