Page 81 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

He rented a small office on the second floor, over a barber shop on Sutphin Boulevard in Jamaica, Queens, and opened aone-manlaw practice. He gave up handlingnine-figureM-and-Adeals to resolve insurance claims, custody disputes, employment discrimination, and other legal issues faced by thelow-incomepeople in his community. And for those who couldn’t even afford his modest fees, no problem. They could pay him with homemade baked goods or by shoveling his driveway in the winter.

Reading his reviews online, Kylie and I could see he was exactly what Sheffield was looking for: a solo practitioner with decades of experience, who was honest, reliable, and above all, someone he could trust.

Nivens welcomed us into his office, and Kylie and I identified ourselves.

“And this is Theo Wilkins,” I said.

He shook Theo’s hand. “It’s a joy to finally meet you, young man, even on such a joyless occasion,” Nivens said. “Martin spoke so highly of you.”

Theo accepted the compliment with anaw-shucksnod.

Nivens turned to Kylie and me. “I was devastated to hear about his death. The fact that it was a homicide rocked me to the core. He was such a sweet man. And he was in declining health.”

“He told you about his condition?” I asked.

“From theget-go. He said he was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s and he wanted to get his affairs in order while he was still capable of making critical decisions. I hope you find whoever did this.”

“We can’t give you the details,” I said. “But I can tell you that the killer was someone from his past, and he was apprehended.”

“Thank you for sharing that. It’s comforting to know that Martin will get justice.”

“How long had you known him?” Kylie asked.

“Let’s see... this is July,” Nivens said. “I remember he walked in one snowy afternoon in January. So about six months.”

“Walked in?” Kylie said. “No appointment?”

“This is a storefront law firm. People rarely schedule appointments. They just show up. If I’m busy, they wait.” He smiled. “Same basic business model as the barbershop downstairs,” he added with a wink.

“So you knew nothing about him. He was just arun-of-the-millwalk-in.”

Nivens chuckled. He tried to shake it off, but instead it blossomed into a hearty laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was awalk-in, but it was hardlyrun-of-the-mill. Jamaica is predominantly Black and Hispanic. I don’t get many white clients coming in off the street. And in twelve years, I’ve never had anyone ofanyrace, religion, or creed stroll through the door and ask me to draw up a will for aneight-million-dollarestate.”

Theo put his hands to his cheeks. “Eight... eight million?” he said. “Dollars?”

“That’s a round number,” Nivens said. “I’m not only the attorney of record; he asked me to be the executor as well, so I still have to file the will with the probate court. And since the money is spread out over multiple accounts—many of them abroad—there’s a lot of paperwork involved, but eight million is a pretty close estimate.”

“Minus your fees,” Kylie said.

“No, Detective,” Nivens said. “Martin paid all my fees up front. Everything in those accounts will go to Theo.”

“What if I don’t want the money?” Theo asked.

“Martin warned me you might say that,” Nivens said. “And that’s your prerogative. But Martin had no heirs, and he didn’t name any secondary beneficiaries, so let me give you my best advice. Honor his wishes and accept the bequest. Once it’s in your name, you don’t have to keep it. You can give it away or donate it to a worthy cause.”

“What happens if he waives the inheritance?” Kylie asked.

“It will wind up in the coffers of the state of New York. Every penny.”

Theo grimaced. “Well, that sucks.”

Nivens smiled and rested a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “Only if you give it to them, son.”

Theo returned the smile. “I’ll take it.”

“Excellent. There’s one more thing,” Nivens said. “Last month, Martin called and asked if I could pay him a visit on a Tuesday at two thirty—right after his yoga session. Apparently, stretching and meditation helped the fog lift. I got to his room, and he gave me this blank stare. Finally, he said, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ And then he yelled, ‘Gotcha!’ and cracked up laughing—still his old irascible self. We talked for about ten minutes, and he started to fade. He said, ‘I may not know you the next time I see you, so let me thank you while I still can. Please give this to Theo after I’m gone.’” He took a padded envelope from his desk.

Theo tore it open and pulled out a handwritten note. He read it out loud.

---