Fourth Victim (6 page)

“What happened to your hand?” Joe asked.

She hesitated as if not understanding the question. “Oh, this,” she said finally, letting go of her hair and looking at her hand. “Can you believe it, I slammed it in my car door?”

Serpe didn’t, but he acted as if he did. “Amazing the clutzy things we do to ourselves, right? So about Epsilon.”

“What about ‘em?”

“Shame about their driver getting killed.”

“I don’t know their drivers and I don’t know anything about what happened.”

“You knew he was murdered, didn’t you?”

“I guess, but look, I’m not even here when they come to pick up their trucks or nothing and I’m almost always gone when they get back.”

“But not always?”

“What?”

“You’re here sometimes when their trucks come back in,” Joe pressed.

“I guess.”

“Where’d you hear about Alberto getting killed?” “The paper.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know their drivers.”

She didn’t say anything, but fumbled through the top drawer of her desk and came out with a refrigerator magnet shaped like a tanker truck. “Here’s how to get in touch with Epsilon,” she said, handing the magnet to Joe. Her hand was shaking more than just a little bit.

“Thanks. You play much poker?”

“What? I don’t get—”

Just then, the side door that led from the shop to the office swung open. A thirty-something biker type in coveralls and paint spray strolled in. He had a few days worth of black stubble on his cheeks, a badass Fu Manchu mustache on his lip, goggles on his forehead, and a respirator mask slung around his neck. He shot a quick look at Serpe and took a much longer one at the blond behind the desk. His expression made it plain that he didn’t much like Joe’s being there, but that he liked the blond’s harried and confused demeanor even less.

“Anything the matter?”

“No, this guy was just asking about how to get in touch with the oil company.”

Fu Manchu was skeptical. “Then why you look so upset?”

“That’s my fault,” Joe said. “I was talking about their driver getting murdered and I guess it kinda upset the young woman. I’m very sorry about that, miss. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“That’s okay, mister.” Her smile returned, but it now had a twitchy quality to it.

“They just pay the owner of the property to park their two trucks here. We got no connection to them at all,” Fu Manchu said to Joe, his tone making it clear that the discussion was at end.

“Well, thanks for the help,” Serpe said, waving the magnet at the blond and the tough guy. “Again, I’m sorry for upsetting you.” “Have a good day,” she said.

“Yeah,” Fu Manchu agreed, and when the door closed behind Joe added, “have a great fucking day, asshole.”

When Serpe got back into his car, he considered staking out the place. He might have been off the job for seven years, but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t spot amateurs or catch the telltale odor of guilt. And the stink of guilt in that office easily overwhelmed the paint and body filler fumes. Guilt over what, was the question. Serpe dialed the number on the magnet and pulled away from the curb.

T
hey started their evening as they had started their morning, seated across the office desk from each other in the Mayday trailer. They both looked a little worse for wear, but the day seemed to have played out tougher for Joe Serpe. He still felt awful about what had happened to Cameron Wilkes. The image of the dead man’s truck sitting out in front of the abandoned yard was stuck in his head nor was his mood much improved when he got in touch with the owner of Epsilon Energy. It seemed the dead driver, Albie, the man called him, had gotten murdered before he got to realize his American dream.

“Albie had a wife and boy he was saving to bring up from Mexico,” the owner said. “Also had put a binder down on a house in Brentwood. Fucking pity. Great guy and the hardest working driver I ever had. Woulda sold him the company someday too. I’m moving down to North Carolina with the wife in a few years. This isn’t a business for old men.”

No it wasn’t. It didn’t burn you out like cop work, but it was pretty rough on your body if not on your soul. Serpe sat and listened as Healy explained about how he had gotten back to the office in time to cash the drivers out and set things up for Saturday, their busy day. He listened with a little more interest when Healy described his meeting with Raiza Hines. “She cute?”

“I tell you that someone else’s been sniffing around about Rusty Monaco even before he was killed, that all computer access to his files has been blocked, and that’s what you’re gonna ask me: Is she cute? Yeah, Joe, she’s cute and twenty years younger than me and black.”

“Racist!”

“Fuck you, Serpe!”

“All right, forget her for now. Any idea why the cops are curious about a guy who’s been off the job for two years, a guy they were happy to see go?”

“Thing is, Joe, we can’t even be sure it
is
the cops looking at Monaco. Weird, huh?” “Worth looking into.” “That’s what Blades is doing.”

“Blades? Getting kinda cozy there, aren’t you Bob?” “Drop it.”

“It’s dropped. So your prick brother’s not going to help.” “Nope. Says he’s probably gonna prosecute the case when it comes in, so.”

“I guess I can’t blame him.”

“You can blame him, but it isn’t gonna do us any good. So you said something about a body shop …”

“You know the one right across from the Kings Park Fire Department by Indian Head Road?” Joe asked.

“I live about a mile away from it and my church is around the corner. Yeah, I know it: Noonan’s Collision.”

