Fourth Victim (15 page)

They didn’t have much in the way of reserves after their visit to the precinct and the door slamming bullshit got very old very fast. The fact was they had missed their chance, if there ever had been a chance, to get people to talk about Bogarde DeFrees’ plunge. Once Detective Hines and Healy had taken their break yesterday, they were screwed. Yet even if everyone in the project had been loose-lipped, the odds were there wasn’t anything for them to say. Some crimes, some incidents, are just like that; somebody winds up dead that maybe shouldn’t have, but there’s no evidence, no witnesses, no video. It’s frustrating. All you can do is your best and just move on.

What they did have was enough energy to make it back to the Marsden apartment. Evelyn was an odd mix of downhearted and humble. She smiled when they first came into the apartment. Her smile was a living reminder of the resemblance between Evelyn and her son. She offered them coffee. Neither Detective Hines nor Healy had the heart to refuse.

“That detective called me this morning,” Evelyn said, as she fussed with the coffee machine in her galley kitchen. “He said there wasn’t nothing new on my boy’s case. I guess I already knew as much, but it was just better to hear it from him. He apologized to me for not being more attentive. I s’ppose I have y’all to thank for that.”

“All we did was remind the detective of his job,” Healy said, as he paced around the living room. He was very taken by some of Edgerin Marsden’s photography. “Cops get discouraged too and sometimes they’d just as soon forget their failures.”

“Well, it did make me feel kinda ashamed for the way I spoke to you both yesterday and I’m sorry for that.”

“No need, Mrs. Marsden,” Blades said.

“Your son was very good at this. There’s something about these shots I can’t get outta my head,” Healy said.

Evelyn Marsden stuck her head out of the kitchen and could see that Bob Healy wasn’t just being nice. “Please take that one,” she said, “the one of the Brooklyn skyline. I like it, but it kinda depresses me, you know? It’s all that fog and such.”

“I couldn’t take it.”

“Oh, yes you could!” Evelyn stepped out of the kitchen, took the frame off the wall, and handed it to Healy.

He took it. He wasn’t a cop anymore and he really was quite taken by the late Edgerin Marsden’s work. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Marsden. I’ll treasure it.”

“I know you will. You would have liked my boy.”

“I’m sure I would have.”

“These days are the hardest on me,” Evelyn said, slipping the frame into a shopping bag. “I’m home from work ‘cause of the snow and all the kids ‘round too. These are hard hard days.”

As pleasant and as giving as Evelyn Marsden had been, Blades and Healy were glad to be out of there. Grief can be more than oppressive. It can be communicable and they already had too much on their plate to get sidetracked. When they got downstairs and stepped out into the commons, the paths had been plowed, but the concrete lawns were piled high with snow. Kids were having snowball fights, building snowmen and igloos, doing what kids do in the snow.

“What’s next?” Blades asked.

“I guess we can go talk to Finnbar McCauley and get his take on what happened the day DeFrees died. We were gonna have to talk to him eventually, anyway.”

“Waste of time. We know what he’s gonna say. You debriefed him right after it happened. He’ll say he doesn’t know anything now and he didn’t know anything back then. And when we turn our backs on him, he’ll whisper ‘Fuck you’ and laugh.”

“Maybe,”

“Maybe? C’mon, Healy. Monaco was his partner.”

“I knew Rusty Monaco. He wasn’t exactly the kind of man who inspired loyalty. His own pets would have growled at him.”

“Yeah, but they were partners.”

“So were Ralphy Abruzzi and Joe Serpe.”

T
he 61st Precinct was on Coney Island Avenue in the Gravesend, Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, so Hines and Healy just got back on the F train and rode it toward the far reaches of the borough. Although they hadn’t wanted to, they called ahead. Both of them knew it would be better to catch McCauly off guard, but they couldn’t risk making the trip for nothing.

