ON HIS SHRINK'S ADVICE, ABE MARION HAD BEEN sucking on mints whenever he felt angry or frustrated. It was supposed to be some kind of gratification-replacement concept, but so far, it was turning out to be a big, fat pile of crap. The tin was empty anyway, and so it looked like Marion's morning was going to be gratification-free.
Marion's desk was an island of order in a sea of institutionalized mayhem. He was a believer in systems: files, tasks, assignments, teams, bills, even clothes and groceries—all had their place. He'd swear up and down that he wasn't a neat freak like the ER doc from this morning, but there was no denying the man was methodical, meticulous to a fault.
Marion put his big feet up now like he usually did and opened up Kevin Loomis's file on his laptop. Everything in it confirmed what he'd seen for himself down at the hospital.
Kevin had once been a respected freelance cartoonist. Marion found links to The Boston Globe and Wired. More recently, though, there was nothing. It looked to all the world like Kevin was, like they say, in the market for new opportunities.
The guy was pretty loopy when Marion saw him, but he put that down to whatever meds they had him on. Still, Marion couldn't dismiss the possibility that he was a space flyer like that all the time.
The way Marion figured it, Kevin probably got himself into something stupid that backfired. Maybe he let a local tough guy do him a favor, or maybe he had a habit. Most of the time with guys like this, it was a bad decision or an embarrassing fact that got compounded over time. Why else would he lie to the uniform on the scene and tell him he got run over?
Either way, Marion knew he should drop it and move on. The case was a throwaway, busy work, the kind of thing they give you when they want to send a message. And the return address on this one wasn't exactly a mystery.
Sergeant Neil Creighton had come up in the department around the same time as Marion. He was ex-military, more politician than cop. Ruthless, charming, he moved naturally and quickly up the ranks into command.
Marion never thought much about him early on, but as they came up together, he liked the guy less and less. There was never anything you could put your finger on, of course, just little things. Cases that were solved a bit too smoothly, others that conveniently went away. Plus, the guy was smug and smarmy, and he had a head as big as the Verrazano Bridge.
Marion knew that Creighton was probably better at all the management and political crap than he was. He was man enough to admit that things like subtlety and nuance weren't his strong suits. And he could never get his head around all the touchy interpersonal nonsense that was required in the leadership ranks of the department. Marion was a blunt instrument, for better or worse, and he knew it would get him only so far. Creighton had no such limitation.
Marion never thought much about him early on, but as they came up together, he liked the guy less and less. There was never anything you could put your finger on, of course, just little things. Cases that were solved a bit too smoothly, others that conveniently went away. Plus, the guy was smug and smarmy, and he had a head as big as the Verrazano Bridge.
Marion knew that Creighton was probably better at all the management and political crap than he was. He was man enough to admit that things like subtlety and nuance weren't his strong suits. And he could never get his head around all the touchy interpersonal nonsense that was required in the leadership ranks of the department. Marion was a blunt instrument, for better or worse, and he knew it would get him only so far. Creighton had no such limitation.
Marion was transferred over to the Ninth Precinct Detective Squad less than a year before they put Creighton over him as a new sergeant. The two of them navigated around each other for a while, but they never liked each other. Then one afternoon, the whole thing went off the rails.
Marion had been assigned to a fairly complex real estate case in which a landlord paid off a building inspector to ignore millions of dollars of necessary structural improvements. Marion's job was to prepare all the documentation for the trial.
The case was the end result of months of tedious work, and everybody involved wanted to see it done. The real estate developer in question, Crown Street Holdings, LLC, had recently purchased a residential building in Marion's precinct. There were environmental issues like asbestos and lead, and the building's entire heating and cooling systems needed to be replaced. As a Detective First Grade, Marion was expected to stitch together all the evidence and present it clearly and correctly. He wasn't about to fuck it up, excuse my French.
Now, as you can probably imagine, real estate finance wasn't exactly Abe Marion's calling in life. He spent weeks poring over the facts and figures so he could get everything right in his head. The department had brought in building engineers and architects, and Marion rehearsed with them and with the Assistant DA.
The day he was due in court for a deposition, he quizzed himself about financial terms all the way downtown on the subway.
Marion had been assigned to a fairly complex real estate case in which a landlord paid off a building inspector to ignore millions of dollars of necessary structural improvements. Marion's job was to prepare all the documentation for the trial.
