The Concrete Kiss

Chapter One

      Leonard Berg and fifty other young lawyers eking out a hand-to-mouth existence on low-rent evictions and battered-wife divorces had put their names on the County’s Indigent Appeal roster. On the day that Edward James Anderson was found guilty of murder Leonard Berg’s name was at the top of the list. Through random chance or luck or fate, when Berg finished the appeal and barged into the Homicide-Squad bullpen Ned Danes was the only detective still there. Shifting the grimy banker’s box clutched to his chest, Berg made his way across the room.

      "Hey, Detective,” Berg said dropping the box on the edge of Danes’ desk. “I was appointed to write the Anderson appeal.” Danes glanced briefly at the bulging cardboard box then up at Berg. “I gave it to the clerk today, so, well, I brought back my copy of the PD’s file. I’m supposed to turn it in for shredding or whatever.”

      “That’s Finley’s case,” Danes said, staring at the trespassing box.

      “I know, but he’s on vacation—”

      “Family leave,” Danes interrupted. “His father’s got Alzheimer’s.”

      “Sure, I mean, anyway he’s not here and I’m supposed to return this after I finish with the appeal. It has to go back into the system.”

Danes gave the box another glance, then shrugged.

      “OK, I’ll have somebody sign it in tomorrow.”

      “Thanks, detective. If you ever need something, you give me a call.” Berg held out a thin, white card: “Leonard Berg, Esq. Attorney At Law.”

      “You bet,” Danes said, slipping the twenty-for-a-dollar scrap of paper into his shirt pocket.

      Berg smiled, took half a step, then turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s something in there that doesn’t belong. It looks like it got misfiled from another case.”

Berg pulled off the cover and, one at a time, stacked half a dozen manila folders on Danes’ desk.

      “Got it,” he said, holding up a plastic box containing a single, unlabeled CD. “It’s some kind of a surveillance video.” Berg placed the disc at Danes’ right hand. “All I know is that it’s got nothing to do with my guy’s case. Maybe it’ll mean something to you.” Danes flipped the container over but the backside was as blank as the front. Berg gave Danes an awkward smile and a little wave and two seconds later was gone.

      Danes stared at the disc a moment longer then slipped it into his computer. Colored static speckled the screen then resolved itself into wide-angle shot of the inside of a convenience store. An ID strip ran along the bottom of the picture. The date was November 17^th, about fifteen months ago. The address line listed a store in Highland Hills just outside the city limits on the east side of town. The front door opened and a big man in a black wool coat and a wool hat entered, paused and looked nervously around. The guy stood there for a couple of seconds then turned his back to the camera and bent over the magazine rack up against the front window. Thirty seconds later he handed the clerk a rolled-up magazine. The kid flattened it out to scan the price — “All Natural Babes.” A big-breasted woman with white-blonde hair and empty eyes stared out from the cover.

      “Six ninety-five,” the clerk said and the customer handed over a wrinkled bill. The kid gave him his change and, hunched over, the guy hurried out the door. The screen went black. Danes backed it up and studied the man — white, puffy face, ears flat to the skull, rounded shoulders, almost no neck. He looked familiar but Danes couldn’t remember where from. He knew that face from someplace. Danes closed his eyes but the answer hovered just out of reach. He put the CD back into the case, dropped it in his bottom drawer and headed for the door.

      It was dark outside and an icy wind off the lake tore at Danes’ coat. Christmas and New Year’s were long gone and now only cold, gray weeks of snow and skies like the bottom of an old plate lay ahead. About six feet tall with slab-sided cheeks below a ruff of short, black hair going gray, Ned Danes would have looked at home in Warsaw, Trieste, Cologne, Turin or any of a hundred other cites anywhere from Germany through Belarus. Had some ancestor entered Ellis Island as Bogdan Dansiwitz, Dankowski, or Danestelli and exited as Bob Danes? Ned neither knew nor cared. He was only interested in the relatives he actually knew. His grandfather was Walter Danes, a master cabinetmaker, who had married Sarah Nedrick. They had had four kids, the oldest of which was Franklin Danes, his father. Ned had been named “Nedrick” after his grandmother though it was inevitable that he was going to end up being called either Ned or Rick. Ned had won.

      Danes got into his Escape and slipped it into four-wheel drive mode until it cleared the iced-over lot. Some of the guys bought RAV4s and CRVs, even a few Volvos, but Ned always bought American, even when GM was making mostly crap. “We’re Americans; we buy American,” his dad always said, and that was good enough for Ned. When he turned onto Decker he noticed that the red neon “n” over Vinnie’s front window was flickering worse than ever. Ned thought about stopping and picking up a meatball sub for Jake’s lunch tomorrow, but with a little shake of his head he cruised on past.

      “You don’t get stuff by wanting it, Ned,” his dad always told him. “You gotta earn it.” And Jake had been screwing up a little lately. His grade-point average was slipping down into B-minus territory and that Schomberg kid he had started hanging around with was a corner-cutter if Danes had ever seen one. He and Janis hadn’t worked this hard to raise their son right only to have him get the idea that taking the easy way out was the smart play. You did things the right way or you didn’t do them at all. Danes thanked God he had had a father who had taught him that if you did right by people that they would do right by you. He’d be damned if some punk kid was going to teach Jake the wrong lessons. His dad’s voice echoed in Ned’s ears: “When you cheat other people, Ned, you’re only cheating yourself.” Little treats for Jake could wait until he got his grades, and his choice of friends, headed in the right direction.

      Ned pulled into his garage a little before six.

      “Hey, Dad,” Jake called without looking up from his iPad.

      “Hey, Jake . . . Jan, I’m home.” Danes headed for the kitchen.

      “We’re having pizza,” Janis told him as she grabbed a stack of plates from the cabinet. “Sorry, I had to work late, reports.” She turned and gave him a quick kiss. “It should be here in about fifteen minutes.”

      “No problem. It’ll give me time to catch the news.”

      Jake was sitting Indian fashion in the middle of the couch. Ned tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to slide down. Jake glanced up and when Ned turned on the big LG Jake plugged in a pair of earphones. A picture of flames and smoke filled the screen.

      “ . . . fire was brought under control by nine this morning. Sixteen tenants have been moved to a temporary shelter. The fire department has not yet determined the cause of the blaze.”

