Read Online Mean Streak by Carolyn Wheat - Free Book Online Page B

I never saw grand jury minutes.”
    â€œWait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand to stop the question hovering on Angie’s lips. “Something just occurred to me.” I turned to Matt. “What made you think Eddie Fitz could help you with information about Nunzie? Eddie was a Brooklyn cop,” I explained, as much to myself as to my audience, “and Nunzie was part of a federal RICO case. Eddie had no reason to know about the inner workings of Lazarus’ office, unless—”
    I broke off and looked at my client expectantly. He sighed, and finished my sentence. “Unless I had reason to believe Eddie Fitz had a connection to Nunzie above and beyond just being a cop,” he said.
    â€œYou said Nunzie was into drugs,” I reminded him. “And Eddie Fitz was a member of an elite narcotics task force in Bed-Stuy,” I continued. “Do I take it that Nunzie’s drug empire was headquartered in the same neighborhood?” My voice quickened with anticipation; maybe there was something we could do about this Eddie after all.
    Matt nodded, then sighed. “I knew a few things about Nunzie I didn’t particularly want to know,” he said in a resigned tone. “I had reason to believe his drug empire had more than a few Brooklyn cops on the payroll. When Jack mentioned Eddie Fitz, I remembered hearing Nunzie talk on the phone to someone he called Fast Eddie. I got the impression this Fast Eddie was a kind of partner in Nunzie’s drug deals.”
    â€œA partner? Not just a cop who looked the other way, but a partner?” This was too good to be true: Lazarus’ star witness was a drug dealer with a badge. Of course, we had yet to actually prove it, but it was definitely worth following up.
    â€œThat was how it sounded to me,” Riordan said, then added, “But all I heard was the name Eddie. There could be six cops in that precinct named Eddie for all I know.”
    â€œBut only one of them is Lazarus’ star witness against you,” I reminded him. “If there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that dirty cop was Eddie Fitz, we’ve got to get solid evidence and bring it into court.”
    â€œI’ll start digging into the precinct,” Angie promised. She began ticking off her prospective tasks on her polished fingernails. “I’ll also check into Eddie Fitzgerald’s finances, find out whether he lives like a cop or spends like a drug dealer.”
    â€œI’ll get onto the Legal Aid grapevine,” I said. “If there are rumors floating around Brooklyn about Eddie Fitz, I’ll know someone who’s heard them all.” I gave my client a reassuring smile. “You do the organized crime,” I said. “Leave the disorganized crime to me.”
    â€œEddie Fitz on cross. God, this is a Brooklyn lawyer’s wet dream,” Deke Fischer said two days later. We sat at a little round table under an umbrella at a sidewalk cafe on Montague Street, sipping wine. Ten years earlier, we’d have held down the bar at Capulet’s-on-Montague, a beery establishment we used to hit every Friday night, after a grueling week in court. Now it was white wine and mineral water and a table out of the sun. And instead of swapping tales of our adventures in court, we’d spent the first ten minutes comparing notes on health, our own and that of our acquaintances. Ah, middle age.
    â€œI don’t remember this Eddie,” I complained.
    â€œYou left Legal Aid,” Deke reminded me. “You’ve expanded your horizons. Oh, sure, you still take criminal cases, but you don’t live in the narcotics parts the way we lifers do. If you did, you’d know Eddie Fitz, all right.”
    â€œWhy? Why would I know Eddie Fitz?” I sipped the spritzer and made a face. I wanted real booze, but I also wanted to keep my head while talking to Deke.
    â€œHe’s a mainstay of the Brooklyn war