The case was the end result of months of tedious work, and everybody involved wanted to see it done. The real estate developer in question, Crown Street Holdings, LLC, had recently purchased a residential building in Marion's precinct. There were environmental issues like asbestos and lead, and the building's entire heating and cooling systems needed to be replaced. As a Detective First Grade, Marion was expected to stitch together all the evidence and present it clearly and correctly. He wasn't about to fuck it up, excuse my French.
Now, as you can probably imagine, real estate finance wasn't exactly Abe Marion's calling in life. He spent weeks poring over the facts and figures so he could get everything right in his head. The department had brought in building engineers and architects, and Marion rehearsed with them and with the Assistant DA.
The day he was due in court for a deposition, he quizzed himself about financial terms all the way downtown on the subway.
It was a misty, miserable October morning, and Marion was shaking off the cold when he ran into the defense attorney in the security line.
“Morning, detective,” the guy said, with an outstretched hand. Alan Liquor—Hendricks, Henderson, Walsh & Leder.”
Marion grabbed the guy's manicured little hand and pumped it. “Nice to meet you,” he told him.
Liquor looked like he'd just stepped out of a black-and-white movie. Skinny and mousy, with jet-black hair greased back above his delicate little wireframe glasses.
Marion had read up on him. Liquor had graduated from Pace University and gotten his law degree at Fordham back in the nineties, which put him in his early fifties. He didn't look it. “Good luck in there today,” he was telling Marion.
“Morning, detective,” the guy said, with an outstretched hand. Alan Liquor—Hendricks, Henderson, Walsh & Leder.”
Marion grabbed the guy's manicured little hand and pumped it. “Nice to meet you,” he told him.
Liquor looked like he'd just stepped out of a black-and-white movie. Skinny and mousy, with jet-black hair greased back above his delicate little wireframe glasses.
Marion had read up on him. Liquor had graduated from Pace University and gotten his law degree at Fordham back in the nineties, which put him in his early fifties. He didn't look it. “Good luck in there today,” he was telling Marion.
And then he did something that Marion would later think was pretty intelligent: He looked down, just for a second, at Marion's shoes.
Marion nodded back at him and peeked down at the two warped black rowboats covering his size-twelve cop feet. Then he thought about his tie, the shirt he'd rescued from the laundry that morning, the cheapo suit he'd gotten in a three-for-one sale sometime back in the tens. When he walked into the deposition room, he was smoothing the hair back over his ears and trying to remember the last time he'd gotten it cut.
Everybody sitting in there was neat and tidy and well put together, from the judge on down—and they probably all made twice his salary.
Marion sat down and tried to shake it off. Here he was, already off his game.
Things went OK for the first hour or so. The Assistant DA was sharp and confident, and Marion felt like he was doing a pretty good job explaining the paperwork. And then Liquor interrupted him. “I'm sorry, detective,” he said. “I'm confused. The allegation is that my client bribed a city inspector to overlook a series of expensive renovations that were necessary to the building in question. Isn't that correct?”
Marion nodded back at him and peeked down at the two warped black rowboats covering his size-twelve cop feet. Then he thought about his tie, the shirt he'd rescued from the laundry that morning, the cheapo suit he'd gotten in a three-for-one sale sometime back in the tens. When he walked into the deposition room, he was smoothing the hair back over his ears and trying to remember the last time he'd gotten it cut.
Everybody sitting in there was neat and tidy and well put together, from the judge on down—and they probably all made twice his salary.
Marion sat down and tried to shake it off. Here he was, already off his game.
Things went OK for the first hour or so. The Assistant DA was sharp and confident, and Marion felt like he was doing a pretty good job explaining the paperwork. And then Liquor interrupted him. “I'm sorry, detective,” he said. “I'm confused. The allegation is that my client bribed a city inspector to overlook a series of expensive renovations that were necessary to the building in question. Isn't that correct?”
It was totally fucking correct. The company had purchased $1.2 million worth of heating and cooling equipment for the job, but they only installed $1.1 million of it. The difference was a massive AC unit that wound up going into one of their other buildings. The extra money went a bit at a time to purchase "skins" in an online shoot-em-up game. Each one of those things was worth a couple grand, and they sold fifty of them in dribs and drabs over three months to the building inspector, through multiple accounts, for $1 each, thereby quietly and anonymously enriching him.
