Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  “Where are we?” he asked the driver.

  “On the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the beautiful Poconos. You can leave the bag onboard.”

  “I’d rather carry it with me. How long?”

  “You have exactly sixteen minutes. If you’re late, you miss the bus.”

  “Story of my life,” Vinnie said.

  “Give me a break, kid. What are you all of twenty-five-years old?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Better yet. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Vinnie said before stepping down to the pavement.

  When Detective Rosen arrived at the house on Lake Street everyone had left, except Landis who was eagerly waiting to be cut loose.

  Landis gave her a quick update.

  “Samson said to call it a night. The bodies are gone. The landlady was picked up by her son. She will be spending a few days with his family,” Landis reported. “It was getting a little too late to bother neighbors, so we shut down the canvassing until morning. Nothing major so far. Well, next to nothing. One neighbor saw two adult males standing at a car that had been parked in front of his house across the street. One got into the car and drove off. The other walked up the street. He said he didn’t see where they had come from.”

  “Descriptions?”

  “One well-dressed, in a gray business suit. The one who got into the car was in a blue jogging suit and was built like an NFL defensive lineman.”

  “The vehicle?”

  “Big and black.”

  “Great.”

  “I was hoping to get out of here, unless you need something else.”

  “No, you can go,” Rosen said. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting. We’ll hit it hard in the morning. Has Murphy been back?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Okay then. Good night, Landis.”

  “Good night, Detective.”

  Rosen went back to her car and called Murphy.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I just left the Six-eight. No fun. Ralph is with me. I’m going to grab a few hotdogs for him on Eighty-Sixth Street and drop him at home before heading back to Lake Street.”

  “I’m at Lake Street. There’s nothing happening here, Samson closed up shop for the night.”

  “So what are you doing now?” Murphy asked.

  “I was hoping I could meet you at your place. I would rather not be alone tonight.”

  “Absolutely, come on. Do you want a hotdog?”

  “No thanks, but I could use a hug.”

  “I’ll have one waiting,” Murphy said, “with all the fixings.”

  FIVE

  Samson called in all 61st Precinct detectives and uniformed officers for a mandatory meeting at eight o’clock on Thursday morning.

  The call was not well received by those who had been looking forward to a scheduled day off, but Samson wanted the entire precinct to be made aware of any solid progress in what was being called the Lake Street Homicides. If in fact there was any progress to report. The captain also called in Derek Fielder from CSU, Matt Beck from Ballistics and Robin Harding, Dr. Wayne’s assistant in the Medical Examiner’s Office.

  When the troop was fully assembled Samson asked Officers Landis and Mendez, first on the scene, to kick off the proceedings.

  “The victims were discovered in the top floor apartment of a detached three-family brick house at one-twelve Lake Street by the house owner, Mrs. Mary Valenti, at approximately ten past seven last evening. Valenti, a widow, lives alone in the ground floor rooms. She had just arrived home when she found the victims. The only other occupant of the building, who rents the second floor apartment, was reportedly out-of-town,” Landis began.

  “Did you get anything on the second floor tenant?” asked Senderowitz.

  “Richard Sherman. Male. Single. Thirty-two years old. Out-of-town since Sunday, due back late this afternoon.”

  “Out-of-town where?” Bernie asked.

  “A business conference in Boise, according to the landlady.”

  “We’ll need to question him,” said Samson.

  “Should we try to confirm Sherman was actually where he told the landlady he would be?” Landis asked.

  “I’m sure he was in Boise,” Murphy said. “Who would make up a story about having to go to Idaho? How long has he lived in the apartment?”

  “Three years.”

  “I think we can safely rule him out.”

  “We still need to talk with him,” Samson said. “Sherman may have heard or seen something around the house lately that could help us. And we need to do more canvassing. Landis and Mendez, when we’re done here take two more uniforms with you and cover both sides of the street, starting where you left off last night. Keep your eyes open for Sherman’s arrival and question him when he turns up. Anything else come out of the door-to-door yesterday?”

  “Just a neighbor across the street who spotted two men at a car in front of his house around six-thirty,” Mendez said.

  “We heard. The big black car,” Murphy said, “the odd couple.”

  “He may simply have trouble with verbal description,” Senderowitz said. “Did he think he could identify the men if he saw them again, Rey?”

  “He said possibly. Should we bring him in to look at mug shots?”

  “No. It would be a waste of time, it could be nothing. Let’s put him with a sketch artist instead. And try to get more from him about the car. Old. New. Foreign. American. Two door. Four door. Cadillac. Ford. Try getting him to picture it in his mind. Jog his memory somehow.”

  Rosen listened attentively whenever Senderowitz spoke. She understood she could learn a lot from the veteran detective.

  Murphy’s attention tended to drift.

  “What do you have, Fielder?” Samson asked.

  “Michaels and I went through most of the apartment and we went over the stairs, although there was a lot of traffic up and down after the crime and before our arrival. We’ll go back and finish up this morning. The victims were definitely killed where they were found. It didn’t look as if the intruders, there seems to have been two, went further than the front room. We lifted a number of prints last evening. We are in the process of running those that don’t belong to the victims through our database. I lifted some prints from the rear door in the basement that matched prints found in the apartment and did not match those of either victim or the landlady.”

  “So whoever went out the back door to the alley may have been in the apartment last evening,” Richards suggested.

  “Definitely at some time, possibly last evening,” Fielder offered.

  Samson thanked Fielder and called on Beck, wanting to move ahead quickly.

  “The victims were killed with different caliber weapons,” Beck confirmed. “We are most likely looking at two shooters, but there is no way of knowing for certain. There were no bullet casings discovered. Of course, we cannot match the bullets to specific weapons without the weapons. We can try to determine if they match any we have in evidence from other shootings.”

