Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  Victoria Anderson looks up from the stacks of file folders sitting on her desk when Lorraine comes into the office.

  “Nice hair,” she says. “What did you do, run from the bus stop?”

  “I didn’t want to miss Ron Hoyle’s call. I have good news for him about Bobby.”

  “He called ten minutes ago, and the way he sounded he could use some good news,” says Victoria.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was pretty incoherent; he said that he had tried calling you at home. I told him that you were probably on your way here.”

  Lorraine walks back to her private office, sits at her desk and phones Ron Hoyle.

  “Ron, Lorraine. What’s wrong?”

  “I got a call from the prison. Something happened last night. Bobby hit someone.”

  “Not a guard.”

  “Another prisoner. The man is in critical condition. They put Bobby in maximum security lockup. They wouldn’t say anything else.”

  “Was Bobby hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, Ron, try to calm down. I’ll find out what happened,” says Lorraine, just as Victoria buzzes her on the intercom. “Hold on, Ron, I have another call, don’t hang up.” She puts him on hold and hits the interoffice line.

  “It’s Assistant DA Lawrence for you, on line two.”

  “Marty, Lorraine,” she says, taking the call.

  “Bobby Hoyle put another inmate into intensive care last night. There’s a hearing set for eleven this morning with a motion to revoke bail.”

  “What happened?”

  “I really don’t know the details yet; I’m calling so you can arrange time to speak with your client before the hearing. They should have him at the courthouse by half past ten.”

  “Thanks for calling, Marty.” What else could she say? “I’ll see you in court at eleven.”

  She goes back to Ron Hoyle.

  “Ron, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, meet me at the courthouse at ten-thirty. Bobby will be there and we’ll find out what’s going on.”

  “What about the bail money? I’m supposed to meet the guy in twenty minutes to close the sale of the Mustang.”

  Jesus. What a mess.

  “Try to reach him, tell him something came up, an emergency. Ask him if you can postpone until tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” he says, his voice sounding as if it is coming from the bottom of a fifty-five gallon drum.

  “Ron, I have to go now. Maybe I can get information from Rikers, find out their side of the story before I see Bobby. I’ll meet you at the courthouse. We’ll work this out,” she says, not believing a word of it.

  Lorraine takes a deep breath and goes to her Rolodex for the number of the warden’s office at Rikers Island.

  The pain in her head is pounding furiously.

  He was in and out of the unemployment office in fifty minutes. He answered all of the questions honestly.

  Have you worked since your last claim?

  No.

  Did you refuse work, quit a job or were you dismissed from a job?

  No.

  Were you able to work, available for work and looking for work?

  Yes.

  Have you answered all of these questions honestly?

  Yes.

  A waste of precious time. Thankfully, he would not be asked to come in person for another six to eight weeks and could make his claims by simply pushing ones and nines on his touchtone phone from home. If it mattered.

  On his way to the parkway, he stops at a traffic light at the corner of Sheepshead Bay Road and Voorhies Avenue. A bright red Grand Cherokee parked on the street catches his eye. The license plate reads TITAN2. A strong feeling tells him it is no coincidence, God has heard his prayers.

  He parks the Oldsmobile in an open space a few cars down from the Jeep, kills the engine, sits and waits.

  Lorraine is almost out the door of the office, with ten minutes to get over to Court Street for a consult with Bobby Hoyle, when she remembers Sully and the plans to meet for lunch at the Del Rio Diner.

  “Shit.”

  “What now?” asks Victoria.

  “Can you do me a big favor at noon?”

  “Sure.”

  “No, wait. Let me call my father,” Lorraine says, heading back to her phone.

  “Go right ahead,” Victoria says.

  “Dad, I need another favor. An emergency came up; I need to be in court. I don’t have time to explain.”

  “No need to explain, what can I do for you?”

  Sal DiMarco tells his daughter that he would be glad to meet Frank Sullivan at the diner.

  “Are you sure, Dad? I hate asking you. You were reluctant to confront him last night.”

  “No problem, sweetheart. As a matter of fact, I was planning to see Frank anyhow. I have clothing he might use and an idea that I wanted him to consider.”

  Lorraine is curious, but has no time. She thanks her father and rushes out to the courthouse.

  “I’ll be seeing Frank Sullivan at noon,” Sal DiMarco tells his wife. “Are you sure it’s alright with you, what we talked about earlier?”

  “Yes, it’s fine with me. I wonder what it will sound like to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some people have a difficult time accepting help. Some people have a very difficult time understanding an unusual act of kindness.”

  “Well, all we can do is offer,” says Sal, “and thank you, Frances.”

  Bobby Hoyle is a wreck.

  “The guy attacked me, Lorraine. I was scared senseless. I pushed him; he slipped and hit his head against the wall of the cell. It’s solid concrete. He went down like a ton of bricks. I ran out to get help.”

  “Try to calm down, Bobby.”

  “They’re going to revoke bail,” Bobby cries.

  “We don’t know that yet,” Lorraine says. But she does know. And all she can think about, other than her headache, is what might happen if the other inmate dies.

  Ron Hoyle sits with them, unable to think at all.

