Saints Of New York

by R.J. Ellory

  'Murdered, I understand.'

  'Yes. As were three or four of the original twelve as far as I can work out.'

  'How did you feel about that?'

  'Feel? Jesus, I don't know. What the hell are you supposed to feel when your father is murdered?'

  'Were you angry with him?'

  'For what?'

  'For being corrupt?'

  'Angry? No. I don't think anger would have been the appropriate emotion, and I certainly didn't feel that at the time. I think I was just disappointed, you know? All those chances he had to be a decent guy, he just turned out to be an asshole.'

  'And your mother died shortly afterwards. What happened?'

  'Nothing happened. She just died . . . four months later. Went to sleep one night and didn't wake up. Autopsy said it was congenital heart failure, but she was one of those women who lived for her husband and when he was gone there was just no point carrying on.'

  'Were you upset?'

  'Sure I was. Far more about her than I had been about him.' 'And did she know what her husband was involved in? Did she know that he was corrupt?'

  'Of course she did. God, they had more money than he ever could have earned as a cop. They had stashes of cash all over the place. Nothing was ever banked, and there were no records, no receipts, nothing like that. Just shoeboxes and paper bags full of money stuffed down the back of cupboards, and wedged beneath floorboards and under the insulation in the attic. And he kept moving it. Like he figured someone was out there keeping track of where he put it. Sometimes he would just go crazy, digging holes in the back yard and burying it, only to dig it all up again three days later and put it somewhere else.'

  'Did you take any of it?'

  'God no! I wouldn't have dared. He knew exactly how much was where at any given time.'

  'And some of this money came from the Lufthansa robbery?'

  'It must have done, yes.'

  'How much?'

  'I can only guess.'

  'So guess.'

  'About two hundred thousand dollars, I'd say.'

  'And the other men?'

  'There were half a dozen of them involved, as far as I could work out. They each got about the same. Two hundred grand, six guys . . . ? That's one point two million. They took the best part of six million, and only a hundred grand was ever recovered.'

  'How come they got so much?'

  'Because it was a big score. It took a lot of balls to pull that off. This happened in '78, and the case was immediately assigned to the OCCB. They investigated it, of course, and any time they found anyone who knew something, any time they got hold of someone who even looked like they might talk, they killed them. All of those guys who were involved, they protected their own interests, they protected Jimmy Burke. It was, as we say, a mutually beneficial arrangement.'

  'Your father killed witnesses?'

  'Witnesses, informants, all sorts of people. You think that a robbery of that magnitude isn't going to leave things wide open everywhere you look? There were people all over the place, through every level of the Lucchese family, who knew about Jimmy Burke and the Lufthansa heist. They couldn't afford to have anyone talking. Not only would they have lost their jobs, but they would have gone to jail and they would've had to give back the money. Back in '78 a couple of hundred grand was a huge amount of money.'

  'So tell me what happened at JFK.'

  'JFK? JFK was like a bottomless purse for these guys. They kept putting their hands in it, and back they came all full of money again.'

  'I'd like to know more about your father. The people he worked with.'

  'Well, you and I are going to have to talk about that tomorrow. I have to go trawl the hair salons and beauty parlors with Radick and show the girl's picture.'

  'You know, Frank, you're supposed to be here for an hour every day, and mostly you stay for half of that. And you waste time going out to get coffee.'

  'So what? You're gonna tell on me?'

  'No, Frank, I'm not going to tell on you.'

  'Well, you got me talking. Take a win on that, eh? Take a win on the fact that you got Frank Parrish talking about his old man. Keep this up and you'll have me crying like a baby on the couch and wanting to tell my mom how bad I've been.'

  'I'll see you tomorrow, Frank ... a little later. Say ten-thirty?'

  'You work Saturdays?'

  'Yes. And good luck with the girl.'

  'Appreciated.'

  SIXTEEN

  It made sense to start in Brooklyn, so they did. Three blocks eachway from Danny Lange's apartment. They stayed together, walking the streets and visiting beauty salons, boutiques, manicurists, pedicurists, hairstylists, even massage parlors, in the hope that there might be some small unit in back that filed and painted nails.

