by J. L. Abramo
“Andy, I told you there’s no need to worry about it. I wouldn’t mention anything that you said. I’m sorry that it has been so emotional for you, but I’m glad if talking about it helped in any small way. Trust me, I won’t say a word,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Serena places the receiver down, unnerved, wondering how she could bring herself to be so deceitful.
But only for a moment.
They lay quietly in Lorraine’s bed. She curls into his arms. It was by any standards a memorable evening.
Dinner at Peter Luger’s, Lorraine wondering how Lou could have possibly managed a reservation. The waiting period was at least two weeks for a weeknight, no telling how long for a Friday night. And for Valentine’s night? Either Lou had made arrangements back in the fall of ’98, or being an NYPD detective had perks that even an attorney could not imagine. Lorraine was able to fully enjoy the remarkable dinner because she knew that Detective Vota was not one to abuse his power.
Afterwards, an all-Mozart concert at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and dessert at Junior’s on Flatbush.
Lou and Lorraine lay there, side by side, tired and satisfied, each occupied with private thoughts, each with something to say and each having no idea how to say it.
Vota has been trying all night to somehow work the word marriage into the conversation. He runs his fingers along Lorraine’s back, trying to decide if it is not too late to squeeze it in.
Junior’s cheesecake is without argument the best on the continent, will you marry me?
“Were you about to say something?” Lorraine asks.
“I had a terrific time tonight,” he says.
“So did I, you thought of everything.”
And, by the way, I have an appointment, a week from Monday, to remove a brain tumor.
“Thank you, Lou.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Goodnight,” says Lorraine, kissing him on the cheek.
They are both asleep in minutes.
He looks at his wristwatch. It is nearly midnight. He somehow knows that the girl is not coming back tonight.
He is somehow positive.
He is also certain that tomorrow night will be the night.
He decides to leave the car there. He does not want to give up so perfect a parking spot. He takes the manila envelope off the seat and climbs out of the Oldsmobile.
He walks to the house near the high school. He comes in through the back yard and onto the screened porch. The door into the house itself is as simple to enter as he knew it would be. He places the envelope at the threshold and steps in.
He goes to the bathroom; he sets the plug in place and runs water into the tub. While it fills, he writes on the wall in blue crayon.
He turns off the tap, examines his work, and moves back to the kitchen. He picks up the envelope and leaves the house. He feels prepared.
He begins walking, down to and then along 4th Avenue. He stops for a moment to drop the envelope into a corner mailbox.
As he reaches Our Lady of Angels, groups of people are leaving the church. He notices the priest, talking with a young woman on the sidewalk in front of the rectory.
“Good evening,” he says as he walks past.
“Good evening,” says Father Donovan.
“Have a safe night,” says Marina Ivanov.
He crosses the avenue and continues home.
He comes into his house. There is a stack of new mail on the floor, beneath the slot in the front door. He kicks it aside. It becomes part of the larger pile of personal mail and junk flyers laying underneath the small table to the left of the doorway. He places his keys on the table. A greeting card in a bright red envelope catches his eye. He reaches to pick it up and carries it into the kitchen.
He pours a tall glass of Scotch.
He carries the glass to the boy’s bedroom, leaving the Valentine’s card from his wife on the kitchen counter.
Unopened.
TWENTY
Saturday morning.
There is a knock on the study door.
“Come in.”
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Colletti?”
“Yes. Sammy, sit,” says Dominic Colletti, holding a large tumbler filled with what looks to Leone like bright orange mud. “Would you like a glass of fresh carrot juice?”
“No, thank you.”
“I haven’t heard from Territo about the vehicle,” says Colletti. “His time is up.”
“What would you like me to do?” asks Leone.
“Remind him of the importance of respect.”
“When are the children coming home?” asks Samson, refilling their coffee cups.
“That’s up to you,” says Alicia. “Are you going in today?”
“I wasn’t planning to, I’m hoping to be home all day.”
“Then the children will be coming home later,” says his wife.
Lou Vota opens his eyes to find Lorraine beside him, sitting up in bed reading. She is wearing a terry cloth robe and her hair is still damp.
“What time is it?” Vota asks.
“Almost nine, Van Winkle. Are you working today?”
“Yes, and I’m late, but I’m all yours tomorrow.”
“Well, you’d better get into the shower,” she says. “I saved you some hot water. I’ll start the coffee.”
He leans over and kisses her forehead.
“That’s a beautiful mop of hair you’ve got there, Counselor,” he says, heading for the bathroom.
Not for long she thinks.
Murphy arrives at the 61st Precinct at nine.
“Anyone in?” he asks Kelly at the desk.
“Samson is off. Vota called, he’s on his way.”
“When was the last time you had a day off?”
“What century is this?” Kelly answers. “Actually, I have tomorrow off, and the holiday on Monday.”
“Holiday?”
“Presidents’ Day.”
“Which president?” asks Murphy.
“Who cares?” says Kelly.
