Brighton Beach

by Robert I. Katz

  No, he didn’t.

  The next day, Steve Hayward arrived at his office at about 10:00 AM. He left for lunch at noon, came back two hours later and went home at 4:00 PM. That seemed to be his routine. He repeated it the next day and the next.

  One night later, Steve Hayward and his new wife went to a party. They both wore casual but expensive looking clothes. Hayward drove a Lexus SUV. The party was held at a brownstone in Riverdale. People came and went all through the evening, most of whom were white. Their ages appeared to range from late twenties to early middle-aged. Few stayed for longer than an hour. Steve Hayward was not the first to arrive but he was almost the last to leave. He and the new wife swayed a bit as they walked down the front steps. They giggled and had wide, happy smiles on their faces.

  The surveillance van, parked across the street and recording the faces and license plates of all the guests, followed them at a distance as they drove home. The garage door opened. The garage door closed. The lights in the kitchen and then the bedroom went on and soon turned off. The van remained in front of the McDonald household for another hour and then, it being close to 3:00 AM, the van drove slowly off.

  It was time for the forces of justice to get some sleep.

  Steve Hayward did not show up for work the next morning. Neither did his wife, a secretary for an insurance brokerage. Calls to the home were not answered. Messages left on voicemail were not returned. The next day, the cleaning lady, a Mrs. Velasquez, who had been working for the Haywards for three years and was considered entirely trustworthy, arrived and let herself in with the key that she had been given. A few seconds later, Mrs. Velasquez came stumbling out of the house, gasping, her face white. She ran to her car, sat in the front seat and locked all the doors. Then she hesitated for a long moment, pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed 911.

  Lew Barent had seen a lot of dead bodies in the course of his career and at this point, very little could shock him. These dead bodies looked like most others, except for the fact that the heads had been removed and were sitting on the kitchen counter, surprised expressions on both. A search of the household revealed both headless bodies, still in bed. Both had been shot three times in the chest.

  Harry Moran, Barent noted, looked no happier than himself. “Are we responsible for this?” Harry said.

  Barrent had been asking himself the same thing. “We’re not the ones who pulled the trigger. The guy who pulled the trigger is responsible.” Even to himself, this sounded like a rationalization. In a strictly Platonic sense, what he had said was true, but still…it was hard to escape the feeling that Steve Hayward and his wife would both be alive if they had managed to stay off the police radar. Moran gave him a disapproving look and shook his head, disgusted.

  The search of the house revealed nothing. No drugs, no weapons, nothing suspicious or out of place, just two dead bodies with their heads detached.

  Chapter 9

  Jason Klein was the co-owner and Manager at Kingsford Household Supply, the corporation where Steve Hayward had been employed. He was tall, thin and almost bald. He had a dark wooden desk in a small office. A picture of a plump, smiling woman and two smiling kids sat on the corner of the desk. He blinked at Barent and Moran, both sitting in wooden chairs opposite his desk. “He didn’t do much around here, frankly.”

  “So, why did you keep him on?”

  Jason Klein shrugged. “It was my partner’s decision.”

  “Your partner?”

  “Sal Marino. He’s Hayward’s cousin. It seems that their grandmother told him to.” A slight, cynical smile played across Klein’s face. “The old lady is eighty-seven and still rules the family with an iron fist. Better him than me.”

  “Okay,” Moran said. “What was he like?”

  “Hayward?” Klein tilted his head to the side seemed to think about it. “Not a bad guy. He kept to himself mostly. He didn’t do a lot of work but then we didn’t pay him a lot of money. He seemed happy with the arrangement. I always wondered why. Obviously, he wasn’t making enough here to live on, but it wasn’t hurting anybody, it kept my partner happy, or at least it kept his grandma off his back and I didn’t see any reason to complain.”

  “What, exactly, did Hayward do?”

  “He was a salesman. He was pretty good at it, actually. Got along with the customers, knew the merchandise. When he showed up, he made his salary.”

  “What about when he didn’t show up?”

  Klein shrugged. “Then somebody else did it.”

  “No,” Moran said. “I mean where was he and what was he doing when he wasn’t at work?”

  “No idea.”

