by J. L. Abramo
Caine comes off the BQE and on to the Gowanus.
Gabriel takes the 65th Street exit off the Belt Parkway and parks on 2nd Avenue. He places the iron pry bar and the Bible into the small suitcase he had carried to Tampa.
He steps out of the Oldsmobile, takes the cloth tool satchel from the trunk, and leaves the car as it is. The keys dangling from the trunk lock. He needs a safe place to stay, for a short time, until he can take the child.
The last child.
Gabriel knows where he will wait. He picks up the two bags and begins walking up 65th Street toward 5th Avenue.
“They’re leaving,” says Rosen. “Should we follow?”
“I’m not all that hot about hanging at a mortuary,” says Murphy. “Why don’t we get dinner and come back?”
“Italian?”
“Of course. Joe’s Bar and Grill is just the other side of McDonald Avenue, we can walk from here.”
“How about the food?” asks Rosen. “Have you eaten there?”
“Once or twice, a week.”
“That good?”
“Not bad if you like garlic and olive oil, and not having to wash the dishes.”
“Where are you, Lou?” asks Samson.
“In the car with Detective Ivanov, in front of Caine’s house. We let these guys take a dinner break,” says Vota. “As soon as they return, we’ll give the unit at the alley in back a break. What’s up?”
“Victor Sanders identified Caine from the driver’s license photo. I’m waiting to hear on a search warrant. If we can get one tonight, we go in.”
“Let me know, Sam,” says Vota. “We’ll hang until I hear from you.”
Gabriel walks to the back-alley door of Mitch’s Coffee Shop. When he is sure no one is nearby, Caine uses the pry bar to break in.
Caine digs a flashlight from the satchel and uses it to guide his way through the back rooms. A small walk-in cooler, a separate closet with sink and toilet, a stove, a table and chairs, a radio, a small TV, a telephone. Everything he will need to survive.
Caine kills the flashlight and walks through the door that connects to the restaurant counter, dining tables and street entrance. The sign on the front door indicates that the shop will be closed until the end of the month. Mitch is taking his San Juan holiday. It will give Gabriel some time to locate and take the last child.
He returns to the back rooms.
After determining that light from the rear will not be seen from the front, Gabriel switches on the ceiling fluorescent.
This will be Gabriel Caine’s home for the next week.
My final home, he thinks.
My final days.
Gabriel turns on the small TV and then walks into the cooler to check the food supply.
“Lieutenant, this is Agent Stone. Glad I caught you.”
“So am I,” says Samson. “As a matter of fact, I was planning to give you a call.”
“Oh? What about?”
“Agent Stone, you called me. Please, after you.”
“We think we know who drove the car that hit Gabriel Caine on the night his son died. We think it was Tony Territo.”
“Could you give me a clue as to how you reached that conclusion?” asks Samson. “Tell me about the dots?”
“It all began with stolen cars shipped from here to Mexico; Territo’s name came up. We’d never heard of Tony Territo. Agent Ripley wasn’t interested until we learned that Territo leased a garage from Dominic Colletti, who the FBI had heard a lot about. I followed Territo for a day or so, to his car dealership, his home, the garage he leased from Colletti. He’s using the garage to store the stolen vehicles. We were planning to pass the information on to the NYPD, let your auto theft people take it from there and forget Territo. It’s not really our business. And then we heard that Territo’s daughter had been killed and the coincidence stimulated our interest in him again.”
“Are we almost to the dots that connect Territo to Gabriel Caine?” asks Samson impatiently.
“Territo’s house is less than a minute from where we found the bathtub full of water this morning. And Territo had front-end bodywork done on his BMW, he took the car into the shop on January 16th.”
“It’s a daring leap, but it’s not enough. Maybe we could bring Territo in for questioning, but he’d just tell us that he smashed into his garage door,” says Samson.
