An Eye For Justice Read online

  The tape shows the door opening and me leaving the room. I have my head down and jacket buttoned, so it is difficult to see my expression, and impossible to see whether I am still wearing the green tie. My movements do not appear to be hesitant, or furtive and my gait is stable now, as if the alcohol might be wearing off. I move quickly away from the room down the corridor.

  ‘There is no further activity concerning Helena’s room until a staff member appears at around 9.30 am in the morning when the body is found,’ Daly said as the tape ended and the lights went up.

  ‘So let me get this straight, detective,’ Stahl said. ‘After the defendant leaves her room at 2.45 am, no other person enters that room until the body is found?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Daly said, just about sealing my fate.

  ‘Thank you, detective,’ Stahl said, turning to the judge. ‘I have no further questions.’

  Judge Gonzalez looked at the clock. ‘It’s 3.50 pm, Mr. Calver . Can I suggest you start your cross examination, assuming you have questions for this witness, 10 am sharp tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Fine, your honour, and yes I certainly do have questions for this witness,’ I said, grimly.

  * * * *

  Pascal grimaced. She’d been there so long her coffee had gone cold. She was sitting in her basement cave at the consulate laboriously slogging through the ‘London/New York faces’ file on the tablet Bob Jeffreys had given her. There was a lot of them, around three hundred. She got up, yawned and stretched. Rob was out again doing God knows what.

  She flexed her fingers and got back to work. Earlier she had called Chantelle Lattifah. She was listed in the phone book, but she’d hung up as soon as Pascal had mentioned the name Angel Milken. So she would have to go out to the East Bronx and knock on the door and see what happened.

  Something delayed, tripped in her mind, and she pulled back a mug shot she’d just looked at, and stared intently at it. She had seen the face before in London, she was pretty sure. She dug back in her memory, but couldn’t quite grab a hold of it. It was a modern photo staring back at her, and the image she was grasping for dated from a while ago. She looked harder at the picture and pulled up the associated bio. The individual was tagged as Zaid Hamdani, which rung no bells, suggesting if she had known him it was under a different name.

  Then just as she was minutely examining the image again, Bob Jeffreys was poking his head around the door, then sauntering into the cave, his eyes raking across the screen mug shot in one sweep. ‘Anything?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘Sorry, Bob. Nothing,’ she said, nonchalantly moving onto the next mug shot.

  Jeffreys watched her, eyes narrowing. He’d seen something and it looked like recognition, but he’d leave it for now. He guessed she’d fess up when she was ready. He’d heard the rumours about her, that you couldn’t push her.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘We had a look at the Saudi General’s boy, Al-Misrahi, and he’s clean as a whistle. And John Schmidt, the K Corp guy is half Saudi as well, so maybe they’re just buddies having a meet? Far as I can see, there’s nothing in it.’

  Pascal just nodded. It was their country, and if that was their assessment, she’d leave them to it. She went back to her scrolling, Jeffrey’s watching over her shoulder, uncertain smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Okay, Courtney, I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said, still hovering, as if he wanted her to ask him to stay a while. She didn’t, so after a moment he edged away towards the door, saying he’d catch up with her later, then he was gone.

  She let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair, yawning again.

  * * * *

  Later she sat back in the yellow cab, early evening, on her way to Chantelle Latifah’s home. Her cabbie had turned his nose up when she had hailed him in Manhattan and given the address, somewhere called Crotona Park out in East Bronx. ‘What you going out there for, lady?’ he’d asked, looking her up and down, and tagging her as an eccentric British tourist. ‘That’s low income housing. You don’t want to be walking around there at night, especially if you aint familiar with the area.’

  Pascal had muttered that she could look after herself but had thanked him for his concern. Then she had sat back and relaxed to watch the New York scenery fly by, and then they were there. She looked around as she got out of the cab. They were parked in front of a large imposing red brick coloured high rise block with a white stripe down the middle where she guessed the staircase and elevators were. She looked around some more as the cab driver got her change, and she tipped him a five spot. He thanked her and told her to take care. She checked her phone for the full address as the cab pulled away, and then she walked up the path to the building, attracting some curious stares from people coming out. Inside a large entry area there was an array of numbered apartment buzzers and names, which she carefully scrutinized.

