Myth Man (9 page)

Goldfarb advocated that Dent had acted in self-defense. He was caught leaving the scene, yet the cops found no money or diamonds on him. The unregistered gun was left at the scene, but the prints were wiped. Dent said he had accidentally stepped on one of the victim’s feet in a restaurant parking lot. Words were exchanged, and one pulled out a gun. The athletic gym teacher wrestled the gun away and was forced to use it when he saw the other reach for his gun. The other gun was found, and one of the victim’s prints was present.

The case went well. The jury took to Mr. Dent. The defense brought legions of character witnesses who attested to Mr. Dent’s virtues. The icing on Dent’s unjust desserts was a witness who suddenly came forward.

A woman who was in her midfifties and was a bank executive claimed she witnessed the altercation and took off when she saw guns. She said the deceased initiated the altercation. The jury came back in an hour with a not guilty verdict.

In the courtroom, as Dent hugged him, he whispered, “Counselor, if you ever need to dispose of your wife or some ass wipe at your country club, call me. I hope you liked my star witness. Money talks.” Then he smiled at the jury and bowed with clasped, appreciative hands.

Goldfarb answered the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Dent announced. “It’s done. We’re even. If you need me again, it’ll cost you,” he said with a light chuckle.

“Jafri’s dead? You’re sure?”

“Jafri is my twentieth hit. That’s almost as many hits as The Beatles had.”

“Probably,” said Goldfarb who was now anxious to terminate the call.

“As long as I’m ahead of Michael Jackson,” Dent joked.

*****

Ahmad Nasif decided it was time to ratchet things up. He’d come to America to inflict damage upon the infidel whore. Three long years in hell he waited. His cell’s supposed mantra was that September 11 should be an Islamic holiday, but the leader of the cell kept planning and preaching. They could not act until orders had come from the head of the cell syndicate.

Nasif had enough. He wanted action. Muslims were being targeted, and still they sat on the sidelines. They had an anonymous contact, an apparent Muslim police officer. The man claimed there was an honest cop named Dom Presto who’d been silenced. Presto claimed there was an alliance between fundamentalist Christians and conservative Jews that orchestrated the recent killings. They wanted a holy war. The enemy was Islam.

Nasif went to his closet with a hammer in his hand. After clearing some hung clothes, he went to the left side. The closet was lined with wood panels, one of which had nails that protruded slightly.

After working the board free, he pulled out a crude vest that was often referred to as a suicide belt. This one was packed with C-4 explosives and steel ball bearings.

A half hour later, Nasif was on the streets dressed in an oversized trench coat that covered the deadly fifteen-pound vest. His destination was the Fifth Avenue Synagogue. This orthodox synagogue was where Goldfarb worshiped. Nasif had no love for Abu Jafri, the man Goldfarb had contracted to kill. He knew Goldfarb was in custody. He saw it on TV, and Goldfarb’s attorney used Pretso’s name. Nasif knew better. But if Goldfarb was part of the murderous alliance, then others at the synagogue must be also. Plus, they were all Jews anyway.

As he got near, he thought of his brother, killed by an American bomb that supposedly went off-target and struck their home on the outskirts of Baghdad. Then he thought of heaven. He was a martyr.

He was ready to kill. He was ready to die.

Allah Akbar.

*****

Assi Rick followed a trench coat–wearing man approaching the synagogue. His hand went to his mouth, and he softly spoke into it. Years on the Gaza border taught him well. His instincts sabotaged several suicide bombers’ attempts to slip into Israel.

Today, and now every day since the recent spike in religious hate crimes, four men rotated as undercover security for the synagogue. Previously there had been two, but with the recent outbreak of hostilities, the synagogue decided on extra staffing.

Rick watched his partner step out from a parked cab. Rick quickened his pace and was now only twenty yards behind the walking man.

The man tried to brush by his partner. Then, suddenly, the man swung an elbow back to the security man’s head, and his partner crashed to the sidewalk.

Rick watched the man in the trench coat run straight for the synagogue. He pulled his gun, aimed, and fired. He hit the man, as planned, in the legs, and the man went down screaming.

The suspect cursed in Arabic. Then he stopped, cursed again, and quickly tried to roll closer to the synagogue. His hand went inside his coat.

Rick fired. He had to.

The man’s skull ripped open, and he rolled no more.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“D
OMINICK, COME QUICKLY,” PRESSED Cleo.

He heard his mother groan. Worried, he launched himself from his desk chair. His feet pounded the wood floors like a pedal thumping a double bass drum. In a huff, he entered her room. In bed, she was propped up on pillows, her expression taut.

Alarmed, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

She looked past him. He followed her gaze to the television. A man and a woman were talking. Captioned on the bottom of the screen, in bold, stark letters it read, “RELIGIOUS VIOLENCE.”

Dominick wasn’t surprised. He expected a backlash. His request to hold a press conference and explain that the same man likely murdered the cleric and priest had been rebuffed by upper channels.

“Your name was just cited by some lawyer. His client was responsible for the murder of that Muslim professor they have on TV all the time.”

