Black and Blue

by David Rosenfelt

  If we’re waiting for the shooter to make a mistake, we could be waiting awhile.

  By the time I get home it’s almost midnight and Jessie has waited up for me. She doesn’t even bother to say hello, she just says, “You got another note.”

  “Here at the house?”

  She nods. “I went out to get the mail a few minutes ago, and it was there.”

  “Did you open it?”

  She doesn’t answer, instead just frowns at me. It would be unprofessional and incompetent for her to have opened it, and she’s annoyed that I would think her capable of that.

  Oops.

  It’s on the dining room table, already placed by Jessie in one of those plastic gallon kitchen bags to protect it. A bunch of postal employees have obviously touched it, and it’s been through some postal machines, but protocol is to treat it as if it’s evidence gold, and that’s what Jessie has done.

  I look at the envelope through the plastic, and it seems similar to the first one. I can pretty much predict what it will say, but it will be up to forensics to examine it and tell me. In any event, it can wait until morning.

  But even without an examination, the note already tells me two things, the first of which Jessie verbalizes. “This was mailed yesterday,” she says. “If it relates to the hotel shooting, he knew what he was going to do, and when he was going to do it.”

  “Our boy is a planner,” I say. “And he’s confident. He knew he would get it done.”

  It’s up to me to say the other important thing that this note tells us. “He knows where we live.”

  “Yes, that much is clear.”

  My mind immediately starts mentally scanning our neighborhood, to think if there are any places a shooter can take a position at very long range and hit us in front of the house, or even through a window. I can’t think of any; the houses in this area are pretty close together. But I’m far from sure of it.

  “Starting now you need to wear a vest,” I say. “He’s playing with me, and taking a shot at you could be part of his fun and games.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” she says. Then, “You think it could be Phelan?”

  “Probably not, but I certainly don’t have any better ideas.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “I’ll bring this note in tomorrow morning, have it analyzed, and come up with nothing. Then I’ll go over the reports filed by every damn cop in the department, all of whom are working on this, and come up with nothing. Then I’ll look through the forensics on the hotel shooting, and come up with nothing.”

  “What then?”

  “And then I’ll put some more pressure on Phelan while I wait for the next shooting.”

  “Sounds like a fun day,” she says.

  Before we go to bed, I put the note up on a shelf for the night. I’m afraid that if Bobo should get hungry during the night and decide to eat the table, he might inadvertently eat the note as well. “The dog ate my evidence” excuse would be unlikely to go over well with Captain Bradley.

  The last thing I do is pull the drapes closed.

  Just in case.

  Cynthia Morris is Danny Phelan’s ex-wife.

  This is apparently not something she is eager to advertise, since she has dropped the name Phelan, though she had used it for the duration of their eight-year marriage.

  But just because she doesn’t want to use his name, that doesn’t mean she wants to avoid talking about him. On the contrary, when Nate set up this interview, she seemed very eager to do so. Nate’s guess, based on her response, was that she would not spend her time with us praising her ex.

  Ms. Morris lives on Twenty-Fourth Street in Paterson. The houses are well-kept, but no one is going to confuse the neighborhood with Beverly Hills. It’s populated by hardworking people who unfortunately usually have to live paycheck to paycheck.

  Even though we are in plain clothes and driving an unmarked car, a number of residents standing outside give us the stare as we arrive. They don’t seem angry or resentful; it’s more that our arrival is an interesting development in an otherwise dull day.

  I don’t think any of them doubts who we are; my guess is Ms. Morris told them we were coming. We are local celebrity-makers.

  She’s on the porch waiting for us as we walk toward her house. She’s a heavyset woman, probably fifty years old, wearing a dress that I would imagine is not her normal hanging-around-the-house outfit. She’s also wearing a good amount of makeup, which may or may not be her typical procedure.

  All we’re doing is stopping by to conduct an interview with her, but she prepared like she’s going to the prom. Had I known I would have brought a corsage.

  “You’re right on time,” she says, maybe thinking we are craving her approval. “Come on in.”

  We introduce ourselves and thank her for seeing us, and she asks if we want any coffee. Nate accepts the offer and I don’t, and she says that she thinks she has some Oreos to go with it. I think Nate may ask her to marry him.

  She comes back with a cup of coffee and an open box of Oreos, placing both down on the table in front of Nate. He shows admirable restraint, waiting almost five seconds before attacking the package.

  “Ms. Morris, as Detective Alvarez told you, we would like to talk to you about your husband.”

  “Ex-husband,” is her quick correction.

  “Sorry. Ex-husband. When were you divorced?”

  “Not soon enough,” she says.

  “Can you be more specific?” I’m doing most of the questioning, since Nate’s mouth is pretty much full of Oreos.

  “He left about twelve years ago, but he came back once in a while and tried to get me to give him more chances. I did a couple of times, but I’m not that stupid, you know? We were officially divorced about two years ago, not long before he went to prison.”

