Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case

by Adam Pepper

  “I talked to Tate,” Barnes said. “He thinks your case is dead. But whatever. I’m on the clock. So what is it you want to know?”

  “Just walk us through what happened the night Aleesha Maldonado was killed.”

  Barnes laughed. “Aleesha Maldonado. Even the name sounds like a crack whore. Two ‘e’s. Mother couldn’t even spell.”

  Vic smiled. “Please, from the start.”

  “Okay,” he sighed. “From the top. She come walkin’ up north on Jerome late at night.” Barnes pointed to the south. “She stopped at the bodega and hassled the poor yay-rab for a onesy.”

  “I believe he’s a Sikh,” I said.

  “Huh?” Barnes looked dumbfounded.

  “He’s Sikh. They’re Indian, not Arab.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  His timing impeccable and temperament unflinching, Vic cut in again, “Let’s not get bogged down. So she tried to buy a single cigarette from the man at the twenty-four-hour bodega.”

  “Right. And the guy says he only sells cigarettes by the pack. Says he knew the girl. She walked the streets just about every night and he works behind the bulletproof glass just about every night.”

  “Okay.” Vic nodded. “What happened next?”

  “One of our blue and whites takes a pass through and tells her to get lost. The usual roust. He didn’t feel like getting out and shaking her down, even though he probably would’ve found some crack and a pipe, at least the pipe. But it was late and she wasn’t doin’ nothing special. So he just told her to move on. But while they were talking the officer sees a brown Oldsmobile.”

  “Right,” Vic said. “It’s in the report. Still no word on the driver?”

  “Nah. Nothing’s turned up. With no plates we pretty much have to wait for him to come back and try and pick up whores again. And if he isn’t the killer, then he got spooked off. My guess is he’s the killer. But like I said, all we have is middle aged white guy in a brown Oldsmobile. Nothing’s turned up.”

  “Can we see the crime scene?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Why not.”

  Barnes tossed the crinkled burger wrapper and walked over to his car. He took a large soda cup out of a cup-holder on the dashboard. He took a long, loud sip, then started walking north on Jerome Avenue.

  “This way,” he said, not looking back at us but waving us forward.

  We followed Barnes up a side street, then he turned left and up a second side street. From our vantage point, we could see the elevated train that ran over Jerome Avenue but couldn’t quite see the road. Between us and the train platform, there was a vacant lot filled with overgrown grass patches with far more weeds than grass.

  “We found her in here.” He walked into the lot. There was a shed with concrete blocks for a foundation that didn’t look too sturdy. Barnes walked up to it. “One of her crack whore friends found her. Went in there to smoke up in peace and smelled something foul. She probably wouldn’t have called the cops on her own. A cruiser just happened to come through and saw her puking, then got out to investigate. There wasn’t much left of the girl.”

  “Right,” I said. “That was in your report, too.”

  “So, the private dick read my report.”

  “Like I told you,” Vic said. “Hank and I are very old friends.”

  “Makes no difference to me. Yeah, it’s in the report. The whore was dead for only two days, but decomposed like it’d been a lot longer. They’re lucky they were able to ID her at all.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, then asked, “What about the man at the bodega? He give you anything else?”

  “Nothing of value.”

  “Okay.”

  “We think the killer walked down this way through the lot after he was done with her.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Why would he do that?”

  “Must have parked his car on Jerome. We found footprints in the mud. About a size ten men’s boot. Had to be him.”

  I looked at Vic, but didn’t say anything.

  “Can we retrace his steps?” I asked.

  “You guys can do whatever you want. I ain’t walking through there. There’s nothing in there but rats and garbage. And I don’t like the smell of either.”

  “Okay. Well thanks for the information.” Vic said.

  Barnes walked back out to the quiet side street, and Vic and I walked slowly through the lot. It sloped downwards towards the busy street below. There was a lot of garbage: empty barrels, cigarette packs and beer bottles, mostly. We kept our eyes at the ground, looking for anything of interest, although not expecting to find much.