Now shocked, he questioned, “Jafri?” Incredulous, “Me?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “This is not good.” Her eyes closed, and her face twitched like she had a toothache.

“Mom,” he summoned, “what’s not good? What did he say?”

She bit her bottom lip. Pain and resolve. “Dominick, the lawyer said his client is a hero. They’re claiming Jafri’s fight with the fundamentalists was all show. In reality, he was a mastermind of some terrorist cell. The attorney’s client paid a hit man to take Jafri out before he unleashed a fanatical rampage.”

“Jafri a terrorist? I don’t buy it.”

“Funny you should say that,” she said uneasily. “They’re naming you as the source.”

He smacked his forehead in disbelief. “What?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she said grimly. “The lawyer said you were prevented from pursuing Jafri for unexplainable reasons.”

“No,” he said, knowing she was delivering the news verbatim.

“It gets worse,” she informed gravely.

“Worse?” Dominick grimaced. How could this be? “Tell me.” He leaned back and braced himself against the wall.

Her words came soft and fast in the manner that urgent, but disheartening news is often delivered. “The man asserted you had evidence implicating Jafri but that a high-ranking detective, Frank Danko, blocked you.”

“Oh no,” Dominick said involuntarily. His head snapped back as if he took a hard jab.

“Uh huh,” she nodded in unison. “Apparently, Danko told you it wasn’t his fault, but the orders came from high above. The lawyer cited Commissioner Tipton and Mayor Golden and strongly hinted the conspiracy could go deeper.”

Reeling from the combo of blows, he knew he’d been cornered. Then he thought he heard a bell chime signifying a reprieve, but it was only his phone.

His mother had not seen the sun in months, and her pigment was pale and without luster. He never recalled such a hollow feeling in the pit of his belly. He left the room and went to the phone as if trudging through a heavy fog.

“Hello,” he answered distantly.

“Is this how you pay me back, asshole?” Danko’s voice boomed. “After I pitched and went to bat for you?”

“I, uh …” Presto stammered.

“I can’t fucking believe you. Again? You’ve betrayed me twice. The only reason I’m not on my way over is that there are more important men than me waiting in line to get to you. I’m going to sit back and watch them feast on your fat carcass.”

His phone beeped. He looked. “Private,” read the screen. All of his associates on the force were unregistered. He ignored the call. He couldn’t cut out on Danko.

“Frank, I didn’t betray you or anyone.” Presto tried to sound convincing but knew his tone was weedy.

“Bull-fucking-shit, you gigantic Judas.”

“You have no reason to believe me, but for some reason, someone is screwing me. I believe the truth always eventually reveals itself. I hope so, because I would not and did not say these things. My mother just saw it on TV. She told me.”

“Really?” Danko spat sarcastically.

“Frank, why would I do this? I never spoke about Professor Jafri to anyone. We’re working on a separate matter, which may now be related, but you cannot find a person on the planet that will testify that I ever even discussed anything about Jafri. This is bullshit, Frank. Think about it. Why would I recklessly ruin my career on the force? Someone wants me off this case.”

“Well someone succeeded, Dom,” Danko hissed. “I’ve been honest with you all along. This time, the decision is mine.”

“How couldn’t you? I understand. But if it takes me until the day I die, I will clear my name with you, Frank.”

“That may be so. It doesn’t really matter what I think,” a less acerbic Danko replied. “It will be your most important case, because if not, your career’s likely over. If I may say, it would be a shame—waste of a good detective.”

“Thanks, Frank. Do me one favor? Nail the bastard, or bastards, behind the murder of the priest and cleric. This thing’s become a full-blown crisis. Save the city, and it’s possible you may save me.”

“I don’t know what to think. I was angry, still am. But …” he trailed off. “Let me go,” he said slowly.

“Okay. Thanks and good luck, Frank.”

“Yeah.” Click.

Presto looked at his receiver. There was a message, which he retrieved. It was Jack Burton.

“
Holeeey sheeeet
,” Burton’s charred voice began. “Dom, Dom, Dom, what is going on? Get back to me, buddy. This is NG. Not good. Tipton called. I’m to inform you that you’ve been suspended. You’ll be reviewed in two weeks to determine your fate. There must be some explanation for this. I hope. Oh yeah, the order to keep the cleric’s murder quiet came directly from Commissioner Tipton, but my guess is it was really that spineless mayor’s decision. Call me immediately.”

It was official. The fight was over. TKO.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I
N THE DAYS THAT followed, Presto moped around like a dethroned prizefighter. Dispirited, even his mother’s sunny disposition did not penetrate the dark gloom. She had Mr. Stagnuts deliver a few comedy movies, but none brought that carefree, booming laughter that she knew so well.

Presto felt helpless. He had no idea how he could clear himself unless he was allowed access to his accusers. Even then, he knew that his reputation was forever tarnished. Not that it was ever sterling to begin with.

Life’s normal pleasures were no longer fun. Feeding Aphrodite was a chore. His cherished Trident maple bonsai almost died from lack of watering. In spirit, the tree represented his current state—small, pruned, and neglected.

