by J. L. Abramo
Harris looks at the girl and then looks to his other side at Stump, who sits as if waiting for an invitation.
“Don’t forget to bring a cup next time,” Harris says.
Stump might have been offended if not for the fifty-dollar bill in his shirt pocket, nestled up against the twenty he got from Mendez.
Stump rises, tips his ball cap, and walks off toward Stillwell Avenue.
Headquarters of the Brooklyn Detective Bureau is located at the 67th Police Precinct on Snyder Avenue in Flatbush. Southeast of the Prospect Park exit at Woodruff and Ocean Avenues, south of the State University of New York Health Sciences Center and University Hospital of Brooklyn, and west of Holy Cross Cemetery.
Samson meets with the Brooklyn Chief of Detectives in Trenton’s 2nd floor office. Though it has been informally understood since the second body was discovered, Trenton has brought Samson in to make it official. Samson is in charge of this investigation.
“I want you to put together a special task force on this one, Sam,” Trenton says. “It will sound good in the press when they get wind of this, and they will.”
Samson is a few steps ahead of the chief.
“I think I’ve got everyone I need on board. Vota, Murphy and I, with Mendez and Landis assigned to us full-time. Marina Ivanov from the 60th; a background in psychology and she speaks Russian. Andrew Chen from the 68th, per your request to placate the captain over there. I don’t know how much help he’ll be. He’s green. But he’s eager. And Sandra Rosen of the 63rd; she was first on the Addams case when the kid was still just a missing person and she’s sharp as a tack.”
“Good,” says Trenton. “Try to get them all together after the weekend so they look something like a team if we have to introduce them as a special unit. Where are we on this?”
Lieutenant Samson fills the chief in on everything they’ve learned thus far. It doesn’t take very long.
“Keep me informed, Sam. I want to hear from you every day. If you need more people, just ask. The commissioner is shaking in his Thom McAns. I’ve been toying around with the idea of contacting the FBI; what’s your feeling on that?”
“I think you know, Chief.”
“I don’t want to wait too long, they have resources that we don’t have. I know the SAC in the Brooklyn-Queens Field Office. He’s recently up from Quantico, but he was born and raised in Flushing. Maybe I can have lunch with him, bring it up casually.”
“Can you hold off a while?”
“I’ll wait until next week, Sam, but I don’t want to wait until another body pops up.”
“Fair enough. I think I’ll save myself a lot of grief and not mention the Feds to Lou and Tommy until you decide you can’t wait any longer.”
“I’ll give you ample warning. I’ve let all of the labs, phone banks and computer people know that any requests from you have top priority.”
“Thanks,” says Sam, rising. “I’d better get to work.”
“Lieutenant, do me a really big favor,” says Trenton as Samson moves to the door. “Catch this fucking guy.”
Lorraine walks into the law office shortly before two.
“How did it go?” asks Victoria Anderson.
“The test wasn’t bad. The table was very comfortable, and the technician had the most calming voice I’ve ever heard. It was hypnotic; I fell asleep,” says Lorraine. “I have an appointment to talk with a neurologist about the results on Friday afternoon. Any calls?”
“Lou Vota called; he said he’d call back later.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that you had a routine checkup.”
“Thanks. Is that it?”
Victoria displays all of the characteristics of someone who has something to say, but would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than say it.
“Say it,” says Lorraine.
“The inmate who attacked Bobby Hoyle,” Victoria says, “he’s dead. He never regained consciousness.”
“Shit.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We are going to convince the judge and prosecutor to drop the charge against Bobby on the shooting, or at least reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter based on Frank Sullivan’s testimony. We are going to request that bail be reinstated. We are going to argue that the inmate who died instigated the confrontation, based on the man’s prior history of violent criminality. There’s been no charge yet in that incident—we’ll see if they want to go ahead with one or not. In the meantime, maybe Bobby can get out of there before something else horrible happens to him.”
“You think we can pull it off?” asks Victoria. “That we can actually get Bobby out of Rikers?”
“I have to think so. We’ll give it everything we’ve got. And it should take my mind off the MRI results.”
“How did it go with Chief Trenton?” Murphy asks, when Samson returns to the office.
“Better than being dragged to the Little Neck Mall to procure back-to-school shoes for the girls,” says Samson.
“How much better?”
“Negligibly.”
“Tell me that Trenton didn’t suggest reaching out to the FBI,” says Murphy.
“Trenton didn’t suggest reaching out to the FBI.”
“Thanks for lying.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Don’t mention what?” says Vota, walking in.
Tony Territo sits at his desk in his office at Titan Imports. A sound draws his attention to the open doorway.
Charlie Chiaburri stands there, jingling a ring of keys in his raised right arm. It is music to Territo’s ears.
“Your BMW is out on the lot, Tony,” says Chiaburri, tossing the keys to Territo. “The way it looks it belongs in the showroom. And it runs like a dream.”
“Need a ride back to your garage?” Territo asks.
