TWO DAYS LATER
David Randolph, one of the main partners of the accounting firm of Curtis, Strassman, and Randolph, was sitting with his back to a shelf of books designated MIND AND SPIRIT. Randolph was tall and pencil-thin, dressed in a handmade Ciccarelli gray suit that hung comfortably on his slender body. He was in his mid-fifties and he didn’t bother to hide it. His hair was thick but streaked with gray, and his angular face was a road map of nooks and creases. He stretched out his legs and perched his brown Allen Edmonds lace shoes against the side of the nearest wall. He gave off the air of an impatient man, one who was used to having his every whim catered to without question.
Across from him was Samuel Butler, a short and rumpled man in his mid-forties. He had on a Men’s Wearhouse suit in desperate need of pressing and smelled of stale cigar smoke. His disheveled appearance seemed deliberate—one of those men who wanted to be seen and quickly dismissed. But Samuel Butler was not a man to be taken lightly, a fact the three partners at the firm were keenly aware of.
“So, Samuel,” Randolph said, “since your urgent call pulled me out of a meeting, I assume this is a pressing matter.”
“Let’s get us a drink first,” Butler said. “Then we’ll get down to it.”
Randolph caught the eye of a hovering waiter and displayed his usual impatience as the young man made his way to their table. “Two Jamesons on the rocks. And a bottle of sparkling water.”
“Would you like anything to go with that?” the waiter asked.
“Not for me,” Randolph said.
“Maybe later,” Butler said. “Let me get a drink inside me first and then we’ll see.”
“You seem annoyed, Samuel,” Randolph said, watching as the waiter left with their order. “It’s unlike you.”
“I got good reason to be annoyed,” Butler said. “More than one, actually.”
“Which are?”
“Were you or the other partners aware that Jack Rizzo had a family?” Butler asked.
Randolph nodded. “A son,” he said. “A boy, in his teens, if memory serves. Though I don’t see why he’d put you in such an agitated state.”
“Look,” Butler said, leaning hard against the shiny wood table, moving it slightly toward Randolph. “Your crew pays me to get rid of problems that come your way. And I’m goddamn good—no, make that better than good—at it. But I’m only as good as the information you give me. And on Rizzo, you guys fucked up big-time.”
Randolph’s hands balled into tight fists, and he glared silently across the table at Butler as the waiter rested the drinks in front of them. “If you gentlemen need anything else…,” the waiter said.
“We’ll find you,” Butler said, brushing the young man away.
Randolph moved his drink to the side. “My partners and I are not in the business of fucking up,” he said slowly, his cheeks flushed red, the veins in his neck bulging at the edges of the thick, starched white collar. “One of the reasons for that is because we keep people like you on our payroll. People who clean up problems. So, if an error was made on the Rizzo matter, I can only assume it came from your end.”
“I didn’t know he had a brother,” Butler said. “There was nothing in the file and nothing in the research I did. The guy popped up out of the clouds.”
“Doesn’t seem as if he mattered much to Jack,” Randolph said, regaining some of his composure. “Why should he matter to us?”
“Because he’s a cop,” Butler said. “At least, he used to be. Got shot off the job a few years back. Lives off his three-quarter tax-free police pension plus what extra he earns working as a Tin Badge.”
“He’s a security guard?”
“Not this guy,” Butler said. “On the job he was a hard-charger all the way. Top-shelf adrenaline junkie. Both him and his partner, a black guy named Monroe. They took down some big crews during their years together, working narcotics and homicide mostly. They bumped heads with the best and didn’t stop until their man went down or was sent away. Seems like old habits die hard.”
“So you’re saying they’re still active?” Randolph asked.
“The chief of detectives can dig into a discretionary fund and hire off-the-job cops to work a case,” Butler said. “It’s not sanctioned, and you won’t find it written up in any NYPD manual, but it’s done nonetheless. The chief can reach out and hand them a case and have them work it until it’s solved. They get paid but get no credit for the arrest or the takedown.”
“And this cop, Jack’s brother, is a problem for us?”
“A potential problem, yes,” Butler said. “The boy went to live with him after his parents died in the accident. Cops like this guy tend to ask a lot of questions and aren’t happy until they get answers they like. Maybe the kid’s been pumping him with information about your firm and how it works.”
“There’s not much for him to know,” Randolph said, taking a long cool sip from his drink. “I doubt Jack told his son much about what was going on here. And if he didn’t bother to list a sibling on any of his forms, I would wager he told his brother even less.”
“In other words, you’re not as concerned about this as I am?”
“I see no cause for concern, Samuel,” Randolph said. He was once again relaxed and sat back in his chair, at ease. “Jack is dead, and all he knew or thought he knew is buried with him. And as for the boy, what could he possibly know?”
“And the cop?” Butler asked. “Or I should say the ex-cop?”
“Even if he looks our way, there’s nothing for him to see,” Randolph said. “It’s not like he’s going to come barging into my office and start asking questions.”
“You’re right on that, Randolph,” Butler said. “He’s not going to barge in. He’s going to be invited in and given a cup of coffee by your secretary.”
“What are you talking about?” Randolph asked, the edge now back in his voice.
“I asked your office to keep me in the loop in case he called to make an appointment,” Butler said. “Which he did. About ten minutes ago. Your secretary texted me the details. He’ll be in to see you day after tomorrow, at three forty-five.”
Randolph downed the remainder of his drink and wiped at his lips with his left thumb. “What’s his name?”
“Tommy Rizzo,” Butler said. “But everyone calls him Tank. And if I were you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting long.”
“I can handle myself, Samuel,” Randolph said.
“With those who travel in your circles, no doubt,” Butler said. “But don’t come off tough with this guy. He’ll see right through the act. Keep it simple. Keep it polite.”
“What’s he looking to see?” Randolph asked.
“Who he’s up against, would be my guess,” Butler said. “And if he gets even a whiff of something not right, he will take you down.”
Samuel Butler finished his drink, pushed his chair back, stood, and walked quietly out of the Library.