  “He had some drug issues?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Yeah, he had plenty of issues. I mean, I can take care of myself, and I was glad to get rid of him. But he had a daughter who loved him; she still does. Don’t ask me why, ’cause I sure as hell don’t know.”

  “Have you been reading about the shootings, or seeing the coverage on television?” I ask. There’s no way to ask her the questions we need to without her finding out why we’re asking.

  She nods. “Yeah, I heard about them.” Then she actually brightens. “Is that what this is about?”

  If Phelan were shown to be the killer, she would get the pleasure of his going down while at the same time assuming the role of biggest celebrity in the neighborhood. She’d have hit the daily double.

  “I’m sorry, but the way this works is that we need to ask the questions. It’s policy; when we can inform you of certain things, we will.”

  “Okay,” she says, obviously not happy with the policy.

  “Are you personally familiar with any of the victims? I’m specifically referring to Walter Brookings, Alex Randowsky, and Chuck, or Charles, Maglie?”

  “You mean did I know them?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “No, I never met them.”

  “What about Danny? Are you aware as to whether or not he knew any of them?”

  She thinks for a moment, trying to figure out how to implicate Phelan. “I don’t know for sure, but Danny knew a lot of people. I’ll bet he knew the men you’re talking about.”

  “Did Danny keep guns in the house?”

  “Are you kidding? He could have fought a war with them.”

  “Did he take them with him?” I ask.

  “You’re darn right. I didn’t want those things in my house for another second.”

  “We’re going to send some people around with a photograph of a rifle. We’ll want to know if you recognize it.”

  “OK,” she says. “Whatever I can do to help.”

  “When was the last time you saw Danny?”

  “Like I said, a couple of years. Just before he went to jail. I saw him with Julie on the street.”

  “Who’s
Julie?”

  “My daughter. His daughter. They’re big buddies now,” she says, with obvious disapproval. “She visited him in prison a bunch of times, although she tried to keep it from me.”

  “We’d like to talk with her. Does she live here?”

  She shakes her head. “She lives with her boyfriend; she thinks he’s going to marry her. She might be right, ’cause he gave her a ring. Julie and I got tired of fighting about her asshole father. She just has a blind spot about him.”

  “We’d like to talk to her,” Nate says, having swallowed enough of the cookies so that he can get a word out.

  Ms. Morris again completely ignores the issue; she’s not finished bad-mouthing her ex-husband. “He gives her nothing her whole life, but she calls him ‘Daddy.’ She visits him in prison, brings him stuff. Can you believe that?”

  “We’d like to talk to her,” Nate says, once again.

  “I mean he’s Mr. Perfect Father until she’s fourteen, then he starts doing drugs, and he has no time for her. So he takes off, making me mother and father. Who does that?”

  This is clearly a woman who has family issues; it’s time for me to jump in. “Ms. Morris, we understand what you have gone through, but we need to talk to your daughter.”

  “So talk to her. What do I care? Just don’t believe anything she says about her father.”

  She finally gives us Julie’s contact information. We thank her, Nate grabs two more Oreos, and we leave.

  We’re no sooner in the car than Jessie calls. “We’ve got a live one,” she says.

  “How so?”

  “Guy by the name of William Gero. He bought an M4 two years ago, and he’s a marksman; believe it or not, he owns a shooting range.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Of course that’s not it,” she says. “Shows a tendency toward violence. Two arrests for assault, though in both cases the charges were dropped. That’s the only reason he still has a gun license.”

  “Why were they dropped?”

  “Arresting officers think he threatened the victims, but they couldn’t make it stick. One of the victims was his ex-wife.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “You going to keep asking that?” she says. “When we get to the point where that’s it, I will so inform you.”

  I laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Jessie says. “The reason that woman was Gero’s ex-wife was that she divorced him. And when she divorced him, she was represented by none other than Alex Randowsky. And Mr. Randowsky reported after the fact that Gero threatened him.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Now that’s it,” she says.

  The River Edge Rifle and Pistol club is, not surprisingly, in River Edge.

  I’ve been to a couple of clubs like it, mostly for shooting contests, but never this one. It’s an upscale place, as befitting its location, which means that a good percentage of its clients are weekend shooters who enjoy pretending to be Roy Rogers. They also want to be able to protect their family at home, though if they ever have to use their guns, their families would be wise to take cover.

  There is an indoor and outdoor range, though the outdoor range cannot be seen from the street or the parking lot. But we can certainly hear the shots being fired as we pull into the nearly full lot. I would imagine that much of the clientele wants to get their outdoor practice in before winter hits.

  We’re here to see the owner and proprietor, William Gero, and because of the nature of our visit, we’re a little wary. By definition, our talking to Gero at this location means that he is armed.

  We head for the main desk. There’s a receptionist sitting there and a guy behind her doing something with a large glass case containing a bunch of weapons. I assume they are for show and not for rent to members; firearms are not bowling shoes.

  The receptionist asks if she can help us, so I show her my badge and say, “We’d like to talk to William Gero. Is he around?”

