The Con Man's Daughter

by Ed Dee

  "You don't smell perfume?"

  "What do you want me to say, Eddie? I don't smell perfume, but check this out." She showed him a quarter-size piece of a torn photograph. "I found this under the convertible sofa. The vacuum must have missed it. It seems strange… not one picture in the entire apartment and someone rips up a photograph."

  "I can't believe you don't smell perfume."

  "My point is, why rip it up?" she said. "I'm going outside to check the trash. I'll give you five more minutes. Then lock the door."

  After she left, Eddie dropped to his hands and knees on the bedroom floor. He ran his fingers through the carpet, looking for anything, an earring or a fingernail painted dark red. He tore the bed apart, reached inside the pillowcase, then under the sheets. He picked up the mattress and checked under it. When he had the mattress raised, he saw something green. It was a piece of green cloth that had been shoved down under one corner. Eddie pulled it out and his heart began to pound.

  He stared at it, knowing exactly what it was, a circular piece of green cloth covering an elastic band. A "scrunchy," the kids called it. Both Kate and Grace used them in their hair. Kate wore them around her wrist until she was ready to put her hair up in a ponytail. It couldn't have fallen there by itself. Someone had stuffed it down there. Eddie held it up to the window. In the glare of light off the ocean, he could see strands of red hair.

  Chapter 27

  Sunday

  1:00 P.M.

  Babsie Panko snatched two black trash bags off the Coney Island sidewalk and carried them to Eddie's car. She'd found other pieces of a torn photograph in one of the bags. She didn't know whether or not they were all pieces of the same picture, but it bugged her that there was not a single photograph in the apartment. It had to mean something. She needed time to find whatever else was in those bags. At this point, it was garbage, not evidence, so screw jurisdiction. She wasn't even going to ask. The kidnapping was her case; she'd take any damned garbage she felt like. She slammed the trunk of the Olds just as Matty Boland, followed by the sector car from the Sixtieth Precinct, pulled into the block.

  "I thought you were going to Queens," Eddie said.

  "I am," Boland said. "As soon as I figure out what the hell you two are doing to me."

  "Doing to you?" Babsie said. "Is everything about you?"

  "You have our warrant?" Eddie said.

  "On what basis, Eddie, a hunch?" Boland said. Then in a lower voice, he added, "I'm not getting roped into some bullshit illegal search. It's my case; I'll say when we apply for a search warrant."

  "This is not your case," Babsie said.

  "Borodenko is my case, and we're making serious progress right now. Let's not screw it up with some cowboy move."

  "Will this serious progress get Kate back?" Babsie said.

  "Possibly, very possibly."

  "Kate was in that apartment," Eddie said. "That's definite, very definite. Either you get a warrant or I go in without it."

  The uniformed cop had come alone in a white Crown Victoria with courtesy, professionalism, respect written on the side. His partner was in the station house with the paperwork from a four-car accident on the Belt Parkway. He'd been sent to meet a female Yonkers detective but was reluctant to approach them when they were still arguing. He figured he'd let the suits work the problem out between themselves. They'd call him when they were ready. As long as the discussion remained heated, he figured he'd sit in the car and get his memo book caught up.

  "You don't know she was in there," Boland said.

  "Parrot told me he saw a redhead being dragged in here last Monday."

  "Saw it where, in a crystal ball? Let's get his ass out here. I want to hear this story from his lips."

  Boland strode over to the radio car and asked the uniformed cop to go to Brighton Beach and bring Parrot back. Every cop knew the Parrot. Sensing the urgency, the cop made a squealing U-turn.

  "Who lives here anyway?" Boland asked Eddie.

  Eddie's quick lie to Boland made him realize he didn't fully trust him. Boland seemed to have adopted the feds' tough-love approach. He'll come around, Eddie thought; he's a cop. But this was too important for loyalty tests. With the clock running and one lie under his belt, Eddie told Boland a true story and a fantasy. He explained how Parrot had identified the sketch of the person who kidnapped Kate as a woman named Zina. Babsie had traced a burn victim named Fredek Dolgev and a Zina Rabinovich to this address. Both worked for Borodenko. The odds were that it was Dolgev who had been burned in the Rolls-Royce explosion. When Babsie came to interview them, she found the door to apartment B open. Eddie said they didn't go in but that he could smell Kate's perfume.