  “That make sense to you, Vic?”

  “You mean the guy cutting through here?”

  “Yeah. If he followed her up here, why would he do it on foot? Makes no sense.”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  “Brown Oldsmobile was out cruising for hookers, but he isn’t our guy.”

  “Maybe not, Hank.”

  “I want to talk to the Sikh man at the bodega.”

  “Sure. But Bronx Homicide already spoke to the guy.”

  “Have you?”

  Vic smiled. “No. It wasn’t my case.”

  “Yeah, but you think it may be now?”

  “Okay, let’s go talk to the guy. It couldn’t hurt.”

  The footing was a little shaky, as the slope of the hill became steeper. Vic and I had to stutter step to keep our balance, but we made it safely to the bottom, and emerged on Jerome Avenue, about a half a block north of the McDonald’s.

  We walked south, passed by the restaurant and continued to the bodega. The owner was standing out in front of the store. Once he noticed us, he quickly walked towards us.

  “Hello, officers. Let’s walk this way.” He smiled and made eye contact with me, then with Victor and said, “I don’t want my customers to be getting nervous. You understand. People are wary of police in this neighborhood.”

  I nodded.

  “Not myself, of course. I like to see police come by my store, it makes me feel better. But nothing clears my store faster than a cop walking in. It’s just a fact of life for me.”

  “Not a problem.” We turned, and started walking north on Jerome, away from his store. “I’m Hank Mondale. This is Detective Victor Ortega.”

  “Very nice to meet you. My name is Singh.”

  “Mr. Singh, we’re sorry to pull you away from your store,” I said. “But we’re investigating the murder of a prostitute a few months back. We hear she was a frequent customer of yours and that you are one of the last people to see her alive.”

  His face turned serious, his wide smile quickly straightening and he scratched his salt and pepper beard.

  “Of course. It is very sad what happened to her. Very sad indeed.”

  “But you weren’t exactly surprised. Were you?”

  “Surprised? Well no. She was a troubled person. Anyone could see that. She would come by my store all the time. Every day, once at least. Always paid in pennies or nickels. Always short on money. If something cost two dollars, she give me a dollar seventy-five and ask if she could owe the rest. Most times I refuse. What can I do? If I do for her, I have to do for the entire neighborhood.”

  “I understand.”

  “It is not easy to run a business here. I work long hours. I drive a beat-up old Toyota. These people think I drive Mercedes Benz or something. Believe me, I don’t.”

  “I understand, Mr. Singh. I can tell you’re a hardworking man.”

  “Yes. Just me, my wife and my son to man the store. And we stay open twenty-four hours a day. Eight hour shifts a day for all of us. We do the best we can. I usually man the night shift. In fact, when we are done here, I’m going home for a little rest.”

  “Of course. We won’t keep you much longer. Just tell us what you saw that night. Anything that you can remember.”

  “Okay. The girl, she stopped by twice. Earlier in the night she buy a few items. Cigarettes, beer and potato chips. Then, she come back lat
er and ask to buy a single cigarette. I tell her no. She asks for free book of matches. I give it to her just to get rid of her. Really, the matches are only to be given out when you buy a pack of cigarettes, but it was late and I just wanted her to move along.”

  “So you gave her a book of matches, and then?”

  “She walk on. I see the policeman in the car have a few words with her in front of the McDonald’s next door. Then I see a man in an Oldsmobile look her over. He probably want to, well you know, he want to…”

  “We know. It’s okay. He wanted to pay for her services.”

  “Exactly. I know what she does, but I mind my own business. I’m not wanting any trouble, you understand. The Oldsmobile came back around. I see him again about five minutes later. Like I say, I try to mind my own business, but at three o’clock in the morning, a white guy in an Oldsmobile…I take notice.”

  “Did you see what he looked like?” Vic asked.