McCauly picked them up at the subway station in an unmarked Chevy. He was just as Bob Healy remembered him; a jolly motherfucker; Santa Claus without the white face hair. He was six foot tall and five foot wide. He had a beer barrel gut, a gin blossom nose, and whiskey red cheeks. He had twinkly eyes that smiled like little blue suns and a charming way about him, but he was old school trained. He liked kicking ass and getting simple answers, but unlike his late partner, McCauly had a knack for skating right up to where the thin ice started. He had to be close to sixty and had probably done time in every other precinct in the city.

“I thought you retired,” he said to Healy, seated in the front next to him.

“I did. I own a business on Long Island.” Healy thought it best not to get specific.

“For fuck’s sake, a businessman.”

“I never think of myself that way.”

“And you didn’t think of yourself as a traitorous cocksucker when you were in IAB. Funny how we see ourselves,” McCauley said, the charm vanishing.

“Now wait a fucking sec—” Detective Hines started to jump up in McCauly’s face.

Healy cut her off. “That’s okay, Detective. McCauly’s earned the right to call me some names. Haven’t you, you fat incompetent fuck?”

McCauly laughed a hearty laugh. “That I have. That I have. So what’s this about Rusty?”

“That business I own on Long Island, it’s a home heating oil delivery business and my partner’s Joe Serpe.”

McCauly slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel so that the Chevy skidded into a snow berm along the curb.

“Now you’re just fucking with me,” McCauly growled, turning to face Healy.

“No. Joe and me are partners.”

“What’s the company’s name, Two Rats Oil?”

Healy could see Blades getting worked up again, but waved at her to stay calm.

“The company already had a name when we bought it, but otherwise we might’ve gone with Two Rats.”

“So what is it about Rusty?” McCauly asked, keeping his eyes on Blades in the rearview.

“It seems him and Joe and Ralpy Abruzzi worked together on a drug task force in the late eighties. They were doing a bust in the projects and it went bad. Rusty saved Joe Serpe’s ass.”

“Jesus, well that was a mistake.”

“Listen, McCauly,” Healy said, putting his face close to the fat man’s, “I don’t give a flying fuck about you or Rusty Monaco, but he saved my partner’s life. Joe thinks he owes him for that, so we’re trying to find out who killed him and the other oil drivers.”

“Why not let the Suffolk cops handle it?”

“Cause the detective on the case makes you look like Eliot fucking Ness.”

“And what’s she got to do with it?” McCauly threw a thumb at the backseat.

“She’s here to make sure you don’t lie to me. That’s all.”

“Lie to you about what? I mean, some nig—some perp stuck a gun to Rusty’s head and killed him and took his money. What the fuck would I know about that? I mean, it’s not like me and Rusty were tight. We only partnered for six months.”

“You were tight enough to be in his will,” Blades said.

That hit a nerve. All the piss and vinegar, all the swagger in his demeanor vanished. It came back as fast as it disappeared, but there was no denying something had changed.

“We weren’t close, but we went through hell with that DeFrees thing. You know, Healy. You put us through it.”

“I was doing my job.”

“So was Eichmann.”

“Nice. What’d Rusty leave you?” Healy asked. “It’s none of your fucking business, but it was a letter. That’s all. What’s any of this shit got to do with somebody robbing and shooting Rusty?”

“Probably noth—” Healy said. “James Burgess,” Blades whispered.

“Huh?” McCauly said, acting as if he hadn’t heard. But he had and the mention of the name took the red out of his nose and cheeks.

“Forget it,” Healy said. “I don’t think there’s any connection between Rusty getting whacked and your days together, but I had to ask.”

“Yeah, well, at least you’re interested,” McCauly said, trying to change the subject. “Rusty didn’t exactly make a lot of friends.”

McCauly, a man who never turned down the offer of food or drink, turned down Healy’s offer of both. He couldn’t get away from Healy and Blades fast enough. He was like the female cat in the Pepe LePew cartoons. Still, he couldn’t resist asking Healy what was in the bag as he dropped them back off at subway.

