by J. L. Abramo
“Where is everyone?”
“Samson and Vota are out killing time, Mendez is off duty, and according to my notes Landis should be with you,” says Kelly. “If you get too bored, Murphy, come down for a beating at gin rummy.”
“I’d rather read the sports section in the Post,” says Murphy.
“That’s a cruel thing to say,” says Kelly.
He had come directly from the other house. The house near the car accident, where the woman had turned him away while his son bled in a car on the highway.
He had watched the house for two mornings now, taking his turn there before moving on to his bench on Shore Road. Two mornings, six hours during each of the past two days, and not a soul had come or gone. Not a child to school. Not a father to work. Not a visitor. Not the woman.
He would have to be more aggressive, he would need to take active steps to discover who in this house would be chosen to atone for the crime of ignoring his plea for help on the night his firstborn was taken from him. He knew that his time was running short. He understood that after he took the girl behind the iron gate, he would have to move along quickly. He knew that he would be discovered soon. It was inevitable. He needed to complete his work, complete God’s work, before his time ran out.
He would take more active steps.
Tomorrow.
But this afternoon, he has been sitting at the bench on Shore Road, across from the Territo home, for two hours. To his surprise, he has seen all four arrive back at the house by three.
He now watches as the man and the boy load suitcases into the Jeep Cherokee.
The mother and the girl come down from the front of the house and wait on the sidewalk for the Jeep to come around. His heart sinks at the thought that they are leaving, most likely for the weekend, and he will have to delay his task.
The Cherokee turns onto Shore Road and pulls up to where the women are standing.
Suddenly, the girl and her mother embrace. The woman climbs into the front seat of the vehicle and the Cherokee drives off. The girl waves and walks back up to the house, safely behind its iron gate. She is alone, perhaps for a few nights. She is safe for the moment, he cannot reach her inside.
But he is sure that this is God’s blessing.
She is a teenager, free of her parents.
She will be coming out.
He waits.
NINETEEN
The phone on the desk rings loudly, causing Murphy to jump. He realizes that he had dozed off.
“We got a homicide, Tommy,” says Kelly, “a young girl. Two uniforms are there at the scene.”
“Tell them I’m on the way.”
Murphy grabs his coat and runs down. Kelly is holding out a slip of paper with the address.
“I’ll try to find Samson and Vota,” Kelly says.
“That’s okay,” says Murphy, heading out the door. “If I need them, I can find them myself.”
Samson and Vota have been driving around Brooklyn for hours, mostly around the area of the Graham house. Nothing.
Vota has finally reached Lorraine and confirmed their dinner date for later that evening. Vota thinks he hears something odd in her voice, but he lets it go.
Samson is looking forward to a night out with Alicia.
“I need to take a break, Lou. My car is at the Precinct. You can drop me back there and then you can call it a day,” says Samson. “I’ll run in and check on Murphy, then I’m headed home myself.”
Twenty minutes later, Samson watches Vota drive away from the Precinct. His cell rings before he gets inside.
“Where are you, Sam?” says Murphy on the other end.
“Standing in front of the 61st, where are you?”
“I’m on my way to pick you up. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Jesus, Tommy, it’s Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s why we guys without a date have to do all the dirty work,” says Murphy.
“I have a date.”
“C’mon, Sam, get over it. It’s only your wife. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
Samson calls Alicia to apologize.
“It’s okay, Sam.”
Alicia’s unfailing understanding only makes Samson feel more guilty.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“You’ll get here when you get here,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere. Just be careful.”
Samson promises that he will and snaps the cell phone shut as Murphy pulls up.
“Jeepers,” says Murphy. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re not glad to see me.”
“What’s this?” Samson asks, picking the paper bag off the dashboard as he climbs into the passenger seat.
“A couple of Nathan’s hot dogs for Ralph. If you’d like one go ahead, he won’t mind.”
“No, I don’t want one,” says Samson, tossing the bag into the back seat. And what do you mean Ralph won’t mind. How would he even know about it?”
“Oh, he’ll know.”
“Where are we going?” Samson finally asks.
“You won’t believe this.”
“Try me,” says Samson, unimaginatively.
“A twenty-two-year-old girl gets a box of candy from her boyfriend, takes a bite out of an almond cluster and drops dead.”
“Do we have the boyfriend?”
“Coney Island Hospital has him, under heavy sedation. The guy’s a mess. Called it in himself. He was just about to bite into one of the candies, which, by the way, was laced with hydrogen cyanide, when he watches the girl go into convulsions. She was DOA.”
“By any chance did he mention how the candy came to be poisoned before they doped him up?” Samson asks.
“You have to understand this kid was blubbering a lot—incoherent would only approximate his condition. He works for a messenger service and the candies were something he was sent out to deliver. The company he works for confirms that he was dispatched this afternoon with a box of candy addressed to a Mrs. Evelyn Campbell on West 5th Street, with a card reading: Happy Valentine’s Day from Your Loving Husband.”
