Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “He ran into the apartment building across Avenue S,” says Ivanov, joining them. “Ripley is there, out in front.”

  “He’s on the roof,” says Joe Campo.

  They all look up to the roof and see Gabriel Caine looking down at them.

  An hour later the avenue is jammed.

  Cars from the 60th, 61st and 62nd Precincts blockade all through-traffic on West 10th Street and along Avenue S.

  Uniformed officers keep onlookers back a good distance from the apartment building. Sal DiMarco and Bobby Hoyle stand among those gathered to the west of the intersection.

  A SWAT team is stationed at the fourth floor landing, at the foot of the stairs that lead to the roof. They are told to go no further until otherwise instructed.

  Officers have gone door-to-door telling residents to stay in their apartments or to clear out.

  Sharpshooters stand out on the street and on a nearby roof, instructed to hold fire unless otherwise ordered.

  Print, television and radio reporters have arrived and are still arriving. Serena Huang is only one of them.

  Frank Sullivan has been rushed by ambulance to Coney Island Hospital where doctors work on his chest wound.

  Rosen has arrived, as have Landis and Mendez. They stand with Joe Campo, Ivanov, Ripley and Murphy in front of the grocery store looking up at the roof.

  Occasionally, Caine can be seen peering down at them and at the crowd.

  Detective Thomas Murphy finds himself in charge.

  It is decided that Murphy and Ripley will go into the building to try talking to Gabriel Caine.

  They reach the SWAT team at the fourth-floor landing and can see the door that leads out to the roof.

  The door is wide open, but Caine is out of sight.

  Murphy and Ripley start up the stairs.

  On a Friday afternoon two weeks earlier, at about the same time of day, Joe Campo had led Vota and Samson up to this same roof. To the body of Billy Ventura.

  They reach the top of the stairs; neither man has drawn a weapon.

  Murphy calls from the doorway, “Gabriel Caine, this is Detective Murphy of the 61st Precinct. I’d like to talk with you.”

  “Is the man I shot going to be alright?” calls Caine.

  “Yes,” says Murphy, though he can’t be sure.

  “I didn’t mean to shoot, and I didn’t mean to hurt that other boy on Shore Road.”

  “Unbelievable. This guy has killed three children and he’s apologizing for smashing some kid’s knee,” Murphy whispers to Ripley.

  “He won’t be easy to talk down,” says Ripley, “but I don’t think he’ll use the gun. Except maybe on himself.”

  “Mr. Caine, please, we only want to talk.”

  “Who else is there?” calls Caine.

  Just half of the entire Brooklyn force.

  “Agent Ripley of the FBI,” says Murphy.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please, Mr. Caine,” says Murphy. “I have something to show you. It’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Let us come out,” says Murphy.

  Murphy and Ripley look at each other. And wait.

  “Just you,” Caine finally says. “Keep your hands in the air.”

  “Jesus, can you believe this?” says Murphy.

  “You don’t have to go out there,” says Ripley.

  “But I will. Do me a favor, Sundance,” Murphy says, smiling tentatively. “If Caine shoots me, kill the son of a bitch.”

  “You bet,” says Ripley, smiling at Murphy’s effort.

  “Okay, Mr. Caine, I’m coming out alone.” Murphy says. “Wish me luck, Ripley.”

  “Be careful, Butch,” Ripley says.

  Murphy takes a deep breath, pulls out the fax copy, raises his arms and steps out onto the roof.

  Caine is sitting with his back against the low brick wall that edges the roof on the north side of the building. He is pointing the gun directly at the doorway.

  “What do you have to show me?” he asks when Murphy steps into view.

  “It’s a letter,” Murphy says, waving the paper in his hand, “to you and your wife. Can I bring it over?”

  “Yes. Slowly.”

  “Be careful with that thing,” says Murphy, staring at the weapon as he moves toward Caine.

  Murphy slowly brings his arm down when he reaches the other man. Caine takes the paper. It is the faxed copy of the letter written by his son’s doctor.

  “Move back to the door,” says Caine.

  Murphy returns to the doorway.

  “Can I lower my arms?” Murphy asks.

  “Yes. And sit down there, near the door,” says Caine.

  Murphy sits. Caine holds the letter in one hand and reads. The other hand holds the gun, pointed in Murphy’s direction.

  “How is it going out there?” whispers Ripley from inside the doorway.

  “Couldn’t really tell you,” says Murphy.

  “The little girl?” says Caine.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The doctor says here that he needed to operate on a little girl that night, the night my boy died,” says Caine. “How is the girl?”

  “She’s fine,” says Murphy, having no idea and having no idea what else he could possibly say. “Dr. Campo saved the girl’s life.”

  “Thank God,” says Caine.

  Gabriel places the letter on the roof. He takes the bottle of holy water from his pocket and slowly begins to stand.

  As Caine rises, Murphy sees the bullets on the ground that had been blocked from view where Gabriel sat. Caine stands with his back to the avenue and extends his arm.