  "Who are you bullshitting?" Boland said. "You were in the apartment already."

  "What is it with you, Boland?" Babsie said. "You're more interested in covering your ass than in finding Kate. Here's a cop you worked with, tells you he knows his daughter was in there. He gives you a perfectly logical explanation, and you want to pick him apart."

  "If that's logic, I'm fucking Einstein."

  "Shut up for a second, will you, you selfish bastard," she said. "Listen to him. Eddie isn't telling you he was in there. But he knows his daughter was. Read between the lines and let it go at that. Do the right thing for once in your self-centered life."

  "I'm the one who has to sign the affidavit, not you, Babsie."

  It struck Eddie that if Kate had been here and was now gone, she might be dead. They might have panicked when he was getting close. He could feel the weakness in his legs. But then he realized they didn't want her dead. It was about torturing him. As long as he writhed in the shackles, they'd let her live. Her death would be the endgame. The radio car screeched around the corner. The driver was still alone. Boland went over to him; he didn't even let the driver get out.

  "Parrot's flown the coop," the uniformed cop said. "Just a few pieces of shitty furniture left. All Caranina's hocus-pocus shit is gone. People in the bakery said they split Friday night."

  "So how do we get the warrant now?" Boland said. "The victim's father ID's a whiff of perfume?"

  "Which apartment we talking about?" the uniformed cop asked. "I know these people."

  He introduced himself as Carlos. Babsie explained she was working on the kidnapping of Eddie's daughter. Looking for an edge, she told Carlos that Eddie was a former NYPD detective. Carlos knew about the kidnapping.

  "Sorry about your daughter, man," Carlos said. "We've been doing some serious looking. Especially since, you know, you being on the job and all."

  "We need your help, Carlos," Babsie said. "We came here to interview someone in connection with this case and found the door wide-open. No sign of violence we can see, but we thought the precinct should check it out."

  Carlos picked up the radio and told the dispatcher that Six-oh Charlie would need no further assistance at this location. It was the first radio car Eddie had looked closely at in years. The dashboard and front-center console contained more technology than he'd ever seen. The picture of Kate that Babsie had submitted to all Brooklyn precincts was stuck in the visor on the passenger side.

  "The apartment on the right belongs to Freddie," Carlos said. "Freddie probably forgot to lock the door. It's not the first time."

  "Fredek Dolgev," Babsie said.

  "Freddie's all I know him as."

  Carlos described Freddie as a large, broad-backed man with thinning white hair. Probably in his early fifties. A Russian with very little English at his command.

  "Burned skin on his face and arms?" Eddie said.

  "Is that what it is, burned skin? I just noticed it this week."

  "It happened Monday," Babsie said. "He told the hospital it was an accident with a barbecue grill. He squirted the fluid and it flared up in his face."

  "No shit? He had his face bandaged, but I never asked. He's not one of our talkers. A lot of the Russians will come up and talk to me rather than to the Anglo cops. Because I'm Hispanic. I guess they
figure I'm non-American, too, but I was born in Brooklyn."

  "Ever see him barbecue anything?" Babsie asked.

  "No, but that doesn't mean much. He could barbecue on the other side of Coney Custards. They got a little dirt patch out there."

  "Does that seem plausible to you?"

  "I could see that happening to Freddie, yeah. He's not all there, you know," Carlos said, pointing to his head.

  "What do you mean, 'not all there'?" Boland said.

  "Slow, I guess. Slightly retarded. But not drooling or anything. The guy has a job; he works somewhere toward Brighton Beach. I see him walking to work every morning. He walks down the boardwalk, no matter how bad the weather is."

  "Does he work for Yuri Borodenko?" Boland asked.

  "Doing what?" Carlos said. "Sweeping the sidewalk? That's all I can see Freddie doing for Borodenko."

  The radio dispatcher sent Six-oh David to a traffic accident on Neptune Avenue. The female dispatcher, a rarity in Eddie's day, had a Caribbean accent.