  Once they had exhausted all possibilities, they drove north-east to Williamsburg and started all over again. Three blocks each way from Helen Jarvis's house, knocking on doors only to have those doors closed abruptly on them; asking questions; producing IDs, showing the picture - What do you say her name was? Rebecca what? - and then winding up back at the car no wiser than when they'd started. No-one had recognized Rebecca, seemed like no- one wanted to recognize her.

  As far as Radick could see they had covered all bases. The school principal, Trevitt at the Williamsburg 91st Precinct, Helen Jarvis; they'd even submitted a request for a complete schedule of all calls received by Rebecca's school at the time in question. How many calls there would be Radick had no idea, or whether they'd have a prayer of isolating the one that came in from the girl's fictitious father ... It was a futile activity, he knew that, but it was an avenue that had to be pursued.

  'Her friends,' Parrish said. 'I'm going to go over to the school and talk to her friends. And I want to go alone.'

  Radick questioned his decision.

  'One is less intimidating, less official. These are kids we're talking to.'

  Radick said he'd drive Parrish over there. They agreed that if anything came up in conversation with one of the kids then

  Parrish would have to get Radick back over there to witness any statement. If Parrish took it alone it would not be valid.

  Parrish called David Carlisle, the principal, who was wary, but didn't refuse the request. He did say, however, he would have to have the school counsellor present for all interviews.

  The partners drove to the school after lunch. They arranged that Parrish would call Radick to pick him up when he was done - if he didn't need Radick sooner.

  Carlisle was good to his word, and had set aside an office for Parrish and the counsellor.

  'Ruth Doyle,' she said, introducing herself with a firm and businesslike handshake. I am here on the same terms, that handshake said. I can cut it with the best of you. She had on a skirt suit - the kind of not-too-casual-not-too-smart outfit that said she was here to do a job, but she could still relate to the kids. Parrish had seen a hundred thousand such people - in Social Services, Child Services, Welfare - and they all said the same things and thought the same thoughts. They were servants of the bureaucratic machine and, however hard they tried to make a difference, they were still rigidly bound by a system that dictated they possess no initiative.

  'We have a good two dozen,' she told Parrish. 'These are people that knew Rebecca by name, shared classes, some of the friends she hung out with. We appreciate the need for this, but the truth of the matter is that they are all pretty shaken up by what's happened. The principal said a few words to the whole school yesterday, and we've had a priest in from St. Barnaby's to talk to the ones that needed . . . well, the ones that took it hardest.'

  'I really appreciate your help,' Parrish said, and he smiled as sincerely as he could. His head hurt from the night before. He'd chewed a couple of aspirin on the way over, and the bitter aftertaste hung there in the back of his mouth. He could have used a cup of coffee but he knew that getting one would be more trouble than it was worth.

  First up was a frail and timid girl
with thick-lensed spectacles. She spent five minutes trying not to look scared, and seemed extraordinarily relieved to get out of the room. Next was a dark- haired teenager who said he'd dated Rebecca.

  'Well, kind of dated,' he added, smiling awkwardly. He had braces top and bottom, his hand hovering in front of his mouth in an effort to hide them when he spoke. 'We were just friends really. But this was like six, twelve months ago, and we never really went anyplace, you know? We just hung out. We were into the same kind of tunes, that's all.'

  Third was a girl not dissimilar in height and build to Rebecca, but her hair was darker, longer, tied back behind her head in a ponytail. She cried from start to finish, in her hand a balled-up fist of Kleenex, a metal stud in her tongue that seemed to make speech a chore.

  After an hour Parrish was fading. Ten gone, thirteen or fourteen to go.

  It was a young man called Greg Kaufman that changed things.

  Like that other girl that my sister knew.

  'I'm sorry?' Parrish said.

  'The other girl. The other one who died last year. It reminded me of that. I mean, Rebecca I didn't know very well really. We took a couple of classes together and she seemed real nice, but when I heard about it I thought of the girl that died last Christmas, you know? I think she was strangled as well.'

