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NOW I HADa photo of a suspect and a rough time period he was with the victim. I racked my brain to figure out how to identify the man with Estella Abreu. I sent the photo to several different units at the NYPD, and Walter Jackson was running it past his contacts in all the federal agencies.
Was the man Estella’s boyfriend? How did she know him? The questions were rolling into my head.
This was the first decent lead I’d had on this case. Actual physical evidence. It was frustrating to see what a potential suspect might look like but not be able to put a name to the photo.
I took the extra step of calling Ronald Higdon, Esquire.
He answered the phone talking. Before he said hello or anything else, all I heard was “I’m working on finding out about the dead girls, Bennett. I’ve got guys all over the city asking questions.”
“That’s good because I’m going to need you to use the same network to ID a man in a photo. I’m going to send it to your phone in a few minutes. He’s standing next to the beautiful girl. He’s in a dark suit and has short light-brown hair. I think he works on Wall Street somewhere.”
Ronald said, “I’ve got good connects on Wall Street. Back from my days when I used to make deliveries down there.”
No great surprise. But it showed how much Ronald trusted me to casually admit he used to deliver cocaine to people on Wall Street. Everyone knew the industry was a major consumer of cocaine as well as amphetamines. Financial people’s personalities seemed to push them toward drugs that made them more hyper than they already were.
My next plan involved looking through the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority, or FINRA, files of every man registered in New York as a trader. But there were thousands and thousands of those. And if the picture on the respective man’s driver’s license or employee ID was even a year or two old, he might look quite different from the man in the bar photo.
I thought about Persephone Garland in the public outreach section. Maybe she could work some more magic. Problem was, if we put out the suspect’s photo, he’d be just as likely to see it as anyone. He could flee. He could change his appearance. He could figure a way to cover his tracks and develop alibis.
I dismissed the idea. When I finally found this guy, I wanted to be able to surprise him. Instead, I sent the photo to four other informants. None of them nearly as good as Ronald Higdon, Esquire. But one of them operated in lower Manhattan and had been a trader himself until addiction knocked him all the way to the street. Now he was a financial advisor to people who couldn’t afford one of the big firms. And he made extra cash by helping law enforcement with information.
I’d covered my bases. And I still had time to make it to Holy Name and teach some middle-school girls how to throw elbows and not be seen by the refs. Or at least understand others would be trying to do the same to them.
Chapter30
THERE IS ALWAYSsomething comforting about walking the grounds of Holy Name. Maybe because I essentially grew up on the campus, or perhaps it’s the artistry of the architecture. I always breathe a little easier when I’m here.
I felt like I had wheels in motion on my investigation. I had informants trying to identify the man in the photo with Estella Abreu, I had Walter Jackson skimming through trader licenses, and Terri Hernandez was discreetly visiting some of the financial houses where she had contacts.
I was trying to make sure my kids had well-rounded childhoods so I could produce good citizens. At least that’s how I justified taking an hour out of my day to go over to my kids’ school on the Upper West Side and work on basic basketball skills.
The girls were already lined up when I arrived. I saw that Fiona had taken charge during my three-minute absence. She was adjusting some of the other girls’ stances for shooting free throws. And she was right on the money.
It was a good thing I had backup on the court. I may have been able to block the investigation out of my mind for a few minutes to spend some quality time with Fiona, but seeing Trent, Eddie, and Ricky all sitting at the end of the bleachers, waiting for a turn to play on the court, broke my heart. The bullies had accomplished just what they wanted: they had scared us. That’s what bullies do.
I cut practice a little short. We played a quick scrimmage, with the first team to 11 points declared the winner. Fiona scored the first 7 and the last 2 points for her team, bringing home a victory of 11–4. Then I had them practice 3-pointers. It was a simple drill. You pass once and then shoot from wherever you are on the 3-point line. When each of them made a basket, they could get cleaned up. After a few minutes we adjusted it to lining up to shoot free throws instead of 3-pointers. I needed to be back at work today.
Then I walked past my boys and told them to follow me. On our way out of the gym I told Sister Elizabeth I’d be back with the boys in about ten minutes.
We walked out the front gate of Holy Name, then up the street toward the park where the boys had seen some trouble.
Trent was worried. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Dad?”
“No, son, I’m not. But I don’t like to see your freedom restricted. And that’s what these bullies are trying to do.”
Ricky seemed ready to rumble. “With you on our side, Dad, we can settle this once and for all.”
I looked at my son. “We’re not members of the Crips. This is not a showdown. I just want to see if I can reason with the boys. Very simple.” Then I looked at Eddie. “Is this about the time you usually see them?”
Eddie shrugged. “Usually a little later. It’s been on afternoons when we have a free period at the end of the day.”
When we arrived at the park, I realized we should’ve brought a basketball to blend in. There were a few kids in the park already.
I said to the boys, “Do you see them?”
Trent pointed to two boys at the far corner of the small park. “That might be them.”
I couldn’t get a good look from this distance. They were clearly older teenagers. I could see how they could intimidate the boys. I felt my face flush and my blood pressure rise. The idea of someone tormenting my kids was something I just couldn’t live with.