      The image of a forties-something white man with thinning hair and perfect teeth filled the screen. Behind him flashed a graphic of a silhouetted body beneath a length of crime-scene tape.

      “The trial of accused killer, Howard Fraschetti, concluded its twelfth day of testimony this afternoon with the prosecution’s final witness, the gas station attendant who was the last person known to have seen Angela Anders alive.” The graphic changed to a clip of the defendant being led into court for his arraignment over six months before. “Howard Fraschetti’s attorney, Samuel Mortensen, is scheduled to call his first witness tomorrow morning. It is not known if the defendant will testify.”

      “Dad, can I borrow mom’s Fusion on Saturday?” Jake asked, pulling off one of his earphones. Not getting an answer, he looked away from his iPad to find his father staring at an image frozen on the TV. “Is it broken?” he asked.

      “I paused it,” Danes said, staring at the picture.

      “Is he one of your guys? I mean, did you arrest him?” Jake pointed at Howard Fraschetti’s sad-eyed face.

      “No,” Danes said, standing and moving closer to the set. There it was, the same no-neck, bowling-ball head, the same pale cheeks, the same puffy lips. Danes moved closer. He recognized the close-set ears and the droopy eyelids. This was the same guy whose face he had seen not half an hour before on the surveillance video. The video that had been in the Anderson file. Fraschetti was accused of murdering Angela Anders. Anders, Anderson, Danes thought. “Can you get Google on that thing?” Danes asked, pointing at Jake’s iPad.

      “Sure, why?”

      “Can you find out the date and time that Angela Anders was killed?”

      Jake was about to ask why but one look at his father’s intent expression drove the question from his mind. “Sure, give me a sec.” Danes had always found typing on a touch screen much harder than on a keyboard but years of text messaging had turned Jake into something of a savant. “OK, . . . it looks like she was killed on November 17^th, the year before last . . . umm . . . the time of death was between seven-fifteen and eight forty-five p.m.” Danes stared blankly at the image frozen on the TV. “You need anything else, dad?”

      “What? No, no that’s good.” Danes paused for a long moment then headed for the hallway. “Jan, something’s come up. I’ve—”

      “What?” his wife called from upstairs.

      “I’ve got to go back to the office. There’s something I’ve got to check.”

      Danes pulled on his coat and hurried out to the garage, his mind spinning. Angela Anders had last been seen at six-thirty in Brighton, west of town, when she filled up her car after cheerleader practice. Her body was found in a ditch fourteen miles farther west around eleven that night. If Howard Fraschetti had been in the mini-mart in Highland Hills at 7:55 there was no way he could be the killer. If the video was real, Howard Fraschetti was an innocent man, which meant that Angela Anders’ murderer was still on the loose.

      Danes turned right on Hardwick and pressed a little harder on the gas.

Chapter Two

      When Ned Danes was thirteen years old his father was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. The doctors had advised him to put his affairs in order and gave him four to six months to live. Frank refused to go. “My boy’s starting high school in the fall,” Frank told the oncologist. “You have to keep me alive until he finishes.” The doctor, Lawrence Hammel, stared at Danes and thought, if wishes were fishes. . . .

      “Mr. Danes, we’ll do all we can, but our options are limited.”

      “I need you to keep me alive until Ned graduates high school,” Frank Danes insisted.

      “Well,” Hammel shrugged, “We’ll do the best we can.”

      Over the next four years Frank Danes had four surgeries, three courses of chemo and two courses of radiation. His body was cut, poisoned and burned, but on the day that Ned graduated from high school Frank Danes was there to see it and on that afternoon he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Frank hung on until mid-November, four days after Ned graduated from boot camp and became a full-fledged United States Marine. Convinced that he had finally done his duty and seen his son into manhood, Frank Danes released his tenuous hold on life and allowed the world to slip away. Frank Danes’ determination and his courage were lessons Ned never, ever forgot.

      It was around seven-thirty when Danes got back to the deserted squad room and again loaded the surveillance video. This time he went through it almost frame-by-frame. There was a 7-Up-logo clock above the front door and its time matched the video code to within three minutes. It was dark outside, clearly p.m. rather than a.m.

      Danes took a tape measure over to the big, county map on the back wall and measured the distance from the store to the mall where they figured Angela had been kidnapped and from there to where her body had been found, then he ran the numbers again to see if there was any way Fraschetti could have killed her within the medical examiner’s time line and still have been in the mini-mart at 7:55. No matter how he figured it, short of driving through city streets at a sustained speed of about seventy miles an hour there was no way Fraschetti could have done it. So, why had the case ever been set for trial? Danes opened the department directory.

      Art Wayman had been the lead detective. Involuntarily, Danes frowned. Wayman had about as much imagination as a carrot. If you wanted a plodder who would put one foot in front of the other until he marched right off a cliff Art Wayman was your man. Danes dialed Wayman’s home number. It was answered on the fourth ring.

      “Art, Ned Danes. You got a minute?”

      “A short minute,” Wayman snapped.

      “This is about the Anders case—”

      “That’s in the hands of the D.A.”

      “Yeah, Art, I know that. The trial was on the news tonight.”

      “So, why are you calling me?”

      Danes bit back a curse and took a deep breath.

      “There was a video of your guy, Fraschetti, in a mini-mart. Do you remember that?”

      “Yeah, so what?”

      “Wasn’t it taken around the time of the murder?”

      “No, he had plenty of time, and, anyway, what’s that to you?”

      “It’s just that—”

      “Do I call you and complain about the way you handle your cases?”

      “I’m not complaining, Art, I’m—”

      “It sounds like complaining to me.”

      “Art—”

      “Look, we ran the case just like any other case. I turned all that stuff over to the D.A., Worthington. If you have any questions, call him. We’re just sitting down to dinner here.”

      “OK, Al—” the phone clicked and went dead.

      Ned Danes stared at the phone and a slow fire began to burn in his gut. With forced calm Danes pulled Terrence Worthington’s home number from the office directory.

