by J. L. Abramo
“Is it possible that Caine is done?” asks Trenton.
“I’ll let Detective Ivanov address that question.”
“I would love to believe that he’s done. Let’s assume that no one else turned Caine away that night. He’s dealt with what he considers the crimes of Ventura and Addams,” Ivanov says, “and we believe Caine decided to spare Bowers after learning of the woman’s circumstance. If there was another car involved, then someone left the scene without offering help. In Caine’s mind, another sinner. Another criminal of Gibeah. And if Caine has identified the driver of that vehicle, there is at least one more family to be concerned about before we can hope that Caine is done.”
“What are our chances of identifying a second driver, short of waiting to ask Caine himself?” asks Vota.
“I think we need to put word out on TV and radio this evening,” says Samson. “I was hoping you could get with the Public Relations people and make it happen, Chief.”
“What did you have in mind?” asks Trenton.
“Something short, no specifics. Just that we’re looking for anyone who may have been witness to an accident at that place and time, that it is extremely important and that we will guaranty immunity from criminal prosecution to anyone who has knowledge. The NYPD Press Corps should be able to word it much better than I could, but that’s the general idea.”
“It could alert Caine,” says Trenton, “and bring no other results.”
“I think we need to take that risk,” says Samson.
“Alright,” says Trenton. “I’ll see to it that a short announcement runs on all of the local news reports at six and eleven today.”
“There’s a question that has been bugging me,” Rosen says. “Where was Caine going with a five-year-old child at three in the morning?”
“The Tampa PD should have his wife located anytime now,” says Murphy. “Maybe she can tell us.”
“That’s all I have,” says Samson. “Now, we wait.”
“So, are we open to new business?” asks Trenton.
“I suppose we are,” says Samson, warily.
“I received word just before I arrived,” says Trenton. “Dominic Colletti and his son Richard were assassinated at Colletti’s home in Manhattan Beach an hour ago.”
“Well that’s just dandy,” says Vota.
“Look at it this way,” says Murphy, “it frees up a surveillance unit.”
Samson is about to say something when his phone rings.
The others lament over the Colletti situation while he takes the call.
“This is Sergeant Ludlow of the Tampa PD, Lieutenant. We’re over at the Franklin home. Mrs. Franklin says that her son-in-law showed up here late last night. She says that Caine went out for a walk a few hours ago and hasn’t returned. His wife is at an office downtown; we’re about to head over now.”
“Okay, Sergeant, we appreciate the call,” says Samson. “Would you mind calling back when you’re with Mrs. Caine, I have a few questions I’d like to ask her.”
“No problem, Lieutenant,” says Ludlow. “I’ll speak to you then.”
Sharon Jenkins finds Serena at home.
“Serena, I spoke with a good friend of mine. Walter Gately. Walt is an associate editor working Brooklyn and Queens for the Tribune,” says Professor Jenkins. “He’s very interested in your story. I only gave him enough to get his attention. Walt is disposed to giving you a shot; it’s a tremendous opportunity, Serena.”
“That’s fantastic,” Serena says, trying to untie her tongue.
“Walt is willing to give you some time to develop the story, but there’s a catch. Gately wants something from you today by five, in time for tomorrow’s edition. It doesn’t have to be very much, just enough to hint at what’s to come and to establish the Trib as first to break the story. Which in turn will establish you as the reporter who broke it.”
“I told the detective in charge that I would hold off until I spoke with him again, tomorrow.”
“You have to speak with him today. Make a deal. Ask him to give you something you can use now, for your solemn word that you’ll sit on the major details until later on. This is a chance of a lifetime, Serena,” says Jenkins. “I would go for it. I told Walt you’d call him by four.”
“Give me his number,” says Serena.
Trenton leaves to work on a statement for the evening news. The others move to the subject of Colletti and sons.
“I would bet the farm on Tony Territo,” says Murphy. “Territo must have heard somehow that the name Sonny was mentioned at the scene of his daughter’s attack, so Tony figures it for Sonny Colletti and goes wild. I don’t know how we’ll prove it without witnesses. No one saw a thing at Manhattan Beach, at Leone’s car, or on West 12th Street. Bobby Hoyle was too drunk to recognize his own brother. The way I look at it, if these fucking Soprano wannabes want to knock each other off, let them have at it. I’m only sorry the poor girl had to get in the middle of it.”
“But that’s the thing, Tommy,” says Vota. “If we let the lunatics turn Brooklyn into the O. K. Corral, innocent bystanders are bound to get hurt.”
“We’ll keep an eye on Territo, maybe we catch a break. These guys are egomaniacs; maybe Territo brags about it to the wrong person,” says Samson as his phone rings again.
“Don’t you just love it when the joint is jumpin’,” Murphy says.
“That was Tampa; Caine’s wife says her husband was on the way to the hospital before the accident,” says Samson.
“Oh?” says Rosen.
