Holiday Grind

Twelve

Still chained to the rail behind me, I maneuvered my body as much as I could to get a view of the hallway outside the holding room. Through the half-open door, I saw Franco and Hong conferring with a fortyish Hispanic man in an unbuttoned trench coat—an assistant district attorney I’d seen once or twice before. There was a fourth man, too, a preppy type in his early thirties.

By now it was close to ten at night, but the preppy new-comer looked fresher than just-squeezed breakfast juice. Blond hair impeccably coiffed, designer suit cleanly pressed, he carried a slim attaché case in his right hand and sported a Harvard ring on his left. His chiseled features displayed one of those slick smiles that almost always carried some kind of noxious threat behind it.

I knew we were in trouble when the ADA departed and Franco ushered the preppy into the room with an almost merry disposition. Detective Hong followed, closing the door behind him.

“Bad news, people,” Franco began. “But first—the introductions.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Ivy Leaguer. “Meet Chip Castle, a lawyer for the management company that owns the property you two were trespassing on. It’s the same company that employs the doorman Rover here assaulted.”

“I hardly tapped him,” Matt muttered.

Castle eyed Matt, then me—pretty much like we were bugs. (Of course, the stench of garbage still lingering on my Boyz N the Hood ensemble wasn’t exactly a public relations booster.)

“We’re pressing charges against you both,” Castle announced with a kind of gleeful spite. “Criminal trespass. Felony assault.”

I blinked, Matt cursed, and Castle grinned through a fortune of pearly orthodontia.

“Nothing personal,” he added. “My clients have no choice but to pursue the matter through the legal system. It’s in the insurance agreement for the property, you understand? We’re required to do this.”

Franco stepped forward. “Matteo Allegro, you’re charged with felony—”

“Screw you, Generalissimo!” Matt barked straight into Franco’s face. “You’re letting this A-hole lawyer railroad us because she’s doing your job for you!”

“Matt, don’t make it worse—”

“She’s trying to solve a case you can’t, or won’t, solve yourself.”

Franco lunged for Matt, fist cocked. He’d finally gotten a taste of having his own buttons pushed. Unfortunately, Matt’s strategy—to nail Franco with police brutality charges—also meant he’d have to endure a beat down.

“Stop it, Franco! Chill, man!” Hong threw himself between Franco and Matt. “The guy’s in cuffs! You can’t touch him!”

“Touch me, Generalissimo!” Matt yelled. “Come on! Smack me around! You’re just a tin-pot dictator like your Spanish namesake! You want to, Generalissimo! Do it!”

That’s when I noticed the lawyer. The smarmy grin never left Castle’s face, but now he was backing toward the door.

Okay, boys, playtime’s over!

“EXCUSE ME!” I shouted at a level of female shrill that was disturbing enough to cut through the testosterone-fueled bellows. “I have something germane to say to Mr. Castle!”

Fists clenched, Franco broke free of his partner’s grip, but he stepped away from Matt instead of toward him. (Thank goodness.) Hong froze. And Castle stopped inching toward the door. He regarded me for a silent moment.

“I’m listening,” he finally said, his tone still insufferably superior. He even made a show of glancing at his watch. “You have a germane comment, do you?”

“I’m a businesswoman, counselor,” I replied, “so I know the score.”

Actually, I’d learned the score from Matt’s mother. Before teaching me how to run a shop in the heart of Manhattan, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois had run it herself for half a century—that meant decades of dealing with corrupt inspectors and mobbed-up garbage handlers; unethical real estate developers and slip-and-fall lawyers. Channeling Madame was getting to be a habit, and taking this guy down was going to be a pleasure.

“Your clients are forcing you to press charges because they’re afraid of rate increases from the insurance company,” I said. “But what if this insurance company found out how easily I was able to breach your clients’ building security? Wouldn’t that raise rates, too?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“For starters, you have no security gate blocking access to the courtyard from the street—”

“We had some construction going on a short time ago. That’s why there’s a Dumpster on the side of the building, as well as the—”

“You have bins positioned against the back of the building and crates piled up nearby. That’s hardly secure. Your own building management has made reaching the fire escape child’s play.”

The lawyer tossed his perfectly styled mane. “Such a situation is easily rectifiable—”

“But most egregiously, Mr. Castle, the security hook on the fire escape was rusted completely through. All I had to do was pull down the ladder. Why, under those conditions, building management might as well hang out a sign that says Please Burglarize Our Tenants. I’m sure those very tenants would be interested to know how little management cares for their safety and security. And if we go to trial...” I paused to shoot Mr. Billable Hours a sharklike smile of my own. “I guarantee they’ll all find out.”

Castle’s superior smirk started to waver.