  “Not that good. He was in the car.”

  “Did you see anything else, Mr. Singh? Anything at all unusual? Any other person in the area?”

  “I did see another guy. I told the other policeman this.”

  “Another guy?”

  “Yes. Like I said, I already told the cop this. The one who was here before.”

  “Detective Barnes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tell us. Please.”

  “Of course. After the girl walked away, and the cop drove away, and then the Oldsmobile passed, I saw another guy.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He look like bum. You know, homeless guy.”

  “White? Black? Latino?”

  “White guy. It wouldn’t be strange, except I never see this white guy before. And I never saw him after. Just that one time. And most of the bums and street people in this neighborhood I see time and time again. This guy I see one time. Just that night.”

  “Okay. That’s very good, Mr. Singh. Tell us anything you can remember about him.”

  “It was dark. I didn’t stare at him. Just glanced out the window and saw him pass. He was white guy, maybe forty-five or even fifty. He had long hair but bald on top. Scratchy face but not a beard.”

  “Five o’clock shadow?”

  “Is that how you say?”

  “He was unshaven?”

  “Yes, unshaven.”

  I scratched furiously in my notebook and then read it back to him. “White guy, forty-five to fifty years old. Long hair in the back, bald on top with a five o’clock shadow. Can you remember anything else? Skinny, heavy set?”

  “Skinny. Tall and skinny. But not too tall.”

  “Six feet?”

  “Yes. I would say about six feet.”

  “Hair color? Eye color?”

  “Hair looked dark brown, but like I say, it was dark.”

  “Okay, Mr. Singh. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so, officer. I want to help, but that’s all I remember.”

  “Great. You’ve been a great help, Mr. Singh. Thank you so much for your cooperation. If we have any follow up questions, can we reach you?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mr. Singh gave me his phone numbers, Vic and I thanked him again, and then he went on his way.

  We got back into Vic’s cruiser and headed towards the Major Deegan Expressway. I looked over my notes, then turned to Vic.

  “The guy in the Oldsmobile isn’t our guy.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Howie Barnes is lazy. That’s obvious. He doesn’t even put mention of this vagrant in his report.”

  “I agree. That’s shoddy work there.”

  “Very. He doesn’t care about this case. That’s obvious.”

  “Be fair, Hank. It’s a lot more likely that the john killed the hooker than some random bum did.”

  “In general, sure. But not if you actually look at the facts here.”

  “You could be right. I’m just trying to give Barnes a little benefit of the doubt.”

  “Why?”

  He waved me off; there was no point arguing about it.

  * *

  As we merged onto the expressway, Vic picked up his cell phone and began pushing buttons.

  “I called my guy over at Missing Persons last night.” Vic said. “I got to thinking about Thomas Blake and his business partner going missing. Maybe there’s something there that ties to this case. He said to give him a call back today. He’s gonna run some things through his database and see what he can come up with.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  The phone connected and Vic spoke, “Johnny, you got anything for me? Really?” He paused. The silence was promising. His man must have found something. “Right. That’s interesting. Sure. Could be coincidence. I’ll check it out. If I find anything, I’ll make sure to let you know. Okay. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

  “Johnny runs over some files and does some checking and cross checking. He’s looking for anything that may be relevant.”

  “I’m with you. What’s he got?”

  “A girl named Nicole Leifson went missing a while back. It’s about two months after the hooker was found dead that she was reported missing. It’s also just a couple weeks after Bill Palmer was reported missing.”

  “The timeline sounds reasonable. What’s the connection?”

  “So far, just the address.”

  “The address?”

  “Yes. Her home address is 99 Mangin.”

  “Is that that swanky, luxury high rise?”

  “Exactly, the nice building next door to the building Ginny Olsen lived in.”

  “And was killed in.”

  “Exactly. Maybe Missing Persons needs to turn the Nicole Leifson case over to Homicide.”

  “Maybe.”