“His wife says that the boy was ill, they were going to meet the boy’s physician at the ER. She thinks Caine has left Tampa,” Samson manages to squeeze in before the phone rings again. “Christ, what the fuck is it now?”
“Just when you think it can’t get worse,” says Samson coming back to the group, “now I’ve got a fucking reporter on my back. I have to talk with the woman. Chen, you can sit in. I told her to meet us at the New Times, across the Avenue. Lou, why don’t you and Detective Ivanov check in with the units at Caine’s place and make sure everyone is awake. Landis, see if you can do something to find Victor Sanders. Talk to your contacts on the street again. Throw some more money around if you have to, dig into petty cash. Murphy, you and Rosen try to locate Tony Territo.”
“And do what, ask him how good it felt to put one into Colletti’s skull?” asks Murphy.
“Why not? He might enjoy telling you.”
“I’m sure he’s at his daughter’s wake,” says Rosen.
“So go there, pay your respects, whatever. Just take a good look at him and let him know you’re looking,” says Samson. “C’mon, Chen, let’s get out of here.”
“We’re not wearing black,” says Rosen as they climb into her car.
“I think we can get away with that,” says Murphy, “but you probably will need a hat.”
“I’ve got my Mets cap in the trunk,” she says.
“I’m sure the funeral home has a stash of modest headwear and neckties for just this kind of emergency. Hang a left on to Coney Island Avenue and another left at Avenue U.”
“Reach over and grab the folder on the rear seat. I brought something to show you.”
“What might that be?” asks Murphy, reaching back.
“There was a stabbing in my Precinct the other night, near Beth Israel. The victim came in today to work with an artist on a sketch. When I saw the drawing, I had to make a copy for you. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
Murphy pulls the photocopy out of the folder and takes a look.
“Don’t you think it resembles you quite a bit?” Rosen asks.
No, but it looks a hell of a lot like my brother.
“Oh, I don’t know. Looks more like Jerry Seinfeld. That’s Avenue U coming up.”
Samson and Chen sit at a booth in the rear of the New Times. Samson spots Serena walking to the table and rises to greet her.
“Have a seat Ms. Huang,” he says. “This is Detective A
ndy Chen.”
“Serena?” says Chen.
Samson looks from one shocked face to the other.
“Excuse us, Ms. Huang,” Samson says. “Order whatever you like, it’s on the NYPD. We’ll just be a minute.”
Samson moves to the front of the restaurant and Chen rises silently to follow.
Serena wants to offer Chen some kind of explanation, but realizes she has none.
Samson walks out to the street and Chen joins him.
“So?” says Samson.
“I had no idea she was a reporter, Lieutenant.”
“What difference does that make, Andy? I don’t care if she’s your fucking manicurist. Why would you ever talk about a case to any civilian? Which reminds me, was it you who handled the interview with Territo and his wife at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mention the boyfriend? The kid who was at the scene when Territo’s daughter was attacked?”
“I’m afraid I did.”
“Jesus Christ. I don’t know if we can continue to work together, Detective. I’m going to need some time to consider.”
“I believe I can help you decide,” says Chen.
“I don’t have the time or the patience for excuses right this minute.”
“I think I may have put the FBI on to the Caine case.”
“What?”
“When Agent Stone called me and identified herself as FBI, I just assumed that she was calling about the Ventura and Addams boys, so I told her she would need to speak with you.”
“Unfuckingbelievable.”
“I don’t know what to say, Lieutenant. There’s really nothing to say,” Chen says, turning to leave.
“Chen?”
“Yes.”
“If Stone wasn’t calling about the boys, what was she calling about?”
“She called to ask about Territo, about what happened to his daughter.”
Samson is totally lost.
“Why the interest in Tony Territo? That phone call came long before Territo had it in mind to increase the mortality rate of Brooklyn’s Italian-American population.”
“I don’t know. Stone claimed it might be related to another case they were working on, but I have no idea anymore if anything that anyone tells me is the truth.”
“You have a lot to learn, Andy. Chalk it up to experience and don’t tear yourself apart over it. You fuck up; you try not to do it again. And none of it is going to end the world; it’s just a royal pain in the ass that I could easily live without. Look, I have to get back in there and do some damage control and then I’m going to find out what the FBI isn’t fucking telling us. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. I’ll call you.”
Before Chen can say another word, Samson quickly turns and heads into the restaurant to deal with the reporter.
Rosen and Murphy walk into the room at Torregrossa and Son’s Funeral Home where Brenda Territo’s body is laid out. Rosen is wearing a black pillbox hat she borrowed from the office, with a net hanging over her eyes. She gives Murphy a look that warns him against commenting.
Territo’s wife is over to them the moment they enter, wanting to know who they might be.
“Sandra Murphy,” says Rosen. “I was Brenda’s English teacher. This is my husband, Thomas.”
“Thank you for coming,” says Barbara Territo, losing interest immediately and walking off.
“How could you be sure she wouldn’t know the girl’s teachers?” whispers Murphy.
“By looking at her,” says Rosen. “I’m going up to the casket, do you want to join me?”