  She found C Latifah under

  apartment 111 and pressed the buzzer and waited. Nothing happened so she tried again. Still nothing. Looked like the buzzer was broken. Pascal watched for a moment as a few people came and went; she pretended she was talking to someone on her phone, hunched over. When the next couple with a baby came in she tagged on behind them and followed them through the security entry door as if she was a tenant, still talking to her imaginary caller. Then she took the stairs as it looked like Chantelle’s place was on the first floor. She moved down the corridor checking the numbers until she came to 111. She put her ear to the door. She could hear voices inside, raised, over the sound of a TV. She pressed the bell and waited. Inside the voices stopped but the TV sound of canned laughter continued. The door was flung open and an angry black man stood there glaring at her. ‘What d’you want?’ he snapped. He was mid-twenties, big, around 6, 2, skinny but muscular, with red eyes and an amazing afro. It was a haircut Pascal had always liked but had thought was long gone, along with all those blaxploitation movies and black and white minstrels. But maybe she was wrong.

  The guy was looking at her with a hostile and suspicious look maybe just starting to register the fact that she was probably not a Jehovah’s Witness out collecting contributions. A moment later a large black woman with a frightened face and questioning eyes appeared behind the man, peering around his shoulder at her.

  Pascal’s initial thought was that the guy was maybe an angry son, but there was no resemblance and the body language between the two looked all wrong. One thing was sure, the woman was petrified of the guy. Pascal’s mind processed the scene. With a guy like that there was only one way in: full on and take no prisoners.

  ‘Hello, Chantelle. We spoke on the phone earlier and here I am. Pleased to meet you,’ Pascal said loudly, pushing roughly past the black guy and into the apartment. He was so shocked for a moment that he actually moved aside to let her pass, but then he was re-grouping and grabbing her arm.

  ‘Hey, bitch. No one invited you in, so git,’ he spat, pushing her back towards the door.

  She let herself go limp as if ready to be led back to the door, then gripped the guys wrist, pulling it down, around and up behind his back all in one fluid movement. Then she slammed him up against the wall in an explosive demonstration of power that was extraordinary for someone of such a slight build. She held his wrist pushed far up behind his back so that the more he struggled the further she pushed the arm, the more it hurt him. His face was contorted with rage and crushed sideways against the wall. He winced, breathing deeply, his struggles starting to subside.

  ‘You’s dead, bitch. You have no idea who you’re dealing with,’ he said.

  Pascal, ignoring the words, patted him down with her other hand. She dug out a Beretta Cougar automatic pistol, looked like .357, from his baggy pants pocket, and handed it to Chantelle. She gingerly took the weapon, looking at it with horror as if she didn’t want to touch it.

  ‘Tough guy, aren’t you?’ Pascal murmured, pushing him further into the wall as she sensed the guy tensing to take another crack at her. He relaxed again. Pascal said, ‘n
ow, you’re leaving. I am going to walk you to the door where you can have your pop gun back, less the clip. And just so you know, I’m a PI and I am working with a detective Daly out of NYPD in Manhattan, and if you want to fuck with me, I will call him up now and get him down here with a squad of patrolmen.’

  Pascal held her cell up with her other hand, scrolling through until she got to speed dial for Daly, then she said, ‘Your call. What’s it to be, headbanger?’

  She loosened her grip slightly so he could raise his head off the wall. ‘I’ll be back for the money, Chantelle. This dike can’t protect you, not round here. Cops or not,’ he said.

  Pascal pulled him roughly away from the wall then slammed him back again, case he forgot who was in charge, all the time keeping him under tight control. Then she shuffled him to the door, keeping his arm pushed up his back, and pushed him out. She handed him the Beretta less the clip and slammed the door shut in his face, cutting off the stream of abuse.