  “Great,” Moran muttered. “That’s just great.”

  Cindy Daniels was middle-aged and stocky. She had brown hair pulled back into a bun and a round, pleasant face. She was Klein’s assistant manager. “He showed up when he felt like it, basically.” She looked at Barent with a bewildered expression on her face. “Who would want to kill a guy like Steve Hayward?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Barent said.

  “Oh. Right.” She frowned. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  Unfortunately, neither did Barent.

  Sal Marino was also little help. “My Aunt Toni, Steve’s mother, she’s almost out of her mind.” He shook his head. “Steve was her youngest, her baby. And Nonna is pissed.” He frowned. “My grandmother is not a woman you want to make pissed.”

  Barent looked at Moran. “Why is that?”

  “Nonna has connections.” Marino gave an emphatic nod. “Connections,” he said again.

  Barent raised an eyebrow. “Connections with who?”

  Marino squinted at Barent and blinked his eyes, apparently realizing that he might have said more than he intended. “Nonna’s brother, my great-uncle Sal? The one I’m named for? According to family legend, he was a made man.”

  “Really?” Moran said.

  Marino solemnly nodded.

  “You’re Sicilian,” Barent said.

  “Hey, I’m as American as apple pie. I am not Sicilian. Nonna is Sicilian. I want nothing to do with that shit. It’s bad for your health.”

  “I think that’s very smart of you,” Barent said. “So why did you give your cousin a job, if he wasn’t willing to do the job?”

  “Cause Nonna asked me to.”

  “And why did she do that?”

  Marino shrugged. “He’s her grandson. He needed a job.”

  “But the job paid minimum wage. Meanwhile, he drove a Lexus.”

  Marino frowned. “None of my business,” he said.

  “You never wondered?”

  “Sure, I wondered, but it was none of my business.”

  “You never asked him?”

  Marino puffed his cheeks out and gave a little snort. “Frankly? I didn’t want to know.”

  “Right,” Barent said. “And now, it’s too late.”

  Chapter 10

  Dinner with the in-laws. Always fun. Kurtz had learned to relish the competition. Esther greeted him with a superficial kiss on the cheek and a reluctant smile. Stanley shook his hand. Esther’s cousin, Sylvia Hersch and her husband Milton were there, along with a neighbor named Natalie Hale and her husband, Moishe. Moishe Hale wore a yarmulke and had a short black beard, and since Hale was about as WASP’ish a name as could be imagined, the name had most likely been changed at Ellis Island, when the first “Hale” had come to this country. Regardless, Moishe Hale had a ready smile and seemed like a pleasant guy. The Hale’s youngest son, a quiet fourteen-year-old, clutched a paperback whose cover sported a rocket ship, a tentacled alien and a frightened looking blonde. The kid looked bored. Kurtz didn’t blame him.

  “You want a drink?” Stanley said.

  “Absolutely.” Stanley Brinkman was very proud of his collection of fine Bourbon.

  “You know what I got?” Stanley didn’t wait for him to answer. He positively beamed. He looked in both directions to make certain th
at nobody could hear him, leaned closer and whispered. “I got Pappy Van Winkle, 20 years.”

  Kurtz blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

  Stanley smiled a shark-like smile. “Nope.”

  The women were bustling around the kitchen: Lenore, Esther, Cousin Sylvia and Natalie Hale. Stanley frowned and grudgingly turned to Moishe Hale, who was standing nearby, oblivious. “You want to try some Bourbon?” Stanley asked.

  Moishe shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Follow me.”

  Stanley led them into the den, closed and locked the door. “Sit down,” he said. “Get comfortable.” The den was Stanley Brinkman’s domain. Esther never came there, not even to clean. The room was filled with trinkets and mementoes from vacations to exotic places like Miami Beach, Cancun, Branson, Missouri and Disney World. The furniture was leather, soft and comfortable. The scent of cherry pipe tobacco clung to the furniture. A man cave.