“My brother is out front in his car. He followed me over,” says Chiaburri. “We’re gonna grab a bite in the neighborhood. Wanna eat?”
“No thanks, Charlie,” says Territo. “I think I’ll go for a nice long drive.”
The telephone on Lorraine DiMarco’s desk rings. She can tell from the newly installed caller ID display that it’s Lou Vota calling. After two more rings she picks up.
“Gotham Sex Line,” she says, “Mandy speaking. What are you wearing?”
“How did you know it was me?” asks Vota.
“Is that you, Lou?”
“Very cute, DiMarco. How did your checkup go?”
“Fine,” she says, like a third-grader asked about school.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I could stand to lose a few pounds,” she says.
“Not in my opinion, but then again I was hoping to take you out for a very big dinner tonight.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have less than two days to get ready for a hearing Friday morning. I probably won’t have time to eat at all, which might work out well. I can eat a horse at dinner on Friday night.”
“What’s Friday night?”
“Very cute, Vota,” says Lorraine. “Listen, maybe you can help me. Lombardo, the inmate who Bobby put in the hospital—he didn’t make it. I doubt he would have admitted to anything that would have helped Bobby out of this mess, but we’ll never know. I refuse to believe that not one single person in that cell saw a thing that night. Lombardo was a real nasty character; maybe someone saw him attack Bobby and was shy about saying so while Lombardo was still breathing.”
“I’ll look into it. Don’t hope for too much.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll give you a call if I learn something, and I’ll see you Friday night.”
“What’s Friday night?” Lorraine says.
Serena Huang telephones the 68th Precinct and catches Detective Chen just as he is about to leave.
“I thought I’d take you up on your invitation to be introduced to the wonders of Brooklyn,” she says. “If the offer still stands.”
“Absolute
ly. How about dinner for a start?”
“Tonight?” she says, crossing her fingers.
“I can’t tonight,” he says, wishing that he could. “How about tomorrow?”
“Sure, tomorrow would be good.”
“Do you like Chinese food?” Chen asks.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” says Huang.
“I am kidding. How about Spanish food? I mean like the kind they might eat in Spain. There’s a really good restaurant here in Bay Ridge, Casa Pepe. It’s not all that far from where we met. It shouldn’t take you more than forty-five minutes from Manhattan.”
Serena is totally ad-libbing.
“Actually, I’ll be staying in Brooklyn now, at least while I’m down here in the city.”
“You took a hotel in Brooklyn?”
Serena pedals faster.
“One of the women from the Manhattan office has a large apartment in Fort Greene. We hit it off real well, and she has an empty bedroom. She offered and I couldn’t refuse. It will save me money, and she’ll have a place to stay the next time she comes up for meetings in Albany.”
“Great. What’s the address? I can pick you up.”
“How about I meet you at the restaurant?” Serena asks. “How about seven?”
“Sure. It’s on Bay Ridge Avenue between Colonial Road and Narrows Avenue. Will you be coming from Fort Greene?”
“Most likely.”
“Take the 4th Avenue bus to 69th Street and walk west, toward the shore. I can drive you back afterwards.”
“Great,” says Serena.
“Are you sure you can find the place?”
“No problem,” she says, neglecting to mention that she has been to Casa Pepe more than a few times before.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”
“See you then,” she says.
Andy Chen puts down the telephone receiver.
Stay cool, boy, he is thinking, this is a woman worth trying to impress.
Serena Huang places the receiver down at her end.
What will it take, Detective Chen, she is thinking, to get you to talk shop.
He sits on a bench, just outside of the park, facing the Territo house across Shore Road. He has spent every afternoon on this bench for the past three days.
Today, Wednesday, he arrived shortly before two.
The temperature was a pleasant fifty-five degrees. The sky clear.
He would occasionally shift his attention from the Bible to the large white house.
He saw the woman leave in the Cherokee and return thirty minutes later.
He saw the boy arrive home just after three.
He saw the girl return soon afterwards.
He had seen no other children during his vigils. He concluded that the girl was the oldest child. He would have to get accustomed to the idea.
A delivery truck from the local supermarket pulled up to the gate at four. The gate opened and the truck drove up the driveway. He understood that there must be a camera at the gate, to identify visitors. He would check it out, and keep his eyes opened for other such devices.
At half past four, a Hispanic woman left the house. He could make out the white uniform below her overcoat.
A cleaning woman he guessed.
He saw no BMW.
He realizes that he is hungry. He walks to his car and drives to a 3rd Avenue restaurant for quick dinner.
After eating, he drives to Fort Hamilton High School and finds a parking space along the fence that encloses the running track and the playing field. The house that he has tentatively chosen sits at the opposite corner, a realtor’s sign on the lawn in front. He will explore the house when he returns for his car, when there is no longer daylight.
He walks to Shore Road and back to the Territo home. He realizes he has forgotten the Bible in the Oldsmobile. He purchases a copy of the latest Brooklyn Eagle from a street vending machine. He returns to his bench and leafs through the pages of the newspaper.