  “At this point, I told Johnny I’m going to check it out. If my case and his case become the same case, we can worry about jurisdiction later. At this point, he’s happy to pass the burden over to me.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  We crossed over into Manhattan and Vic jumped onto the FDR Drive. There was the usual midday traffic congestion, so Vic gave a quick blip of the sirens and cars moved aside. He picked up his phone again and pushed a speed-dial button.

  “Checking in with your wife?” I asked in a mocking tone.

  “Very funny. I just have to let Tate know what I’m up to.” Then into the phone he said, “What’s up, Tate. Yeah, I know. Listen, I’m following another lead. I’m headed back up to Houston Street.” I couldn’t hear, but it was obvious Tate was complaining again. “I know. Look, this case is not dead. You handle the other thing. It’s not like you need me. If you do, give me a call and I’ll be right over.” There was a long pause, then just a simple, “Yup.” Then he hung up.

  “Lovers quarrel?”

  “That guy just hates doing his own paperwork.”

  “He could come meet us if you think it’s necessary. He is your partner.”

  “Believe me, he’s happier at the stationhouse. If things heat up, he’ll get off his ass.”

  “You two make a heck of a team.”

  “He does his job.”

  “I’m sure, but not an iota more.”

  “He’s got sixteen years in. He’s just coasting through the last four to earn his full pension. He’s not alone. Lotta guys like that.”

  “Not you, Vic.”

  “Nah. Me, I’m half martyr, half crusader. I still think I can do some good.”

  I laughed. “A few more years with Tate and that asshole Howie Barnes and you’ll learn.”

  “Not me. I’m not like that.”

  “I know.”

  We got off at the Houston Street exit and pulled over close to the building. As usual, there were no legal spots. So we left the car in front and walked up to the door. There was a doorstop propping open the front door, and we walked right in.

  “May I help you?” Asked a doorman in a d
ark blue uniform sitting at a desk with a newspaper and a cup of coffee lying on top. He looked mid-fifties and spoke in a polite and polished tone.

  Vic flashed his badge and said, “I’m Detective Ortega with the NYPD.”

  “Yes, officer. How may I help you today? Are you here to see someone?”

  “Actually, maybe you can help us.”

  “I can try.” He took a gulp from the white Styrofoam cup then licked his lips.

  “We’re investigating the disappearance of a girl who lives here. Nicole Leifson.”

  “Sure. We’re all really worried about Nicki.”

  “Then you know her.”

  “Of course. I’ve been working here over twenty years. I remember the day she was born.”

  “So she’s about what, nineteen?”

  “Yes, I believe she is nineteen.”

  “Her parents must be wealthy to afford this place.”

  He nodded sheepishly. “No one in this building is exactly a pauper.”

  “Of course,” Vic continued. “So listen, I don’t want to pry, but it’s my job. You sit out here, you must know who comes and goes. And who they come and go with.”

  “Sure.”

  “So, who did Nicole…Nicki?”

  “Yes, Nicki.”

  “Who did Nicki spend her time with?”

  He looked both ways to make sure we were alone. “It’s not my place to pass judgment on people, but since you asked, and since she’s missing for so long, I have to be honest.”

  “Please.”

  “Nicki was a good kid before she starting hanging out with this other rich girl. Then she changed.”

  “Another rich girl?”

  “Yeah. Mackenzie Blake. You probably heard of her father. Thomas Blake.”

  Victor shot me a look like maybe he thought I’d been holding out. I shrugged to let him know this was news to me too.

  “I’ve heard of Thomas Blake,” Vic said. “So Nicki and Mackenzie Blake were pals?”

  “That’s an understatement. They spent night and day together. Those two were regular B.F.F.s.”

  “B.F.F.?” Vic asked.

  “You know, best friends forever.”

  Vic and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He joined in as well.

  “Did they really talk like that?” I didn’t figure this guy made up a term like B.F.F.