Gabriel Caine walks slowly up the front steps of the corner house at Cropsey Avenue and 26th Avenue. He looks up at the street address above the door. Gabriel rings the doorbell and takes a step back. A moment later, a man stands in the open doorway.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Mr. Randall?”
“No, I’m afraid there is no Mr. Randall here.”
Gabriel pulls a slip of paper from his briefcase and gives it a quick look.
“I’m very sorry to have bothered you,” says Gabriel. “They apparently gave me the wrong address at the office. I have an appointment to see a Mr. Henry Randall about a college tuition fund for his children.”
“Would you like to use the telephone?”
“Excuse me?”
“To call your office, see if they can find the right address.”
“That would be very kind,” Gabriel says.
“No problem, I know how it is. I’m a salesman myself, Jim Bowers,” the man says, holding out his hand.
“Gabe Caine,” says Gabriel, accepting the handshake.
“Come in,” Bowers says. “Do you only work local?”
“Yes,” says Gabriel, following Bowers into the house.
“You’re very fortunate, I have to travel quite a lot. You can use the phone on the table.”
Bowers walks off into another room, leaving Gabriel alone to make the call. A few minutes later he returns.
“Any luck?”
“Yes, I’ve got it. It’s over on 24th Avenue. Thank you very much.”
“Who’s here, James?” calls a voice from the kitchen.
“A young man selling investment savings plans, for college tuition.”
“Did you inform him that we have no children,” says the woman, walking into the room, “or did you neglect to inform me that you’re planning to go back to college?”
The woman is smiling brightly. Gabriel looks into her eyes. They are
remarkably blue, unusually beautiful.
And they are the eyes of a blind woman.
“This is my wife, Hannah. Hannah, this is Mr. Caine. He was sent here by mistake.”
“I don’t believe in mistakes, everything happens for a reason,” says Hannah Bowers. “Can we at least offer you coffee, Mr. Caine?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Randall will be waiting. It’s very generous of you to offer. It’s very unusual.”
“I certainly hope that it hasn’t become unusual to show hospitality to a fellow stranger,” says Mrs. Bowers. “It is a blessing to be able to help others. Sadly, I seldom get the opportunity. I’m glad that James was at home. It’s very difficult when I’m here alone.”
“It’s my fault. I’m overprotective and I’m a bully,” says Bowers. “I insist that Hannah be very careful when I’m away. The world can be a scary place, particularly in the dark.”
“I’m glad I had the chance to meet you,” says Gabriel.
“Good luck,” says Bowers, following Gabriel out to the front porch. “If you’re ever back in the neighborhood, stop by and say hello. Hannah would like that.”
“God bless you both. You are truly good people,” says Gabriel, as he walks down the stone steps to the street.
Ripley pours from the office coffeemaker and turns to find Agent Stone standing close enough to touch him.
“Jesus, Win,” he says, nearly dropping the cup, “you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here? This is Saturday.”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“You might?”
“I’m sorry I startled you.”
“I’ll get over it,” says Ripley, moving to his desk. “I’m trying to clear up a little work today so I can avoid being back here until Tuesday. Don’t forget that Monday is Presidents’ Day and coming to work on a government holiday is a federal offense.”
“I won’t forget.”
“So, to get back to the original question, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been following up on Anthony Territo.”
“Sit down, Stone,” Ripley says, taking a seat behind his desk. “Let’s get this out of the way.”
“I followed Tony Territo to a garage near Sunset Park in Brooklyn yesterday afternoon, and I stuck around after he left. Just after dark, a brand spanking new Mercedes convertible arrived and was taken in.”
“You told me the guy owns a dealership; maybe the car needed repairs.”
“I spoke with an NYPD dispatcher this morning, talked him into showing me a list of reported car thefts.”
“How did you manage that?” asks Ripley.
“I think he liked my suit.”
“And the Mercedes was on the list.”
“Yes, sir. Taken from a driveway on East 11th and Avenue X around seven.”
Ripley walks over to the Brooklyn-Queens wall map.
“That’s the 61st Precinct, call it in if you haven’t already,” says Ripley.
“I would have, but I wanted to speak with you first. About the garage.”
“What about the garage?”
“The building is owned by Dominic Colletti.”
“This Dominic Colletti,” says Ripley, lifting a thick file folder from his desk.
“The very one,” says Stone.
“Do me a favor; find out who’s in charge at the 61st.”
“Yes, sir,” says Stone, jumping out of her seat with the enthusiasm of a kid heading for the tree on Christmas morning.
“Didn’t I ask you to stop calling me sir?”
“Actually, sir, you asked me to stop calling you Chief.”
“Can you call me Ripley?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Great. And Stone,” he says as she reaches the door.
“Yes, Ripley.”
“Good work.”
George Addams rises from the kitchen table after lunch at home with his wife. They had buried their son three days earlier.
“I need to make a phone call,” he says.
“Why not make it right here?” asks his wife.