“They’re guilty about something in there, but I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with the dead drivers. I mean it’s a fucking body shop, right? And they had a shitload of Hondas, Toyotas, and Escalades in their lot.”

“Chopshop maybe, stolen parts you’re thinking? You know any totally clean body shops?”

“What I know is that my being in there asking questions spooked the shit out of the blond and that the biker guy made me for a cop. I don’t think I should go back there. Might raise a red flag.”

“Which means I should go?”

“First maybe you should bring a box of donuts over to the fire house and make nice so you can sit across the street and see what’s what.”

“I know how to make nice with the neighbors. Don’t worry. I’ll be on it first thing in the morning.”

“Good,” Joe said, flipping through the tickets for Saturday delivery. “Looks like I’m gonna have to drive tomorrow. Busy day.”

“Busy is good.”

“After my brother died, busy is all I lived for.”

“Tell me about it. After Mary died I used to go nuts looking for ways to fill up my days with something other than
General Hospital.
I looked for anything to occupy my thoughts.”

They sat silently for a moment, both together and apart, remembering where their lives had been only several months ago. Men find it easy to drink and bullshit together, but silence is the real test of friendship between men.

“So,” Healy said, “how about the other oil companies?”

“I didn’t learn anything except about other people’s grief at Baseline. The business died with Cameron Wilkes, so there was nobody to talk to there. The guy who owned Armor didn’t seem too bent outta shape about Monaco, but who the fuck would be? I’ll talk to Tim Breen from Five Star next week or maybe I’ll go looking for him at Lugo’s tomorrow after work. And as far as Epsilon goes … That guy was looking for a way out even before this happened to his driver.”

Bob Healy stood and stretched. “I’m going home, partner. Long day. You sure you can manage tomorrow without me?”

“No problem. I’ll have one of the guys load my truck. I’ll take stops, route the trucks and then I’ll go out. I’ll have the calls forwarded to my cell and dispatch from the truck.”

“Sounds good. Where you headed now?”

“Monaco’s wake.”

“That sucks.”

“I don’t know. As popular as he was, it might just be me and him.”

The wake was in some funeral parlor in Massapequa on Sunrise Highway somewhere. He was pretty sure he’d find his way, but the truth was that Serpe wasn’t in any fucking rush to get there. Fearless as a cop, or at least able to control his fears better than most, he dreaded the idea of running into any guys he’d known from the job. It was always awkward and never turned out good for Joe. In the end, they could never understand his testifying against his partner. To them, he was worse than a man like Healy. Sure they would consider Healy a rat, but his was a career decision. In their eyes, what Joe did by giving up his brother cop that way, was not only inexplicable, but unforgiveable. So Serpe had given up trying to explain that blind loyalty sometimes comes with a heavy price.

Joe parked in the nearly empty lot behind the funeral home and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d already had a rough day and thought he deserved a break. He should have known better than to think that bad times earn you anything good. Just as he was passing by one of the few other cars in the lot, the driver’s side door swung open behind him and smacked hard into the back of his bad leg.

The ironic part about it was that the bullet that had shattered Serpe’s femur and nicked his femoral artery might have been fired by a dead man. When the cops burst in on the Russians, bullets were spraying everywhere. Joe had never wanted to know if the bullet was part of the spray or if it came from that sick fuck Pavel’s handgun. Pavel—the man who had tormented Marla—died that night too, so he really didn’t see the point.

None of that mattered now as Joe collapsed face first in a heap on the cold blacktop. His leg had healed as well as it was ever going to heal and could pretty much take the daily stresses delivering oil put on it, but any direct hit like the one he’d just got, put him right down.

“What’s a matter, fuck face, you fall down and go boom?” It was Detective Hoskins. “Here, let me help you up, scum bag.” He grabbed Serpe by the back of his coat and yanked him up so that Joe’s body-weight sat right atop his bad leg. “You look like your’re hurtin’, Snake. Let me fix that.” He kicked Serpe square in the solar plexus with the toe of his shoe and Serpe went down gasping for breath.

Hoskins just stood over him patiently waiting for Serpe to try and get up. But a patient temperment wasn’t a description that fit Tim Hoskins, so he got on his knees next to Serpe and put his lips almost against Joe’s left ear. His breath smelled of old beer, fresh garlic, and hatred. “Listen to me, you cowardly-cunt-rat-cheese-eatin’-bastard. You already embarrassed me once with what you did with the Russians. Once is too much, but there’s nothin’ I can do about it now. But I hear you been askin’ around about these murders. That’s right, asshole, somebody ratted you out instead of the other way around. How’s it feel to get the dime dropped on you?”

“Drop dead.”

Hoskins laughed and the air got colder. “Stop sticking your nose in my shit. Stop it now! Stop it now or I’ll get into the oil driver murderin’ business my own fuckin’ self. Understand?”

