by J. L. Abramo
“Fuck,” mouths Vota, moving away from the door.
He motions for Landis to follow with the girl toward the stairs.
The three duck into the stairwell.
“Get her out of the building and call for backup. Get to the rear of the building and see if there is another way out. Fire escape, whatever. I’ll wait and watch the door from here,” says Vota.
Landis heads down with the girl and Vota turns his attention back to the apartment door, keeping out of the hallway.
The keys still dangle from the door lock.
The television blares from inside.
Fuck.
When Landis and the girl get down to the ground-floor lobby, Samson is walking in.
“Put her in the car and stay with her until backup arrives,” Samson says, whoever she was and for whatever reason Landis had her by the arm. “Tell them to be quiet coming in.”
“Lou asked me to check the rear,” says Landis, as Samson moves past them toward the stairs.
“I just did, unless this asshole can fly there’s only one way out of there,” Samson says and starts up.
So, of course, when Murphy walks into the Precinct, he is on his way up to an empty squad room.
Desk Sergeant Kelly, sitting at his throne, looks up and asks, “Where the hell have you been?”
Murphy could say he’s been trying to find his brother who, by the way, knifed someone to death recently.
“You writing a book?” he says instead, and heads up to the third floor.
Two minutes later, he is buzzing the desk.
“Kelly, where the fuck is everybody?”
“Samson went to the hospital, maybe, Vota and Landis are busy hunting the slime who shot Mendez, Chen and Rosen are out on a call.”
“Chenanrosen?”
Kelly says, “You can read all about it in the fucking book I’m writing,” and hangs up.
“What the fuck is a chenanrosen?” Murphy says as he places the receiver down and the phone rings.
Vota wheels around, gun ready, reacting to the sound behind him.
“A little jumpy, Lou?” says Samson.
“Fuck yes, I’m a little fucking jumpy, this guy shoots through doors. How the fuck did you get here so fast?”
“Took the Belt Parkway. Used my siren.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, Marty, what do you want to do?”
“I want to get this scumbag.”
“Okay, Lou, let’s go get him.”
“Homicide, Detective Murphy speaking.”
“Lieutenant Samson, please.”
“He’s not here. Perhaps I can be of assistance,” says Murphy to the woman caller.
“I’m calling about Addams.”
“Addams who, Miss?”
“It’s Detective, Detective Rosen, Detective.”
“Addams is detective detective rosen?”
“I’m Detective Rosen, not Miss. And George Addams is the father of the boy found murdered in Bay Ridge. Where have you been?”
What the fuck is this? Do I need this?
“Talking with my desk sergeant about a book that he’s writing,” says Murphy. “Listen Rosen, excuse me, I mean Detective Rosen, I think that we got started on the wrong foot. Maybe if you could quickly fill me in I could be of some help in Lieutenant Samson’s absence.”
I seriously doubt it.
“I guess it’s worth a try. Chen and I are with George Addams.”
“Hold it, I’ve got another call.”
“How do you want to play this?” asks Vota as they approach the apartment door.
“I don’t know that play is quite the right word, but putting semantics aside for the moment I say we knock on the door and if he shoots through the door we shoot back through the door,” says Samson.
“Just like that?”
“You got a better idea?”
“Nope.”
“Okay then, let’s do it.”
“By the way, Sam.”
“Yes?”
“Play it was only a figure of speech.”
Samson takes the left of the door, Vota takes the right.
Samson knocks. No answer. Vota is thinking it seems so foolishly familiar, they may as well leave originality to the screenwriters.
“Police, open up,” is what he says.
And then three bullets rip through the door from the inside and both detectives step out and face the door and each discharge six rounds through the door from the outside and then they retreat to their positions on each side of the door and reload.
And then they wait.
“It’s your dime,” says Murphy answering the second phone line, Rosen put on hold.
“My dime, your ass,” says Kelly. “Just thought you might be interested to know that Samson is up with Vota on the Harris bust. Landis just called in.”
“Shit. How come I miss all the fun? They need me up there?”
“I hope not. They got the troops from the 68th heading over. Just letting you know is all, so you don’t get too worried everyone went to Hawaii and left you behind.”
“You’re all heart, Kelly. Truth is that those guys couldn’t find the bathroom without me, let alone Hawaii.”
“I’ll give you that. No one in this place has trouble finding the bathroom with you around,” are Sergeant Kelly’s last words before disconnecting. Murphy suppresses a laugh as he goes back to line one.
“Okay, Rosen, where were we?” he says into a dead phone. Shit.
Murphy puts down the receiver and the phone instantly rings.
“This is Rosen; you didn’t hang up on me purposely. Am I right?”
“Sorry, yes. I mean yes, you’re right. I didn’t hang up on you; I must have pushed the wrong button.”
“You’re pushing all the wrong buttons, Detective. Now, would you like to hear about what Addams had to say?”
“I’m all ears, go ahead. Whoa, I got another call.”