  'What girl?'

  'I don't remember her name - Clara, Carla, Carly - something like that. My sister would know. My sister and her were real good friends.'

  'And your sister is here at this school?'

  'No, she's at Waterbury up near the Grand Street subway station.'

  'And your sister's name?'

  'Hannah, Hannah Kaufman.'

  Parrish made a note of it.

  One other girl provided something of interest. Brenda Grant said she and Rebecca had spoken about Danny, Rebecca's brother.

  'Becca told me he knew he was in trouble about something or other.' She looked up at Parrish nervously. 'You know - um - I guess you know he was into drugs, right?' She asked the question hesitantly, as if this was somehow her fault.

  'Yes, Brenda, I knew Danny quite well.'

  'Well, I don't know if this trouble he was in was anything to do with the drugs, but Becca told me that she was really worried about him, that he might have gotten himself into some difficulties.' 'Did she say what kind of difficulties? Or who he might have been in trouble with?'

  'No, sir, she didn't say anything specific, just that she thought he was into something deep, and she was worried about him.'

  'Did you know that Rebecca used to run away from home to spend time with Danny?'

  Brenda glanced at Ruth Doyle.

  'It's okay, Brenda,' Doyle said. 'Detective Parrish is here to find out as much as he can about what might have happened to Becca. He's not going to get mad or anything like that, and you're certainly not in any trouble.'

  'Yes, she told me that she would go there at weekends sometimes. Not every weekend.'

  'And did she say what they used to do together?'

  Brenda frowned.

  'Like they would hang out, maybe go see movies, or go see a band? Something like that?'

  'I don't know what they used to do. She just used to tell me that she'd been to see her brother at the weekend or whatever, and I would ask how he was, and she would say he was good, or he was doing better, and sometimes she would say he was doing worse.'

  'And do you know if Rebecca ever took drugs?'

  'No way, never in a million years. She wasn't like that at all. She was really serious about that kind of thing.'

  'Okay, Brenda, this is really appreciated.'

  'Is that all?' Brenda asked, and started to rise from her chair.

  'One other little thing,' Parrish said. 'Did she ever use nail varnish?'

  'Huh?'

  'Nail varnish. To color her nails, you know?'

  'No, I don't think she did. She didn't use a lot of make-up or anything like that. She had really nice skin . . .' Brenda hesitated. She seemed confused for a moment. 'She had really nice skin,' she repeated, and then it seemed to Frank Parrish that she was ready to cry. It seemed that perhaps she had put it all on hold, and finally - in that moment, having to remember so much about her friend - she had at last confronted the simple fact that her friend was dead. She knew then that Becca wasn't ever coming back because someone had choked her to death.

  SEVENTEEN

  Parrish left St. Francis of Assisi School at a quarter to four. He should have called Radick, had him drive over and pick him up, but instead he walked to the subway station and took a ride to Grand Street. He found the Waterbury School without difficulty, presented himself, his ID, asked to see the principal.

  Principal Bergen, another capable, forthright, uncomplicated type, granted Parrish an audience without hesitation. She was an attractive woman, wore a wedding band.

  'I am working on a murder investigation,' Parrish told her. 'A student from the St. Francis School was found strangled. I spoke to a friend of hers and she mentioned that you might have had—'

  'Karen Pulaski,' Bergen said. 'That's who you're talking about.'

  'What was the deal with that?'

  'Last Christmas, couple of days after, the twenty-eighth I think, she was found strangled. She had only recently joined the school. Had been here - I don't know - six months, nine perhaps. It was a terrible, terrible thing.'

  'And the case was never solved?'

  'Not that I'm aware of, Detective. I haven't heard anything for a several months now. I can only assume that if it was solved the police would've had the courtesy to inform me.'

  'Never guaranteed, Mrs Bergen,' Parrish replied. 'I can find out for you and let you know.'

  'Don't trouble yourself, Detective. Perhaps it's better to go on assuming that it was resolved swiftly and expediently, but the relevant detectives have been so busy with other incidents that they just forgot to let me know.'