  She turned to find the large black woman staring back at her. There seemed to be relief in her face and even the glimmerings of a faint smile. Her skin was very black, almost purple, and her face handsome and lived in. It told you of pain but also laughter, and her eyes were inquisitive, but there was also reserve. Finally she spoke. ‘I told you I had nothing to say to you on the phone. Why d’you come? And don’t think I’m grateful for what you just did. He’ll be back, when your gone, and it will be much worse for me.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Pascal asked.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘I might be able to help you.’

  ‘Forget it. This not your world. You’re not even American, with that accent.’

  ‘Fine. If you wont talk to me, I can’t make you, but I’ve trekked all the way out here to see you, so how about a quick coffee before I have to go all the way back. Where’s all that legendary American hospitality I’ve heard so much about?’

  Chantelle held her eyes, considering her words. Pascal held her breath. ‘I guess I can spring to that,’ Chantelle finally said, gruffly. ‘Come on in. One coffee and then your gone.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you,’ Pascal said and followed her through into a small, neat and tidy living room. Chantelle bustled out to the kitchen while Pascal looked around. There were some photo’s on a side writing table. Looked like smiling adult daughter graduating, and then a much younger and slimmer looking Chantelle with a serious looking guy in military uniform. Probably a husband, but both pictures looked quite old. The room and flat itself had the feel of a single occupant. On the writing table she noticed a pile of bills with handwritten calculations on them.

  Chantelle returned with a mug of coffee and thrust it into Pascal’s hand almost spilling some. There was no hint of a smile on her face now, just an expression suggesting she would like Pascal to finish her drink quickly and then leave. Pascal studied her, wondering how the hell she could break through the barrier that seemed to surround the woman.

  Pascal sipped. ‘Good coffee,’ she said.

  Chantelle continued to watch her, and Pascal could see the big lady was curious, but was biting her lip, determined not to ask any questions. But then as Pascal remained silent that curiosity seemed to get the better of her. ‘Where d’you learn that?’ she finally asked. ‘To take on a guy like Montell, and whup his ass, when you is so small, like a child, and he is such a big ugly motherfucker?’

  Pascal couldn’t help bursting out with pent-up laughter at her words, but Chantelle got the wrong idea, a sharp look of anger flickering across her face. But then she saw that Pascal’s laughter was genuine, that she wasn’t laughing at her, and she began to smile.

  Then their laughter stopped abruptly, and there was silence. Pascal finished her coffee and gave Chantelle a last questioning look. She knew she’d just about run out of time, and needed to go. Chantelle seemed to hesitate, eyes fearful again, then she said, ‘it was nearly thirty years ago, you know, and I can’t talk about it. About Angel Milken, the penthouse and K Corp. I’m sorry, because you seem like a real nice person, and I’d like to help you but I can’t.’

  ‘Why?’ Pascal asked.

  ‘I can’t talk about that either.’

  Pascal’s mind worked on that. Maybe there was a deal done, a payoff for her silence, but then why did she have to go to prison for the drug bust, if there was a deal? Or maybe she was just still too scared to talk. That would make more sense. ‘Look, Chantelle,,’ she said. ‘I can tell you’re a good person too, and if you feel you can’t talk to me, I understand that and I wont press you. But, give me ten minutes of your time now, so I can tell you why I am here. Then I will give you my number and I will leave. Later, if you wanted to talk, great. If you don’t, that’s fine as well, and I won’t contact you again.’

  Chantelle hesitated again, conflicted, then she seemed to nod to herself. ‘You better sit down,’ she said, maybe resignedly, but also maybe relieved as well. ‘I’ll get us a proper drink.’

  The proper drink turned out to be sherry which was fine. Then Pascal sat and told her about Hannah’s claim and some of Angel Milken’s suspected history, which Chantelle listened quietly to without reaction. Then Pascal moved on to Calver’s linked murder trial and the problems they were having in raising any kind of viable defence. It was only a bare bones generalized re-telling, and Pascal kept detail to a minimum.

  ‘So you see, Chantelle, we’re trying to fill in the gaps.’

  ‘You mean you want dirt on Milken?’ she said.

  ‘I want to know what happened, Chantelle. That Heroin wasn’t yours, was it? Wouldn’t you like your daughter to know the truth about you?’ Pascal said, looking over at the photo on the writing desk.