The entire scheme had been painstakingly researched by the NYPD team and spelled out with technical documents, emails, and texts.
“Yeah,” Marion said. “Yes, that's right.”
“But the evidence that supports this allegation is complex, and I don't mind saying, somewhat confusing, is it not?”
“Complex, yes. Confusing, no. It's very clear what happened,” Marion said.
Liquor stuck out his hand, and his associate filled it with a stack of paper. “I beg to disagree with you there, Detective. In fact, I'd say it's quite the contrary. For instance, your documentation states that the emails and texts from my client in Exhibit Twenty-Seven pertain to an additional HVAC unit that was purchased for the building.”
“That's right,” Marion said. “The unit cost a hundred thousand dollars, and that's the money that was ultimately transferred to the city building inspector through the use of the online game.”
The little prick was passing around the papers he'd just been handed. He wasn't grinning, not exactly. The Assistant DA shot Marion a look of death, and Liquor continued.
“That's interesting, Detective, because the emails and texts you refer to in Exhibit Twenty-Seven reference an entirely different set of architectural drawings than the ones that were ultimately approved by the city. As you can see from these copies, *those* drawings illustrate a different HVAC configuration altogether. I can understand the NYPD's confusion here. After all, there were many variations of the architectural drawings to go through and, as I said, it's all pretty complex.”
The entire scheme had been painstakingly researched by the NYPD team and spelled out with technical documents, emails, and texts.
“Yeah,” Marion said. “Yes, that's right.”
“But the evidence that supports this allegation is complex, and I don't mind saying, somewhat confusing, is it not?”
“Complex, yes. Confusing, no. It's very clear what happened,” Marion said.
Liquor stuck out his hand, and his associate filled it with a stack of paper. “I beg to disagree with you there, Detective. In fact, I'd say it's quite the contrary. For instance, your documentation states that the emails and texts from my client in Exhibit Twenty-Seven pertain to an additional HVAC unit that was purchased for the building.”
“That's right,” Marion said. “The unit cost a hundred thousand dollars, and that's the money that was ultimately transferred to the city building inspector through the use of the online game.”
The little prick was passing around the papers he'd just been handed. He wasn't grinning, not exactly. The Assistant DA shot Marion a look of death, and Liquor continued.
“That's interesting, Detective, because the emails and texts you refer to in Exhibit Twenty-Seven reference an entirely different set of architectural drawings than the ones that were ultimately approved by the city. As you can see from these copies, *those* drawings illustrate a different HVAC configuration altogether. I can understand the NYPD's confusion here. After all, there were many variations of the architectural drawings to go through and, as I said, it's all pretty complex.”
Marion sat there with hot blood pumping behind his cheeks and around his ears. Liquor handed him a set of his documents, and Marion started flipping through pages and trying not to look flustered.
“No,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Liquor asked, polite, respectful.
“That's...not...um.”
A few awkward ticks of the clock.
“Do you need a moment, detective?” the judge asked.
“I, uh...”
And there it was. He had mislabeled some of the architectural drawings in the evidence file. The drawings were the foundation of the city's case, and all the detailed data grew out of them. But how could that be? He'd been over it fifty times and had it double-checked by two other senior detectives.
Everyone was watching him. Somebody coughed. A car horn blared out on the street, and the ancient radiator in the corner crackled and spat steam.
“No,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Liquor asked, polite, respectful.
“That's...not...um.”
A few awkward ticks of the clock.
“Do you need a moment, detective?” the judge asked.
“I, uh...”
And there it was. He had mislabeled some of the architectural drawings in the evidence file. The drawings were the foundation of the city's case, and all the detailed data grew out of them. But how could that be? He'd been over it fifty times and had it double-checked by two other senior detectives.
Everyone was watching him. Somebody coughed. A car horn blared out on the street, and the ancient radiator in the corner crackled and spat steam.
“Detective Marion?” the judge said. “Are you still with us?”
Marion was sitting there feeling naked and ashamed. Years later, he would remember the table, the floor, the cheap wood paneling, the sound of people breathing while he sat there fumbling around with his papers and his thoughts.
That was the genius of Liquor's little glance. Sitting in front of those people in that cramped little room, Marion believed that he was staring at the result of his own sloppy work. That this was his fault.
He told the judge at last that he needed a little time to review his documents. But the damage had been done. The police were incompetent. They'd made a mess of the case, and they couldn't even handle evidence properly. Etcetera, etcetera...