      “Yes?” a woman, District Attorney Alphonse Gagliardi’s daughter, Marie, answered. It had been the biggest wedding of the season, the joining of handsome, Princeton Law School grad, Terrence Worthington, and Marie Gagliardi, the D.A.’s sweet but plain daughter. A trophy husband for her, a guaranteed career for him. This year, felony prosecutor and with a couple of big cases under his belt in no time at all he was going to be Assemblyman Worthington, then maybe Congressman Worthington, then, who knew how far a photogenic man with all the right connections might go?

      “Hello, this is Detective Ned Danes. Can I speak with Mr. Worthington please? It’s about the Anders case.”

      “Danes? What’s up?” Worthington asked a moment later.

      “I’m down in the squad room. I ran across something from your case. It looks like it was misfiled. I thought you might need it.”

      “Oh? What’s that?”

      “A surveillance tape of the defendant in a mini-mart. I thought if you’re going to put that into evidence—”

      “Evidence? No, that’s, uhh, bogus. Worthless.”

      “What’s wrong with it?”

      “What’s your interest in this, Detective? I don’t recall seeing your name on the investigators’ list.”

      “I just ran across it and I thought it might be important. But, now that you mention it, why is it bogus?”

      “Not that it’s any of your business, but we determined that the video camera’s clock was off. That’s actually a tape of the defendant the day before the murder. We considered putting it in to show the defendant’s state of mind, you know, that he got all excited looking at that porno mag and that worked him up into doing the killing, but we figured we wouldn’t be able to get it past Judge Kling.”

      “So, the defendant’s attorney’s seen this?”

      “Since when do I answer to you, Detective? Look, you just do your job and I’ll do mine. Was there anything else or are you done sticking your nose into my case?”

      “Sorry to bother you counselor. I just thought you might need this for court, that’s all.”

      The phone went dead. The camera’s date was off? Danes ran the clip back to the beginning then forward at half speed. Ten seconds into the sequence Fraschetti approached the magazine display. Against the near side of the shelves was a newspaper rack. Danes froze the picture and zoomed in. The top paper was the afternoon Tribune. The headline was fuzzy but he could read it: Four Killed In South-Side Crash.

      Danes opened the Tribune’s website and clicked on “Archives.” The headline for November 16^th was Mayor Denies Charges and for the 18^th it was Missing Girl’s Body Found. The headline for the 17^th was Four Killed In South-Side Crash.

      The newspaper’s headline in the video matched the one for the date on the recording. Worthington was full of shit. Which meant that he’d probably never delivered the clip to the defense attorney. No wonder he was so pissed. He obviously thought that the video had been safely dumped in the Anderson file, that he was off the hook if anyone ever found out that he had never given it to the defense, that he had knowingly prosecuted an innocent man.

      Danes popped the disk from the machine. Five cents worth of plastic — a man’s life — a killer still free to kill again. He could put it back in the drawer. Technically, he had done his duty. He had called the D.A. and been told that everything that needed to be done had been done. Technically, he was off the hook. Or, he could blow up the trial, maybe wreck Worthington’s career, make a mortal enemy of the D.A. and probably get himself demoted or fired. Danes considered his options for about two seconds. It wasn’t even a close call.

      He used the department computer to get Samuel Mortensen’s home number. It took several repetitions of the words “urgent” to finally get Fraschetti’s lawyer on the line.

      “I assume you’ve got a good reason for this call, Detective,” Mortensen said in an irritated voice.

      “I’m calling to ask you for a favor.”

      “I’m in the middle of a murder trial and you want a favor?” There was a long silence, then, in a suspicious tone, Mortensen asked, “What favor?”

      “It occurs to me that you may be planning to subpoena me to testify tomorrow as a defense witness in the Fraschetti case. I would prefer that if you’re going to serve me with a subpoena duces tecum that you not do it at my home. I’m going to be at Vinnie’s Pizzeria on Decker in exactly one hour so maybe your process server can get me there.”

      “A subpoena duces tecum,” Mortensen mused after a long pause. “And the . . . material . . . that I would want you to bring to court?”

      “Oh, just the usual, what you guys always put in a subpoena, ‘You are instructed to appear in such and such a department at such and such a time and to bring with you all writings, materials, recordings and videos in your possession or under your control which may pertain to the guilt or innocence of the defendant.’ The standard language.”

      “Certainly, the standard language. Videos, yes, I guess I would want any videos that might prove my client is innocent, wouldn’t I?”

      “I would think you would.”

      “Uh, huh. Thank you, detective. I mean that. Thank you.”

      “I’m just doing my job, counselor.”

      It took Mortensen a little over an hour to prepare the subpoena and race from his house all the way to Vinnie’s. Danes waited for him over the remnants of the dinner he had missed at home.

      “Detective,” Mortensen said, half out of breath. “May I . . . .” Danes waved toward the empty seat across from him.

      “Would you like some pizza? I’ve had all I want. The wife had to work late tonight so . . . .” Danes spread his hands over the remains of a pepperoni and mushroom pie.

      Mortensen stared hard at Danes in a vain attempt to figure out what the hell was going on, then gave up and handed over the subpoena. Danes unfolded it and read it carefully.

      “I guess I’ve been served.”

      “I guess you have.”

      “Well, the law’s the law. I’ll see you in court.”

      Before Danes could stand Mortensen grabbed the detective’s hand.

      “Please.”

      Danes had intended to say nothing in the vain hope that he would somehow be able to cover his ass with the claim that he was just obeying a court order, but he couldn’t ignore the desperate expression painting Mortensen’s face.

      Danes pulled a CD carrier from his inside pocket and handed it over.

      “That’s a copy. I’ll bring the original tomorrow. For the record, Worthington claims that he’s already given that to you so, theoretically, you already have it.”

      “What the hell is it? What am I supposed to ask you when I put you on the stand tomorrow?”

      “Qualify me as a homicide detective with almost thirty years on the force, then ask me if I have any evidence indicating that your client is innocent.”

      “Evidence that my client might be innocent?”

      “Evidence that he is factually innocent.”

      “And what will you say?”

      “I will say that I do. Then you’ll ask what that evidence is and I’ll hand you the original CD and you’ll play it for the jury and then the charges against Mr. Fraschetti will be dismissed.”

      “What the hell is on this?”

      “Proof that your client couldn’t possibly have killed Angela Anders. Proof that Terry Worthington has had in his pocket all along.”

