29
THANKS FOR seeing me, Mr. Loomis,” Duncan said.
From across his desk Darryl Loomis fixed Duncan with a level gaze. After a moment he offered a slight shrug. “You’ve got friends in high places,” he said.
Duncan smiled in response, though doing so didn’t cause Darryl’s expression to change. “We’ve got friends in common, yes,” Duncan said. “And in that spirit, let me tell you exactly why I’m here.”
Darryl gestured for Duncan to continue. The two of them were in Loomis’s corner office eighteen stories up in an Avenue of the Americas skyscraper just a few blocks from Duncan’s firm. It was filled with plaques and photos of its occupant with a wide range of boldfaced names, from the mayor and the chief of police to business moguls and hip-hop stars. Duncan thought it looked more like the office of the head of a record label than the mental image he had of a private investigator’s workplace.
But nothing about Darryl was in keeping with the stereotype of a down-at-the-heels private eye, and as Duncan understood it, actual detective work was only a small part of what the company did. Darryl employed over one hundred people, many of them ex-cops. They did a mix of corporate investigations, security work for clubs, celebrities, and VIPs, as well as more prosaic security work, such as on construction sites.
“As I’m sure you understand, part of my firm’s defending Rafael Nazario involves looking into the victim, Mr. Fowler, and the witness, Mr. Driscoll, both of whom work for you. Were the two of them friends?”
“They were friendly enough, far as I know.”
“Was Fowler having any problems with anybody that you know of?”
“He had some back-and-forth with his ex, but just the usual nonsense.”
“Meaning what?”
Darryl shrugged. “He was divorced with kids. Weekend visitations, vacations out of state, alimony—shit never ends.”
“How long ago did he get divorced?”
“Couple of years. Probably past the point where Liz would shoot him. Plus I don’t think Chris would ID her as a teenage male Hispanic.”
Under the circumstances, Duncan viewed Darryl’s sarcasm as progress, and so pretended to be amused by it. “What about problems at Jacob Riis?”
“Nothing that ended up on my desk. Chris would’ve been the person for you to ask that.”
Duncan had expected Darryl would know that he’d already spoken to Driscoll. He also wasn’t surprised by Darryl’s sullen attitude: he couldn’t blame the guy for not wanting to help him. Leah Roth’s intercession was no doubt the only reason Darryl was speaking to him at all. “I assume you know that Sean Fowler had allegedly caught my client smoking pot, which is what led to his eviction?”
“I do now, yeah. It wasn’t anything I paid attention to when it happened. The eviction part didn’t have anything to do with my people.”
Now or never, Duncan thought. “What about all the other evictions?” he asked.
Darryl shifted slightly in his seat, but his gaze didn’t leave Duncan. “Evictions are done by the city,” he said.
Duncan studied Darryl, looking for signs of unease. “But your guys have caught at least a dozen different people at Riis with drugs, and those all led to the city seeking to evict their families.”
“And your point?” Darryl said brusquely.
Duncan wasn’t getting a read on Darryl’s response one way or another. It could just be vexation at hearing the accusation, or it could be something else. “Word on the street is that the drug busts are a way of getting the Riis numbers down, so the city doesn’t have to move everyone back.”
“You here to teach me something about word on the street?” Darryl said, smiling but not in a way that took the edge off. “Word on the street is conspiracy shit, way to keep people from owning their f*ckups. You got any proof?”
“Do you?” Duncan said immediately, smiling as he said it, though that didn’t blunt Darryl’s angry response.
“I was a cop for twenty years,” Darryl said, speaking slowly. “I’ve dealt with a lot of lawyers. I know what a defense lawyer does—tries to put together some kind of story out of whatever rumors they can find.”
“I’m not talking about rumors. I’m talking about the fact that there’s a consistent story out there that your guys are planting drugs on people and busting them, with an eye toward evictions.”
Darryl’s expression turned harsh. “You’re accusing my people of a crime? Based on what some project kids they caught with drugs are claiming? Negro, please.”
Duncan was caught off guard by the last bit, Darryl catching it and smiling. “I don’t think even I would’ve have been able to tell,” he said.
Duncan wondered if there was any way he’d misunderstood. “Tell what?”
“If I hadn’t seen a picture of your dad.”
So much for any misunderstanding, Duncan thought. He tried to tamp down his reaction, not wanting to give Darryl too much of an upper hand. It wasn’t that Darryl had discovered something Duncan tried to keep hidden—although the man seemed to think he had—it was just that Duncan didn’t understand why Darryl had been poking into his personal life. “Why were you looking at a picture of my father?” he asked.
“We run background on anybody before they set foot in my office. Can’t be too careful, know what I’m saying? And you never know what you’re going to find out, not until you find it. Don’t worry, my brother; your secret’s safe with me.”
AS SOON as the lawyer had left, Darryl picked up his phone and called Chris Driscoll at home, summoning him to his office. Driscoll arrived forty-five minutes later, looking bleary-eyed. He worked nights, had sounded like he’d been sleeping when Darryl called. Not that Darryl gave a shit.
“That lawyer handling Nazario was just here,” he said as Driscoll sat down across from him. “He’s claiming that you and Fowler were planting drugs on kids at Riis.”
Driscoll’s gaze didn’t waver, but Darryl could see the effort behind it. “We were doing like you told us Roth wanted, keeping an eye out for criminal stuff we could turn over to the housing cops, helping trim down how many people they had to bring back.”
“I know what I told you to do,” Darryl said. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Were you guys actually planting shit on folks?”
Driscoll hesitated, but he knew better than to lie to his boss. “It was Sean’s idea,” he said. “You know he was always on the make for extra money. He said since Roth was going to throw us a couple grand for anybody we got rid of, we shouldn’t wait for the opportunity to present itself.”
Darryl couldn’t believe the stupidity of it, the unnecessary risk. “And you went along with this nonsense? And then you didn’t tell me, even once we had problems with that motherf*cker?”
“I didn’t see how it would ever come out. We weren’t going crazy with it, and we were focusing on teenagers, so it’s not like anybody would believe them.”
“You don’t make that call,” Darryl said. “You follow orders here, my orders. This shit’s trouble enough without you keeping something like that from me.”
Driscoll nodded, his gaze downcast. “I f*cked up; I’m sorry. What can we do about it?”
“Nothing we can do now but gut it out,” Darryl said. “And know that the only reason I’m not firing your ass is because I can’t.”
“Got it,” Driscoll said.