Beck parked his truck across the street from his Red Hook bar later than he had hoped, a little after three P.M. on Friday. The last forty minutes of stop-and-go traffic on the BQE had been excruciating. By the time he walked across the street and into his ground-floor bar, he still wasn’t able to stand up straight.
Demarco Jones and Willie Reese were in the barroom. Demarco said nothing, but Willie Reese reacted with concern and confusion when he saw Beck. Reese was a very large, muscled-up, menacing ex-con who at one time had gone head-to-head with Beck and had suffered a broken nose, cracked ribs, and nearly lost an eye.
“Yo, Beck, what the fuck?”
Beck wasn’t in the mood to explain anything. “There were six of them.”
Willie narrowed his eyes and frowned.
“Four dead, one in the hospital.”
Reese made a noise of approval, but he didn’t look any less concerned.
Beck made his way up to the second-floor loft, Demarco and Willie trailing after him.
Manny stood in the kitchen, as usual, cleaning and preparing food.
The Bolo brothers, Ricky and Jonas, were also hanging out in the kitchen area. They were wiry, compact men. Ricky, the more talkative, more animated of the two, stood describing a small piece of electronic equipment to Manny, whose disinterest didn’t dissuade Ricky at all. His brother, Jonas, stood leaning against the large island work counter, scanning the room as if he were casing it for a robbery.
Alex Liebowitz sat at Beck’s desk with Walter Ferguson, downloading photos from Ferguson’s smartphone.
Beck told everyone he’d be back and headed for the stairs at the west end of the second floor.
When Beck disappeared up the back stairs the others exchanged looks, but only Demarco spoke.
“He’s gonna tell us it looks worse than it is.”
After changing his clothes and dosing himself with pain relievers, Beck reappeared.
He headed toward the large rectangular dining-room table opposite the big kitchen area and waved for the others to join him. They assembled, bringing whatever material they had.
Beck took a seat at the head of the table. Alex Liebowitz and Walter Ferguson sat to his immediate right and left. Then Demarco and Willie opposite each other. Ricky and Jonas were next, facing each other. Manny sat at the other end of the table.
Beck asked, “Where’s Ciro?”
Demarco answered, “On his way.”
“And the girl?”
“Upstairs.”
“All right, so we have a lot of catching up to do. What’s happened since I left?”
Demarco started, but knowing Walter was at the table he spoke cautiously.
“I already told you we located Amelia. But here’s something you might be interested in. She can tell you how she came up with them.” Demarco slid two ledger books toward Beck. “These will give you an idea what Derrick Watkins was earning running his prostitutes. My quick run-through of the numbers puts his profits at about three hundred thousand a year. That doesn’t include what his brother was doing. And like I mentioned on the phone, those two were part of a much bigger crew run by a longtime gang leader named Eric Jackson. We got the rundown on him and his main enforcer, Whitey Bondurant, from a friend of Manny’s up in the Bronx. You might have known him. Benjamin Woods.”
“Yeah, I knew Big Ben. What’s he doing now?”
“Turned into a pastor. Has a storefront church.”
“God bless him.”
“If Derrick was doing three hundred K, Jackson’s whole operation could be in the millions. Be nice to get proof of that, but thanks to Packy’s kid we have something to go on.”
Beck nodded, adding the information Demarco gave him to what he had learned about Oswald Remsen’s prostitution business.
“Thanks. What else?”
Jonas Bolo spoke next.
“You asked us to track down a CO named Edward Remsen. He lives in the Norwood section of the Bronx. We made a few inquiries. He’s working today. His shift at Sing Sing ends at six. You want us to tail him from his job, we should leave now. Or, we can wait for him at his home address.”
Beck checked his watch. Nearly four o’clock. He assumed the last surviving Remsen might have already heard his father and brothers were missing. Once he found out they were dead, there was no telling what he would do.”
“Go now. You know where to pick him up in Ossining?”
Ricky spoke up. “Yeah, we know the lot where the COs park. Alex got the make and model of his car and his license plate. We should make it in time to catch him. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“Okay. Call me as soon as you do. And stick with him.”
Without another word, both Bolo brothers stood and left.
Alex Liebowitz began talking next in a calm, methodical manner, which contrasted with his disheveled appearance. Alex looked like a Brooklyn hipster—thick black eyeglass frames, shirt untucked, cuffs unbuttoned, skinny jeans—but he had none of the verbal affectations that plagued his generation. He never said “like” or “sort of” or up-talked. He had a hard enough time speaking slowly and carefully with a mind that moved at warp speed.