“Well, what now?” asks Vota.
“Kick in the door?” says Samson.
“Your turn, I did one yesterday.”
“How convenient.”
“We could shoot more holes in the door and squeeze right through.”
“I have an idea,” says Samson, “why don’t we just use those keys dangling there.”
“Homicide, Murphy speaking.”
“Tommy.”
“Mike, I’ve been looking all over for you, you little fuck. Where the hell are you?”
“I’m scared, Tommy.”
“Just tell me where you are and wait for me there. I swear to God, Mike, you better not fuck around with me now.”
“They find the guy I stabbed?”
“Yeah, where are you?”
“Is he dead?”
Yes, he’s fucking dead.
“No, Mike, he’s okay. He’s at Coney Island Hospital. Now, please tell me where you are.”
“Why the fuck would they take him to Coney Island with Beth Israel only a block away?”
“What?”
“You could spit at the emergency entrance to Beth Israel from the spot where I stabbed that guy. Why the fuck would they take him all the way out to Coney Island? You’re bullshitting me Tommy, the guy is dead. Oh Christ, I killed the guy.”
And then the line goes dead.
Four uniformed officers with riot guns rush up behind Samson and Vota as they step through the door and look down at a very dead Dwayne Harris.
“Wow, I can’t believe this fucking worked,” says Samson.
“That’s an understatement. I’ll bet we hit him with ten out of twelve,” says Vota.
“Oh, I don’t know. Seven, maybe eight tops.”
“Fifty bucks says it’s ten.”
“You’re on,” says Samson.
“Fucking fuck,” shouts Murphy. Then, remembering the other call, Murphy hits the button for the other line. “Rosen, are you there?”
Nothing.
Great.
“I can’t believe this guy,” Rosen says to Andy Chen. “He hung up on me again.”
“Bet you can’t wait to meet him.”
“Detective Rosen?”
“Yes, Mr. Addams,” she says.
“Lieutenant Samson is on the phone for you.”
Murphy is almost out the door of the Homicide squad room, heading down to get the crime reports from Kelly to find out who Mike had actually stabbed if it wasn’t poor Kenneth Wolfe who died at Coney Island Hospital, when the phone rings again.
“Jesus, Rosen, I’m sorry.”
“Tommy? This is Lorraine. Is Lou there?”
“No, Lorraine. He’s out on a call with Sam.”
“Anything dangerous?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Should be back soon. Can I give him a message for you?”
Sure, tell him I have a brain tumor.
“No, that’s alright. Just called to say hello.”
“How are you?”
“Great, thanks.” Just peachy. “And you?”
“Yeah, fine, great.” Fucked.
“Great.”
“Okay, I gotta run.”
“Okay, then, so long, Tommy.”
“Okay, right, later, Lorraine.”
After the shoot-out that left Dwayne Harris a dead alleged murderer, Samson leaves for Mill Basin to meet Chen and Rosen while Vota heads back over to the Precinct to do the paperwork on Harris.
The evidence team at the scene would hopefully find proof that Harris was actually the man who stabbed José Pacheco to death and shot Rey Mendez. It had already been established, in any event, that Harris had been hit with eight bullets, making Samson fifty dollars richer.
Rosen had asked Samson to meet them at a diner near the Addams house.
“Why here?” asks Samson, finding Chen and Rosen at the counter.
“Addams pleaded that we leave before his wife got home and found us there. Apparently he’s not ready to tell his wife what he told us,” says Chen.
“Which was?”
“That he drove past a car that had gone off the Belt Parkway and then drove past a man walking on the parkway,” says Rosen. “And that the man was carrying something, which may have been a child.”
“Jesus,” says Samson. “What was his excuse for that?”
“He had none, beyond running very late on his delivery route that morning. He claims that he never thought about it being a child until your speech the other day,” Rosen says. “Addams says that he did call it in, and felt sure that help was on the way.”
“When was this?”
“We found that a call came in on the 16th of January. A car off the road near the Bay Parkway entrance, which is where Addams saw the vehicle,” says Chen. “A squad car and a tow truck were both dispatched. When the police officers arrived, there was no one there. They wrote up a traffic citation, put it on the windshield and left.”
“Brilliant,” says Samson.
“They’re running down the citation,” says Rosen. “I’m expecting a callback with a car make and license number.”
“How about the tow truck?” asks Samson.
“We’re trying to track down a driver.”
“Good work, how will you hear back?”
“Everyone has my cell phone number,” says Rosen, “and your number at the Precinct.”
“Let’s all go back to the 61st and wait,” says Samson.