Marion was sitting there feeling naked and ashamed. Years later, he would remember the table, the floor, the cheap wood paneling, the sound of people breathing while he sat there fumbling around with his papers and his thoughts.
That was the genius of Liquor's little glance. Sitting in front of those people in that cramped little room, Marion believed that he was staring at the result of his own sloppy work. That this was his fault.
He told the judge at last that he needed a little time to review his documents. But the damage had been done. The police were incompetent. They'd made a mess of the case, and they couldn't even handle evidence properly. Etcetera, etcetera...
Marion went home and reviewed the documents until the wee hours of the morning. He'd sweated over every letter, every reference—and you know what? He hadn't missed a goddamned thing.
That meant other hands had been in his work.
Sergeant Creighton was one of the few people that had access to the material, and Marion could think of a couple of reasons why he'd want to mess with it.
Creighton himself had no ties to Crown Street Holdings, LLC, but it didn't take Marion long to draw a line. The company was funded by a private equity firm out in Jersey. One of the partners was close with an influential assemblyman, Barry Slavin, who just happened to be a golf buddy and major booster of the new Sergeant Creighton. Their wives went to school together or some shit.
That meant other hands had been in his work.
Sergeant Creighton was one of the few people that had access to the material, and Marion could think of a couple of reasons why he'd want to mess with it.
Creighton himself had no ties to Crown Street Holdings, LLC, but it didn't take Marion long to draw a line. The company was funded by a private equity firm out in Jersey. One of the partners was close with an influential assemblyman, Barry Slavin, who just happened to be a golf buddy and major booster of the new Sergeant Creighton. Their wives went to school together or some shit.
There was no way to prove any of it. Even if computer forensics could tell him with certainty that Creighton had altered the documents (it couldn't), Creighton would have easily spun it as an unfortunate mishap. A rewording here, a deletion there. He was only trying to clarify some of Detective Marion's clumsy language. I mean, have you heard the guy talk? Besides, it's not like Creighton was tampering with the actual evidence, just the presentation of it, which, technically, was within his job description.
No doubt, the son of a bitch was crafty. His work was precise, stealthy, effective—none of which stopped Marion from walking right up to him in front of a room full of cops and calling him out.
It was a Friday. Creighton was sitting in his drab office with four detectives, about to start a meeting. He was wiry, forty-ish, his hair graying helpfully around his long face. Marion walked in and leered at him from the edge of his desk. At first, Creighton didn't look up, but when he did, he smiled. “Help you, detective?”
“Freaking son of a bitch,” Marion said.
Creighton, cool as a cucumber, said, “Get out.”
One of the other detectives in the room put his hands on the desk and said, “What the hell?”
“You gonna deny it?” Marion said.
“I already told you, out.”
By now, the others in the room knew better than to say a word. Marion didn't follow their lead.
“You let them off the hook. You blew the whole thing up on purpose.”
It didn't take long for news of this little incident to go viral around the department. Creighton framed it casually as Marion covering his own incompetence, and pretty much everyone believed him. No way somebody like Marion competes with Creighton in a political contest. Creighton had the access and the influence and the polish. Marion never stood a chance.
Lots of taxpayer dollars had been spent on that investigation and many long hours had been put in. A whole bunch of cops were boiling mad about it, and Marion had to admit that walking up to Creighton like that wasn't one of his more intelligent career maneuvers.
That was a few months ago, and it would be just like Creighton to wait until the dust settled before he started sticking it to Marion. As the guy who doled out his assignments, it wouldn't be difficult.
Marion subconsciously reached for the mints again and then cursed under his breath when he remembered the tin was empty. He read through the Loomis file for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, nothing jumped out at him.
It was a Friday. Creighton was sitting in his drab office with four detectives, about to start a meeting. He was wiry, forty-ish, his hair graying helpfully around his long face. Marion walked in and leered at him from the edge of his desk. At first, Creighton didn't look up, but when he did, he smiled. “Help you, detective?”
“Freaking son of a bitch,” Marion said.
Creighton, cool as a cucumber, said, “Get out.”
One of the other detectives in the room put his hands on the desk and said, “What the hell?”
“You gonna deny it?” Marion said.
“I already told you, out.”
By now, the others in the room knew better than to say a word. Marion didn't follow their lead.