“What’d Evelyn have to say?”
“Evelyn told him that she wouldn’t accept the candies. She said she didn’t want anything from her scumbag husband. That’s a direct quote,” says Murphy. “So Miller, our boy in the hospital, decides that instead of sending them back he’ll keep them and give them to his girlfriend who likes them so much that she’s on the third one before the cyanide kicks in and KOs her.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I hate to say I told you so,” says Murphy. “Just for your further edification, a representative of the messenger service said that it was against policy for an employee to keep an undeliverable item.”
“Good policy. And the loving husband?”
“Estranged husband. I’m taking you to see him as we speak.”
“Anyone ahead of us?”
“We’re the first. Just plain lucky I guess,” says Murphy as he swings the car into the driveway of a small brick house on Quentin Road, “and here we are.”
There is no answer to their doorbell ringing, knocking or calling. The door is unlocked so they go in, announcing themselves as police officers as they do. Their guns drawn, they split up the search through the six rooms.
Samson finds Mr. Campbell in his bed.
Samson shouts at the man, yelling at Campbell that he has killed the wrong person.
He shouts at Campbell, yelling that the man has fucked up a special evening planned with Alicia.
He shouts at the man, telling Campbell that he’d like to wring his fucking neck.
Samson asks Campbell, as Murphy comes into the bedroom to find out what all of the shouting is about, how the man could resort to using something as sinister and malicious as candy laced with poison on Saint Valentine’s Day.
But the bullet hole that Campbell has put into his own right temple has left the man unresponsive.
“What’ya gonna do now,” asks Murphy, “rea
d him his rights?”
“You know,” says Samson, “it wouldn’t be very hard to get tired of this shit.”
“Yeah, but isn’t it nice to get an open and shut case occasionally,” says Murphy.
Serena Huang walks the corridors of the NYU School of Journalism. It feels like years since she’s been here; it seems like yesterday.
Off the halls, in small rooms and offices, students sit alone or in twos or threes, silent, noisy, surrounded by books, staring at monitors. They look so young; Serena is feeling old at twenty-five. Every one of these young people has one goal in mind. To get the big story. They are all anxious to get out and take Serena’s job, the job she hasn’t landed yet.
Serena reaches the door of Dr. Jenkins’ office. The door is open. She knocks lightly. Jenkins waves her in, indicates a seat, and holds up a single finger all in a fluid movement of her one free hand, while the other holds a phone receiver to her ear. Come in, have a seat, I’ll just be a minute.
Sharon Jenkins is the youngest full professor in the long history of the department, and a contributor to the New York Observer. Jenkins was Serena’s teacher, advisor, mentor and remains Serena’s idol. Serena sits and waits.
“Okay,” says Jenkins, completing her phone business, “you made it sound urgent and I’m running late. I’ll just say that you are looking well and we can skip the rest of the small talk. What kind of help do you need?”
“I need advice.”
“Okay.”
“I stumbled on a story,” says Serena. “Two murders in Brooklyn, similar if not identical ritual elements. No one else has it yet.”
“You’re certain they’re connected?”
“I saw evidence with my own eyes that was extremely convincing, and I have a very reliable source for confirmation, someone inside the NYPD.”
“Leading the investigation?”
“No.”
“And you want to know how to proceed?”
“Yes,” says Serena.
“Okay,” says Jenkins, “here’s the bottom line. More important than breaking the story is being there at the end. You need to convince the lead investigator that you have enough to bury them in reporters, but are willing to hold if you are promised the exclusive inside track. It’s not as easy as it sounds, because a smart detective may call your bluff, will try to convince you that you may be endangering lives. Which may be true.”
“How do I deal with that?”
“Seven words: The Public has a right to know.”
“And if it doesn’t fly?”
“Then you have to decide what’s more important, your career or the consequences. I can’t help you with that one. I can only remind you that if you swim in the Devil’s lake, you may bump into the Devil.”
“Should I try to presell the story?”
“That’s tricky also. If you went to the Times or the Voice you would be walking a thin line. You would have to tell them enough to create interest, but not so much that they consider it too big for someone with no track record and decide to go after it without you. At the same time, it helps when you talk with the Police Department if you have someone with clout standing behind you, some kind of credentials,” says Jenkins. “I’ll tell you what I can do. Find the lead investigator, ask for a face-to-face, tell him or her what you know, and ask for an official comment. Say that you’re freelance for the Observer and use my name. I’ll back you up. And then play it by ear.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jenkins.”
“Let me know how it goes, if I don’t read about it first. Now go, I have to meet my husband for dinner. It’s our anniversary.”
“You were married on Valentine’s Day?” says Serena.
“It happens,” says Sharon Jenkins.
He is parked at the corner of 82nd Street and Shore Road. From where he sits, he has a clear view of both the front and side entrances. If he can take her near either of the gates, it will be less than a hundred feet back to the car.