      Mortensen stared at the CD, twisting it in his hand so that it reflected the light like a Christmas tree ornament, then carefully placed it on the table and stared at Danes.

      “You know what they’ll do to you, don’t you?”

      “I’m just obeying a subpoena. I’m just doing my job, upholding the Law.” The way Danes said the word it began with a capital “L.”

      Mortensen shook his head and waved his hand as if dispersing a cloud of smoke.

      “Crap, Detective. They’ll hang you for this. Worthington is Alphonse Gagliardi’s son-in-law. You screw him over and as far as Gagliardi’s concerned it’s the same as screwing over his daughter, and Al Gagliardi would do anything for his little girl. You know he’s got your Chief in his pocket. Gagliardi says ‘Jump’ and Jaworski asks ‘How high?’ They’re going to kick you off the force for this, or, at best, bust you back to parking patrol.”

      “What choice do I have?” Danes asked with all sincerity.

      “What choice do you have? Do you have some kind of a vendetta against Worthington? Did he do something to piss you off and now you’re getting even?”

      “I barely know the guy.”

      Mortensen shook his head in frustration, then tried again.

      “Look, detective, I need to know what I’m getting into the middle of here. I need to know what’s going to come out of the bushes to bite me in the ass. If you’ve got some—” he started to say “scam” or “plot” but bit off the words. “If you’ve got some ulterior motive here,” Mortensen continued in a more restrained voice, “I need to know about it. A man doesn’t give up his job, his career, for no reason.”

      “It’s not for no reason,” Danes said.

      “Fine, what’s the reason then?”

      “Your client is innocent. The killer is still free.” Mortensen just stared at him, confused. “It’s my job to catch the bad guys, not conspire to send innocent men to prison. . . . I need to do the right thing here,” Danes said, finally.

      “Detective, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I have to tell you, I think you’re a damn fool. And I thank God for fools like you. If you ever need anything from me, within reason of course, you call me.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Don’t mention it. By the way, do you have any friends who might be able to help you find a new job?”

      “Are you serious?”

      “If I were you, detective, I would call them before I went to bed tonight, because my guess is that by sundown tomorrow you’re going to be unemployed. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

      “I don’t have any choice.”

      “Do you ever watch the old movies, detective?” Mortensen asked as he stood and buttoned his overcoat.

      “Sometimes. I’m not a big fan of black and white, except for High Noon. That’s one of my favorites.”

      “No surprise there, I’m sure. Well, here’s a line from another old movie, slightly modified: ‘Fasten your seat belt. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.’”

      Mortensen gave Danes’ hand a brief, but sincere shake, then tucked the CD inside his coat and, smiling for the first time in weeks, marched out the door.

Chapter Three

      Ned and Janis had converted their spare bedroom into a shared office where he could spread out his case files and she could work on her evaluation reports. When he got back from Vinnie’s Ned closed the door, settled behind his desk and uneasily glanced at the digital clock — 10:08. It was really too late to call Phil Abbott but Mortensen’s words had drawn blood. Chances were that by this time tomorrow he’d be on unpaid leave and they weren’t going to be able to survive on Janis’ salary alone.

      Last year FBI Special Agent in Charge Phillip Abbott had given Danes his cell number “in case of an emergency.” Ned thought about it for a few seconds and decided that the imminent end of his career probably qualified. He squinted at the ballpoint number jotted on the back of the card that read: “Special Agent In Charge, Phillip Abbott, Federal Bureau of Investigation - Major Crimes Unit” and started dialing.

*     *     *

      Phillip Breckenridge Abbott looked like the actor Central Casting would have picked to play the CEO of an old-line bank or insurance company, someone whose chiseled face and perfect teeth matched an undergraduate degree from Yale, summers on Martha’s Vineyard and money old enough to pre-date the invention of the telephone. And that was just as it should be because Phillip Abbott was all of those things. The Abbott family had founded its fortune on the sale of beans and canned beef to the Union Army and then parlayed those profits into investments in the Union Pacific Railroad and a strategic marriage to Abigail Breckenridge whose father was the principal shareholder in the Northeastern Bank & Trust. By the turn of the century the bank had given birth to an industrial fire and casualty company and from there on the Abbotts and the Breckenridges had never looked back.

      By the late ’50s a habit of sending their boys off to war and a diminished gene pool had reduced the hopes for the continuation of the Abbott line to only two candidates, Phillip Breckenridge Abbott, and his younger brother, Harrison Tyler Abbott. In every way Phillip was the family’s fair-haired boy — handsome, charming, intelligent, as honorable as an archbishop if you believed his friends, and as dangerous as a pit bull, if you believed his enemies. In fact, both descriptions were true.

      It was assumed that after graduation from Harvard Law, Phillip would go through a suitable apprenticeship and eventually replace his father, Sterling Abbott, at the helm of the family empire. Phillips’ announcement that he had decided to join the FBI was therefore greeted in certain quarters with not a little consternation and gnashing of teeth, especially by Phillip’s mother, Elaine Symington Abbott.

      “Philly, you can’t be serious,” she had said in that voice she used when she heard something that just positively could not be true. Phillip smiled and recalled the last time he had heard her use that tone:

      “A peanut farmer from Alabama?”

      “Georgia, dear,” Sterling corrected her.

      “How could anyone think that this country would elect a Georgia peanut farmer as its President? This all has to be some wretched joke.”

      “It’s not a joke, mom. He’s really running for President. He might even win.”

      “Nonsense. I refuse to believe it.”

      Phillip pulled his mind back to the present and gave his mother his best smile.

      “I’ve already filed my application and it’s been accepted,” he told her.

      “Then unfile it. They’ll just have to make do with some, oh, I don’t know, fireman’s son or a football player whose knee doesn’t work right anymore.”

      “I’m sorry, mom, but I leave for Quantico next month.”

      “Quantico? It sounds like some kind of a skin cream. Why would you want to be a policeman anyway? What if you get shot? Then what will I do?”

      “I’ll do my best not to get shot, I promise.”

      “But, why Phillip, why a policeman?”

      “Mom, you’d only laugh if I told you.”

      “I could use a good laugh right now, Philly.”

      Abbott took a little breath. “I want to do something with my life. All my life I’ve had a free ride. What good have I done? Who have I helped? What’s the point of just putting more zeros in a bank account someplace?”