“You let them off the hook. You blew the whole thing up on purpose.”
It didn't take long for news of this little incident to go viral around the department. Creighton framed it casually as Marion covering his own incompetence, and pretty much everyone believed him. No way somebody like Marion competes with Creighton in a political contest. Creighton had the access and the influence and the polish. Marion never stood a chance.
Lots of taxpayer dollars had been spent on that investigation and many long hours had been put in. A whole bunch of cops were boiling mad about it, and Marion had to admit that walking up to Creighton like that wasn't one of his more intelligent career maneuvers.
That was a few months ago, and it would be just like Creighton to wait until the dust settled before he started sticking it to Marion. As the guy who doled out his assignments, it wouldn't be difficult.
Marion subconsciously reached for the mints again and then cursed under his breath when he remembered the tin was empty. He read through the Loomis file for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, nothing jumped out at him.
At that point, Marion had to ask himself, why was he doing this? Why not just dump this lousy assignment and get on with his real work? He knew why: Because when you give Abe Marion a task, even a little pissant one like this, he's going to do it right. He may be a hothead and a loudmouth and a poor misguided Boy Scout but he, unlike his superior, had integrity, and he'd be damned in hell if he wasn't going to prove it to Creighton, the department, the city, and the whole goddamned miserable planet.
Except all of that was bullshit.
The real reason he was sitting here rereading the Kevin Loomis file—at least according to him—was more complicated, and it was harder for him to face.
See, the truth was, this morning's little adventure bothered him more than he wanted to admit. It brought some things to the surface that he would rather not have to think about. Like, for instance, the fact that he'd lived his entire life on autopilot and let other people make his decisions for him.
Marion had played football in high school and drank lots of beer and got into fights occasionally because that's what you did. Then he got recruited and majored in criminal justice because that's what college athletes did. He fooled around plenty and then married his first serious girlfriend. There was no way he was going to the pros out of Hofstra with a bad knee and hip, so joining the force was the logical next step. He'd never thought too much about any of it until much later.
Except all of that was bullshit.
The real reason he was sitting here rereading the Kevin Loomis file—at least according to him—was more complicated, and it was harder for him to face.
See, the truth was, this morning's little adventure bothered him more than he wanted to admit. It brought some things to the surface that he would rather not have to think about. Like, for instance, the fact that he'd lived his entire life on autopilot and let other people make his decisions for him.
Marion had played football in high school and drank lots of beer and got into fights occasionally because that's what you did. Then he got recruited and majored in criminal justice because that's what college athletes did. He fooled around plenty and then married his first serious girlfriend. There was no way he was going to the pros out of Hofstra with a bad knee and hip, so joining the force was the logical next step. He'd never thought too much about any of it until much later.
When he finally took control, he did it stupidly and clumsily, and he wound up destroying his marriage and putting his career in jeopardy by clashing with Creighton. The fact was, he probably did all of it on purpose—or at least on some subconscious level in order to prove a point.
To one person. His father.
Marion pulled his feet down from his desk. I hate my fucking shrink, he thought.
He closed his laptop, straightened his tie, and headed off to the men's room in search of a little relief, both mental and physical.
In Marion's experience, the answers he was looking for usually weren't hiding in some distant corner. They were right in front of him, and he only needed to look more carefully to find them. But there was nothing here to look at. Just a weak little man who was out of work, drank too much, lived alone, and...
That's when Marion first started to piece things together. Kevin Loomis lived alone. In a decent neighborhood on the Lower East. How could a serial loser like him afford to live in a respectable (and, if memory served him, quickly improving) block in that part of town? He thought about it a while longer, and then he washed his hands and walked back out to his desk. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.
To one person. His father.
Marion pulled his feet down from his desk. I hate my fucking shrink, he thought.
He closed his laptop, straightened his tie, and headed off to the men's room in search of a little relief, both mental and physical.
In Marion's experience, the answers he was looking for usually weren't hiding in some distant corner. They were right in front of him, and he only needed to look more carefully to find them. But there was nothing here to look at. Just a weak little man who was out of work, drank too much, lived alone, and...
That's when Marion first started to piece things together. Kevin Loomis lived alone. In a decent neighborhood on the Lower East. How could a serial loser like him afford to live in a respectable (and, if memory served him, quickly improving) block in that part of town? He thought about it a while longer, and then he washed his hands and walked back out to his desk. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.
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