There was a stack of pages in front of him.
“Okay, so those IDs Demarco e-mailed me—I verified all the names, two of the addresses didn’t match. Did a quick search for arrest records. They’re all in the system. Let me know if you want more.” He slid two pages to Beck.
“Next, here’s the information I got for Ricky and Jonas on Edward Remsen.” Alex slid two more pages toward Beck. “Home address, relatives, age, car registration, social security, credit history. No liens. No lawsuits. Not a deep dive. Again, let me know if you want more.”
Alex picked up another set of pages.
“I ran the names Jerome Watkins, Derrick Watkins, Eric Jackson, and Floyd Bondurant through three of the crime databases I can access. All of them are in the NYPD and FBI gang files. Bondurant and Jackson’s files go back to the mideighties. I can check more databases if you want me to, but bottom line, those guys are responsible for a lot of crime. If the Feds ever move on them and make a case, Jackson and Bondurant will go away for a long time.
“Last, here is all the information Walter brought in on the NYPD investigation into Paco Johnson’s murder. They wouldn’t let him make copies of anything so he took photos. I downloaded them and cleaned them up. He can tell you about it.”
Walter cleared his throat and leaned toward Beck.
“Alex helped me put together a summary page on top.” He waited for Beck to take a quick look at it. “Earlier today, I read through reports filed by Detectives Raymond Ippolito and John Palmer, and a page of notes about their meeting with an assistant district attorney named Frederick Wilson written by their supervisor, James Levitt. I’m not entirely sure Levitt intended for me to see his notes, but they were on the pile of documents he handed to me. As Alex said, I couldn’t make copies, but I guess Levitt figured an old civil servant like me wouldn’t know how to take pictures.
“Ippolito and Palmer were the two who interviewed me on the morning Packy was shot. Palmer seems to be the one writing all the reports.
“There’s also a ballistics report on the bullet and gun that killed Packy. And a preliminary report on the bullets that killed Derrick Watkins, but no match yet to a gun.”
“There’s also an initial CSU report and Palmer’s write-up on a shooting that took place on Hoe Avenue. Victims were Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams.”
Beck carefully checked the ballistics report on Packy while Walter continued.
“Of course, the detective’s reports aren’t up to date, but I had a chance to talk to Levitt after I went through everything. He supervises the precinct detective squad. As I said, they had a meeting at one o’clock with the assistant district attorney assigned to Packy’s case. Levitt confirmed his detectives have witnesses that will testify that James shot Derrick Watkins, and that Derrick Watkins shot Paco Johnson, which they claim is your motive for shooting Watkins.”
Beck asked, “Where’d they get these witnesses?”
“Levitt didn’t explain, but when he asked me to help locate Demarco and Manny, who are listed on my parole roster, I pushed him about the witnesses. He wrote their names on a Post-it. I stuck it on Palmer’s last report.”
Beck compared the names on the sticky note with Alex’s printout of the IDs they’d taken from the crew at Mount Hope Place.
Walter said, “I’m sorry to say, the assistant DA will be issuing arrest warrants very soon. Levitt wasn’t exactly forthcoming about when, but I’m guessing Monday, latest. They want to arrest you for the murder of Derrick Watkins. Ciro for the attempted murder of Detective John Palmer. Manny and Demarco for shooting Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams.”
Beck held up the Post-it note. “And their proof I shot Watkins are these bullshit witnesses?”
“Apparently.”
“And they’re saying they were in that apartment at the time?”
“Yes.”
Demarco said, “Doesn’t matter if they were there or not, James didn’t shoot Derrick Watkins.”
Walter said, “Then I guess all four are lying. Which begs the question, who did shoot him?”
Demarco interrupted. “Which begs the better question, where did they get those fake witnesses?”
Manny spoke up, “I’d say from the boss, Eric Jackson. How else they gonna come up with witnesses so fast in a neighborhood where everybody learns to keep their mouths shut? I’m betting all those stooges are part of his set.”
Ciro emerged from the stairwell and headed for the table. “Wouldn’t be the first time cops and crooks conspired.”
Ciro took a seat, and Walter asked, “Why? What does Jackson get out of it?”
