Money to Burn

33

I WAS IN JAIL. I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. I WAS ACTUALLY BEHIND bars.

Before leaving Rockefeller Center, the arresting officers had patted me down, run a background check through their databases, and satisfied themselves that I wasn’t actually carrying a bomb. But that didn’t stop these men of the Midtown North Precinct from hauling me downtown. Technically speaking, it wasn’t jail. I was in a holding pen in the Manhattan Detention Complex, where prisoners were held for relatively short periods of time pending arraignment or some other court appearance. Not that this was a step up from jail. I was locked in the very same cell in which a seventeen-year-old boy had used his shirt to hang himself the summer before.

“Got two more bodies,” the guard a

The guards had a habit of calling us “bodies” when talking among themselves. It seemed kind of ghoulish, especially since the Manhattan Detention Complex was known as “the Tombs” to police, lawyers, criminals, judges, and anyone who had ever watched an episode of Law & Order. The nickname fit. Over the past two hours, I had climbed up and down several flights of stairs and in and out of three different holding pens. I had lost track of what floor I was on. I had been shackled, unshackled, and shackled again. The body search had been especially memorable, not so much for what actually had happened, but for fear of what might. On a sign on the wall, some joker had scribbled in the word “anal” between “Male” and “Search.” Fingerprinting took another hour. The state-of-the-art machine kept delivering error messages: rolling too fast, too slow, not a clear image, multiple fingers detected (odd, since my other fingers weren’t even on the screen), partial finger detected. At that point, I was willing to forgive the inaccuracy of one of my all-time favorite films, American Gangster, in which Denzel Washington’s character is shown leaving the Tombs-a temporary holding facility-after a fifteen-year stay.

This could actually take fifteen years.

The mug shot was the final indignity-a real beaut that I was sure would end up all over the Internet, if not in the tabloids. Finally, the guards brought me back to my cell and gave me di

Around seven o’clock, the guard returned.

“It’s your lucky day, partner. You can go.”

He opened the cell door and led me down the hall. We passed a window that was open just a crack, and I was certain that I could smell spring rolls. We were that close to Chinatown-and I was that hungry.

At the end of the corridor the guard pushed a button, a buzzer sounded, and the iron door slid open. Kevin was on the other side of the chute waiting for me, a look of complete disbelief all over his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Michael?”

“Good to see you, too,” I said.

“You’re lucky I have friends in the D.A.’s office,” he said. “They’re not charging you.”

“They shouldn’t. I didn’t have a bomb.”

Kevin clearly had much more to say, but the guard was standing just a few feet away. We went downstairs to collect my belongings-including Papa’s old trench coat and Italy golf cap. When he saw what I’d been wearing, Kevin just shook his head and said, “We need to talk.”

The lobby of the station house was far from private. Uniformed police officers coming and going, two prostitutes in a territorial dispute, a drunk with a bloody nose, and a homeless guy with vomit all over his shoes sitting on the end of a long wooden bench. It was like something out of that show Hill Street Blues that Papa used to watch when I was a kid.

Kevin led me down the hall to a small room. I could see the stenciled words ATTORNEY CONFERENCE backward on the glass as he closed the door. It was a stark room with yellow walls of painted cinder block, a small wooden table, and two oak chairs. Kevin asked me to sit, but after two hours on the hard benches of the holding cell, I didn’t want to. We just stood on opposite sides of the table.

“You could have been in a heap of trouble,” he said. “Two witnesses said it was the homeless guy-you-who ran off with a college girl’s camera and started the whole panic by threatening to set off a bomb.”

“That’s not what happened. A woman shouted that I had a bomb. And then it was chaos.”

“Did you steal the camera?”

“No. I was taking a group picture for these girls and then I…I saw something, and I had to run.”

“What did you see?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw Ivy,” I said.

Kevin groaned, and then his expression turned serious. “I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

He took a breath, as if to calm himself. “I’m worried that it’s more than you-more than anyone-could handle. The divorce, the identity theft, the attack on Saxton Silvers, the pillaging of your financial accounts, the lack of sleep. You aren’t thinking clearly-dressing up like a homeless guy, setting off a panic attack in one of the most popular urban tourist areas in America, all this talk about seeing Ivy.”

“I know what I saw.”

“You didn’t see Ivy.”

“Could have been someone pretending to be Ivy.”

“Why would someone pretend to be Ivy?”

“I can’t think of a reason. That’s why I say it was her.”

He groaned even louder. I was undeterred.

“And I think she was literally ru

“Michael, you’re my brother, and I want to help you. But I’ve had just about enough.”

I could see he wasn’t kidding. It was time to change the subject. “Can we get something to eat?”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

I gathered up Papa’s trench coat and hat. Kevin yanked open the heavy entrance door and together we walked outside. We were at the base of the steps, and I was pulling on Papa’s old coat, when two men approached from behind a construction barrier on White Street.

“Mr. Cantella?”

Kevin and I stopped. I recognized one of the men as he flashed his shield.

“Malcolm Spear,” he said, “FBI.”

It was the same agent I’d met in Eric’s office with our general counsel. Spear had another agent with him, not the computer fraud specialist I’d met before. It was Agent Coleman, the one who had come to my building to investigate the elevator fire. I noticed a spot of duck sauce on his jacket, and I could almost smell it. We were still that close to Chinatown, and I was still that hungry.

“Let me guess,” I said, “you found my money.”

Spear showed no reaction. “Heard you had a temporary change of address,” he said. “Wanted to come by and ask you a question.”

Kevin stepped between us. “He’s not talking to the FBI.”

“Who are you?” asked Spear.

“His lawyer.”

“No tricks here,” said Spear. “I just want to ask him about Chuck Bell.”

“Since when does the FBI investigate homicide?” said Kevin.

“We’re talking about a pattern of criminal activity that includes a number of federal offenses. It’s all our business.”

“Sorry, he’s not talking,” Kevin said.

“I simply want to know if your client can tell me where he was between twelve and one A.M. night before last, when Chuck Bell was shot.”

Instinct told me not to answer, but a flash of excitement came over me. “As a matter of fact, I can,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Hold it,” said Kevin as he grabbed me by the wrist. “For the last time: He’s not talking to the FBI.”

“But I want to answer,” I said.

“Don’t,” Kevin told me.

He was probably right, but as always, something about his tone made it impossible for me to heed his advice.