Inside the house, Brenda Territo takes a final look into the mirror. She puts a finishing touch to her eye makeup and smiles.
Not bad, she thinks.
She glances at her watch and hurries to collect her coat and purse. Brenda turns off the upstairs lights and skips down the stairs.
He sees the lights go out on the second floor. The light above the front door comes on.
He sees the girl step out onto the front porch.
She stops to lock the door.
He switches off the dome lamp in the Oldsmobile before stepping out onto the street. The girl moves down the front stairs of the house. He crosses to the corner of the property. He stands in the darkness, no more than fifty feet from the girl, and waits for her to come through the wrought iron gate.
And waits.
Until she finally comes out to the sidewalk as a car pulls up in front of the house.
And she is quickly in the car and the car is quickly gone.
“What time do you have to be home?” asks Brenda.
“One,” says Diane as she drives. “I’ll have to drop you back by twelve-thirty.”
“What if I stayed at your house tonight? My house is a little spooky when no one else is home, and it’ll give us an extra half hour.”
“Great idea,” says Diane, pulling out her cell phone. “I’ll call my mom and tell her that you’re going to spend the night.”
“So, what’s this great party?” Brenda asks when Diane is off the phone.
“My sister’s friend rents a Victorian with some other girls in Midwood. There’ll be a lot of guys from Brooklyn College.”
“Well, then, step on it.”
“What about the new boyfriend?” asks Diane. “Jason?”
“Jason is tomorrow night. Tonight is tonight.”
“What I’d really like to know is how you got out of going to Atlantic City?”
“Leverage,” says Brenda. “Serious leverage.”
Father Donovan moves through the crowd in the basement at Our Lady of Angels. He is pleased with the turnout.
Men and women. Young, unmarried. Some not so young, never married, widowed. Some talking, getting acquainted. Some standing quietly, watching, waiting.
All glad for an alternative to spending the evening alone. On this annual evening in mid-February when being alone is made to seem almost shameful.
Donovan spots the young woman. She seems to be carefully studying the crowd. He works his way over to her.
“I’m happy to see you here,” he says, “thank you for coming. Are you looking for someone special?”
“To be honest, I am looking for someone in particular. Thank you for inviting me, Father,” says Marina Ivanov.
It is nearly 10:00 p.m. when Samson finally makes it home to Douglaston. Before he is out of the car, Alicia is at the side door waiting to greet him.
She stops him before he can speak.
“Don’t waste any energy apologizing again,” she says. “I would prefer you put whatever strength you have left to better use.”
“Oh?” he says, removing his coat as he follows her into the house.
“Here, let me get that for you,” Alicia says, taking the coat as she hands him a glass of wine.
She places the coat on a chair and picks up the other glass from the kitchen table.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says, touching her glass to his.
They each take a drink.
“What smells so good, and why is it so dark in there?” he asks, moving toward the doorway connecting the kitchen to the dining room.
“It’s called a late dinner.”
The dining room table is set for two, decorated with fresh flowers and illuminated by two tall candles.
Alicia steps up beside him in the doorway. Samson puts his arm around her shoulder.
“There’s something missing,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“Why am I not tripping over the children?”
“The children are at my mother�
��s, for the night. I thought that if we had to stay at home, it would be much more fun if we were alone.”
“Why don’t we make that late dinner a little later?” he says, leading her up the stairs to the bedroom above.
Murphy sits on his usual barstool.
There are a good number of patrons at Joe’s Bar and Grill, some in pairs, some not. Some shooting pool, some watching the Knicks game, others holding hands while the jukebox shouts out silly love songs.
Murphy calls to Augie for another drink.
“What’s the matter, Tommy?” Augie Sena says, placing the shot and the beer chaser in front of Murphy. “You look lost in thought.”
“I was thinking about Ralph. Home all alone on Valentine’s Day.”
“Imagine how my wife feels, although the ruby earrings seemed to ease her disappointment quite a bit,” says Augie. “I hope you got Ralph a present at least.”
“Of course I did,” says Murphy, draining the glass of bourbon and trying hard not to picture the condition of the Nathan’s hot dogs sitting on the back seat of his car.
Rosen closes the novel; she’s having trouble staying awake. She had fixed a dinner of stir-fried vegetables and nearly polished off a bottle of Merlot. The night spent alone at home would not have been half-bad if her mother hadn’t called three times to ask Sandra how she was doing.
Serena Huang picks up the call on the third ring.
“Sorry to phone you so late,” says Andy Chen.
“No problem, is everything okay?”
“It was kind of a rough night, I guess,” Chen admits. “I was going to call you earlier, but I figured you would be out.”
“The woman I’m staying with had a hot date,” Serena says. “I watched videos.”
“I was hoping we could get together, maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’m wide open.”
“Great, I’ll call you during the day to work out the details. And Serena.”
“Yes?”
“About last night, I was upset. I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have said. About my work.”