Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “Duffy’s the only witness?” asks Murphy.

  “I guess someone could have seen the shooter run out.”

  “Why don’t you and your partner hit the street and ask around?” asks Murphy.

  When the uniforms leave, Murphy and Landis move to the witness. Duffy is working with a sketch artist, and Murphy watches the artist put on the finishing touches.

  Murphy’s reaction is just short of audible as he looks down at the drawing.

  It looks like his brother, Michael.

  Murphy calms down and silently reprimands himself.

  Fucking paranoid bastard, every police sketch you see looks like Michael to you. And you know a police sketch rarely comes close to being a useful ID. Get the fucking needle out of your arm.

  “Kind of looks like you,” says Landis, standing beside Murphy, thinking it pretty amusing.

  “I’ve drawn this guy, just yesterday,” says the sketch artist. “A street mugging. The victim was stabbed. Close to Beth Israel Hospital. I’ll check it out when I get back to my desk.”

  “You okay, Murphy?” Landis asks.

  “Depends on what you mean by okay.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “Asked what?”

  “61st Detectives, Vota speaking.”

  “Are you free for dinner tonight, Detective?”

  “Yes I am, Counselor.”

  “How about seven at my apartment? I’ll cook.”

  “I’ll bring the wine.”

  “See you at seven,” says Lorraine.

  “Everything alright?” asks Vota.

  “See you at seven. Ask me then.”

  “FBI, Stone.”

  “This is Samson; we got into Caine’s house. We found enough to bring him in, but we don’t know where he is. We have the entire NYPD out looking, but I it wouldn’t hurt to have the FBI out also. Two heads are better than one.”

  “Sure,” says Stone. “I’ll bring it to Ripley.”

  “You were right about Territo, by the way. We found what we’re pretty sure is his daughter’s ring on Caine’s kitchen counter. We’re planning to bring Territo in later today.”

  “Caine didn’t have time to take a finger, so he took her ring. It’s spooky,” says Stone.

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Are you sure that Caine is coming back?” The Territo girl could have settled the score.”

  “According to Delta Airlines, Gabriel Caine took a return flight to LaGuardia yesterday afternoon. And we found his car abandoned on 2nd Avenue and 63rd Street in Brooklyn this morning.”

  “Lieutenant, would you mind if I took a peek around Caine’s place? Maybe there’s something that could help us find him.”

  “Something that we may have missed?”

  “That’s not what I was implying, Lieutenant,” Stone says. “Remember what you said about two heads.”

  “I’m sorry, Agent Stone. I’ve heard a lot about how the FBI likes to take over.”

  “That’s just in the movies, and definitely not in Ripley’s nature. He’s told me more than once to stay out of your hair. Seeing Caine’s place is more about my curiosity than anything else, and about my education.”

  “Feel free to look around all you like, Agent Stone, and if you do find something we may have overlooked, feel free to beat me over the head with it. Please.”

  “Thank you. And Lieutenant, my name is Winona. If you felt so inclined you could call me Win.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” says Samson.

  Murphy returns to the 61st Precinct after he and Landis had accompanied the sketch artist to his work desk.

  The artist found the drawing he remembered doing with the mugging victim the day before. Murphy had seen that drawing already, in a folder from the back seat of Rosen’s car. Landis and the artist compared the two drawings, and the resemblance was close enough for Officer Landis to note in his crime report that the suspect in the felony homicide at the liquor store was possibly also a suspect in a recent stabbing in the 63rd.

  Murphy thought that the liquor store drawing, of the suspect who he was sure couldn’t be his brother, looked a lot more like Mike than the earlier drawing of the suspect who Murphy knew was his brother. Not a pleasant thought.

  A connection between the two crimes made Mike’s situation more dangerous, whether Michael was at the liquor store or not. Murphy thought not, but there was information that he wasn’t sharing with his colleagues so he said nothing.

  If Murphy didn’t find his brother soon, they were both fucked.

  When Murphy walks into the squad room, Samson is there alone. Vota and Ivanov had just left for the funeral home.

  Murphy calls his mother the moment he reaches his desk. No word from Michael.

  “What’s up?” asks Samson from across the room.

  “Could you be a little less specific?”

  “I can give it a shot. That’s about the tenth time in the past two days I’ve heard you call looking for your brother. Is he missing or something?”

  “He had a fight with my mother is all. He stormed out of the house, hasn’t called her. Probably shacking up with a girlfriend. My mom is upset is all. Why so interested?” asks Murphy, trying not to sound defensive.

  “Missing people are the rage these days, is all,” says Samson, trying not to sound offensive. “Need any help?”

  “No, but thanks for asking.”

  Rosen walks in and breaks an awkward silence.

  “Miss us already?” asks Samson.

  “I thought you might want to see this, though I’m sure you don’t want to see it,” says Rosen, walking to Samson’s desk and handing him a copy of the Tribune.

  “Son of a bitch,” says Samson, after quickly reading the short piece by Serena Huang. “Is there absolutely no one who can be trusted. This is all we fucking needed.”