  A large wooden cabinet covered one whole wall, with a collection of bottles standing on top. Moishe Hale, who had evidently never been here before, looked around with avid interest. Kurtz, who had, watched Stanley as he delicately lifted one bottle, displayed the label and then poured a generous shot into each of three glasses. He took an eye-dropper, and carefully added five drops of mineral water to each glass. He handed one to Kurtz and another to Moishe and then sat down in a recliner with the third clutched in his chubby fist. “Cheers,” he said.

  Kurtz sipped. Flavors of maple, honey, a little vanilla. He swirled it around his tongue. Maybe some orange and clove. He closed his eyes and sipped again.

  “Well?” Stanley said.

  Moishe stared down at his glass with a quizzical expression. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s good, but it tastes like any other Bourbon to me.”

  Stanley stared at him. Kurtz suppressed a grin. Truthfully, while it probably was the best Bourbon he had ever tasted, Moishe Hale had a point. There wasn’t any bad Bourbon and all of it tasted pretty much alike. The difference between the good stuff and the great stuff was subtle, and in Kurtz’ firm opinion, definitely not worth the money. He was more than happy to drink it, however. “What did you pay for this?” he asked.

  Stanley gave him a haughty look. “Three hundred and fifty.”

  Kurtz nodded, amazed. “Great stuff,” he said. But not worth three hundred and fifty bucks.

  “Yes,” Stanley said. “It is.” He looked at Moishe with disapproval.

  “So,” Kurtz said to Moishe. “What do you think of the Knicks this year?”

  Moishe rolled his eyes. “What a bunch of clowns.”

  Can’t disagree with that, Kurtz thought. Even Stanley had to purse his lips and acknowledge a truth so completely beyond dispute.

  Five minutes later, somebody knocked on the door. “Yes?” Stanley said.

  Lenore’s voice answered. “Dinner.”

  They finished their Bourbon and trooped out.

  Kurtz found himself sitting next to Cousin Sylvia. “So, how are you, boychik?” she said. Cousin Sylvia had a twinkle in her eye. She ran a real estate firm. Esther Brinkman, thank God, had recently joined the firm. Having an actual job had done wonders for Esther’s disposition.

  “Pretty good,” Kurtz said. “I’ve been busy.”

  Natalie Hale looked up. “What do you do?” she asked.

  Esther, carrying in a covered tray, said, “He’s a surgeon.” She frowned and wrinkled her nose. “A general surgeon.”

  Kurtz sighed.

  Sylvia grinned and patted him on the hand. Lenore narrowed her eyes at her mother. Esther ignored Lenore and removed the cover from the tray. “Pot roast,” she announced.

  By now, Kurtz had eaten Esther Brinkman’s pot roast many times. It was good pot roast, as pot roast went, but there was only so much you could do with pot roast. Thank god, she hadn’t brought out the gefilte fish.

  “Where do you work?” Natalie Hale asked.

  “I have privileges at Staunton but I do most of my cases at Easton,” Kurtz said.

  Natalie frowned. “Did you know Steve Ryan?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Stanley was carving the pot roast into half inch slices. Lenore picked up a bowl of candied carrots, spooned some on her plate and then passed the bowl around the table, then did the same with a bowl of mashed potatoes. Stanley finished carving the roast, put two slices on his own plate and passed around the platter. “Wine?” Stanley asked.

  “Please,” Kurtz said.

  Stanley, in addition to his fondness for Bourbon, also knew his wine. The bottle was Zaca Mesa Syrah. Kurtz sipped, let it roll around his tongue. Peppery, he thought.

  “It was sad, what happened to him,” Natalie Hale said.

  “Steve Ryan?” Kurtz nodded. “Yeah. It’s a shame.”

  Natalie shook her head. “His wife and kids are taking it hard.”

  The wife and kids usually do take it hard when Daddy decides to kill himself, but let’s not be insensitive and say that out loud. “I’m sure. He was a nice guy. It’s a shame,” he said again.

  “I went to school with his wife, Donna.” Natalie smiled at Lenore. “Lenore and I both. We’re old friends.”

  Kurtz had last seen Donna Ryan at the funeral but aside from briefly shaking her hand and offering his condolences, there had been nothing much to say. Donna Ryan was blonde, very thin, very pretty with sunken cheeks and sad eyes. The three kids had clung to her legs, overwhelmed.