  Sonny and Richie Colletti find their father in the living room of his large house on Beaumont Street and the Esplanade at Manhattan Beach. The huge bay window looks out on the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Bad news, Pop,” says Sonny.

  “I don’t need any bad news,” says Dominic Colletti.

  “Something went wrong last night. The con we paid to take care of the Hoyle kid wound up with his head cracked open,” says Richie.

  “Accidenti a lui! Is there anyone out there who isn’t completely worthless?” Colletti yells, throwing his newspaper across the room. “Will he talk?”

  “From what we heard, he can’t talk at the moment,” says Sonny. “He may never talk again.”

  “The way things have been going, I doubt I could be so lucky,” says Dominic.

  “What should we do about the Hoyle kid?” asks Richie.

  “Stay far away from him until this thing settles down. I’m more concerned right now about the other fuck waking up and shooting his mouth off,” says Colletti. “Not to mention having to deal with your fucking Aunt Carmella.”

  “Sorry,” says Sonny.

  “The perfect fucking word for it,” says Colletti.

  He has been sitting in his parked car for nearly an hour when he sees the woman climb into the Cherokee. He starts the Oldsmobile and pulls out to follow. She takes the Belt Parkway toward Manhattan, the same route he would be taking to go home. Just before the Bay Parkway exit, he looks across the parkway to the spot where his car went into the chain-link fence on the night Derek died.

  At the 4th Avenue exit, he follows the Cherokee off the parkway and onto Shore Road. The house sits like a fortress at the corner of 82nd. The woman pulls up to a wrought iron gate at the foot of a driveway on the street side. She uses a remote in the Jeep to open the gate and drives up to the double garage. The gate slides shut behind her.
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  He rolls slowly past the driveway as the garage door lifts, but as she pulls into the garage he sees no other vehicle. He continues on 82nd Street and parks at Colonial Boulevard. He takes the Bible from the seat beside him, gets out of the Oldsmobile and walks back. He crosses Shore Road and sits at a bench outside of the park, directly opposite the house.

  He is waiting for a BMW; he is waiting for TITAN1.

  He opens the Bible and begins to read.

  He is prepared to wait for as long as it takes.

  PART TWO

  THE BOROUGH OF CHURCHES

  Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  ELEVEN

  Brooklyn Chief of Detectives Stanley Trenton drives through the Battery Tunnel back to his domain. He has met with the commissioner at One Police Plaza in Manhattan. A hell of a way to begin the week. The two homicides have not been connected in the press. In fact, there has been surprisingly little coverage of the two deaths.

  The commissioner wants very much for it to stay that way. The commissioner would be very unhappy to hear about a third killing.

  Trenton comes out of the tunnel into the daylight. He remembers the large sign that once stood on the right side of the Gowanus.

  Welcome to Brooklyn, 4th Largest City in America.

  If it had never become part of greater New York City, which most Brooklyn-born might have preferred.

  Breuckelen, never forgetting it was chartered before Nieuw Amsterdam. And cost more than Manhattan Island.

  Never forgetting that the first East River crossing was called the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Brooklyn, fighting tooth and nail at the turn of the twentieth century to avoid being relegated to simply one of the five boroughs. One of the “outer boroughs.”

  Brooklyn, still resisting the merger after more than a hundred years.

  Brooklyn was, in fact, the third-largest city in the country before being absorbed into New York City; when the towns of Flatbush, Flatlands, Gravesend, New Lots and New Utrecht became part of Kings County and the consolidated City of Brooklyn boasted a population of more than two million. Only the cities of Chicago and Los Angeles were more populated at the time.

  Brooklyn, where maybe they could keep a lid on this thing for a while longer. Where maybe they could stop it before it happened again and the often overlooked borough made the national news for all the wrong reasons.

  Trenton shudders at the thought, but it might not be too soon to call in the FBI.

  The hearing is short. There are no witnesses, the other inmate isn’t talking, and Bobby Hoyle is curtly informed by the court that his bail is revoked until further investigation. Lorraine DiMarco has no arguments, only a terrific headache. Though hardly a consolation, it seems that Ron Hoyle can hold on to his cherished 1965 Mustang for a while longer.

  Sal DiMarco approaches the entrance to the Del Rio Diner on Kings Highway. He carries a large shopping bag. Sully is already waiting in front; the man is surprised when Sal speaks to him.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I’m Sal DiMarco. You spoke with my daughter last night. Lorraine is very sorry she couldn’t be here—an unexpected emergency in court. I was hoping that you would let me buy you lunch.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I was a frequent visitor to your restaurant.”

  “I see,” says Sully.

  “I brought some clothing, shirts, slacks, shoes,” says DiMarco, indicating the bag. “If you could use them.”

  “That’s not necessary, and you don’t need to feel obligated to feed me.”

  “I don’t, I would simply like to. And there is something I would like to talk with you about.”

  DiMarco can read the skepticism in Sully’s face. Sal remembers his wife’s warning, and he has prepared himself for rejection. After what seems like painful deliberation, Frank Sullivan speaks.

  “Okay, sure,” he says.

  Still holding the bag, Sal leads Sully into the diner.