  Gabriel waves the unloaded weapon in his hand.

  Murphy quickly realizes Caine’s intention and jumps to his feet.

  “Hold your fire!” Murphy yells.

  A shot rings out.

  Caine is spun around by the violent impact of the bullet and he topples over the short brick wall as Ripley runs out onto the roof.

  Ripley reaches Murphy at the edge of the roof and they look down to the street below.

  Gabriel Caine’s body lies in the middle of the avenue.

  On a nearby roof, a marksman lowers his rifle.

  Back to TOC

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Gravesend has gone through a good number of transformations over the course of a dozen years.

  The book evolved into its present incarnation when I finally understood what I was humbly attempting to explore…namely how the manner in which human beings handle adversity will ultimately define them as persons…good or evil…weak or strong…fair or unjust…loved or despised…admired or feared.

  There are many good and fair and admirable people who helped make it possible for me to complete the long journey…I need to mention a few.

  LINDA ABRAMO MICHAELS, for being my most dedicated fan and most effective publicist…and the greatest sister a boy could possibly hope for.

  JANIS McWAYNE, for being there at the beginning.

  DANIELLA BaRASHEES and SONNY WASINGER, for years of support and encouragement.

  STEVEN ALTMAN, for bringing ART into the conversation as regularly as possible.

  TUPPER CULLUM, for being himself.

  ERIC CAMPBELL, for working with me so diligently at getting the novel ready for general consumption.

  And finally, for giving me another opportunity to get the words out, I acknowledge my boundless appreciation to Down & Out Books.

  —J.L. Abramo, Denver, Colorado

  Back to TOC

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  J.L. ABRAMO was born in the oceanside paradise of Brooklyn, New York on Raymond Chandler’s 59th birthday. Abramo received a BA in Sociology and Education from City College of the City University of New York and an MA in Social Psychology from the University of Cincinnati. He has been a long-time educator, a producer and director of theatre, and an actor on stage and in film; with a number of television credits including roles on Homicide: Life on the St
reet and Law and Order. Abramo’s first novel, Catching Water in a Net, was recipient of the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Award for Best First Private Eye Novel. Catching Water in a Net and two follow-up Jake Diamond mysteries, Clutching at Straws and Counting to Infinity, originally published in hardback, are now available for all ebook reading devices from Down & Out Books. Abramo is a card-carrying member of the Screen Actors Guild and the Mystery Writers of America.

  For more information please visit JLAbramo.com or follow the author on Facebook.

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  OTHER TITLES FROM DOWN & OUT BOOKS

  See DownAndOutBooks.com for a complete list

  By J.L. Abramo

  Catching Water in a Net

  Clutching at Straws

  Counting to Infinity

  Gravesend

  Chasing Charlie Chan

  Circling the Runway (*)

  By Trey R. Barker

  2,000 Miles to Open Road

  Road Gig: A Novella

  Exit Blood

  By Richard Barre

  The Innocents

  Bearing Secrets

  Christmas Stories

  The Ghosts of Morning

  Blackheart Highway

  Burning Moon

  Echo Bay

  Lost (*)

  By Milton T. Burton

  Texas Noir

  By Reed Farrel Coleman

  The Brooklyn Rules

  By Tom Crowley

  Viper’s Tail

  Murder in the Slaughterhouse (*)

  By Frank De Blase

  Pine Box for a Pin-Up

  Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights

  The Cougar’s Kiss (*)

  By A.C. Frieden

  Tranquility Denied

  The Serpent’s Game (*)

  By Jack Getze

  Big Numbers

  Big Money

  Big Mojo (*)

  By Keith Gilman

  Bad Habits

  By Don Herron

  Willeford (*)

  By Terry Holland

  An Ice Cold Paradise

  Chicago Shiver

  By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)

  Last Exit to Murder

  By Jon Jordan

  Interrogations

  By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)

  Murder and Mayhem in Muskego

  By David Housewright & Renee Valois

  The Devil and the Diva

  By David Housewright

  Finders Keepers

  By Jon Jordan

  Interrogations

  By Bill Moody

  Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz

  The Man in Red Square

  Solo Hand (*)

  The Death of a Tenor Man (*)

  The Sound of the Trumpet (*)

  Bird Lives! (*)

  By Gary Phillips

  The Perpetrators

  Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)

  Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers

  By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes

  Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)

  By Robert J. Randisi

  Upon My Soul

  By Lono Waiwaiole

  Wiley's Lament

  Wiley's Shuffle

  Wiley's Refrain

  Dark Paradise

  (*) Coming soon

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview of Richard Barre’s third Wil Hardesty novel The Ghosts of Morning…

  PROLOGUE

  Huntington Beach, California, 1966

  Surreal, that was how he'd play it—Dutch angles and following shots, the close-ups pinched tight—that sort of offness that went with the territory. The scene begged for it: boxy tract house, pseudo-Spanish with a hot-mop-and-tarpaper roof; geraniums around the foundation; dated-looking streetlights in a neighborhood well back from the water and the stores, the only hint of beach a salt-laced drippy fog that in a few hours would greet early risers like a slap with a wet towel.

