Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  “According to Wayne, the girl had been kicked in the side, twice. She may have also been down on the floor when killed,” Samson said.

  “I think the boy was killed first.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The position of the girl’s body. It looks as if she was moving toward the boy, trying to reach him, just before she was shot.”

  “Do you think they got the information they were after?”

  “I don’t think so. If the boy was out cold, they were interrogating the girl. If she had the information, I think she would have tried to save the boy’s life.”

  “So, why kill these kids?”

  “To avoid being identified maybe. It was done without conscience. They killed the couple, probably walked out of the house cool and calm, and are now off trying to find whatever it was they failed to discover here,” Senderowitz said. “These children were innocents. After all these years, it still breaks my fucking heart. Have you notified the parents?”

  “Murphy and Rosen are on it,” Samson said. “By the way, as if it isn’t bad enough, the boy’s father is John Cicero.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we get out of here?”

  “Sure,” said Samson. “I’ll let the EMS team know they can take the bodies. I’ll leave Landis with the landlady and Rey Mendez to handle the canvassing.”

  “I could use a drink,” Senderowitz said.

  “I’ll call my wife and tell her I’ll be late. The drink is on me.”

  FOUR

  The 68th Precinct sits on 65th Street, between 3rd and 4th Avenues, in the shadow of the Gowanus Expressway where it meets the Belt Parkway.

  Murphy knew he should not waste any time getting word to John Cicero about his son’s death, as unpleasant as the task would be.

  But Murphy had another duty that would not wait, at his three-room flat on Marine Avenue.

  And it was not out of the way.

  Murphy double-parked in front of the building. Before leaving the car he slapped an eight-by-ten inch laminated card reading OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS on the dashboard and he turned on the emergency flasher. He rushed through the lobby and up the short flight of stairs to Apartment B9.

  “It’s me,” Murphy announced from the hall outside the door, the customary method of identifying himself, and he let himself in.

  Ralph sat just inside the threshold motionless as a statue, looking as if he had been staring at the door for hours. Murphy was certain Ralph was relieved to see him, but the message in Ralph’s large brown eyes was anything but understanding or forgiving.

  “Sorry, pal,” Murphy said. “Let’s go.”

  Ralph jumped to his feet, ran past Murphy, and hurried down the stairs. Murphy locked the door and quickly followed. Two short blocks to John Paul Jones Park, two quick circles around the perimeter and a side-by-side sprint back to the car.

  Murphy decided to take Ralph along for the trip. He would treat Ralph to a few hotdogs after their mission was accomplished.

  “Want to go for a ride?”

  Ralph wagged his tail wildly. Murphy opened the back door of the car and the dog jumped in. Murphy slipped behind the wheel, started the car, drove to the end of Marine Avenue, and turned onto Shore Road in the direction of the Six-eight.

  Rosen rang the doorbell. The woman who answered opened the door only as far as the safety chain would allow.

  “Mrs. Salerno?”

  “May I help you?”

  “Detective Rosen. Sixty-first Precinct.”

  The woman unlatched the chain and opened the door. She was wearing a muumuu—a loose fitting flowered housedress.

  “My God. I knew it. I have never seen him so upset. I begged him not to go out. What has Vincent done? Is he alright?”

  “Vincent?”

  “Aren’t you here about my son?”

  “Mrs. Salerno,” Rosen said, “may I come inside.”

  The police car was in front of the house on West 12th Street when Ivanov and Richards pulled up. Marina saw two children in the back seat of the car, a boy and girl, both pre-teen. The detectives climbed out of their own vehicle and Marina approached one of the uniformed officers.

  “I talked the woman into allowing the kids leave the house,” he said. “She’s still inside, trying to talk her husband out of the bathroom.”

  Suddenly there was an older man standing beside them.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the uniform said. “You need to move away from here.”

  “Detective Ivanov?” the man said.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Frank Sullivan. Sully. The last time we met I was on the ground with a bullet in my side.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sullivan,” Ivanov said as Richards joined them. “It’s good to see you up and about.”

  “I live just a few doors down,” Sully said. “What happened here?”

  “Do you know the people who live in this house?”

  “I know them well, Robert and Maggie Marconi, they have two young children.”

  Ivanov pointed over to the patrol car. Sully spotted the children, clearly frightened, and he walked over to the vehicle. He said a few words to the boy and girl and they seemed to relax a bit. Then he came back to the detectives.

  “Mr. Sullivan, can you think of a reason why Mr. Marconi would want to harm himself?” Marina asked.

  “He ran an auto parts business on Avenue U. The business went under and he has been out of work for half a year. Did you say harm himself?”

  “He is threatening to take his own life.”

  Sullivan shook his head and sighed deeply.

  “I can understand his desperation, if not what he is considering as a solution,” Frank said. “I’ve been there. And please, call me Sully.”