“I’ll pass.”
Rosen moves up to the front of the room. Murphy spots Tony Territo exchanging a few words with his wife.
“My God, what a beautiful girl,” says Rosen sadly when she returns to Murphy’s side.
“Who are they, Tony?” asks Stevie.
“Barbara says the woman is one of Brenda’s high school teachers,” says Territo.
“They still look like cops to me.”
“I need a drink,” says Tony.
“There’s a bar across the street,” says Stevie. “Let’s go, I’ll buy you one.”
Rosen and Murphy follow them out.
Serena Huang is sitting opposite Walter Gately at a table in an espresso bar on Prince Street in Soho. He is reading the short piece Serena had written after agreeing on the ground rules set by Lieutenant Samson.
“It’s good, but it’s not enough,” says Gately. “What else can you give me?”
“Both victims were missing fingers, but I promised I wouldn’t include that information yet.”
“Include it and we can do business,” says Gately. “You can use my office. It’s up to you, Serena. Don’t take too long deciding; we need the copy in an hour.”
“Alright, yes,” says Serena, giving up the half-hearted battle with her conscience. “Let’s go to your office.”
“Bedford Avenue Body Shop, Fred Caravella speaking.”
“Mr. Caravella, this is Agent Stone, FBI.”
“Oh?”
“We’re calling to find out if you did any bodywork on a vehicle for Anthony Territo in the past four weeks.”
“Try Ciaburri’s on 65th Street. They do all the work for Territo,” suggests Caravella.
Murphy and Rosen watch Tony Territo and his cousin Stevie enter the bar across Avenue U.
“Would you like a cocktail?” asks Murphy.
“Sure,” says Rosen, “as long as you let me buy.”
Michael Murphy watches as his mother leaves her house and walks to another, two doors up the street. His mother has dinner every Tuesday evening with a neighbor. A widow also. The two women take turns hosting the meal.
When Margaret enters the other house, Michael crosses the street. He lets himself in to his mother’s house and begins searching, checking all the places where his mother may have cash hidden. When he is done, Michael has a total of sixteen dollars and twenty cents in cash, and a credit card.
Michael decides that there is something else in the house that he might make use of, and he knows exactly where to find it. Michael goes into the closet in his mother’s bedroom and pulls it down off a high shelf above the bar holding the hanging clothing. He stuffs it into his coat pocket and quickly leaves the house.
Theresa Fazio sees the short news announcement on the small television in her office at Titan Imports. Theresa immediately calls Tony Territo’s cell phone number.
Territo watches the same announcement on the television above the bar, where he and Stevie work on straight Scotch. Territo is trying not to glance at the schoolteacher and her husband who sit at a nearby table looking more and more like police. His cellular phone rings.
“Did you see the news?” says Theresa, clearly upset. “They’re looking for information about the accident.”
“Yes, I saw it. Just ignore it.”
“They said that it was important, an emergency.”
“Theresa, forget it. I was supposed to be out of town that night. How am I supposed to explain to my wife what I was doing riding around Brooklyn with you at three in the fucking morning? Especially now?” Barbara is going through hell as it is. Just forget it, Theresa.”
“I want to come over for the wake later this evening.”
“Oh, Christ, Theresa.”
“Tony, it will look strange if I don’t come. All of the salesmen will be going. Barbara will be expecting me.”
“Alright,” says Territo. “But not tonight, make it tomorrow. And put that accident out of your mind, Theresa. Permanently. Understand?”
“I understand,” Theresa Fazio says, thinking it sounds a little too much like a threat.
Rosen is looking at a menu when their drinks arrive.
“How’s the food?” she asks the waiter.
“You might want to dine elsewhere this evening,” he says. “The cook came in so drunk he’d probably fuck up a baked potato. Pardon my language.”
“No
problem, it’s very colorful,” says Rosen. “Thanks for the tip. Can we get pretzels or something?”
“I can bring you a bowl of chips.”
“Plain?”
“Barbeque or sour cream and chive,” says the waiter.
“Thanks anyway,” says Rosen.
“That phone call got our boy Tony a little agitated,” says Murphy when the waiter leaves.
“I can empathize,” says Rosen. “I’d feel the same if I’d gunned down four people in the past twenty-four hours and someone rudely interrupted my quiet time.”
“61st Detectives, Samson speaking.”
“Lieutenant, we have Victor Sanders in custody.”
“Get him down here to look at Caine’s photo, Landis. I’ll call to get a head start on a search warrant. Good work, Stan,” says Samson. “I’ll bet you’re real glad you didn’t have to wear the clown outfit again.”
Gabriel drives out of Queens after leaving LaGuardia Airport. He listens to the announcement on his car radio. Interest in the accident that took his son’s life tells him he has been identified. Caine knows that he cannot return to the house; he will never sit in his son’s room again.
Gabriel fights off thoughts about home, about Derek, about the other children. They are gone.
All but one.
He needs to keep his mind clear, to finish his work so he can finally rest.