      “Oh, Philly, such nonsense! When you run the company you’ll help lots of people. We have thousands of employees. Someone needs to look after them, and there’s always charity. You can establish a foundation or something, give money away left and right if you want.”

      A dozen replies flitted through Abbott’s brain, none of which his mother would understand.

      “Mom,” he said finally, taking her in his arms, surprised at how frail she felt. “I’ll do good work and I will make you all proud. Think about it. We’ve never had an FBI agent in the family. Imagine that when one of your friends talks about her son fixing a broken leg or building a new sewage treatment plant and you tell her that last week your son arrested a gang of crooks just before they could knock over First National Trust and steal all their jewels and platinum watches. That’ll get their attention don’t you think?”

      “Oh, Philly,” Elaine said, trying to smile while she held back her tears. “You will be careful, won’t you? You’re not going to get yourself into any shootouts or whatever it is they call them are you?”

      “It will be strictly white-collar crime for me, mother, I promise. It won’t be so bad. I’ll wear a suit and tie every day.”

      “A nice suit,” Elaine insisted, pushing Phillip back to look him in the eye. “Tailored, tasteful, a nice gray pinstripe perhaps. Nothing off-the-rack like those policeman on the television wear.”

      “I promise, mother, nothing off-the-rack. I’ll be the image of sartorial propriety. All right?”

      “Well, if you must, I suppose you must. Perhaps you’re right. And, if it doesn’t work out you can always resign. I’m sure that with a little effort your father could get you appointed as a federal judge someplace or other.”

      “We’ll call that Plan B. Now, I’ve got to tell Harrison he’s going to be stuck running the company. Do you want to come with me when I give him the bad news?”

      “Oh, Philly,” Elaine laughed and circled his waist with her arm.

      In point of fact, Phillip Abbott zoomed through the ranks of the FBI. With old money, a brilliant mind, an insane work ethic and a marriage to Kimberly Danberry, the only child of former U.S. Senator Roger Danberry, Abbott sped through the FBI bureaucracy as if he was coated with pig fat. Before long they wanted to send him to Washington and make him a paper-pusher. He was fine with the Washington part but refused to become a bureaucrat. Instead he spent six months arguing for the establishment of the Bureau’s equivalent of a Major Case Squad. There was already a precedent, the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the BAU, which chased down serial killers out of its headquarters in Quantico.

      “The Major Crimes Unit, the MCU,” Abbott argued, “will have the same structure as the BAU and the same strategy. It will go after the biggest threats, the biggest gangs, the worst offenders, people whose actions stretch beyond a single field office, whose crimes are so serious that they require a dedicated, high-impact, team approach.”

      It took all of Abbott’s powers of persuasion, every favor he had ever earned, every political connection the Abbotts and the Danberrys together could muster, but, in the end, he got what he wanted. The MCU was established, based out of headquarters in Washington, D.C. And, of course, its first commander was Phillip Breckenridge Abbott.

      Ned Danes knew none of this. To him, Phil Abbott was just the Special Agent in charge of a team that had been tracking down an interstate gang of bank robbers who had paused long enough in Upstate New York to knock over the Lincoln Trust Company and, in the process, kill the night security guard, a murder that Ned Danes had been charged with solving. Ned and Phil Abbott had gotten along well, seemed to click, though Danes had no idea why Abbott had gone out of his way to befriend him. It was simple, really. Phil Abbott had a habit of grabbing hold of every honest, decent, courageous cop he would find and adding them to his secret list of men he could trust to do the right thing. So Abbott had told Danes to call him if he was ever in need of a friend, because Abbott knew that what goes around comes around and that someday a favor given might well become a favor received.

      At ten after ten that Tuesday night Phil Abbott looked at the caller ID, pressed the “answer” button and said, “Ned, what can I do for you?”

      “Phil, I’m sorry to call so late, but something’s come up and I could use some advice, well, more like a referral I suppose.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      Danes spent five minutes laying out what he had learned, his anger growing second by second. “And so they picked this poor sap, Fraschetti, as their patsy. I checked him out. Forty years old, still lives with his parents, IQ about 85. He works as a minimum-wage stock-boy at the local market. He doesn’t own a car. He’s never even had a driver’s license. Their story is that he stole his store’s delivery truck to do the crime. They’ve got some crap video of some similar kind of truck in the area of the dumpsite but it’s nothing more than a gray blur. Fraschetti’s a perfect fall guy to clear the case. He looks a little odd and he’s not bright enough to really understand what’s happening to him. The sons of bitches!”

      “And tomorrow you’re going to blow up their case?”

      “Damn straight, I mean, what choice do I have? The bastards! . . . Sorry, well, anyway, it looks like I’m going to need to start looking for a new job. I’m guessing that I’m too old for the Bureau to want me but I was hoping that you might know somebody who could use my training, maybe in private security or corporate in-house? Even something part-time would be a help.”

      “I could probably point you in the right direction but I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You’ve got a union. The department can’t just fire you.”

      Danes gave Abbott a bitter laugh. “Chief Jaworski’s in the D.A.’s pocket and he’ll find a way to get rid of me, you can count on that — tardiness, failure to properly document expenses, insubordination, breaking any one of a hundred petty rules. When they want to get rid of you they can always find a way. Right now I just need to figure out what I’m going to do next.”

      “All right.”

      “So, you might know some people you can refer me to?”

      “I’ll tell you what. I’ll help you find another job if you’ll do something for me.”

      “Like what?”

      “I want you to record any conversations you have with the D.A. or anyone at the PD over the next couple of days.”

      “You want me to wear a wire! What for? I’m not a snitch.”

      “I know that.”

      “Then why?”

      “If this hits the fan you’re going to have one story and they’ll have another. If I’m going to go to the CEO of a bank and tell him to hire you, I’m going to need to be able to tell him that I have personal knowledge that you were screwed over and that everything they’re saying about you is a lie. So, if I’m going to go to bat for you, if I’m going to give people my personal guarantee, then I need you to record everything they say to you so this doesn’t turn into just a he-said/she-said.”

      “I’m not wearing a wire so I can sue people, even these bastards,” Danes insisted.