  “Sully, his wife is still inside,” Ivanov said. “She refuses to leave him in there alone. Do you think she is in danger?”

  “I don’t believe he would harm Maggie,” Sullivan said. “But then, I never imagined he would be thinking about suicide. If you would permit me, maybe Maggie will listen to someone she knows.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Sullivan,” Richards said.

  “It might be, Marty,” Ivanov suggested. “Mr. Sullivan has a much better chance of gaining her trust. Go ahead, Sully. Please be careful.”

  Frank Sullivan moved toward the front door.

  When Murphy and Ralph walked into the lobby of the 68th Precinct the desk sergeant looked down from his elevated post.

  “No pets allowed,” the sergeant said.

  “I’m Detective Murphy, from the Six-one.”

  “I know who you are, Murphy. I was talking to the canine. How can we be of service?”

  Murphy gave Ralph a moment to answer before speaking himself.

  “I’m looking for Detective Cicero.”

  “Up the stairs to the right.”

  “Can I leave Ralph down here with you?”

  “Does he bite?”

  “Only if you tried taking a roast beef sandwich away from him.”

  “If there was a roast beef sandwich in this damn place, I might take my chances. Leave the dog with me, maybe he and I will order in. Up the stairs, to the right.”

  Murphy entered the squad room and spotted Cicero immediately. He took a deep breath, let it out, and walked over.

  “Hello, John.”

  “Hello, Tommy. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Murphy asked, looking around the room. There were two other detectives working at their desks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somewhere private.”

  “This place isn’t exactly Grand Central Station.”

  “Somewhere else,” Murphy said.

  Cicero stood up from his desk. He was a big man, at least a head taller than Murphy. He looked as if he was about to say something argumentative, but had changed his mind at the last second.

  “Th
e captain is out. We can use his office,” Cicero said, leading the way.

  Richards and Ivanov watched as Maggie Marconi opened the door to Sullivan.

  The two exchanged a few words and then Sully stepped inside.

  And the door was closed again.

  “That’s not good,” Richards said. “I thought the idea was to get the woman out.”

  “I’ll admit this was not exactly what I had in mind,” Ivanov said.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Think positive.”

  A few minutes later the woman came out.

  She shut the door behind her and walked away from the house.

  “Unbelievable,” Richards said.

  Richards and Ivanov moved to meet her.

  “Are you all right?” Ivanov asked.

  “Not really. But I’m not hurt if that’s what you’re asking,” Maggie said. “Where are the children?”

  “Sitting in the back seat of the patrol car,” Richards said.

  “May I sit with them?”

  “Of course you can.”

  As she moved to her children, Richards looked over to the front door of the house and then back at the woman.

  “Mrs. Marconi?”

  “Yes?” she said, turning to the two detectives.

  “What about Mr. Sullivan?” Richards asked.

  “Frank is a wonderful man.”

  “We’re sure he is.”

  “Sully said he would stay with Robert, so I could come out and see the children.”

  She climbed into the back of the patrol car and took the children into her arms.

  Richards and Ivanov turned back to the front door.

  Richards broke the silence.

  “How are we doing so far?”

  Marie Salerno had been trembling, on and off, for nearly thirty minutes—since learning Detective Rosen had not come about her son, but about her daughter. She spoke occasionally, incoherently.

  Vincent was in some kind of trouble.

  It was Angela’s birthday.

  Rosen sat quietly by Marie’s side until the woman’s husband arrived. He had been working late at his office when he got the call from his wife. He took Marie into his arms and the woman finally broke down, breathless sobs, cries of lament. Rosen watched uncomfortably as Fred Salerno slowly managed to calm his wife. The detective knew it was time to leave.

  She told the Salernos they would be called in to identify Angela’s body. No matter how many times she had been required to say those words they always felt cold and cruel. She told them how sorry she was. She told them to call the 61st if they needed help with anything.

  Rosen said goodbye and walked out to the street.

  Back in her car, she called Kelly at the precinct.

  “I needed an APB out on Vincent Salerno. White male. Twenty-two years old. Five-ten. Approximately one hundred sixty pounds. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Wanted for questioning.”

  “Done,” Kelly said.

  “Thanks,” Rosen said, and then she headed back to the crime scene on Lake Street to check for any progress.

  “So, what is this about?” Cicero asked, once they were inside the office.

  There was no easy way to say it so Murphy simply said it.

  “It’s about your son, John, he was shot.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?” Cicero said, loud enough to turn heads in the squad room.

  “In Gravesend. At his girlfriend’s apartment. They were both killed.”

  The look in Cicero’s eyes could have shattered glass. He picked up a letter opener and imbedded it in the captain’s desk. He grabbed a desk phone and was about to hurl it against the wall, but he stopped himself. He sat at the desk and placed his hands over his face. He sat that way without making a sound for nearly five minutes. Then he uncovered his face, placed his hands palms down on the desk and looked up at Murphy.

