Much worse, I wasn’t getting anywhere.“Where’s my money, Bennett?” an angry voice shouted through my headset.I’d gotten to know that voice really well over the past seven and a half hours. It came from a nineteen–year–old gang hit man known as D–Ray — his real name was Kenneth Robinson — who was the main suspect in a triple drug murder. In truth, he was the only suspect. When police had come after him earlier today, he’d holed up in a Harlem brownstone, now behind police barricades, threatening to kill five members of his own family.“The money’s coming, D–Ray,” I said, speaking gently into the headset. “Like I told you, I got Wells Fargo to send an armored truck up from Brooklyn. A hundred thousand dollars in unmarked twenties, sitting on the front seat.”“You keep saying that, but I don’t see no truck!”“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” I lied. “They run on bank schedules. You can’t just call them like a taxi. They don’t carry that kind of cash around, either — they’ve got to go through a complicated procedure to get it.