      “Nobody’s asking you to sue anybody, Ned. I just need you to do this for me so that I can help you. That’s not an unreasonable request is it?”

      “I guess not,” Danes answered after a few seconds thought.

      “All right. You go to court and tell the truth and if it all turns bad, I’ve got your back.”

      “Thanks, Phil. This means a lot to me. I’ve got a family, responsibilities. I have to support my family. I need to have a job.”

      “Ned, listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?”

      “Yeah, sure. I’m listening.”

      “All right, here’s my message to you: Get yourself a good night’s sleep and tomorrow, wear the wire and then tell the truth. And know this: I’ve—Got—Your—Back.”

      Janis popped her head through the door just as Ned was hanging up. “Everything all right?” she asked.

      “Come on in, honey. We need to talk.”

Chapter Four

      Almost a hundred years ago the county courthouse had been constructed of marble and granite, grand arches and high ceilings, all in the hope of overawing the citizenry with the majesty of The Law. Over the years the building had grown tired and it was now sadly shopworn. Danes slumped onto a scratched-up bench outside Department 14 at five to nine and stared blankly at the Just Say No To Drugs placard on the opposite wall. An anonymous stream of lawyers, witnesses, potential jurors and defendants wandered past, and one person not so anonymous.

      Art Wayman glanced idly at Danes, half-turned and gave him a surprised stare, then hurried into the courtroom. Shit! Ned thought and clicked the button on the ballpoint pen that was really a digital recorder. Ten seconds later Terry Worthington stormed into the hallway.

      “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, looming over Danes. Worthington’s charcoal suit fit him perfectly, hand-tailored no doubt. A white Egyptian-cotton shirt, a burgundy silk tie, and a set of square off-gold cufflinks completed the image of a savvy, young attorney battling to protect the citizens from demented monsters like Howard Fraschetti. Ned stood, forcing Worthington to take a step back.

      “Mortensen subpoenaed me.” Ned half pulled the form from his inside pocket then shoved it back down.

      “This is all about that damn surveillance video isn’t it? I told you that thing’s bogus.” Ned just shrugged. “Listen to me, Danes,” Worthington whispered, then paused, looked over his shoulder, and pulled Ned into the corner. “You’re a cop and that means we’re on the same side. If you blow up my case you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

      “I’m here under subpoena.”

      “This was never your case. Why the hell would Mortensen subpoena you?” Again, Ned shrugged. “You told him, didn’t you? You told him about the tape.”

      “You said he already knew about the tape.”

      “Don’t play games with me, Danes. You called Art Wayman, then you called me, then you called Mortensen and shot off your mouth. That’s the only way he would have gotten the idea to subpoena you.” Ned just stared at Worthington, his face as flat as a plate. “You listen to me, Danes. Your job is hanging by a thread here. If you go into that courtroom and tell the jury that Fraschetti is innocent I swear that I will see to it that by the end of the week your job and your pension are both gone.”

      “What do you want me to say?”

      “I want you to say that you don’t know anything about the damn tape or that you lost it or that you accidently stepped on it or that your computer ate it or that you don’t have any chain of evidence on it, that it’s unverified, that the clock was off, that it’s not from the night of the murder, whatever it takes to make sure it doesn’t hurt my case. You’re a cop for Christ’s sake, you know how to testify to make it sound right.”

      “You’re telling me to lie?”

      “I’m telling you to remember what side you’re on. I’m telling you that it’s your job to see to it that Howard Fraschetti goes away for this and that you had better do your job.”

      “Are you serious?”

      “Listen, Danes,” Worthington said in a voice that was almost a hiss, “you go in there and say whatever you have to say to make sure that the jury finds that moron guilty or I will ruin your life.”

      Worthington paused, looked around to make sure no one had heard his outburst, straightened his perfectly cut coat, and walked back into the courtroom as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Five minutes later the bailiff opened the door and called, “Detective Nedrick Danes.”

Chapter Five

      Danes took the witness stand and recited his name and occupation. Samuel Mortensen, thin and gray-haired, looking more like a college professor than an attorney, smiled and paced to the front of the room.

      “Thank you for coming this morning, Detective.”

      “You served me with a subpoena,” Danes said, pulling out the form.

      “What is your job in the police department?”

      “I’m a detective in the Homicide/Major Crimes Squad.”

      “How long have you been a homicide detective?”

      “Nine years.”

      “How many murder cases have you investigated, Detective?”

      “More than three hundred.”

      “More than three hundred murders,” Mortensen repeated. “Were you one of the detectives involved with this case?”

      “No.”

      “Have you heard any of the testimony in this matter?”

      “No, none.”

      “The defendant does not own a vehicle but the prosecution contends that he borrowed his employer’s step-van to commit the crime and then returned it without anyone knowing. Do you know what a step-van is?”

      “It’s a fairly large truck, like a bread truck, somewhat bigger than a milk truck.”

      “Yes, that’s correct. Detective, in the course of your duties as a police officer have you come into possession of any evidence that might indicate that Mr. Fraschetti may be innocent of this crime?”

      “Objection, calls for an opinion as to guilt which is the jury’s job.”

      “I’ll rephrase, Your Honor,” Mortensen cut in. Judge Kling nodded for him to proceed.

      “Detective, in the course of your duties as a police officer have you come into possession of any evidence that bears on the question of Mr. Fraschetti’s guilt or innocence?”

      “Objection!”

      “Your Honor —”

      “He’s a nine-year veteran of the Homicide Department,” the judge interrupted. “He’s entitled to at least tell us what evidence he might have found. The jury will decide if or how it relates to the defendant’s guilt of innocence. Overruled.”

      “Detective?” Mortensen prompted.

      “Yes, evidence has come into my possession that, in my opinion, shows that Mr. Fraschetti is innocent of this crime.”

      A babble of hushed voices swept through the courtroom and Judge Kling openly stared at Danes. Worthinton half stood to object but the jury had already heard the answer and he wasn’t going to be able unring that bell.

      “Did you bring that evidence to court with you today?”

      Danes pulled the CD from his coat pocket and laid it on the railing in front of him.

      “Yes, I did.”

      “What is that evidence?”

      “Objection, no foundation.”

      “I was about to get to that, Your Honor,” Mortensen said.