“Fuck you!” Serpe coughed.

“Fuck me, huh?” He kicked Serpe in the ribs and then did it again. “Fuck me, huh?”

“You deaf or just ugly?” He kicked him again.

The headlights of a car swept across the lot. “Fuck me, huh?”

“Get that hearing aid fixed, motherfucker.” Hoskins reared his leg back.

“Hey!” a woman screamed. “What are you doing? Leave him alone. I’m dialing nine-one-one right now.” She waved her open and lit up cell phone at Hoskins.

“Remember, cocksucker, you been warned.” Hoskins got in his car and tore out of the lot, tires squealing as he went.

“You okay?” the woman asked, helping pull Joe up in a sitting position.

“I’ve been better. Thanks,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

“Who was that guy?”

“An incompetent, frightened little prick.”

“Whatever.”

With his feet firmly under him, Serpe took a closer look at his rescuer. She was, he guessed, about thirty with a pretty, but hard face. Her brown hair was cut short and her eyes were pennies with some of the shine worn off. She was about five foot five, curvy, but thick through the neck and body. She wore a black leather coat over a plain black dress and black, low-heeled shoes.

“Joe Serpe.” He shook her hand. “I’m here for Rusty’s wake.”

She took his hand. “Georgine Monaco. Rusty’s little sister. You a cop?”

“Used to be, Georgine.”

“Call me Gigi, G-i-g-i, like two soldiers. Everybody calls me that.” “Your brother saved my life once, Gigi.”

She laughed. “Probably the only good thing he ever done. He was a prick, my big bro. Easy to tell with this overwhelming outpouring of love. Look at this parking lot. I buried cats where more people showed. So, d’you like my brother?”

“Not really. He was a hard guy to like, but I owe him. I also own an oil company now, so I got my reasons for coming.”

“Thanks for coming, no matter why.” She wrapped her arm in his and walked Joe into the home.

In front of five rows of empty wooden folding chairs, the closed coffin lay in the chapel’s smallest viewing room. There was a uniformed honor guard from the NYPD standing a bored vigil along the walls. They outnumbered the rest of the attendees even if you included Rusty Monaco’s body in the count. A funeral director strolled laps around the room.

“I guess you were right about the cat burials,” Joe said.

“What does it matter anyhow? Rusty ain’t counting heads. Come on, let’s get a prime seat before all the good ones are taken.”

“You’re pretty funny.”

“Comin’ outta our family, I had to be.” She wasn’t smiling now and before Joe could ask another question, Gigi walked up to the coffin, knelt, and crossed herself. She moved her lips and crossed herself again before touching her bent fingers to her mouth.

“Go say something,” she said, pushing Serpe’s arm, “even if it’s thanks.”

It wasn’t Serpe’s style, but he did it anyway. He said a quick thanks and sat back down. They sat there quietly for a few minutes, Joe studying Gigi’s hard face. No tears. No cracks. Not much of anything washed across it.

“You guys keep in touch?” Joe broke the silence.

“Not really. There wasn’t a whole lotta love in our house, not from my folks and not between us kids. Rusty kinda looked after me when I was little, so I guess I owe him too.”

“So you didn’t know about him moving to the condo in Plantation City, I guess.”

Now Gigi showed more on her face than she had since coming to Joe’s aid in the parking lot. And what she showed wavered between skepticism and total disbelief.

“Get the fuck outta here! My brother didn’t have two nickels to rub together his whole life. What he didn’t blow on the ponies and pussy, his bitch wife soaked him for a few years back in the divorce. Not that she didn’t deserve it for putting up with his shit for so long. Christ, Joe, the only time I ever heard from Rusty was when he needed a stake from me. Why you think he was driving a oil truck for ten bucks a stop? No offense.”

“None taken. Still, the condo is a fact. Maybe he borrowed the money from a friend.”

“Yeah, right! How many friends you see here? Even if he coulda found someone who didn’t find him a miserable bastard, no one woulda lent Rusty a dime. Would you?”

“No.”

“And he saved your life, right?”

Joe conceded her point. He looked around and noticed that the honor guard was gone. A priest came in, made a little speech about Russell’s service to his community, said a few prayers, and then beat a quick path out of the place.

“I’m heading out,” he said. “Wait, I’ll go with you.”

As he offered his hand, Gigi asked if he didn’t want to go get a drink or something to eat. Joe felt as awkward as a teenager. He kind of liked her style and he had certainly been with women a lot less attractive than her, but he was still connected to Marla.

“I don’t think so,” he said, and started making excuses about his early morning.

“I don’t wanna fuck ya, for chrissakes, I just wanna have a drink with you.” “I’m hurt.”

“I like men when I’m in the mood for ‘em and if that wasn’t my brother’s carcass in there, I could probably work up the mood for you. But on the whole, I think you and me have the same preferences … if you catch my meaning.”

“I do. Okay, one drink.”