Murphy goes through the crime reports once again and this time finds the right one. A man with two superficial knife wounds had walked himself into the emergency room at Beth Israel at 2:30 a.m. the previous morning. He reported being mugged, resisting his assailant, receiving the wounds and lying still on the ground until his attacker left the scene. He wasn’t badly hurt, but played possum for fear of further harm. An ER nurse treated his wounds and he was interviewed by a uniformed officer. He said he was pretty sure that he could identify the perpetrator and was sent home with an invitation to come into the Precinct at his earliest convenience to work with a sketch artist on a composite drawing. He was expected to come in early Tuesday afternoon. The good news was that Murphy’s brother was not a murderer, only an armed robber. The bad news was Michael didn’t know that and Murphy had no way of telling him.
Vota gets back to the squad room as Murphy is walking out.
“Lorraine called,” says Murphy, “to say hello. What went down with Harris?”
“He went down,” says Vota. “It was like Dodge City.”
“Where’s Lieutenant Earp?”
“He went to meet Chen and Rosen.”
“Who the hell are Chen and Rosen?”
“Andrew Chen from the 68th and Sandra Rosen from the 63rd. They’re coming in with us and Ivanov on a special unit. There’s a meeting tomorrow afternoon. Don’t you read your memos?”
“Only when they’re about free basketball tickets. What time tomorrow?”
“Two. Where are you headed?”
“Family business,” is all Murphy says before leaving the squad room.
Later that afternoon they sit in the squad room at the 61st, waiting for someone’s phone to ring.
Samson, Vota, Rosen and Chen.
“I almost forgot, Lieutenant Samson,” says Chen. “I meant to ask you earlier. When did the FBI come in on the case?”
“What are you talking about?” says Samson.
“I got a call from an Agent Stone. She said that they were already working with you, Lieutenant.”
“Now, why would she say that, when I’ve never heard of the woman?” asks Samson.
“The FBI called specifically asking about this case?” asks Vota.
Not exactly, thinks Chen.
And then he realizes that he has fucked up, royally.
“As I recall,” Chen says.
And he decides not to mention Agent Stone’s interest in the death of Brenda Territo.
“Damn. Trenton said that he would warn me before he contacted the Feds,” says Samson.
“When were you planning to warn me?” asks Vota.
Before Samson can respond, Rosen’s cell phone rings.
“A 1986 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight,” Rosen says after taking the call.
“Jesus, that’s the one,” says Vota.
“The tow truck driver is off until Thursday afternoon. No answer at his home,” says Rosen. “They’ll keep trying.”
“This is our man,” shouts Samson, slamming his hand down on the desk. “I can feel it. Did you get a license plate number on the Oldsmobile?”
“Yes,” says Rosen.
“Give it to Vota. Lou, call in to the DMV and get a name and address,” says Samson.
“They’re closed, Sam.”
“It’s not even three-thirty.”
“It’s a holiday.”
“A holiday is the last fucking thing this is,” says Samson. “Find someone who can give us a fucking name, Lou. Chen, find out where that tow truck driver lives and sit on the place until he shows up. Rosen, find out if there were any other emergency calls that night, in the vicinity of Bay Parkway and the Belt. And locate Paul Ventura, find out if he was anywhere near the area in his taxicab at the time. I’m going to phone Trenton and ruin his holiday if he doesn’t have a damn good answer as to why the FBI is asking questions. This is the first solid lead that we’ve got since this nightmare began; I want it to fucking lead somewhere. Where the hell is Tommy?”
“He took off,” says Vota. “He said that he had family business.”
“Find him.”
Chen, Rosen and Vota all quickly grab telephones as Samson storms out of the squad room to try cooling off.
Murphy has called his mother three or four times looking for his brother, Michael. No luck.
He is working on his second bourbon with beer chaser at Joe’s Bar and Grill when his cell phone rings.
“Mike, where the fuck are you?”
“It’s Lou, Tommy,” says Vota. “I’m at the Precinct and Sam is looking for you. And
he’s on a rampage.”
“Great,” says Murphy. “Tell him I’m on the way.”
“Something going on with Michael?”
“Tell Sam I’m on the way,” is all Murphy says before ending the connection.
Samson finds a phone at an empty desk on the second floor.
He tries to keep the anger from his voice.
“I’m telling you, Sam. I never contacted the FBI,” insists Chief of Detectives Trenton, dragged away from a dinner party by Samson’s call.
“Then how the fuck did they catch on?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to find out?”
“No, leave it alone.”
“What’s going on, Sam?”
Samson fills Trenton in.
“Keep me informed,” says Trenton.
“When are you going to get a captain assigned here,” says Samson. “I’m not getting paid enough to be running this fucking place.”
“Sam, you know that I’m trying to get you that job. And if you break this case before someone else is killed, there is nothing stopping you from being Captain of the 61st.”
“Thanks for the warning, Chief,” says Samson before hanging up.
When Samson returns to the squad room, Chen is gone. Rosen and Vota are waiting.
“Okay, whoever wants to start,” says Samson.
“There was a second call that night,” says Rosen. “A woman, Hannah Bowers, 26th and Cropsey. Not far from the parkway, close to where Addams saw the man walking. Bowers called reporting a car accident. I’m waiting to hear from the officers who responded.”