      Judge Kling gave the D.A. a sharp look and snapped, “Overruled. Continue, Mr. Mortensen.”

      “What is that evidence?”

      Worthington started to get to his feet but a glare from the Judge forced him back down.

      “It’s a surveillance video from a convenience store on Parker Avenue between Broadmore and Westin recorded on the night of the murder. It shows the defendant in that store at 7:55 p.m. on that night.”

      An audible sigh rose from the spectators and not a few jurors.

      “Where did you get this video?”

      “From the Homicide Squad’s file box which contained the records of the case against Edward James Anderson. It was obviously misfiled due to the similarity of the names, Anderson and the victim in this case, Angela Anders.”

      “Your Honor, there is no chain of evidence here,” Worthington objected. “That video, whatever it is, could have come from anywhere. We have no idea how it got into the Anderson case file.”

      “Judge, I’ll make an offer of proof that Mr. Hector Suarez, the owner of the convenience store in question, will authenticate the video. He will testify that he furnished the video to Detective Arthur Wayman, the lead investigator in this case.”

      “I want to cross-examine this Mr. Suarez,” Worthington snapped.

      “Mr. Worthington,” the judge said, speaking very slowly, “are you telling the Court that you have no knowledge of this video?”

      “My knowledge or lack of knowledge has nothing—”

      “Did you know about this video or not?”

      Worthington scowled, then admitted, “I knew about it.”

      “How did you know about it?”

      “Detective Wayman obtained it in the course of his investigation,” Worthington admitted reluctantly.

      “So, you not only knew about this video, your lead detective is the person who actually obtained it. So much for your argument that it could have come from anywhere.” Kling paused, then stared hard at Worthington. “Did you give a copy of this video to the defense.”

      “I’m sure we must have.” Kling’s chin snapped up. He knew what that weasel-worded reply meant. This was beginning to smell.

      “Mr. Mortensen, did the People give you a copy of this video?”

      “No, Your Honor, they did not.”

      “When was the first time you learned of its existence?”

      “Last night, Your Honor.”

      Kling paused and almost asked how Mortensen had found out about it, but thought better of it. Obviously, Danes had run across it and tipped Mortensen off. Kling tapped his fingers and looked back at the D.A. Worthington refused to meet his eyes. Son of a bitch! Kling had been a judge long enough to recognize the stink wafting from the prosecutor’s table. It was the foul odor of prosecutorial misconduct that, if not dealt with, was going to contaminate him as well.

      “Mr. Worthington, sit down. Mr. Mortensen, please continue with your examination of Detective Danes.”

      “If it please the court, I would like to play the video for the jury.”

      “Go ahead,” Kling said before Worthington could get to his feet.

      The bailiff rolled in a 50-inch flat-screen that Mortensen had arranged for early that morning. The defense attorney slipped in the disc and handed the remote to Danes.

      “Detective, would you please take us through this video.”

      Danes hit the “Play” button.

      “OK, that’s the defendant there,” Danes said, then paused the recording so that Fraschetti’s face was clear. “The time code shows 7:55 p.m. That’s within three minutes of the time on the wall clock so we know that the time is right.”

      “What does this prove?”

      “It proves that Mr. Fraschetti was near the intersection of Parker and Broadmore at 7:55 on the night of the murder.”

      “And how is that relevant to the case against the defendant?”

      “I checked the department’s files and—”

      “You reviewed official police department records on this case and your testimony is based on that review?”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “Please continue.”

      Danes glanced at the TV screen then at the jury.

      “The victim was alive at 6:30 that evening when she drove away from the gas station where she filled up her car. When we found her vehicle it didn’t have any signs of damage so she wasn’t run off the highway, besides which, it’s a busy road and someone would have seen something like that. We know she was going to the Orchard Park Mall, which is eight miles west of the gas station so she probably arrived there around 6:45 or so. That’s the first place and time that she could have been taken.”

      “Objection!” Worthington snapped, visibly sweating. “Speculation.”

      “I deem Detective Danes to be an expert witness on the subject of homicide investigations which means that he is entitled to give opinion testimony so long as he explains the factual reasons underlying his opinions,” Kling said then banged his gavel. “Overruled. Continue Detective Danes.”

      “We know from the forensic evidence that she was bound, gagged and later raped. That would have taken at least half an hour so that puts us at 7:15 at the earliest. Her body was found about six miles west of the mall so that puts the body dump at no earlier than around 7:30. The medical examiner determined that the time of death was between 7:15 and 8:45. That all means that the killer grabbed her no earlier than around 6:45 and no later than 8:15. Since we didn’t find anyone in the mall who had seen her and since her credit card had not been used at any of the stores in the mall the most likely scenario is that she was grabbed in the parking lot, so the most likely case is that the killer was there at the mall at around 6:45 and left her body at the dump site no earlier than 7:30.”

      “But couldn’t the murderer have kidnapped her as late as 8:00, killed her and left her body at the spot where it was found at 8:45?”

      “It’s not the most likely scenario but it’s theoretically possible.”

      “So, Detective, according to your time-line, the killer would have kidnapped the victim no earlier than 6:45 and been at the body dump-site no earlier than 7:30 or would have kidnapped the victim no later than 8:00 and been at the dump site no later than 8:45?”

      “Yes.”

      “How does that timing relate to this video?”

      “Given that the convenience store is on the east side of town and Ms. Anders was kidnapped and dumped west of the city, in order for him to be the killer Mr. Fraschetti would have had to have driven on surface streets from the convenience store all the way through town. He couldn’t have averaged more than twenty-five miles an hour at that time of night. The body was found twenty-one miles west of the convenience store, a third of that distance over city streets. Seven miles at thirty miles an hour would take about fifteen minutes. Fourteen miles at forty-five miles an hour would take about twenty minutes. That’s at best thirty-five minutes to get to the dumpsite from the convenience store and thirty-five minutes more to get back.

      “If the defendant was the killer and he left the dump site at the earliest possible time, 7:30, he couldn’t have made it from there to the store before five after eight. If the defendant was the killer and he left the dump site at the latest possible time, 8:45, he would have had to kidnap the victim by 8:15 which means he would have had to have left the convenience store no later than 7:40. The video shows Mr. Fraschetti in the store at 7:55. Five to eight is too late for him to have killed her after he left the store and it’s too early for him to have killed her before he came to the store.”

