The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  Then it got even more interesting. Shortly after the goons entered, the club’s door reopened and a man, clearly in a hurry, went toward the Lexus. I froze the image and zoomed in. It was Frankie Finacci and he was a mess, his suit spattered with what I assumed was blood and, well, other matter, most likely that of the corpse the goons were cleaning up. I resumed the footage.

  Then the action began happening quickly. I saw Ronnie’s car move hurriedly across the street and intercept Finacci as he stumbled and was regaining his balance. He froze, staring at the approaching vehicle, pinned between it and the Lexus. Ronnie’s car stopped and the driver’s window went down. Now I could clearly see her face. She and Finacci exchanged words. Finacci hesitated briefly then opened the rear door of Ronnie’s car and got in. As soon as the door closed Ronnie sped off.

  I paused the video and sat back trying to digest what I had just seen. For some reason Ronnie felt compelled to stake out the Delancey Social Club that particular morning. My overwhelming concern was that she was hiding this from me. She had never told me about this little adventure. I was sure she had her reasons but neither of us had never acted unilaterally on a case without at least sharing the actions with the other later on or discussing our intentions prior. It certainly appeared that she had Finacci in her sights and didn’t want me to know what she was up to.

  The dots that were being connected were disturbing.

  Ronnie had a history with Finacci, the belief he was responsible for the death of her CI Louie Calzone.

  This all occurred on the day Mistress Tina referred to as the day Frankie was abruptly called away from her.

  That time frame coincided with the estimated time frame by forensics of Finacci’s death prior to his body washing up on the shore at my feet.

  Ronnie staked out the Delancey Social Club without informing me of her intentions to do so or even after she had done it.

  When Finacci emerged from the club, she had somehow convinced him to leave with her rather than in his own car.

  She had kept this episode to herself.

  When I put all these together, the conclusion I came to was one that was totally inconsistent with the Ronnie I knew and worked with for so long.

  She had never let go of not being able to pin Louie Calzone’s murder two years earlier on Finacci. While I hadn’t noticed an obsession with Finacci on her part it was clear that she had stalked him until she had an opportunity to get him alone. Evidently something had happened inside the Delancey Social Club involving Finacci to the point where he felt safer leaving the scene with her rather than alone, thus accomplishing her immediate goal. Fast forward to Finacci’s body washed up on shore.

  The reluctant conclusion was that Ronnie had evened the score for Louie Calzone.

  The big unanswered question was how did she manage to transport his body out into the Atlantic for disposal? I believed if I was able to piece together a montage of CCTV footages following Ronnie’s car from the Delancey Social Club I would find my answer.

  Then what? I pushed that question way back into the depths of my mind. It was one that I didn’t want to contemplate. As Scarlett O’Hara had famously said, “I’ll think about that tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.”

  I began to search the database for the CCTV cameras adjacent to the club in the direction Ronnie had driven. As I perused the images it became clear that she headed for the Williamsburg Bridge. Interesting.

  I picked her up exiting the bridge and stopping at the last place I would have expected. The EATS 24-7 Diner. The closest camera aimed in the direction of EATS was a half block away but I was able to zoom in to see two people leave her car and enter the diner. My only thought was what? Detective Ronika Deveaux had left a mob hangout with the Mariucci Family’s top bookie and had driven him to our favorite diner? For what? A piece of Flo’s apple pie? I mean, it’s good pie, but is it mob-worthy? That was a dot I didn’t know how to connect to the others.

  As it all turned out, there was one more dot that I hadn’t even remotely considered.

  Chapter 35: Nonpaying customer

  Roje Deveaux had just finished securing his gear on the Sea Nymph. The next day he was leaving New York to return home and resume his charter business. His website had been busy with requests for fishing and sightseeing charters. He had booked twelve beginning in ten days. That gave him enough time to say goodbye to Ronika and enjoy a nice leisurely trip back down the inland Intracoastal Waterway into the Caribbean and home.

  His visit was just the tonic he had needed to recharge his batteries. Granted, that stormy night at sea when he had to defend his sister from attack by that madman had been unexpected and somewhat unnerving. But he had seen his share of violence in the islands so he had recovered quickly after the initial adrenaline rush had passed and he knew his sister was okay. By her accounts, Frankie was a pretty miserable individual who had murdered one of her confidants. Ronika had assured him all would be fine on her end and he accepted her assurances. After all, she was a detective in New York City. She surely would know.

  As he sat down in his cabin with a cup of strong Caribbean coffee to take a break (the coffee in New York was weak and tasted like cat piss or what he imagined cat piss would taste like) his cell phone chirped. The caller ID read RONIKA.

  He glanced at his watch as he connected the call. “Ronika, am I late? I thought you were picking me up at four.”

  “No, no, Roje. You are not late.” A slight pause told Roje that his sister had something on her mind. He waited. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “Yes? What kind of change?”

  “Do you think you can accommodate a nonpaying passenger on your sail home?”