Manny answered, “Jackson gave them witnesses. They probably gave Jackson information on us.”
Beck interrupted, “And their proof Derrick Watkins shot Packy are these same witnesses?”
“One of them. I think the one named Morris. Says he saw Derrick Watkins shoot Packy. Two others are hearsay witnesses. But also important, James, according to the ballistics report the bullet removed from Packy matches one of the guns the police found at the Mount Hope Place apartment. They’re saying it belonged to Derrick Watkins. Has his prints on it.”
Beck nodded. He’d already read that in the report.
“As for Manny and Demarco, they claim to have one eyewitness at the scene, a woman who gave a description that fits Manny and Demarco as the shooters on Hoe Avenue. Plus, they have an image from a security camera about a half block away. I took a picture of it. It’s in that pile.”
Beck shifted his gaze from the ballistics report to the blurry image of Manny and Demarco. He held it up. “They actually think this is evidence?”
“Well, it’s my picture of the photo in the report. But it’s not much different from what I saw. Plus, of course, their witness at the scene.”
Beck frowned and sat back. He folded his arms, retreating into himself.
Walter didn’t add any more information or interrupt Beck’s thoughts.
After a moment, Beck said, “And the case against Ciro is Detective Palmer claiming he can identify a man from a block away shooting at him with a twelve-gauge shotgun.”
Walter answered, “That’s what his affidavit says. There’s a note in there about them still canvassing for more witnesses in all the locations.
“James, minimum they can violate Ciro, Manny, and Demarco for multiple parole violations. Levitt wants me to contact Ciro’s parole supervisor on Staten Island. And they’re going to arrest you for murder. They may never convict any of you, but they have grounds. I don’t see any of you avoiding jail until it gets sorted out.”
Beck leaned forward and said to Walter, “I know you’ve been put in the middle of this, Walter. You’ve got your obligations to the NYPD and Department of Correction, and your loyalties to us, and to the truth. But I don’t want you to worry. This information you’ve given us will make it possible for us to get to the truth and defend ourselves against what I’m sure you realize are false charges. It’s much appreciated.”
Beck stood and reached his hand out to Walter. Walter stood and shook hands with Beck.
“Walter, thank you. For everything. You’ve had a long day, especially after yesterday.”
“I’m fine. You look like you had a terrible time after I left you. What happened?”
Beck waved it off. “There were some very unpleasant people up there. Don’t worry about it.” Beck motioned toward the papers on the table. “Between what I found out upstate and all this, there’s a lot going on here, Walter. It’s going to take awhile to sort it out. I want you to get some rest.”
Walter grimaced. “I should have gone up to the Bronx the minute I heard Packy had pulled that stunt hitchhiking in.”
Beck said, “Walter, what’s done is done. I promise you, we’re going to take care of this. Just get some rest. We’re going to need you.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
As he walked out of Beck’s loft, the men thanked Walter. Nobody spoke until they heard the door downstairs close. Demarco broke the silence with an uncharacteristic curse.
“Shit! Minimum they’re gonna try to send us back to prison and nail you for a murder, James.”
“None of us is going anywhere. How’s the girl? Is she all right?”
Manny spoke, “She’s in one piece. Keeping to herself.”
Beck said, “We’re not the only ones jammed up here. If we get rid of the murder charges against us, that leaves the girl open for the murders.”
Demarco said, “You’re right. If they stop looking at us for it, at some point they might figure out it was her.”
Ciro said, “Fucking hell, we got a piece of shit who’s running a crime empire on the backs of women, the same fuck behind Packy gettin’ popped, and now he’s jamming us up supplying witnesses to the cops.”
Demarco said, “And looking to kill Packy’s kid.”
Manny said, “And us, amigo. You know they’re coming after us, and they got lots of young guns with them trying to make a mark.”
Beck sat, arms crossed, frowning.
Everybody fell silent, waiting for Beck, who appeared to be falling into a darker and angrier mood with each passing moment.
Finally, Manny asked, “You got a way out of this, James? Or is it time to close shop and disappear?”
Beck looked up, breaking out of his reverie.
“We’re not running, and we’re not going back to prison.”
“So what are we gonna do?”
“First I have to decide if I’m going to tell that young girl I’m going to kill the man who murdered her father.”
That caused a moment of silence. And then Demarco asked, “You know who?”
“Yes. Detective John Palmer.”