  Normal except for the spinning cop-car lights that bathed it in strobes of red and yellow. The surreal part.

  Lannie Crowell snapped the snaps on his fleece-lined aviator vest, flipped up its collar against the dampness. Checking the settings on his old Bell & Howell one more time, he fired off a master shot, knowing he'd have to bump it two stops to even get it, overcome the inadequate glow from his jury-rigged sun-gun. Save it in the soup—always the way at KTVB, the news director there not above using Sterno if there was a chance it might develop film. Real five-cent station in a big-buck business.

  No problem, Mom-o, Lannie thought, stay arid. Insert shots coming up.

  He was early—earlier than he'd hit one before—and the crime scene hadn't been roped off yet, though a couple of cops were behaving in their usual officious way, shoving some wide-eyed neighbors around. Luckily they hadn't taken stock of him yet, and he was close enough to see fine. Especially when one of them pulled off the covering for a look. Through the lens, the girl, Carmen Marquez from his police scanner listenings, looked to be about eighteen, not much younger than him. A pretty thing with dark hair and smeared red lipstick, jeans and white Keds. High-school jacket over a white shirt; head at an odd angle where she lay on the cracked cement walk.

  Knife handle sticking out of her chest.

  Lannie took a steadying breath, tried to keep the camera still. Don't blow it now: light touch on the button, sixteen-millimeter film humping through the aperture at twenty-four frames a second, other hand fumbling with the pawnshop Uher tape recorder slung over his shoulder—positioning the microphone to advantage, ambient sound the in thing these days. How you told the real stringers from the wannabes.

  "Jesus, Crowell, can't you think of anything better to do at four in the morning? Damn ghoul."

  He'd seen the cop before at other scenes, a pompous fat white guy in a nylon jacket—Richard Blakley on the tag over his left pocket. Writing something now on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard.

  "And step back."

  "Whatever you say, Officer Blakley. Any suspects at this time?"

  "No comment."

  "Somebody she knew?"

  "For the last time, back off."

  "Yes sir."

  Lannie moved back, focused in again—all pro, cool under fire. Whatever happened here, the cops had their jobs, he had his. And being known to them pleased him. It meant he was on his way—KNBC caliber, sky the limit then. National news, traveling with the president or somebody, on-the-road features, room service—make Mom-o whirl around like a tornado in her little box. The one he brought out occasionally to impress girls, knowing she was right there as they did it. Those that stuck around, anyhow.

  "Just serving the public's right to know," he added.

  "Right to know, my ass—and kill that damn light." Blakley head-gestured to a man and woman standing quietly off to the side with a boy about thirteen. "That's the family," he said in a lowered voice. "They came home and found her. How'd you like it?" He walked away, disgusted.

  What served for press relations these days, Lannie thought. No respect for a man's chosen profession. He regarded the three people, breaths further fogging the night air, expressions frozen in shock. Small was his first thought—small father, small mother, small boy—diminutive Hispanics dressed in light cotton windbreakers. Pale-looking small people huddled in the fragile light. He edged over in that direction, smiled sympathetically. Tried to look simpatico.

  "Lo siento mucho para su pérdida, señor y señora. Lannie Crowell, KTVB, hoping you'll let my viewers know what happened—what you're feeling." He said it quietly so the cops wouldn't hear, call him on what he actually was, a freelancer with no real business asking questions of anybody, let alone acting as an official KTVB news guy. But in this trade you made your own breaks, picked stuff up and went. If you didn't, somebody else damn well would.

  For a moment the trio just stared at him, his e
ye to the camera lens, the shouldered Uher picking up sound on its quarter-inch tape. Like he was from another planet. Then the father spoke—slowly as if it were an effort—heavily accented, fighting for control: "Look at what he did to her, that Van Zant boy," the father said. "He murdered my baby—a poor little Mexican girl. Hijo de puta thinks he can do anything because of his money. You tell your viewers that."

  An irate-looking neighbor started over, Lannie could sense it with his other eye, kept open and scanning like all the good ones did. Still he kept the B&H grinding, seeing the father put an arm around his lost-looking wife, the two of them turn away in tears as the boy glared at him, all protective rage and confusion.

  "You happy now, spook?" the big cop Blakley said. "I sure hope so. Now take a hike."

  Lannie was backing up, lowering the camera, wondering where he'd heard the name Van Zant before, when the sun-gun picked it up. A brief glint in the wet grass beside the walk. Quickly he shut off the light and the camera, lowered it, and knelt, pretending to fuss with the mount. Reaching a hand sideways, he took the thing in, the metal cold on his skin.

  Why he did it wasn't clear to him exactly, maybe it was the word spoken by the girl's father: money. A sense of something. Of possibility. At any rate, it wasn't until he was in his old V-Dub Kombi, revving away from the house, that he risked a look.