  “That depends. Who is the passenger?”

  “Me.”

  Chapter 36: Personal and Confidential

  It’s unusual in the current digital-based environment to receive any form of written communication. By “written” in this context I mean words put down by hand on paper. I don’t mean typed on a computer and printed out but actually written with an implement, designed for that specific purpose, held in a person’s hand. I fear it’s becoming a lost art. I remember when I could tell which person sent me something just by the handwriting. But no more. Apart from sticky notes stuck to the refrigerator door, actually seeing the written word is so rare that one’s printing or script offers no clue as to the author’s identity unless, of course, the printing or script is the author’s name or the words are “Dear Son,” or “Love, Jen.” Those would be clues.

  So imagine my surprise when Leon, the precinct’s mail room czar, wheeled his cart up to my desk and held out a large envelope to me addressed in script to “Dan Deckler, Homicide Consultant, 7th Precinct, Personal and Confidential.” There was no return address and I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I looked up at Leon before I took it. He took great pride in efficiently operating the mailroom and we all teased him mercilessly. He absorbed the abuse in stride and wasn’t shy about giving it back.

  “Did you scan this for explosives?”

  “I was about to but then I saw who it was addressed to and decided to just deliver it and run like hell before you opened it.”

  I grinned. “Thanks, Leon.” I noticed there was no postage. “Do you know who dropped it off?”

  “Desk Sergeant Pompello said it was Detective Deveaux and she left instructions that it be put directly in your hands.”

  That got my attention. I looked again at the writing and a faint bell of recognition rang. The few times I had seen Ronnie’s writing had been on scribbled notes in the margins of case files. These notes were rare since the department protocol was to always formalize any annotations in report format and place them in the file so that anyone picking it up could follow the investigation and not have to take time to figure out strange-looking words or phrases.

  Anyway, looking closer at the envelope I could see that it looked like Ronnie’s writing, kinda sorta. I called to Leon’s retreating back, “I do
ubt this one will explode.”

  It was bulky, obviously with multiple pages within. I didn’t open it immediately. I just sat back and contemplated what its contents may be. It was near day’s end and I hadn’t spoken to Ronnie since she had dropped me off at the precinct and headed home.

  I was still reeling from what I had seen when I had advanced the CCTV coverage of Ronnie’s journey with Finacci through Brooklyn from the EATS 24-7 Diner to a dead-end street near the East River where the CCTV coverage stopped. I determined it was across the river from Governors Island at the central west end of Brooklyn near some warehouses fronting the river. I speculated she could have met some sort of vessel there which connected the how’d-she-dump-the-body-at-sea dot to the rest of the dots.

  I had to admit that I was baffled by the visit to EATS 24-7 visit. I could not come up with anything plausible beyond perhaps Finacci pleading hunger and Ronnie saying, “I know just the place.”

  So, I had reluctantly come to some conclusions. First was that Ronnie had found some reason to stake out the Delancey Social Club early the same morning that Finacci was summoned there from Mistress Tina’s warm bed. Ronnie must have somehow convinced Finacci to leave with her after some serious goings-on inside (probably a murder) based on the quick arrival of the goon cleanup squad. She must have then driven with him to the EATS 24-7 Diner in Brooklyn. Why? Didn’t really matter, but I was very curious. After about thirty minutes in the diner, she had driven, still with Finacci, to Brooklyn’s central west shoreline with the East River.

  From there it became speculation based on what I knew since the CCTV coverage showed me no more. It seemed logical that either she and Finacci boarded a vessel or she handed him off to someone who had access to a vessel. Why else would she be at the waterfront? This implied an accomplice. Either she or this accomplice (or maybe both she and that accomplice) left with Finacci in the vessel and ended up somewhere off Long Island’s shoreline where at some point Finacci was clubbed to death and his body deposited into the ocean. I had also determined that the ocean wasn’t particularly friendly that night due to a tropical storm churning things up out in the Atlantic.

  So now I was sitting at my desk struggling with evidence, circumstantial as it may be, that my partner had been with a homicide victim on the forensically suggested day of his death. The circumstances implied she had the means, motive, and opportunity to commit the homicide.

  The flip side was that this was Ronnie. I had never known her to be homicidal. To the contrary, she was a warm and compassionate person. Granted she could get a bit emotionally involved in a case, but that could be said of any of us.

  But the evidence was there. The CCTV was pretty compelling. So far I hadn’t shared my findings with anyone. Not Captain Smart. Not Ronnie. Not the cockroach I spied scurrying across the floor.

  Now I had a handwritten envelope from Ronnie sitting on the desk in front of me. I figured its contents would resolve all my questions and connect the remaining dots. I didn’t want someone walking by looking over my shoulder asking, “Hey, Dan. Whatchagot? Is that from Ronnie? What’s this all about?” So, given the hour, I put the envelope in my briefcase and stopped by Billy Smart’s office.