“This?” Healy said, pulling the frame out of the shopping bag. “It’s a photograph taken by a kid named Edgerin Marsden. He was murdered at the Nellie Bly Houses the day after the DeFrees kid took the plunge. You like it?”

“I hope the East River floods the tunnel as your fucking train goes through,” McCauly said before Healy closed the car door.

“How the hell did that man last on the job this long?” Blades asked as they watched McCauly’s car fishtail away.

“Charm,” Healy said. “Charm.”

They were both silent for a few moments. Although subway cars are never exactly quiet, the white street scenes outside the window seemed to dampen the clangs and squeals of the train as it snaked its way back toward Manhattan.

“I don’t know,” Blades said, breaking the silence.

“What don’t you know?”

“I was watching McCauly’s face in the rearview mirror the whole time and I noticed his reactions to your mentioning Monaco’s will and to me whispering Burgess’ name.”

“That’s a cute trick, the mirror thing.”

“Whatever. That’s not the thing. See, I understand why mentioning the will and Burgess got a rise outta him. Shit, mention Burgess to any white cop in this city and he’ll break out in hives. And the will, us knowing about it made him nervous because he was surprised we knew about it.”

“Is this going someplace?” Healy asked.

“Did you see the look on his face when you showed him Edgerin Marsden’s photography?”

“No, I was too busy looking at the photo myself. What did I miss?”

“He kept steady, but he got them buggy eyes. He seemed even more nervous than when you brought up the will. Why should Edgerin Marsden mean a thing to McCauly?”

“He shouldn’t.”

“My point exactly,” she said.

Healy shrugged his shoulders. Except for the time he’d spent with Blades, he was beginning to seriously regret his decision to help Serpe. This Monaco thing just kept getting bigger and bigger and less connected to the actual murder that started the chain of events. Maybe, it was time to try something out of character for him to see if they couldn’t reel it back in. He stood up.

“What’re you doing?” Blades asked.

“We’re getting off.”

“We are? Why?”

“Do you like old movie houses?”

“What?”

“Come on,” he said. “You’ll see.”

All morning long, Joe and Gigi had watched the screen crawl and jumped from channel to channel in hopes of catching something else on Stanfill’s murder. They got nothing new because there was nothing new to get. But by about 3 o’clock, the local cable news channel had set up shop at the strip mall. The first person to be interviewed was the dojo owner. He said he had noticed a foul odor when he opened up the studio that morning and called the gas company. The gas man came and tested for a leak. He didn’t find one, but he had to confess he noticed the odor as well. Frustrated, the dojo owner said he tried to locate the source of the smell himself. He figured out it was coming from the lawyer’s office and went next door to talk to Stanfill.

“I knew he was there, because his car was parked in the lot. But he didn’t answer the door or the phone when I called. I figured he was sick in there or something, so I called nine-one-one.”

Next up was video footage of a twenty-something female reporter standing in the snow out in front of a condo development called Pine Winds Estates.

“Susan Stanfill Palanco, Brian Stanfill’s ex-wife, who lives in this development, became concerned about the lawyer when he didn’t show up to pick up their young son on Friday evening for his scheduled visit. At first, say police, she was angry when her former husband did not return her phone calls. Not having heard from him all weekend, she decided to call notify the Nassau Police. We tried to get a comment from Mrs. Palanco, who has since remarried, but no one answered the doorbell. When we called the home, a man answered and said Mrs. Palanco was grieving and attending to her son.”

But the person Serpe was really interested in was last to appear. An impatient, hatchet-faced man, in a tan trench coat, a shield clipped to his left lapel, stood in front of several hand-held microphones. He didn’t like the attention, but gave a brief statement.

“My name is Detective J.W. Keyes of the Nassau County Police Department. While the exact cause of death is yet to be determined, it does appear that Mr. Stanfill’s death was the result of foul play. We are in the process of collecting evidence and we will release details when they are forthcoming. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

He retreated behind the yellow tape without answering a single question being shouted at him by reporters.