  For a few minutes, the conversation lagged while they ate. Finally, Sylvia sighed and said, “I know her mother. I sold them their house. She’s a tough woman. She managed to get out of the Soviet Union with only her husband and the clothes on their backs. They hiked for miles through the woods before crossing the border into Finland. Tough.”

  Natalie Hale nodded. “Her parents had five kids. Donna has a lot of family. They’re close.”

  “That whole Russian community is close,” Sylvia said. “Her mother never did learn much English, but she made sure her kids got a good education and had a better life than she did.”

  Natalie sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “Until now.”

  Shot. Strangled. Shot. Stabbed three times in the abdomen and once in the chest. Pushed onto the subway tracks and electrocuted, though that one might have been an accident, not deliberate. Killed in a bar fight, the alleged perpetrator having expressed remorse and regret; not that remorse and regret would keep him out of jail, but if he could successfully fake sincerity, Barent thought, it might at least reduce the guy’s sentence. Barent flipped through the pages. Let’s see…what else? Shot. Stabbed. Poisoned by a jealous girlfriend. Shot first in the testicles, then in the abdomen, then in the face. Barent winced.

  None of these were Barent’s cases but he liked to review the police reports from other districts and precincts, just to keep up with what was going on. What was the word? Oh, yes: Schadenfreude, the doleful pleasure to be obtained by observing other people’s problems. Better them than me, he thought.

  Now here was a tasty one, a half-eaten body pulled out of a landfill, the hands tied together. Male, slim, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The body was decomposed to the point that the exact cause of death might have been speculative, except that the wire garotte left around the neck provided at least a tentative clue.

  “Having fun?” Moran asked.

  Barent shrugged. “Just thinking,” he said.

  A lot of police work was just thinking. You took a bunch of disparate clues and tried to fit them together. Sometimes you succeeded. This business with Jeffrey McDonald and Steve Hayward, for instance. Not much to go on, not yet. An overdose from a highly dangerous substance. The drug dealer turns up dead, killed in a spectacular, very morbid fashion. Who does that? Not your average two-bit hood. Not trying to keep it quiet, that’s for sure. The papers, naturally, had run with the story, not that they knew the actual story. No, so far as the so-called journalists in this fair city were concerned, Steve Hayward and his wife were fine, upstandi
ng citizens suspected of no crimes of any sort and murdered for no reason whatsoever.

  The surveillance van had recorded the license plates of every car parked outside the brownstone where Steve Hayward and his unfortunate wife had partied. So far, they had all come up clean. None of the owners of any of the vehicles had any criminal record beyond a few traffic violations. There was a pattern, however. They were yuppies, every one. Except for Steve Hayward. Steve Hayward did not fit the pattern. Oh, he looked like them and no-doubt talked like them and probably seemed to fit in with them, but Steve Hayward, alone among the crowd, was not employed in any fashion that might support his lifestyle.

  Steve Hayward, if Barent allowed himself to speculate, was the supplier, not the consumer.

  So, who kills the supplier? A couple of obvious possibilities: first, an unsatisfied customer, second, a jealous competitor…but of course, it might not be the most obvious. Sometimes, it wasn’t.

  “So, what are you thinking?” Moran asked.

  “I’m thinking we need more information.”

  Moran nodded. “Sounds right to me. Where do you intend to get it?”

  Javier Garcia was angry. “Those who purchase illicit products are often reluctant to do so. They are fearful, and they are right to be fearful. There are risks involved in the purchase of such substances. They fear association with an obvious criminal element. They fear betrayal. They fear the police.” Javier Garcia smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “They even fear their neighbors.”

  Esteban Martinez, Javier Garcia’s oldest friend, nodded.

  “This is why we use men like Steven Hayward. We do not look like them. We do not sound like them. We are clearly foreign to them. They see us as dangerous and unpredictable. They would not purchase from us, not unless they were truly desperate. Steven Hayward looked like one of them. Steven Hayward gave them the illusion of familiarity. He was comfortable. He seemed…safe.”

  Esteban Martinez puffed out his cheeks. Javier Garcia was saying nothing that they both did not already know. He was merely venting.