His meals tasted bland. He thought nerves suppressed the appetite, but his calorie intake was consistent. He just didn’t gorge with his usual zest. Food was fun. Now it was a necessity.

Even his books, which provided so much escape through the years, could not puncture the melancholy. The characters seemed as bland as his food within their cardboard settings. Fiction could not change reality.

After feeding his mother, he retired to his office. For once, his mother did not suggest another fun homespun remedy to break his gloom. He loved her for trying. They’d watched movies and sports and ordered the best take out in town, but none of that was going to recapture what he lost—his reputation, his pride, his calling.

Presto believed that each of us is born with gifts. Some of us unwrap them; others never realize their concealed, but inherent potential. It could be athletics, engineering, medicine, law, teaching, politics, mechanics, technology, singing, or any of the other professions in the grand game of life.

It was this belief that nagged at him. He was born to be a detective. He may have hated the politics of being a cop, but he loved the work. Now it had been stolen away. He hated self-pity, but boy was he six feet deep in it. He knew others had it much worse. He had a great place to live, an over abundance of food, and plenty of money. Other than his admitted case of self-indulgence (obesity), he did not suffer any medical ailments. All in all, life was good.

None of this made it any easier, though. He wanted his job back.

At the moment, he sat in his darkened study. The fan whirled softly. A crisp breeze blew over his dormant body. Eyes closed, he dreamed of a different life, outside the big city—upstate, out of state, maybe even Canada. Get away from it all. A change of scenery might be best.

Anonymity.

Then the dream faded like the contents of his fridge. He could never be anonymous. He stuck out like a bloated thumb. He wasn’t a farmer or an outdoorsman. He was a New Yorker. He was a detective.

He looked over his library for the hundredth time and then repeated the same ritual on the Internet, aimlessly checking his favorite sites.

He heard the doorbell ring.
Damn
, he thought.
Mom probably has Mr. Stagnuts bringing more movies or pastries.
He heard his mother call out. Like an angry bear prematurely woken from hibernation, he growled and lumbered from his lair.

“I wonder who that is?” his mother called from her room unconvincingly.

“Yeah, I wonder why I look so big in the mirror,” he muttered.

He opened the door. “Yeah, come in.”

“Surprise!”

Startled, his mouth opened. “What?”

Grinning like two expectant kids on Halloween night, Jack and Abby Burton stood outside his door. The festive difference, from what Presto scented, was they had brought the treats, and it was he who had been tricked.

Abby wore black slacks and a showy floral blouse. Her bronze curls shined. Presto guessed she was at her salon this very afternoon. She looked radiant. Jack Burton was his comfortable, casual self. He had a blue lattice cotton sweater and worn, but unblemished blue jeans that met brown loafers. Even though he looked a bit preppy, he still reeked of masculinity, along with cigar smoke, by his sheer size alone.

Burton gestured to his wife. “Last time we talked, we discussed having you over. Abby, my dear,” he said patting his wife slightly on the rear, “had one lucky day at the track. I called to tell you, but you didn’t answer.”

“Yeah, well. Sorry …”

“Don’t start now, Dom,” he said with a smile. “As I was saying, with the unexpected money, we decided to remodel the living and dining rooms. The kids decided to stay with their friends for the night, and Abby cooked for all of us. Too much food and no comfortable place to eat, so we figured we’d stop by knowing how much you appreciate her cooking.”

Pretso looked at Abby. “He’s lying. My mom put you up to this.”

Burton jumped in, his hand up in protest. “Dom, that’s terrible.”

Abby was too honest and sweet to lie, so she said nothing, but her lips tightened. Presto knew better but was thrilled to see his friends, even if this was his mother’s doing. “Come in. Come in. Here, Abby, let me take that bag from you.”

“Thought you’d never ask, D-e-t-e-c-t-i-v-e Presto,” she said with a sarcastic laugh.

Presto led them to the living room and then deposited the bag on the kitchen counter.

“Let me get my mother ready.”

He ran to the room and lowered his voice. “I can’t believe you.”

Defiant, she replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah you do, but it’s okay, Mom. I appreciate what you’re doing. Oh, and by the way, I love how you had me find and dress you in that stylish outfit by claiming you wanted to feel normal again. You’re hilarious.”

“But …”

“No buts. Let’s get your butt in the wheelchair.”

He pushed his mother to the living room. Burton handed him a drink at the finish line.

Pretso sniffed the glass. “Smells strong.”

“It’s Johnny Walker Blue. Good stuff. Eighteen years old, and I just popped her cherry.”

“My God, Jack,” Abby said, wagging a finger at her husband. She looked at mother and son. “You two don’t know. He still acts like an eighteen-year-old.”

Cleo watched her son laugh. The best part was that her son probably didn’t realize it was his first chuckle in days.

The night was a blast. They ate. They drank. They laughed.

Everyone saw Presto was having a good time, but no one bothered to point it out. In his own nondegrading way, Burton ribbed Presto all night.

Later, they played board games. At three o’clock in the morning, Presto was screaming about bad letters and a rematch after a rare Scrabble thrashing.

The plan worked. She had tricked her detective son.

A mother knows best.