  "So he does this occasionally?" Babsie said. "He forgets to close the door."

  "Not that often, but every now and then."

  "How do you handle it?" Babsie said.

  "We go in, look around for him. If he's not there, we close it."

  "Ever have a problem with him?" Eddie asked. "Is he violent, or a drunk, anything like that?"

  "Not with me. But I can check with the other teams who work the sector. If you're looking at him for a kidnapping, I'd be shocked. This guy doesn't have the smarts to pull off a dognapping."

  "Carlos," Babsie said, "does anybody come by and help him with complicated things, like paying bills, that kind of thing?"

  "Zina. She probably helps him out. She lives across the hall."

  "What's their relationship?" Boland asked.

  "Relationship?" Carlos laughed. "You never met Zina. Zina is a dyke, with a capital D. You'll see what I'm talking about when she pulls in."

  "Rather than hang around and wait for Zina, why don't we do this," Babsie said. "Carlos goes in and looks for Freddie. In case of foul play, illness, whatever. We go in as a safety factor, being his partner's not here. If nothing is there, we'll just close the door and leave."

  "Eddie stays out," Boland said. "Just active police officers."

  'Good enough," Babsie said, and glanced at Eddie, who appeared nervous, running his fingers through his hair. It was more than a glance. Serious eye contact between friends.

  Babsie entered behind Carlos and went right to the bedroom. Carlos walked around, calling Freddie's name. Boland stuck to his own agenda, looking for an address book or telephone numbers. On her hands and knees, Babsie focused on the area around the mattress as if she was looking for a lost contact lens. She checked every inch of the mattress until she found the green cloth. She called for Boland.

  "It's a scrunchy," she said. "For your hair. I have a couple myself."

  Boland frowned until Babsie pointed out the red hairs clinging to it. She put it in a small plastic bag she carried in her pocket. They went outside and showed it to Eddie.

  "I know this is Kate's," Eddie said. "She was wearing it that morning."

  "Hope this works out," Boland said.

  "Just call the CSU to vacuum this place," Babsie said. "I'll call the Westchester DA, see if she can get a search warrant rolling."

  Boland said, "We also need Parrot to sign an affidavit about seeing a redhead being carried in here. I'll get a better description from Carlos and we'll pick up Dolgev. He's probably at work. Then see where we go from there, but I think we're on thin ice with the courts. This search has bogus written all over it."

  Babsie waved the scrunchy in his face, as if trying to remind him of the important thing. Babsie knew guys like Boland needed constant reminding.

  "Okay," he said, the attitude slipping away. "I'll call the CSU. They'll fingerprint the shit out of this place. I'll ask them to scrape the sinks, drains, and vacuum around the mattress, anywhere else that looks promising. It's a defense lawyer's dream, but maybe we'll get something out of it."

  "Kate will be enough," Babsie said, handing the plastic bag with the green scrunchy to Boland.

  "I'll drop this off at the lab," Boland said. "But they're going to need a hair sample for comparison."

  "A hairbrush," Babsie said. "She has three or four on her dresser."

  "Perfect, but get them later," Boland said. "Right now, Babsie can stay here with Carlos and wait for CSU. Eddie's going to show me something in Queens."

  "Show you what in Queens?" Eddie said.

  "A short cut," Boland said. "To your old friend's house. Your old pal, Angelo Caruso. Somebody whacked him and his wife."

  Chapter 28

  Sunday

  3:00 P.M.

  Angelo and Ann Marie Caruso lived in the shadow of Aqueduct Race Track in a two-story redbrick home on a Queens street of identical homes. Angelo could have afforded a bigger home in a swankier locale, but Ann Marie refused to leave the neighbors she'd known since she was a young bride. In the Carusos' small front yard, the grotto of the Blessed Virgin ruled center stage. A white tin awning covered the front step. Folding chairs lined the narrow, sloping driveway. Underwear, white T-shirts, and socks were draped across the chairs, drying in the sun. Every day for the fifty-five years of her marriage, Ann Marie had washed clothes by hand and dried them this way. Paulie the Priest had told Eddie that his sister-in-law rarely used the washer and dryer. She'd never used the oven upstairs. Upstairs was for company, for special occasions. The downstairs was set up like a separate apartment. They cooked, ate, watched TV, and died in the basement.