  “I’m heading out, Captain. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay Dan. Hey, before you go, anything new on the Papalini angle in the Finacci case?”

  “Still working on it. I’ll let you know.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I was still working on it. I didn’t say I had something in my briefcase that might both blow the case wide open and perhaps implicate one of his best detectives. One thing I was good at was not lying. I could tap dance around the truth without telling an outright lie. This talent has served me well many times in the past and I was sure it was going to be put to the test again very soon. Before he could say anything else I gave him a short wave, said “G’night,” and turned for the elevator.

  Chapter 37: “Dear DD” - Part 1

  I was very proud of myself for not sneaking a peak in the envelope on my subway ride back to my apartment. I didn’t even rush to the table and rip it open. I calmly put my briefcase down next to my lounge chair and opened a bottle of cold beer.

  On the way home I mentally ran through a number of scenarios Ronnie was going to present to me within the envelope. I stopped at four knowing I could have gone on and also knowing that it was a futile exercise. Besides, the next guess on my list was that it contained a suicide note and I just didn’t want to go there.

  So I took a long pull on my bottle of Bud Lite, belched, chuckled because I know both Jen and Ronnie would have busted me for being a pig, and slit open the envelope with shaking hands. There were eight handwritten pages on legal paper.

  Dear DD,

  Right up front I want to say I’m sorry for not being totally forthcoming with you about my involvement in the Finacci case. You deserve better, especially from me. This note will explain everything.

  I’m fairly sure that by the time you read this you most likely will, at a minimum, have pieced together a rough sequence of the events leading up to Frankie’s death, at least to the point where the CCTV coverage left you hanging at the East River in west Brooklyn. Yes, I have reviewed all footage as I’m sure you have. Actually, as I know you have. After I signed off, I tried several times later to access it again and each time I was queued behind you, which didn’t surprise me. You’re a good detective, for a consultant! Sorry, I had to slip that in.

  That made me smile. At least she still had her sense of humor. I was hoping this meant it wasn’t a suicide note.

  Ok, here goes -

  You may remember a while back I took a personal day off to “recharge my batteries.” By now you know which day I’m talking about. Well, you also know that I didn’t exactly take the day off. Yes, that was the day I was staked out near the Delancey Social Club. Why? Because I had unfinished business with Frankie Finacci. I was staking out that place strictly as a detective’s hunch. I know you understand those hunches. I figured sooner or later he’d show up. It turned out to be sooner. My intent was to somehow get some alone time with him to perhaps exploit any cracks in his story about the Louie Calzone murder. I wasn’t sure how I’d do that but I had some ideas.

  That confirmed for me thought that the call Frankie received at Mistress Tina’s had summoned him to the Delancey Social Club.

  Now here’s the really hard part for me, the real reasons I have been so passionate about Calzone’s death and our inability to hang it on Finacci. Maybe this will help you understand my actions. This is very hard for me to say or even write down.

  I am an addict. I am addicted to gambling.

  Reading those words blindsided me. I had never suspected this and felt inadequate for not knowing because we had been so close for so many years. Perhaps I could have helped her.

  There you have it. I know you had no idea. Now don’t feel guilty. There was nothing you could have done about it had you known. Actually, that would have made things worse. We addicts are pretty good at deception, deflection, covering up, lying, everything just to sustain the addiction. Whether it’s alcohol, drugs, sex (I only wish), or gambling we can usually keep it from our loved ones (and yes, you qualify). I almost blew it when we went to Atlantic City after your beloved Jen passed. After you went to your room that night I managed to squander all my blackjack winnings in a very short time. But I kept it from you.

  I remembered that trip and her success at the blackjack table. I also remembered her passion as she played, which at the time I had attributed to her competitive nature. The next morning she had given me no cause to think she had a problem. Her being in a casino with me must have been like putting an alcoholic in a wine cellar with no corkscrew.

  You may ask how this revelation fits with Calzone and Finacci.

  As you know, Louie and I had a close relationship, closer than most cop and CIs did.

  Now the hard part. I am ashamed to say that I used Louie Calzone as a proxy for wagers b
etween me and Finacci. I was on Finacci’s books for significant bets, but in Louie’s name. I gave Louie the money with wagering instructions and he made bets with Finacci for me. Finacci had no idea it was me who Louie was betting for. Sure, Louie placed some of his own bets but most of his action was for me. And most of the losses were mine too.

  I took a couple of very big losses that neither I nor Louie could cover. Finacci agreed to carry “Louie’s deficit” but with a stiff vig. Soon I was having trouble passing enough money to Louie to pass to Finacci and I fell significantly behind. In the true gambling addict’s way, I tried several times for the big win via Louie to cover the amount due Finacci who kept taking the action as I kept losing. Eventually he gave Louie the final ultimatum. Louie got real nervous and told me. I panicked and desperately laid down a couple of outside bets but lost those too. So Finacci whacked Louie as a message to his clients to not fall too far behind.