“Of course, to prepare for trial, I’d insist on official reports from the FDNY and Department of Buildings. I’d definitely want them to check out that fire escape. The way it was rocking in the wind, I have doubts about its structural integrity.”

Poof! Just like that, Castle’s smirk disappeared. He loosened his tie.

“Now listen to me, counselor, because here’s the real story: I was on that fire escape for an innocent reason—to search for evidence the police might have missed in my friend’s murder the night before. Your doorman didn’t ask what I was doing there. He simply assaulted me and threw me into that Dumpster. The only reason my ex-husband here took a few swipes at the man was because he heard me screaming. He was trying to get me out of that Dumpster—to make sure I wasn’t hurt or bleeding or raped or dying. Your employee locked me in there, by the way—with the garbage—but I’m sure your nose already told you that. So if you press charges against me and my ex-husband, I’m not only going to sue your doorman in civil court, I’m going to sue your client for five million dollars.”

Everyone was looking fairly sheepish now. Everyone but Charlie Hong, who appeared to be suppressing a smile.

“Take a good look at me, Mr. Castle. I’m five two in stocking feet, a single mother of a grown daughter, and a well-known shop manager in the community with no criminal history. Your doorman is a six-two, two-hundred-eighty-pound former bar bouncer. Which version of this story do you think a jury will side with?”

Castle stood in silence for a moment. Then he motioned to Franco and Hong to follow him out the door. Lucky thing, too, because I’d just run out of options—and threats.

After conferring with the detectives, mostly Hong, and making a cell call (presumably to that departing ADA), the Franco bomb detonated again: “What do you mean you’re not pressing charges?!”

Mr. Castle muttered something I couldn’t hear. Then he turned his back on the sergeant and strode away. After that, Hong and Franco started talking. I overheard one telling phrase on Hong’s end: “Lieutenant Mike Quinn.” Inside a minute, Franco was striding away with obvious frustration, and Detective Hong returned to the holding room. He unlocked Matt’s cuffs first.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Allegro, and I suggest you leave right now.”

Rubbing his wrists, Matt stood. “Not without Clare.”

“Fine,” Hong said. “Wait outside, then. I want a private word with Ms. Cosi.”

Matt didn’t budge, just looked at me.

“It’s okay,” I said.

Matt crossed the room and closed the door behind him. Hong released my cuffs, and I shook my arms to restore the feeling in my fingers.

“I checked you out,” Hong began, sitting down next to me. “And I know you know something about police business. Lieutenant Quinn contacted me today, as well. He’s a good man. I think a lot of him.”

“So do I.”

“Look, Ms. Cosi, I don’t want you to think that Franco and I aren’t working hard to find the man who murdered your friend. That’s pretty much all we’re thinking about right now. I wanted you to know that—and that I fully understand your interest in this case.”

“I’m glad one of you does.”

Hong sighed. “I know Franco seems like a hard case.” The detective’s stony face cracked. “Hell, he’s got a chip the size of Battery Park on his shoulder. But he’s a good cop and a good detective.”

“I find little evidence of that.”

“Believe me, it’s true. If anything, my partner can be extreme in the pursuit of justice.”

“What do you mean by extreme?”

“Let’s say he has a rep for getting the job done and leave it at that.”

I didn’t want to, but I could see Hong did.

“Just curious,” I asked as he stood up. “Why did that ‘Generalissimo’ thing set him off so badly?”

Hong paused a moment, as if he were deciding how to answer me. Finally, he sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. “Franco likes to let people assume his nickname comes from the street—you know, ‘General’ as slang for ‘leader.’ ”

“Where did it come from, then?”

Hong shook his head. “Franco and I got hammered one night and he admitted what your ex-husband just guessed.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m really not old enough to remember, but apparently back in the seventies, the network news anchors kept announcing Spain’s dictator was near death. When he finally kicked, Saturday Night Live put a joke in their weekly fake news routine: ‘This breaking news just in... Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.’ ”

“Okay. Not actually funny. And what does it have to do with your partner?”

“On his first day at the police academy, Franco had an instructor who was into that vintage SNL stuff. He’s the one who gave him the nickname Generalissimo. Franco hated it. Took him years and a few transfers before he finally got General to stick. That’s it.”

I shook my head. “What is it with you men? Why do you let your egos dictate—”

“If it’s all the same to you, Ms. Cosi, I’d rather you not lump us all in the same category.”

I was about to reply when the door flew open, banging explosively against the back wall. With that preamble, I expected to see Sergeant Franco standing there again, but it was Matt—with Mike Quinn in tow, an unreadable expression on his still-as-stone face.

“There she is,” Matt declared, pointing his finger at me. “You try talking some sense into her.”