  Eddie led Boland down the driveway. Eddie hadn't been in the Caruso home since June of 1984, when

  Angelo and Ann Marie threw a high school graduation party for their niece. It was held in the backyard, where Angelo showed off an immense barbecue grill he'd built from bricks salvaged from the demolished tenement in which he was born. Angelo roasted a sixty-pound pig that day. And the event had been immortalized on film by the FBI from a van across the street.

  They entered the basement through the garage. A young uniformed cop sat at Angelo's workbench, where Angelo'd accidentally cut off a finger he later credited to a battle with a brutal pistola from the old country. The young cop said the house had been torn apart by intruders looking for money and jewelry. He expounded on how some burglars read the obituaries printed in the newspaper; the obits told them exactly when a family would be at church. Grieving people are distracted: They leave doors open, money lying around. The Carusos had probably arrived home early from the service at Our Lady of Consolation. They'd surprised the burglars and lost their lives. Paulie the Priest would have told this cop that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.

  Ann Marie had been shot once in the head. She lay next to her stove, covered by a sheet, the victim not of a burglar but of a poor choice in men. Angelo, her chosen, lay in the exact center of the room on a circular multicolored rug that Ann Marie had woven from loose scraps of cloth. Angelo had been strategically placed, as if he were the room's centerpiece. His mouth was stuffed with U.S. currency. He'd choked to death on money.

  "Any thoughts?" Boland said.

  "I always liked Ann Marie," Eddie said

  "When was the last time you saw them?"

  "Ann Marie, fourteen years ago. I saw Angelo on Friday at the Howard Beach Boccie Club. First time in about five or six years."

  "Who initiated that meeting?"

  "I did. I wanted to find out what he knew about Paulie. He said he thought his brother was still in Sicily."

  After conferring with the detectives from the 106th Precinct, Boland said the Carusos came straight home after the service for Paulie. They were probably moving in order to prepare for the company that would follow. The first couple arrived not more than twenty minutes after the Carusos themselves. Whoever killed them had been waiting, and it all happened fast.

  "If they all left the church
around the same time," Eddie said, "why did it take the friends twenty minutes longer?"

  "Food," Boland said. "They went to their own houses first to pick up whatever covered dish they'd made."

  The floor above groaned with the weight of a few dozen of the Carusos' family and friends. Eddie wondered if their murderers had desecrated Ann Marie's living room. Eddie had never set foot beyond the velvet rope that declared the pristine parlor off-limits. He'd only viewed it from a distance: the plastic-covered white sofa, the tasseled velvet pillows, fringed brocade lamp shades, and the gilt-framed reproduction of the Mona Lisa. If they'd defiled her pride and joy, Ann Marie would find a way to curse them from the grave.

  Boland said, "Angelo have any theories on how or why Paulie's head arrived unannounced?"

  "If he did, he didn't tell me."

  "He seem worried about anything?"

  "Angelo always seemed worried."

  "So what happened here today?" Boland said "It doesn't look like a mob hit to me."

  "No," Eddie agreed. "The Italians wouldn't have done it like this. Not at home, and they wouldn't have destroyed the house. They'd know Angelo wouldn't keep money here. And they definitely wouldn't have killed Ann Marie."

  "Russians?"

  "That's my guess," Eddie said.

  "Money jammed down his throat is saying something. Angelo get a little greedy maybe? He worked with the Russians a long time, didn't he? Going back to the seventies and the gas-tax scam."

  Eddie told him how Angelo Caruso had originally struck a bargain with Evesi Volshin. Caruso had heard about the humongous windfall of the Russians' gas-tax scam. He demanded the Gambino crime family be cut in for a penny a gallon. At the time, the tax was twenty-eight cents on the gallon. The Russians were keeping it all, but they convinced Angelo they were paying part of it. After Volshin was gunned down in the Samovar, Lukin took over. The partnership continued, with Caruso now getting two cents a gallon. It all fell apart when the indictments came down and the Italians took the brunt of the fall.