“You’re probably right. But what’s Territo going to say when he hears that Colletti may not have been responsible for his daughter’s attack, now that he’s wiped out the entire Colletti family?”
“I can’t imagine, but I’d like a picture of his face.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’ll wait. I’m hoping to have a search warrant for Caine’s house anytime now. I want to see what we find. I want Caine a lot more than Territo at the moment. But we’ll get around to Tony boy. If we can’t pin the Colletti hits on him, we’ll teach him something about proper highway etiquette. If Territo did hit Caine’s car and left the boy to die, I’ll see to it he never drives a car again if he ever gets out of prison.”
“Good luck with the search warrant, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“So, why did you become a police officer?” asks Rosen.
They are at a table in Joe’s Bar and Grill over plates of linguini with red clam sauce.
“My father was a cop; I wanted to be like him.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Like your father?”
“I don’t know. My father was a complicated man.”
“And you?” says Rosen. “Are you a simple man?”
“How are you two doing? Do you need anything, more bread?” Augie Sena calls from the bar.
“We’re fine, Augie, relax,” says Murphy. “He’s trying to make a good impression on you. Augie likes to see new customers come back.”
“New customers or new women friends of yours?”
“I don’t make a habit of bringing women friends here.”
“I’m sorry, I ask too many questions. Something about being a detective,” says Rosen.
“Why did you become a police officer?” asks Murphy. “Was your father a cop?”
“Not exactly. Hey, Augie, maybe we could use some more bread.”
“We won’t have a search warrant until morning, Lou. I have a promise it will be in our hands no later than seven. They’re all backed up with requests because of the fucking holiday yesterday,” says Samson.
“That sucks.”
“It does. If everyone is back from break, why don’t you and Ivanov call it quits? I’m going to do the same and head home for a while. Let’s plan to be back here by six. I called Murphy and Rosen and cut them loose also.”
“Okay, Sam, I’ll be ready at six.”
Gabriel Caine prepares an omelet.
Cheddar cheese and eggs from the walk-in cooler and mushrooms from a can.
There is plenty to drink. Juice, soft drinks, coffee and tea.
And he has an unopened bottle of Scotch that he picked up outside of LaGuardia earlier.
Gabriel will make note of everything that he eats and drinks at Mitch’s, and will make sure that he leaves enough money to cover it all.
Before beginning the humble meal, Gabriel Caine says a silent prayer of thanks for the food and shelter he has been given.
And he solemnly swears that he will remain worthy.
TWENTY FOUR
Vota, Samson and Ivanov stand at Gabriel Caine’s door at six forty-five on Wednesday morning, search warrant in hand. The Crime Scene Investigators wait on the street.
Samson rings the doorbell and after a few moments he pounds on the door itself.
Samson steps back to consult with Vota.
“Well?” he asks.
“It’s still your turn to kick one in,” says Vota.
“It’s unlocked,” says Ivanov, pushing the door open.
There is a pile
of mail at the threshold, a larger pile under a table to the left of the doorway. The living room in front is littered with assorted plates and drinking glasses, clothing scattered everywhere.
“Looks like the maid hasn’t been in for a while,” says Vota.
The television is turned on, tuned to an all-cartoon network with the sound muted.
A hallway leads from the front to the other rooms in the house. On the left, a small dining room connecting to the kitchen. On the right, two bedrooms. At the end of the hall, the bathroom.
“Bring in the crime scene guys, Lou,” says Samson.
The detectives walk into the bathroom. There is a second door connecting to the master bedroom. The medicine cabinet mirror above the sink is smashed. The cracks in the shattered glass move out from a dent in the center of the cabinet door, the size of a fist.
A child’s toothbrush lies in the sink basin.
The bathtub is full of water, rubber toys float on its calm surface.
“Start in here,” Samson tells the evidence team as he leads Vota and Ivanov into the bedroom.