He spots the photograph. The young woman he had seen outside the movie theater Sunday night, had spoken to as she hurried to the commotion on the next street. He tears the small article from the page and places it in his coat pocket.
Soon the sun begins to set behind him. Behind Shore Road Park, the Narrows, Staten Island, New Jersey. It has turned cold. He decides to move on to other business.
As he crosses Shore Road, a car approaches from the direction of the parkway exit at 4th Avenue. An indefinable sensation tells him that his answer has come.
The vehicle turns onto 82nd Street and stops at the gate. A small lightbulb illuminates the license plate. TITAN1.
He passes as the BMW moves up the driveway. He stops long enough to watch the driver exit the car. The man turns toward him as if feeling his presence. He recognizes the man, even in silhouette.
He could never forget.
He quickly walks on.
He returns to the house near the high school. He approaches from the back. The house across the alley is shielded by tall trees. The trees shield him as well.
He crosses to a screened-in porch. The door to the porch is unlocked. The porch connects to a large kitchen. The kitchen door will be no problem.
This is where he will take the girl.
He leaves the back porch and moves toward a window to the north. Standing on his toes, he is able to peer inside. It is a spacious bathroom. An old-fashioned wrought iron bathtub sits perched on four metal feet.
This is where he will perform the baptism.
SEVENTEEN
Father Daniel Donovan had returned from his trip to Albany much later than he had planned the previous evening. A three-car accident had closed the Major Deegan Expressway down to a single lane; it had taken him nearly two hours to drive from Yankee Stadium to Our Lady of Angels Church.
He had arrived exhausted. Exhausted by the traffic tie-up, and exhausted by the constant bickering during the three-day conference.
It was small wonder, he found himself thinking, that poverty, malnutrition and poor medical care, evils running rampant even here in the most affluent nation in the world, had failed to be meaningfully addressed. Had been overshadowed, subjugated by concern and paranoia surrounding scandals arising from the sad and senseless behavior of a handful of troubled priests.
It was small wonder, Donovan found himself thinking, all of the death and destruction in the Middle East, in Northern Ireland, around the world, caused by the worship of adversarial deities, conflicting truths. Small wonder when clergy from the same Roman Catholic Church, from towns and cities in the same state of New York, could not come to agreement on the message of the same Gospel.
The golden rule was badly tarnished.
Donovan rises Thursday, glad to be back. Home to his small congregation, the everyday tragedies and triumphs of his community, of people he can greet by name. Home where he can measure the value of his calling, see the tangible results of the help that he can offer, and appreciate the blessing that enables and allows him to serve.
Father Donovan spends the morning working. Going over a checklist of preparations for the upcoming Valentine’s Day event. Outlining his sermon for the following Sunday.
Writing an evaluation of the ecumenical council meetings, laboring to express his impressions in a positive way.
After lunch, Father Donovan walks through the church. Eddie Conroy has finished painting the basement room, and has set the tables and chairs in place for the following night. Donovan finds Eddie cleaning the exterior windows, taking advantage of the unusually mild February weather. Conroy climbs down from the tall ladder to welcome the priest home.
“How was the conference, Father?” he asks.
“Difficult. Too much talking and not enough listening,” says Donovan. “The basement turned out very well. Thank you for taking care of it.”
“I’m only doing my job, Father.”
“That is very commendable these days.”
“The mail has just arrived,”
says Conroy, “and there is a mountain of it on your desk.”
“I noticed,” says the priest. “I’ve been putting it off. I’m sure that it is mostly bills.”
“I hate to bring it up, but it’s well past time to begin a donation campaign for a new church furnace.”
“Everyone is so burdened by their own personal and financial concerns. How can I ask them to reach into empty pockets?”
“They come here seeking help with those concerns, Father,” says Eddie Conroy. “They should at least find shelter from the cold.”
Donovan gathers the mail from the box out front and returns to his office. He sits at his desk and places the mail on top of the existing pile, debating whether or not to deal with it. A large manila envelope catches his eye. Donovan pulls it out from the stack. It is addressed to him in red crayon.
He opens the envelope, feeling its weight. He peers inside. He spills the plastic bag onto his desk.
He trembles as he makes the sign of the cross.
Twenty minutes later the phone on Samson’s desk rings.
“61st Detectives, Samson speaking.”
“Lieutenant, this is Andy Chen. I’m at Our Lady of Angels Church on 4th and 73rd.”
“I didn’t realize you were Catholic, Detective Chen.”
“Lieutenant, I think we have Billy Ventura’s finger down here.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t touch a thing,” Samson says and hangs up. “Murphy, get the best forensic team that we have available to 4th and 73rd, the church. Call the lab and make sure that someone is down there and is ready to work. Lou, come with me.”
Samson grabs his coat and rushes out the door. Vota hurries after him.
They arrive in fifteen minutes. Two uniforms stand at the door of Donovan’s office, Eddie Conroy with them. In the office, Chen sits with the priest. The plastic bag is exactly where it had fallen when Father Donovan dropped it out onto the desk. The envelope lies beside it.