  At noon, the three detectives huddle around a large pizza. They each draw from a deck of playing cards to determine who will begin. High card first. The king of spades earns Samson the dubious honor.

  “Okay. The Addams kid arrives to load up the milk delivery truck at around two in the morning. He’s stocked and on his way just before three. I spoke with the last two people who saw him alive. He dropped his girlfriend at her home around one; they’d been out drinking and dancing.”

  “Was he drunk?” asks Vota.

  “She says no.”

  “Anything happen while they were out? Did she notice anyone watching or following? Did the kid get into any kind of hassle? Piss someone off?” asks Murphy.

  “No again. The girl says there was no trouble, they stayed to themselves. She doesn’t know of anyone who may have had it in for Kevin.”

  “Big help.”

  “The last person to see him was the night man at the dairy. He says the kid grabbed a carton of chocolate milk on his way out, said goodnight and drove off. Guy says he didn’t see anyone follow the truck, but he wasn’t really looking. I had a couple of uniforms canvas the neighborhood around the grocery store; no one saw a thing. There was blood in the truck, and a spent syringe. I guess we’ll hear about that from Lou when he goes over his meeting with Batman.”

  “Actually it was with Robin, the girl wonder. Wayne had a plane to catch,” says Vota.

  “Whatever. It looks like the killer drove the truck, used it to transport the body over to the Graham house. He must have known, somehow, that the house would be empty. He ditched the kid’s wallet, but didn’t take the money.”

  “I talked to someone who saw the truck over near the scene, parked on 7th Avenue,” says Murphy.

  “Okay, hold that thought. I’ll wait to hear from Lou before I bet the farm, but it seems pretty certain that the two boys were killed by the same person.”

  “Bet the farm,” says Vota.

  “If that’s the case, then it’s very possible that the victims were chosen randomly and that neither one knew the assailant. And that’s very bad news,” says Samson.

  “So much for the usual suspects,” says Murphy.

  “We’ve got an eight–year-old with thirty-five cents in his pocket and a nineteen-year-old carrying three hundred bucks, all of which is tossed out onto Ocean Parkway. Not to mention that neither family ever heard of the other,” says Samson. “We’ve got no motive to explain either murder. There’s no connection.”

  “How about this?” says Vota. “The guy has reason to kill one of them and kills both to make it look random.”

  “Do you really buy that?” asks Samson.

  “Not at all,” says Vota. “We’ve got no connection.”

  “Or to put it another way, we’re fucked,” says Murphy.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” says Vota. “Is that it, Sam?”

  “I was counting on one of you two having some happy news about clues.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” says Murphy. “Who’s next?”

  “Does a jack of diamonds beat a four of hearts?” asks Vota, holding the four.

  “Alright,” says Murphy, throwing a pizza crust into the Prince of Pizza box and rising to take center stage. “Physical Evidence 101.”

  “Anyone want that last slice?” asks Samson.

  “Eat it,” says Vota.

  “I don’t want to eat it, but it’s getting pretty stuffy in here and I thought we might use it to hold the door open.”

  “How about we get on with this while my delightful chat with Robin Harding is still fresh in my mind,” says Vota, grabbing the last slice of pizza.

  “The evidence guys were at it all night and all this morning,” says Murphy. “No prints. They found traces of blood in the kitchen sink, ground pieces of flesh and bone in the disposal. They say it wasn’t the whole finger.”

  Vota takes a
look at the pizza slice in his hand and throws it down onto the desk.

  “The back door was busted into, probably a pry bar. It wasn’t a neat job. Door chain broken. Tire tracks in the alley behind the house; they’re going to try matching them against the milk truck. No one on the street saw or heard a thing. I did find one guy who came home from bartending at a joint on 5th Avenue at half past three and noticed a milk delivery truck parked across from his house on 7th. Said he’d never seen it before. Said he came out to walk his dog at four or so and the truck was gone.”

  “Sounds like a whole lot of nothing,” says Vota.

  “Well put. I went to talk with Susan Graham before I headed back here.”

  “And?” asks Samson.

  “Nice lady,” says Murphy. “Still a bit shaken up. Staying with her mother until we’re done at her place. Went into work this morning, took a break to talk to me. Says she left her place Friday afternoon around four. Her boyfriend picked her up, and dropped her back at about nine last night. He didn’t go in—she says they had a fight on the way back and weren’t talking. They spent the weekend at a condo in Vermont, skiing and whatnot. Landis called the boyfriend, David Levanthal, after questioning Graham last night. Same story. No reason to think they weren’t where they said they were. We’re checking it anyway just to be doing something. Graham says she kept a couple of lights on in the house while she was away. Discourage burglars.”

  “Good thinking,” says Vota.

  “She remember seeing anyone near the house when they left?” asks Samson.

  “Nope.”

  “How’d the perp know the house would be empty?”

  “Good question.”

  “Anyone see them get back?”

  “Next-door neighbor was out having a cigarette; she confirms the time of arrival at around 9:00 p.m. Says Graham was frantically beating on her front door less than fifteen minutes later. Graham called it in from the neighbor’s place, but you already know that.”