  Murphy had been standing by quietly hating every minute.

  “Tell me everything you know about what happened,” Cicero said.

  Murphy didn’t have much to tell.

  There had been little in the way of solid evidence when he left the scene and he hadn’t heard anything new. All he could relate was what he saw when he walked into the apartment and it was no less ugly and tragic in the telling.

  “Rosie?” Cicero asked when Murphy was done.

  “Augie is with her,” Murphy said. “We’ll find out who did this, John.”

  “We?”

  “Everyone at the Six-one will be on this around the clock.”

  “You do what you have to do, Murphy, and I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “Look, John, I understand what you are feeling. When Lou Vota was killed we were ready to tear up the entire borough. But the case belonged to the Seventy-sixth Precinct and Trenton warned us all to stand down.”

  “Stan Trenton’s warnings don’t scare me. I have been ignoring them for years. And the scum who shot Lou Vota, if I remember correctly you ran him down with your car.”

  “I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “I hope to be as lucky.”

  “Just don’t forget it’s our case, John.”

  “Just don’t fucking forget it was my son, Murphy. Thanks for coming to see me, I know it wasn’t easy. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to get home to my wife.”

  “Sure. Do you need a ride?”

  “Thanks, I can take care of it myself. All of it.”

  Murphy watched Cicero leave and waited a few minutes before going back down for Ralph. Murphy could only hope he and his team would wrap this case up in record time. There was no chance in hell Detective John Cicero was going to stay out of their way for long.

  “How about, while we’re waiting, I run over to L and B and grab a sandwich and a salad?”

  Ivanov gave her partner an unfriendly glance.

  “I’m kidding,” Richards said. “We have to do something. We have no idea about what’s going on in there.”

  Before Ivanov could respond Frank Sullivan led Robert Marconi out of the house, his hand on Marconi’s shoulder.

  “The weapon is on the kitchen table,” Sully said when they reached the detectives.

  One of the uniformed officers was moving to take Marconi into custody.

  “Hold on,” Ivanov said.

  Marconi’s wife jumped out of the patrol car and ran over to embrace her husband.

  Ivanov gave them a minute before speaking.

  “You will have to go to the hospital,” she said, “for evaluation.”

  “I made a huge mistake,” Marconi said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, but I’m afraid it is standard procedure.”

  “I understand. I’ll do whatever is necessary to get this behind us.”

  “Can I ride with my husband?” Mrs. Marconi asked.

  “Of course,” Ivanov said. “What about the children?”

  “I can watch the children,” Sully said. “I’ll take them over to visit with Sal and Fran DiMarco. I am sure Fran has some homemade cookies or cake handy.”

  “Thank you, Frank,” Maggie said. “For everything.”

  “Just take good care of Robert,” Sully said, “there are many people who care about your family. You will get through this.”

  “Do we need to cuff him?” one of the uniforms asked.

  “No,” said Richards. “Just drive them to Coney Island Hospital. They may have to keep you overnight, Mr. Marconi, in which case the officers will bring your wife home.”

  The children had stepped out of the patrol car and they stood quietly at the curb.

  Their parents hurried over to them and Robert Marconi took the children into his arms.

  “Thank you, Sully,” Ivanov said. “Mind if I ask what you said to him in there?”

  “I told him his children were very frightened and his wife needed his help. Robert is a good man, a hard-working man. Bob will find work. In fact, I have been check
ing on several leads. Is he under arrest?”

  “Yes and no,” Ivanov said. “Attempted suicide is not against the law, but he is being brought in for suspicion of endangering the safety of others. It’s a formality, for mental evaluation purposes. If he has a permit for the gun he’ll be released once it is determined he is not a threat to himself or his family.”

  “And if he doesn’t have a permit for the weapon?”

  “Then it could get a lot stickier,” Richards said. “Recent changes in the law could mean a jail sentence. If that’s the case, I’d recommend finding a lawyer right away.”

  “Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that,” Frank Sullivan said.

  They watched the patrol car drive off, the children stood patiently.

  Sully waved them over.

  “Are you guys okay?” Sully asked the boy, the older of the two.

  “Yes,” the boy said bravely.

  “Would you like to visit with the DiMarco’s while we wait for your mother to come home? I’m sure there will be cookies.”

  “Yes,” the boy said.

  “Me, too,” said the girl.

  Sully took them both by the hand.

  “Good seeing you, Detective Ivanov,” he said, “and meeting you, Detective Richards.”

  Marina and Marty watched them move up the street.

  “I could use a cookie,” Richards said.

  Vincent Salerno opened his eyes when the Greyhound bus came to an abrupt halt.

  Vinnie looked out of the window at a large sign in front of the building.

  WELCOME TO THE BLUE MOUNTAIN SERVICE PLAZA

  He waited while the other passengers left the coach, grabbed the gym bag from under his seat and walked to the front.