  The guy behind her whirls around, leaving no doubt that he is, in fact, Gero. “I’m Bill Gero,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

  I introduce Nate and myself and identify us as state police detectives. “Where can we talk?” I ask.

  He frowns to the point that it morphs into a moan. “Oh, come on. Is this about Randowsky? I told a friend of mine that I bet you’d come around.”

  “The question was, where can we talk?” Nate says.

  “What about right here?” Gero says, in effect challenging Nate, which in my experience is not usually a great idea.

  “What about at the station?” Nate says. “Let’s go.”

  Gero raises his hand in a quick surrender. “Okay. My office is private. We can go in there.”

  For a second I think Nate is going to drag the guy to the station by his collar, which we have no reason to want to do. Instead he nods, and we follow Gero back into his office.

  Once we’re seated, Nate says, “Tell us about Alex Randowsky.”

  “You know more about him than I do. He was a lawyer, he was a scumbag, and now he’s dead.”

  “You threatened him.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t threaten him. I called him a piece of shit and a few other stronger names, all of which were accurate. But I didn’t threaten him, and I sure as hell didn’t kill him.”

  “What did you have against him?” I ask.

  “He represented my ex-wife, and he got her to lie through her teeth. But hell, that was three years ago. You think I waited three years to take a shot at him?”

  “Where were you the night before last at six thirty?”

  “Night before last? You mean that hotel thing? You think I’m a goddamn serial killer? I think I need my lawyer here.”

  Nate picks up the phone on the desk and hands it to Gero. “Call him and tell him to meet us at the station in fifteen minutes.”

  Gero thinks for a moment and then says, “I’m not going to pay that son of a bitch’s hourly rate. Night before last at six thirty, I was here. Going over the books.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “No. We close at six.”

  “Do you have an M4?” I ask.

  “Is that what they used?”

  “That answer is not exactly right on point.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I have one. You probably know about it already because I bought it legally.”

  “What do you use it for?”

  He shrugs. “Target shooting. Right here at the club. Everything aboveboard.”

  “So it’s here right now?” I ask.

  “Yeah. This is where I shoot it … legally.”

  “Can we take it with us to check it out?”

  “No way. I don’t trust you guys. No offense.”

  I smile. “None taken.” Then I turn to Nate. “Maybe you should call for a warrant. We can all sit here until it comes through.” Then, back to Gero, “It’ll take a couple of hours, but we’re not walking out of here without the rifle.”

  It’s an empty threat; we don’t have nearly enough on Gero to get a warrant. All we have are suspicions, and suspicions don’t usually carry much weight with judges.

  But empty threats often work; that’s why we make them.

  “Yeah, you can take the damn rifle,” Gero says. “But you’d better bring it back.”

  “And then a bellman happened to fall. Ninety-five creeps left on the wall.”

  Sergeant Tony Arguello, who works in forensics, has brought Nate and me copies of the note that was mailed to me at the house. There’s no reason for us to see the original; since it’s evidence, we wouldn’t be able to touch it anyway.

  “You get anything off of it?” Nate asks.

  Arguello shakes his head. “No prints, no DNA, no nothing.”

  “And no surprise,” I say. “Any way to tell where it was mailed from?”

  “It went through the Englewood post office, but we have no way of knowing which box it was dropped in.”

  “
What about the paper and ink?”

  “Bic pen and the kind of computer paper you can buy in a ream at a supermarket,” he says. “This guy is not the type to make stupid mistakes.”

  “Which is probably why this won’t come to anything,” I say. I hand the rifle case that we got from Gero to Arguello. “There’s an M4 in there; test it to see if it matches our boy.”

  “Wow … you think there’s a chance?”

  “No,” I say. “But test it anyway.”

  Once he leaves, I call to arrange for a patrolman to take some photographs of an M4 out to Danny Phelan’s ex-wife to see if she recognizes it as something that he owned. It’s a long shot, but that’s all we seem to have to deal with.

  The internal phone rings and I pick it up. It’s the desk sergeant, who says, “There’s a woman out here wanting to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. She says she’s Danny Phelan’s daughter.”

  “Send her in.”

  I quickly let my mind go through all that I’ve learned about Julie Phelan from the files and from her mother. She is twenty-four years old, and even though her father abandoned her and her mother when she was fourteen, she has remained an ardent supporter of his.

  She was a frequent visitor of his in prison; the prison records show that she was the only visitor Danny Phelan ever had. So it’s rather likely that she is here to tell us that he is totally, completely, and absolutely innocent.

  “Hi,” she says, when she walks in. She seems a bit shy and almost reluctant to step in the office.

  I introduce Nate and myself to her, offer her a soda or water, and ask her to sit down. She asks for a bottle of water and takes a big gulp of it before launching into the reason she’s here.

  “My mother told me that you came to talk to her about my Dad.”

  Nate nods. “We did. We were going to come talk to you as well, but you beat us to it. So thank you for that.”

  “She doesn’t understand him,” Julie says. “He’s a good person, and all he wants is a second chance. She wouldn’t give him that chance, and he’s better off without her.”