“I’ll use the phone in my study,” he says, leaving the room.
The call is answered by the on-duty desk sergeant.
“63rd Flatlands, Santiago speaking.”
“Detective Rosen, please,” says George Addams.
“Detective Rosen is off duty today. Can I help you?”
“When will she be back?” asks Addams.
Santiago quickly checks the Precinct schedule sheet.
“Monday morning. Would you like to speak with another detective?”
“No, thank you, I’ll try back on Monday.”
“She may check in, can I tell her who called?”
“I’ll phone Monday,” says Addams.
He returns to the kitchen where his wife is pouring the coffee.
“What is it?” she asks. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
Their two girls run in before she can challenge him.
Gabriel comes into his house, leaves the briefcase at the door, and walks back to the bedroom. After getting out of the suit and into a pair of blue chinos and a Brooklyn College sweatshirt, he moves to the kitchen.
Gabriel hunts through the refrigerator for something to eat and settles on a piece of cold fried chicken. He sits at the counter. He is thinking about the woman, Hannah Bowers. The kindness behind those sightless eyes.
He notices the red envelope. He tears it open. A card from his wife. From Florida. A large heart on front. Three words printed inside. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Five one-hundred-dollar bills wrapped inside a short note in her timid handwriting. We are doing fine. I’ve tried reaching you. Please call. I’ve seen to the mortgage payment. I miss you very much. Your daughter misses you.
Gabriel places the card and note on the counter.
I was meant to protect and provide for them, he thinks.
He violently throws the cash to the floor.
God has spared Hannah Bowers, now only two remain.
First, the girl.
Gabriel goes into his son’s room and lies down on the floor, among the toys. He will rest. Until dark.
And then he will go to take her.
Later that afternoon, a woman watering the plants on her sixth-floor fire escape on West Street near Gravesend Neck Road saw her upstairs neighbor float past her on his way to a fatal rendezvous with the sidewalk below. Then she heard a voice from above say: If your girlfriend calls again, I’ll tell her you stepped out for a minute. The woman below dropped her watering can, which landed on top of the body on the ground, and ran in to call 911.
The first officers at the scene went to check out the corpse and found the watering can lying on the victim’s back and a dent in the man’s skull into which the tapered end of a steam iron would have fit perfectly. Then a woman’s voice from above screamed: You stay away from my husband, and a moment later a heavy object fitting the description of the likely murder weapon hit the pavement, missing the younger of the two patrolmen by a few inches. Considering the possibility that something like a blender or sewing machine could be next, the two policemen quickly took cover in the vestibule of the building and opted for waiting right there until the Homicide detectives arrived.
When Vota and Murphy pull up and get out of the car, the younger officer yells for them to move quickly out of the line of fire.
“She’s armed with household appliances,” he says.
Just as they come into the vestibule, a four-slice toaster lands at their feet.
“Should we call the bomb’s away squad?” asks Murphy.
“C’mon, let’s go,” says Vota, not too amused, and leads the way to the elevator.
When the door of the lift opens on the eighth floor a cast-iron skillet bounces into the elevator and skids to the back of the cage.
“Fucking great,” says Vota, not knowing whether to pull his gun or grab the frying pan to level the playing fie
ld.
“Maybe we’d better call the SWAT Team and tell them to bring the anti–wedding shower gift gear,” suggests Murphy.
“Can’t you quit even for a minute?” asks Vota.
“Are you going to shoot her?”
“No.”
“Do you want to get nailed by a flying tea kettle while you try to subdue her?”
“No.”
“Do we have any helmets or armor in the car?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your plan?” asks Murphy
“Let’s go down and call for the SWAT Team,” says Vota.
Frank Sullivan mans the front counter while Joe Campo is off on a delivery to West 7th Street. Sully uses a large stainless steel spoon to freshen the salads in the refrigerated display case. Suddenly, a small pair of eyes peers at him through the glass.
“Good afternoon,” Sully says, standing, “and what’s your name?”
“Frankie,” the boy answers. “Where’s Grandpa?”
“Well, how about that? Frank is my name, too. Your grandfather will be back very soon,” says Sully.
Sullivan can see something of Joe Campo in the boy’s handsome features.
“How about an olive, Frankie?”
“Too sour,” the boy says.
“I see you’ve finally met the Terror of Tenth Street,” says Joe Campo, walking up to them.
“You’re silly, Grandpa.”
“What brings you up here, Frankie?”
“Grandma needs some tomato glue,” the boy says, trying to stifle a laugh.
“You know where the tomato paste is, grab a can off the shelf,” says Joe. “I’ll walk you home. I’ll be back in ten minutes, Sully.”
“No problem, take your time.”
“Listen, Frank, Roseanna is over at my son’s house down the street, cooking up a storm. Eggplant parmigiana, if I’m not mistaken,” says Campo. “We would be pleased to have you join us for dinner. If you don’t have any other plans.”
“I would like that,” says Frank Sullivan.