  Chantelle stood up abruptly, expression suddenly closed again. ‘My daughter’s dead, and you need to leave, now,’ she said.

  Pascal sighed. Looked like she’d blown it. Shouldn’t have mentioned the daughter, as it seemed to have hit a nerve. She shrugged and got up, scribbled her contact details on a piece of paper and handed it to Chantelle.

  At the door they regarded each other. Chantelle eyes were still hot and hostile, but as she looked Pascal up and down, they softened slightly, and she said, ‘don’t hang around outside. Its dangerous here. Turn left and walk straight up to the main drag, about half a mile and you can hail a cab there. Be careful.’

  ‘Last question,’ Pascal said. ‘What’s Montell’s surname?’

  Chantelle sighed. ‘Castro. Now git,’ she said, half smile.

  Pascal opened the door and then surprised the big lady by quickly turning back and kissing her on the cheek. ‘Take care, Chantelle,’ she said before turning and making her way down the corridor.

  Chapter 15

  I was sat at the kitchen table ostensibly doing some prep work for my cross examination of Daly, due to start in the morning, but actually concentrating on sipping some good Bourbon I’d found salted away in the back of a kitchen cupboard. Pascal came in and dumped her stuff on the table, and said, ‘gimme me one of those will you, Calver?’

  I poured her a large one as well. As we clinked glasses Christoff poked his head round the door and said, ‘nothing doing on O’Leary’s computer stick, Courtney.’

  When he saw the drinks he came in and I got him a glass and poured him one as well. He continued, ‘there’s actually some kiddie porn hidden away on there, which these days unfortunately seems almost de rigueur. I didn’t really look at it as its clearly not relevant for our purposes. Oh, and there’s a couple of old clips - from maybe six, seven years ago - of couples in flagrante in the hotel bedrooms, but that’s it. Nothing, Nada on the murder or the CCTV’

  ‘You sure?’ Pascal asked, deep frustration in her voice.

  ‘Positive. Been over it, scraped and peeled it every which way, and its clean. If he’s got anything incriminating to do with Jonas’ trial, its somewhere else.’

  Pascal grimaced. She should have searched O’Leary’s room properly when she had the chance. All that effort
with the fire for nothing.

  ‘Sorry,’ Christoff said.

  Then Pascal seemed to remember I was there. She looked up, meeting my eyes, and said, ‘I’m still digging, Calver, but nothing you can use as yet.’

  It didn’t sound encouraging and she saw my look. ‘I’m trying, Calver, believe me, but I need more time.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s just what I don’t have,’ I said, getting up and heading for my bed, leaving her sitting there sipping her bourbon.

  * * * *

  People v Calver - Manhattan Supreme Court

  Day 3

  ‘Detective Daly, you said earlier in your testimony,’ I said, looking down at my notes, ‘that because Helena Palmer’s room was not disturbed, she must have known and trusted her killer, yes?’

  We were back in court, two minutes after 10 and I was trying to pick Daly open, get some points on the board, because boy did I need some.

  Daly thought for a moment, pretending to genuinely consider the question. ‘If an intruder had say knocked and then burst in when she answered the door, you would certainly expect to see some evidence of disturbance. A turned over table, maybe stuff spilled on the floor. Something. In the absence of that, I think its reasonable to assume that she knew and trusted her killer. That’s just my professional opinion of course,’ he added.

  ‘But if the crime scene was staged, detective, as the defense will argue,’ I said, ‘surely even the most incompetent of killers could smooth out and tidy the room, if there was disarray after the killing. Straighten up the odd chair, pick up any spilled items from the floor, to make it look like she knew her killer. Wouldn’t take much, would it, detective?’

  Daly had a half smile on his face as he considered my latest desperate ploy. ‘That would be fine and dandy, counselor, if we had any evidence that anyone other than you had been in the room at the time of the killing. The CCTV is frankly—’

  ‘Thank you detective,’ I said, quickly cutting him off. ‘Now, earlier you played the tape of my wife’s call to the emergency services where its alleged I assaulted her. Have you attempted to speak to her about the incident?’