  “I’ll give ten-to-one odds we get a confession today,” says Murphy, “and it won’t be Gabriel Caine.”

  “I’m much more worried about a copycat,” says Samson.

  Everyone is pacing the squad room waiting for the phone call from Vota.

  As soon as Territo arrives at the funeral home they will move. Murphy to Titan Imports on 4th Avenue, with a two-man backup along. Landis to the garage on 41st, with three other uniforms along. Rosen to meet Ivanov at the house on Shore Road, with a tow truck on call if needed.

  “Reminds me of the Tet Offensive,” says Samson.

  A stretch limousine pulls up in front of Torregrossa and Sons just before one. Vota telephones Samson as he and Ivanov watch Tony Territo’s parents, his wife and son, and finally Territo himself climb out of the limo.

  “Got him, Sam,” says Vota. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Showtime,” says Samson to the others.

  Vota approaches Territo with his shield in hand.

  “Mr. Territo, I’m Detective Sergeant Vota, NYPD. We need you over at the 61st Precinct to answer a few questions.”

  “Am I under arrest?” says Territo.

  “Only if you want it that way,” says Vota.

  “Barbara, take Anthony and my parents inside,” says Territo to his wife.

  Barbara Territo quickly complies. Ivanov follows them into the building.

  “What’s this about?” asks Territo.

  “We’d prefer talking at the Precinct,” says Vota.

  “Do you realize that you are taking me away from my wife and son at a very bad time?”

  “I do. We’ll try not to keep you long,” says Vota.

  “And if I won’t come?”

  “You mean if you won’t come voluntarily?” asks Vota, raising his arm to signal the two officers sitting in the patrol car across the Avenue. “We have warrants to search your house and your vehicles, Mr. Territo. You may want to let us have keys. It would save unnecessary damage.”

  Territo angrily hands Vota a key ring as the two uniformed officers reach them.

  “By the way,” says Vota, ta
king a plastic bag from his pocket. “Do you recognize this?”

  “That’s my daughter’s ring. Where did you get that?”

  “One of our investigators found it outside your house, we’ll make certain that it’s safely returned to you when our investigation is complete,” says Vota. “Are you ready to come along to the Precinct?”

  “Let me tell my wife I’m leaving.”

  “My partner is inside letting Mrs. Territo know now,” says Vota. “Please escort Mr. Territo to the 61st Precinct, Officers. I’ll be following right behind you. I need to get these keys to Detective Ivanov.”

  “Mrs. Territo, I’m Detective Ivanov, 60th Precinct. I am very sorry to trouble you at such a difficult time, but it’s unavoidable,” says Marina.

  “What is this about?”

  “Your husband has gone off with Detective Vota for questioning, in regard to a car accident on the sixteenth of last month. Do you know anything about the incident?”

  “My husband was in Boston on business,” says Barbara Territo. “His car was damaged in the parking garage at the hotel. What kind of people are you? To take my husband away from his family at a time like this?”

  She really doesn’t know, thinks Ivanov.

  “Enforcers of the law, Mrs. Territo, that’s all. Just doing our job. I’m sure we will have your husband back to you soon. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’m very sorry about your daughter.”

  Before Barbara Territo can say another word, Detective Ivanov is quickly moving to the exit.

  Landis pounds on the large metal door until a man with a wrench in his hand opens the garage entrance.

  “Yes?” he says.

  “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “Are you crazy or just stupid? This building belongs to Dominic Colletti. It’s way out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Dominic Colletti sleeps with the fishes.”

  I’ve always wanted to say that, Landis thinks, as three more officers come up behind him.

  “Get names, addresses, Social Security and telephone numbers on everyone,” says Landis. “Then tell each suspect about the deep shit he’s in if he doesn’t have sense enough to start talking. Begin with Mr. Jurisdiction here.”

  Murphy walks into the showroom at Titan Imports and finds the office manager.

  “Murphy, NYPD,” he says. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “What is this about?” asks Theresa Fazio. “Is it about the car accident?”

  Bingo.

  “As a matter of fact it is,” says Murphy. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Samson has kept Territo sitting in an interview room for almost an hour, while the lieutenant waits for reports on the searches.

  Territo’s lawyer is already with his client.

  Landis reported that they found stolen vehicles and automobile parts, and have taken statements from the choir at the garage to back it up. They are in the process of recording vehicle serial numbers.

  Murphy in on his way back with Theresa Fazio. She is prepared to testify that she was with Territo on the night of January 16th, when Territo sideswiped another car while speeding onto the Belt Parkway at Bay Parkway. They were on their way to a hotel in Sheepshead Bay after closing a bar in Brooklyn Heights.

  Ivanov and Rosen had searched the Territo house, the Jeep Cherokee and the BMW.

  When Samson and Vota are finally ready to enter the interrogation room they have enough evidence to charge Territo with leaving the scene of an accident and with grand theft auto.

  The bad news is that none of the search parties found a weapon to connect Territo to the Colletti murders.