There is a crib against the wall opposite the large bed. The bed is neatly made, and looks as if it has not been slept in for some time. Framed photographs sit on a chest of drawers. A young boy on a bicycle with training wheels, a proud father at his side. A wedding photo, an attractive young couple, eyes full of excitement and hope.
A photograph taken in front of the house. Gabriel Caine holding the boy in his arms, his wife visibly pregnant, a realtor’s sign on the front lawn. Sold.
“They were a lovely family,” says Ivanov as they move to the other bedroom.
The floor in the boy’s room is strewn with toys. An area at the foot of the bed is clear, the size of a man’s body. A half empty bottle of Scotch sits at its center.
“He’s been sleeping there, on the floor,” says Ivanov.
“Look here,” says Vota, holding a coloring book in his gloved hand, both covers cleanly torn off.
Samson looks away from the wall above the bed. It is all he has focused on since entering the room. The entire wall is covered with writing, in crayon.
“Quotes from the Bible, most if not all from the Book of Job,” says one of the CSI team coming into the room.
“I want photographs of every word,” says Samson.
The three detectives move on to the kitchen.
The floor is covered in trash. Newspapers, discarded mail, a greeting card displaying a large red heart.
The sink is full of dishes, glasses and silverware. The stove top crowded with unwashed pans. A package of X-Acto knife blades on the counter, one or two removed.
An unopened box of crayons. A stocking cap.
And a large manila envelope.
Samson reads the address, written across the front of the envelope in crayon. As unbelievable as it seems, he is not surprised.
Samson pulls on a pair of latex gloves, lifts the envelope and reluctantly spills out the contents.
A plastic bag falls onto the counter. It holds a star sapphire ring.
Samson pulls out a piece of yellow construction paper. The note is neatly written in large block letters, in green crayon.
And all the first born of the land shall die. And throughout the land there shall be such a wailing as never was heard before.
“This explains why Gabriel Caine’s third victim was a daughter and not a son,” says Samson. “He was going after the eldest children.”
“What third victim?” asks Ivanov.
“Whose daughter?” asks Vota.
Samson lifts the envelope and holds it up to Vota and Ivanov. It reads Titan1, above a Shore Road street number. An address Samson had very recently become familiar with.
The address of the house where Brenda Territo paid for the sins of her father.
“I don’t understand,” says Ivanov.
“There really isn’t much for us to do here,” Samson says. “Let’s give the CSI team a little space do their job. Meet me back at the Precinct and I’ll try to explain it to you, as much as it defies explanation.”
Samson places the envelope down on the counter. Vota and Ivanov silently follow him out of the house. The three detectives leave for the Precinct, in separate cars.
Samson calls ahead to Desk Sergeant Kelly. Kelly has fresh coffee and bagels waiting for them in the squad room when they arrive. Vota and Ivanov dig into the food while Samson fills them in on his talk with Agent Stone.
“How horrible for the parents of these children,” says Ivanov. “Especially the innocent mothers.”
“So, what’s the game plan, Sam?” asks Vota.
“I’ve done all the talking and you’ve done all the eating. You’re at least as good as I am at game plans, Lou. You tell me.”
“First, we put out an all-points. Pick up Gabriel Caine on sight.”
“I agree,” says Samson.
“I’ll do it now,” says Vota.
“You ate all the good bagels,” says Samson to Ivanov as Vota makes the phone calls. “What are those two sorry looking things you left for me?”
“I’m guessing banana nut and oat bran,” says Ivanov.
“Not that it really matters, but which is which?”
“The one sprinkled with what looks like fingernail clippings is the oat bran.”
“Pass the banana nut,” says Samson, thinking he’d give his left ventricle for a bacon, cheese and egg sandwich.
Murphy is dreaming. A woman is lying close to him in his bed, waking him with a kiss. The woman looks very much like a certain detective from the 63rd.
Murphy opens his eyes as Ralph licks his cheek again.
“The APB is going out now, citywide,” says Vota, once he is sure that Samson has given up entirely on the bagel.