Joe Serpe clicked off the TV, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know Keyes, but he knew the type. This guy wouldn’t be easy to bullshit.

“Come on,” he said to Gigi, “let’s get out of here.”

It was a risky thing to do and neither Bob Healy nor Raiza Hines was generally the risk taking type. Maybe that’s why Healy had prospered in IAB and why Hines looked like she’d have a similar career ahead of her. Joe Serpe, on the other hand, had risk taking in his DNA, and it had gotten him pretty far before his fall. Even so, Healy wasn’t sure Joe’d approve. Five more steps and his partner’s disapproval wouldn’t matter.

The First Revelation Baptist Church had once been a grand movie theater much in the style of its big brother, Radio City Music Hall, but by 1979 it had fallen on hard times. They’d first destroyed its beauty by chopping it up into a multiplex that featured Blacksploitation flicks and low rent movies like
Dracula’s Dog.
Then there was a suspicious fire that didn’t quite do the arsonist proud because only one old bathroom was destroyed.
Who starts a fire in a bathroom?
Eventually, it was purchased by a local church group and its new minister, Reverend James Burgess.

The marquee, the only classic feature of the original theater that had remained intact over the years, protected a wedge-shaped shadow of dry sidewalk even as the snow piled up on the rest of the street. On the brilliant, red, blue, and yellow neon bordered marquee were the times for Sunday worship. There were emergency numbers to call for help with your heating bills, with your landlord, with the City. But the star of the show, the man with top billing, was James Burgess.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Healy asked Blades as he grabbed the door pull.

“No, but hell, we’re not getting anywhere the way we’re going. Let’s give the Rev a shake and see what falls from his tree.”

Healy held the door for Blades and followed her in. Once through the second set of doors and in the lobby of the old theater, they were greated by a tall, muscular man in his mid twenties. His coffee colored skin was freckled and he wore his hair in braids and corn rows. He had a jumpy, uneasy air about him, as if his well-cut black suit was the last thing he wanted to wear and this church was the last place he wanted to be. Still, he was polite enough when Detective Hines showed him her shield and asked to speak to the Reverend James Burgess.

“Follow me, please.”

They did as he asked and walked up a floor to what had once been the balcony level.

“This here is where our pipe organ is situated,” the young man said. “You can have a look while I see if the Reverend is available for y’all.”

Healy and Hines shrugged at each other. They thought they might as well do as the man said and have a look. The pipe organ wasn’t quite as grand as St. Patrick’s, but it wasn’t shabby either. The multiplex partitions had been undone and the original configuration of the theater, if not the art deco embellishments, had been restored. Long, curved pews had replaced the old lean-back seats and there was an altar on the stage. There were a few big crosses here and there, but not a crucifix in sight. To a Catholic like Healy, it barely seemed a church at all and he told Blades so.

“Beats my church growing up,” she said. “One my folks took me to was an old dry cleaners. No matter what they did to fancy it up, you could still smell those awful chemicals.”

The young man reappeared. “The Reverend will see y’all now. Please follow me.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Healy said.

“Khouri.” He left it at that. “Here we are. Just through that door there.”

The Reverend James Burgess was a larger than life figure and a big man. He had a cool smile, an easy energetic manner, a rich voice, and a sharp tongue. He kept his head shaved, his moustache trim, and his clothes neat. The clothes didn’t call attention to themselves, but they were well tailored with a high thread count. As he approached Hines and Healy, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.

“Detective … Healy,” he said, extending a hand. “I never forget a face, especially one that belongs to one of New York’s Finest.”

“I’m retired,” Healy explained before the bullshit got higher than the snow. “This is Detective Hines.”

“Anything but retired,” she said.

“Pleasure to meet you, sister.”

Blades let that go. Healy kept quiet too. Burgess was certainly more charming than Finn McCauly, even if he was just as full of shit.

“Please sit. The church office, I fear, is a little spartan. My office at our charity headquarters on Utica Avenue would be more comfortable,” Burgess said. “Maybe you’d like to meet me there at a—”