  “I still find it hard to believe that Territo ditched the gun,” says Samson.

  “We just couldn’t find it,” suggests Vota. “Territo is a megalomaniac, too proud of his heroic accomplishments to ditch the gun. He probably plans to give it to his son for the kid’s eighteenth birthday.”

  “Jesus, that’s it,” says Samson, picking up his phone. “We need one more search warrant.”

  Wednesday evening at half past six, the 61st is quiet.

  Tony Territo is charged, arraigned and out on bail.

  Lou Vota is on his way to pick up a bottle of wine for dinner at Lorraine’s.

  Murphy and Rosen have decided to dine together for the third straight evening, trying to remember whose turn it is to buy.

  Landis is on his way to the hospital to visit Mendez, stopping at Alfredo’s San Juan Deli for chicken, rice and black beans.

  “What would you say,” asks Barbara Territo, “if I told you that I know about you and your slut secretary?”

  Tony Territo says nothing.

  Samson and Ivanov are at the funeral home, a search warrant in hand. Evening visiting hours have not begun.

  “This is highly unusual, and offensive I might add,” says one of Torregrossa’s sons.

  “We appreciate the editorial,” says Samson, “and I’d like to take the time to discuss the merits, but we should do this before the family returns from dinner.”

  A few minutes later, two funeral employees are lifting Brenda Territo’s body from the casket and onto a gurney.

  The nine-millimeter handgun, silencer attached, sits on the satin bed.

  “You have to appreciate the gesture,” says Samson.

  “Let’s go pick Territo up,” says Ivanov.

  “It’s nearly seven. Territo’s probably on his way back here,” says Samson. “Let’s wait.”

  “What would you say,” asks Murphy, “if I told you my brother is a murder suspect-at-large and that I can’t find him anywhere?”

  “I would say try harder,” answers Rosen.

  In the limousine on the way back to the funeral home, Tony Territo’s cell phone rings.

  A call from a Torregrossa son.

  Barbara has not said a word to Tony since confronting him about being with Theresa on the night of the accident.

  Tony tells the driver to stop, to let him out, and to take his wife and son ahead.

  Barbara doesn’t care to ask why.

  “What would you say,” asks Lorraine, “if I told you that I have a brain tumor, which might be malignant, and that I’m scheduled for surgery to remove and diagnose the little son of a bitch on Friday morning?”

  “I would say that you waited long enough to tell me,” answers Vota.

  “Fuck,” says Samson, when the limo arrives without Tony Territo aboard.

  “Let’s go to his house,” says Ivanov, “and put out an APB on the way over.”

  “He won’t be at the house. Let’s bring the gun over to the ballistics people, then you can drop me back at the Precinct and you can take off. I’ll take care of Territo.”

  “I don’t mind handling it, Lieutenant,” says Ivanov. “Maybe you can still get home in time for dinner.”

  “Thanks. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

  “They’re burying Territo’s daughter in the morning.”

  “He’s going to miss it,” says Samson.

  “What would you say,” asks Landis, “if I told you that I saw a rat running across the floor of Alberto’s kitchen?”

  “I would say pass the blue Jell-O,” answers Mendez.

  “Stevie, can you pick me up?”

  “Sure, Tony, where are you?”

  “In serious trouble,” says Tony Territo.

  “What would you say,” asks Samson, “if I told you that I’d really like to retire in a few years, maybe go back to school, do something less insane for a living?”

  “I would say why wait,” answers Alicia.

  TWENTY FIVE

  Thursday. The 61st Precinct has remained quiet all morning.

  Fortunately for Samson, the flurry of television, radio and newspaper inquiries inspired by Serena Huang’s piece in the Tribune have all been directed to the NYPD Press Corps.

  The Department is stonewalling.

  Rosen is at the cemetery for Brenda Territo’s b
urial, on the outside chance that her father will show his face.

  Landis has a few days off.

  Samson is staring at his telephone.

  Murphy is out looking for his brother.

  Vota answers the call from Kelly at the front desk.

  “Yes?”

  “Lou, I got a guy down here says he killed the two boys. The guy said, and I quote, that will teach the little bastards not to point fingers at me, end quote.”

  “Great, did he bring his power garden shears?”

  “How’d you know?” asks Kelly.

  “Lucky guess. Cordless?”

  “Lou.”

  “Be right down.”

  Serena Huang has been trying to reach Samson since Wednesday.

  She tries a few more times on Thursday morning and is told a few more times that the lieutenant is unavailable.

  Meanwhile, Walter Gately has been pressing Serena for more of the story.

  “I’m shut out,” says Serena. “Samson won’t talk to me, and I can’t say I blame him. I knew we should have waited. No one is talking to anyone, if that’s any consolation.”

  “What about the detective friend of yours, who gave you the first leads?” asks Gately.

  “Thanks to me, that detective is off the case,” says Serena. “And he’s no longer a friend. I’ll be lucky if I have any friends left when this is over.”

  “I would be much more worried about the state of your career than the status of your friendships,” says Gately.