“It’s possible that Caine may never come back,” says Samson. “As far as we know, Territo’s daughter could have been last on his list. There’s no telling where he went from Tampa. We’ll call the airlines, but if he hopped a bus it could take a very long time to track him down.”
“I still believe that when Caine is done he will let us know somehow,” says Ivanov.
“What do we do about Tony Territo?” asks Vota.
“Find out when the viewing begins at the funeral home and we’ll plan to be at Torregrossa’s when Territo and his wife arrive. I think that one or both of them will be able to identify the sapphire ring. We’ll try getting warrants to search the house, his car, his office at Titan Imports and the garage he leased from Colletti. We’ll claim we’re looking for evidence to prove that he was involved in the accident with Caine,” says Samson. “We’ll be looking for the weapon that killed Colletti and for hot German cars.”
“We can bring Territo in for questioning while the searches go forward,” says Vota.
“We’ll do that. If all goes well, we should be able to charge him with grand theft auto, leaving the scene of an accident, maybe even vehicular homicide,” Samson says.
“And if it goes very well,” says Vota, “we can charge Territo with four counts of first-degree murder.”
“Tony Territo is going to have a very bad day,” says Ivanov.
Victoria Anderson buzzes Lorraine at her desk.
“There’s a Rowdy Barnwell on the line,” she says. “I didn’t realize the Rodeo was in town.”
“Put him through,” says Lorraine.
“Ms. DiMarco, an emergency has come up,” Dr. Barnwell says. “A very important public official, whose name I can’t mention, is scheduled for brain surgery at Bethesda Naval Hospital on Monday afternoon. I’ve been asked to fly into Maryland that morning for a consultation with the surgeons.”
“I’m impressed. So, I guess you’re calling to postpone my operation.”
“Actually, I was hoping we could move it up to this Friday.”
“As in the day after tomorrow?”
“Ms. DiMarco. Is it alright if I call you Lorraine?”
“Go for it.”
“Lorraine, let’s do it on Friday. Trust me, you’ll be glad to get it over with. And besides, if I screw up in Maryland, I may never be heard from again.”
“That was a joke, right?”
“Yes it was.”
“I’d advise you not to give up the operating room for the comedy club,” says Lorraine. “What time on Friday?”
Murphy walks into the squad room at nine. Samson asks Ivanov to bring Murphy up to speed because Samson is tired of the sound of his own voice.
By ten, they have warrants to search Territo’s home, his office, the garage on 41st Street and to search and impound any personal vehicles. The wake is scheduled to begin at one that afternoon, Vota and Ivanov plan to be there in time to greet the parents when they arrive.
Samson will remain at the Precinct to coordinate the hunt for Gabriel Caine and take reports from the warrant teams. He also plans to be there when Territo is brought in, and to be present for Territo’s interrogation.
Rosen will work out of her own Precinct, and will be available if needed.
Samson has not yet resolved the question of Detective Andy Chen.
This leaves only Detective Murphy and Officer Landis free to respond to a felony homicide at a liquor store on Avenue X.
A solo gunman had been interrupted during an attempted robbery by a customer who walked in at precisely the wrong time and was shot and killed before the gunman fled.
Murphy and Landis arrive and are filled in by one of the two uniformed officers who were first at the scene.
“Guy over there,” says the officer. “Duffy. Owns the place. Comes in this morning, takes about fifteen minutes to set up, opens the door for business. The perp walks in, pulls a gun, and asks for the money. Now, there isn’t much cash on hand first thing in the morning. In fact, Duffy makes the point, thinks it’s funny or something, that if the guy waits until closing time we’re talking three, maybe four grand. As it is, Duffy’s got about one-hundred-fifty in the drawer. Duffy’s getting the dough out, no argument, and the poor bastard lying on his back over there walks in. The perp gets spooked, turns and pops the guy once in the chest and hits the high road. And that’s all she wrote.”