      “What are you saying that this evidence shows, Detective?”

      “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation.”

      Theoretically, Kling knew, Worthington was probably right. But there were larger issues at stake here if he kept the evidence out. First, the prosecution had gotten an indictment after hiding exculpatory evidence. That would be grounds for an appeal right there. But even beyond that it was pretty clear to Kling that no reasonable jury could unanimously vote to convict the defendant after seeing that video. At best they’d end up with a hung jury. And then what? This case wouldn’t make it to trial again, not with that video out there. But what if in spite of everything this jury did convict? The defense would make a motion for a directed verdict of Not Guilty. If he denied that motion Kling had no doubt that he would be sending a likely innocent man to prison. If he granted the motion without Danes’ testimony in evidence the media might lynch him. And he had a re-election campaign coming up.

      “Objection overruled. Detective, you may answer.”

      “I’m saying that this evidence proves beyond any reasonable doubt that the defendant is an innocent man. He didn’t do it.”

      Mortensen looked from Danes to the shocked jury and paused for a long heartbeat. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

      “Move to strike, Your Honor!”

      The prosecutor’s case had turned into a steaming pile of crap, Kling decided. It had to end and it had to end in a way that didn’t splash any of the D.A.’s shit on him.

      “Overruled.”

      Worthington was on his feet before Mortensen could turn around.

      “Detective, all this time-line stuff is just your opinion, isn’t that true?”

      “No, it’s not true. It’s simple arithmetic.”

      “But it’s all based on the assumption that the time and date stamp on the video is accurate, isn’t it?”

      “The time on the video matches the clock on the wall so I wouldn’t call that an assumption.”

      “You’ve investigated many cases involving this type of store-surveillance video system, haven’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are they always kept in tip-top condition?”

      “No.”

      “Do the operators sometimes fail to properly set the date and time on the machines?”

      “Yes.”

      “In fact, if the power fails or the machine is unplugged, that can cause the video to have the wrong date or time when it’s started back up, can’t it?”

      “Yes.”

      “So, it’s possible that the date stamp on this video is wrong. Isn’t it possible that this video was actually made on the day before or the day after the murder and that the date we’re seeing on the screen is wrong?” Worthington demanded, giving Danes a hard stare.

      “No, that’s not possible.”

      Trial lawyers are always taught that asking a witness “Why?” when you don’t know what he is going to say is like kicking a bear to find out if it’s dead or just sleeping. But the jury had heard Danes’ answer. Worthington was in too deep to back out now.

      “Why do you think that?”

      “Because I carefully examined the newspapers on the rack near the door.” Danes zoomed the picture until the papers occupied the center of the screen. “As you can see, the Tribune’s headline, is Four Killed In South-Side Crash. I confirmed that that was, in fact, the headline on the November 17^th edition of the Tribune. This video could only have been made on November 17^th, not the day before, not the day after.”

      Worthington’s face paled and he turned away from the jury. After a moment’s pause he paced back to the witness stand.

      “Did you actually drive the route from the convenience store to the mall and then to the location where the body was found?”

      “No.”

      “So you don’t know from your own personal investigation that your travel times are correct do you?”

      “No, for that I’d have to have someone who had never had a driver’s license in their life drive the route in a step van like the one you claim the defendant used and I’d bet that it would take a heck of lot longer than any of the times I estimated for an experienced licensed driver to make the trip in a passenger car,” Danes said, glaring at Worthington. For a moment the D.A. glared back, then turned away.

      “No further questions for this witness,” he muttered over his shoulder. For about five seconds the courtroom was absolutely silent. Judge Kling looked at Worthington and disappointedly shook his head, then he turned to Sam Mortensen. It was time to end this disaster and get this stinking mess out of his courtroom in a way that couldn’t lead to an appeal.

      “Mr. Mortensen, in light of this testimony do you have a motion?”

      Kling’s voice was light but Mortensen recognized the outraged look in the Judge’s eyes.

      “Uhh, yes, Your Honor. I move for a dismissal of all charges.”

      “Your Honor!” Worthington almost shouted. “That is totally out of order. The jury deserves to make its own decision in this case.”

      Kling ignored the D.A. like a bad smell.

      “Based on Detective Danes’ testimony and the video evidence, it is clear that it would be absolutely, totally and completely impossible for any twelve reasonable people to find beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of this crime.”

      “Your Honor—”

      “Impossible,” Kling repeated, glaring at the D.A. Reluctantly, Worthington sank back into his chair. “Had the judge conducting the preliminary hearing in this case seen this video I have no doubt that the defendant never would have been bound over for trial in the first place. The time of this court and this jury has been wasted, wasted by this unnecessary and ill-founded prosecution, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars of the taxpayers’ money squandered and the terrible cost to the defendant, not only in dollars but to his reputation. And that doesn’t begin to consider the emotional damage to the defendant and to his family, all of which could have been avoided had the People turned this evidence over to the defense as they were obligated to do.

      “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I apologize to you for the waste of your time. Because no reasonable jury could ever unanimously vote to convict the defendant of the offense charged, all charges against Howard Fraschetti are hereby dismissed. Mr. Fraschetti, you are a free man. This court is adjourned.”

      The judge’s gavel banged like a gunshot. Ned Danes slipped out of the witness chair but didn’t get far before Terry Worthington grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. Remembering his promise to Phil Abbott, Danes hit the button on his fake pen.

      “You think you’re some kind of a hero, Danes,” Worthington snarled, “but you just made the worst mistake of your life.” Worthington’s face was a raw pink and his forehead was covered in sweat. “Go ahead, be the big man, enjoy it while you can because my father-in-law’s going to make sure you’re dropped into the wood-chipper. You’re a dead man, Danes. You will never carry a badge again. Never. We’ll see to that. When we’re done with you, you won’t be able to get a job as mall-cop. And you can forget your pension. You’re going to find out what happens to traitors and snitches.”

      Ned Danes had graduated from Marine Corps boot camp, had been shot at twice on the job, had carried a gun into back alleys and crack-dens on more occasions than he cared to remember, and this putz lawyer thought he could frighten him? Really? Danes did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He laughed and walked away.