  Parrish didn't reply. He knew the case was open. He just felt it.

  'And the investigating officers on the case?' he asked.

  Bergen shook her head. 'I don't remember now. They came up from the nearest precinct, over near Gardner and Metropolitan I think.'

  'I'll find out,' Parrish said.

  'You think your girl and ours were murdered by the same person?' Bergen asked.

  Parrish shrugged. 'I shouldn't think so, Mrs Bergen, but I have to follow up everything I can, you see? Sometimes it's little more than a formality, other times it goes somewhere.'

  Bergen rose and walked Parrish to the door.

  'Appreciate your time,' he told her.

  'You're welcome, Detective. Good luck.'

  Parrish called Radick from a payphone.

  'Go on home, Jimmy,' he said. 'I'm still over in Williamsburg. I'll get the subway back. You take off, have a good evening, and I'll do the Active Invest report when I get back.'

  'How d'you get on over there?'

  'Not a great deal of anything. Couple of things to check up on, but nothing positive as yet.'

  'Thanks for doing the report, Frank.'

  'Sure. No problem. See you tomorrow.'

  Parrish walked three blocks and found a diner. He was starving hungry, freezing cold.

  The special was some kind of mystery meat stew. A lot of carrots, little substance. He ate it anyway. After that he took the subway from Grand to Jefferson, walked up Flushing Avenue to Stewart, took a left and walked the six blocks to Scholes. Here he turned right and found the Williamsburg 91st Precinct on Gardner and Metropolitan.

  They were helpful enough. The desk sergeant found him a uniform, the uniform showed him where Actives were stored, and by seven Parrish was seated in the station house canteen with the Karen Pulaski file open in front of him.

  Everything seemed to be present. Records of date, time of dispatch, dispatch number; number of the city ambulance unit that responded; name, unit and number of the first officer at the scene; the incident tracking number, the name of the attending H
omicide detective - Richard Franco - the ME's report. The crime scene pictures were there, and the QA sheets from the initial canvass; lists of evidence-bag numbers for her shoes, her clothes, her belongings; the crime lab report, and reference numbers for the skin, hair and blood samples for later DNA comparisons.

  Karen had been sixteen when she died. From her crime scene pictures she seemed not unlike Rebecca - fresh-faced, youthful, blonde. There were similar abrasions, bruising and ligature marks around her neck and throat, but Karen had not been strangled manually. A quarter-inch rope, Parrish guessed, perhaps even a cable.

  There were indications of recent sexual intercourse, even semen deposits, but the DNA report and coding analysis from January of 2008 indicated that the sample had not matched anyone on file within the New York database. Karen appeared to have been an only child. Her parents - Elizabeth and David Pulaski - lived about eight or nine blocks south on Troutman Street. Both employed, the father a management accountant, the mother a receptionist for a local orthodontist. Karen had gone to see friends on the 26th, the day after Christmas. By all accounts she had boarded a bus on Irving Avenue opposite Bushwick Park, and vanished into nowhere. Two days later, approximately four in the afternoon of December 28th, her body had been found in a dumpster behind a hotel on Humboldt Street. Detective Franco had been thorough. He had traced the bus driver, and then a couple of other passengers had come forward as a result of a newsflash on the 29th, but then it went quiet.

  Karen's friends, her boyfriend, her parents, even the girls she knew from a local mall, seemed to have shed no light on what might have happened. She had far better than average grades at school, seemed happy at home, was pretty and popular. If she had run away she hadn't made it far. Time of death, though rarely accurate, said she drew her last breath between eight and midnight, night of the 27th. The dumpster where her body had been left was the secondary, and no primary had been found. Six, twelve, even twenty-four-hour TOD spreads weren't uncommon. Unless liver temp, was taken on site the DC would've had to have gone by rigor. Rigor is evident in the smaller facial muscles and the ends of the fingers within a couple of hours, but rigor sets in, dissipates, and then returns over a more substantial time frame, and thus accurate determination of the victim's time of death from rigor has to be done twice over a span of some hours. And an external crime scene is far more difficult.