  “What is the argument for two shooters, other than the use of separate weapons?” Rosen asked.

  “Bullet trajectory” Beck said. “One shooter would’ve had to move at least ten feet before shooting the second victim, regardless of which victim was killed first. I don’t buy it. On top of that, one perp using two guns is not logical.”

  “Nothing about killing two young people is logical,” Ivanov said.

  “There is work to do at the lab, Captain,” Robin Harding interrupted. “Dr. Wayne needs me back there as soon as possible.”

  “Go ahead then,” Samson said. “What do you have so far?”

  “Not much more than we may have guessed,” Dr. Harding began. “Both victims were struck with great force. However, the cause of death in both cases was the consequence of the gunshot wounds, loss of blood and the destruction of vital organs. The approximate time of death for both victims i
s the same, but Dr. Wayne seems to think the boy was killed first. Something about the position of the bodies at the scene.”

  Samson and Senderowitz exchanged glances.

  “For what it’s worth, I personally agree the idea of one shooter wielding two guns doesn’t fly,” Harding added.

  “Thank you all,” Samson said. “Harding, Beck and Fielder can get back to work. Landis and Mendez, choose canvassing partners and get over to Lake Street. All other officers check with Desk Sergeant Kelly for assignments.”

  Everyone broke away except the detective squad.

  “Rosen, tell us about the APB on Vincent Salerno,” Samson said.

  “I went from the crime scene to the home of the girl’s parents to make notification. The girl’s mother, Marie Salerno, was alone at the house. Mrs. Salerno became very upset when I identified myself as a detective, thinking I had come about her son. She allowed me into the house and I had to explain I was there about her daughter, make her understand her daughter had been killed, and then it became very difficult getting coherent responses from her. I managed to learn a few things but had to tread softly.

  “She could think of absolutely no reason why anyone would decide to harm Angela or her boyfriend. I don’t think she knew about the engagement ring. Her son, Vincent, lives with his parents. He never came home Tuesday night. He showed up on Wednesday afternoon extremely agitated. He asked his mother for cash, she had none available. She said she would phone his dad and ask her husband to bring money for Vincent but he told her not to call his father. She begged him to wait, but he took off,” Rosen said, “with a gym bag full of clothing. I learned that Vincent works as a bus boy at Il Colosseo Restaurant on Eighteenth Avenue and Seventy-seventh. I called the restaurant and was told he had worked on Tuesday night and had failed to show up for his scheduled shift yesterday.”

  “Did you say a gym bag?” Murphy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I think we saw the kid run past Augie’s bar before Rosen called me.”

  “There are a lot of kids in Brooklyn running around with gym bags,” Richards said.

  “Sure. But this kid was in a big hurry, less than a block away from the crime scene.”

  “I hate the idea, but we need to speak with the parents again as soon as possible,” Samson said. “If he hasn’t shown up yet, we need help to locate the boy. Names of friends. Particularly girlfriends. Murphy, go along with Rosen. Maybe you can talk with the father while Sandra talks to the mother. And if the boy lived at home, try to get something with his prints.”

  “Fingerprints?” Rosen asked.

  “Maybe he went to see his sister for help after he left his mother,” said Senderowitz, on the same page as the captain.

  “We should at least check to see if the boy is in the system,” Samson added. “How did it go with John Cicero, Tommy?”

  “Cicero is going to be trouble, Sam.”

  “No surprise. I’ll talk to Trenton about it.”

  “Cicero doesn’t care about Trenton,” Murphy said.

  “No surprise either,” said Samson. “Bernie, find out when they open the doors of the restaurant where the Salerno kid works. See if there’s anything to discover down there. I want all of you back here at four sharp this afternoon. Drop whatever you are doing for a short time.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Murphy asked.

  “It’s a surprise. Get to work.”

  “Do you have anything for Ivanov and me?” Richards asked. “Or do we hang here and send out for donuts.”

  “Doesn’t anyone in this place know how to pick up a damn phone?” the desk sergeant said, barging into the squad room.

  “What is it, Kelly?”

  “A call came in on a dead body in a car under the elevated train tracks on McDonald at Avenue T. Gun shot. A big man in a blue jogging suit. The vehicle is big and black.”

  “Does that answer your donut question, Richards?” Murphy asked.

  “Guess we’ll have to pick up a dozen on the way.”

  “Get going, I’ll call CSU and the M.E.,” Samson said.

  “Take a photograph of the victim,” Senderowitz said. “It should save having to use a sketch artist.”

  “Do you really think it’s one of the two men spotted on Lake Street last night?” Ivanov asked.

  “I’ll bet my pension on it.”

  Frank Sullivan rented the basement apartment in the DiMarco house on 12th Street, a few doors down from the Marconi residence.

  Sully received a distressing phone call from Maggie Marconi on Thursday morning.

  After the call, he went upstairs to see Salvatore and Frances.

  Sal greeted him at the door.

  “Frank. Good morning. Frances walked down to Campo’s store for milk. She should be back any minute. Fran expected she would find you there.”

  “Joe gave me the day off,” Sully said. “He and I took care of all the major deliveries yesterday.”

  “Well, come in, would you like coffee?”

  “I wanted to thank you for helping with the Marconi children last night.”

  “Of course, it was our pleasure. They’re great kids.”

  Sully was silent for a moment before responding.

  “They are very good people, Sal,” he finally said.

  “I know. I also know they have been going through a rough time, and we have all been concerned. But they have friends here, good neighbors who care. They will get through this.”

  “I could use that coffee.”

  “What is it, Frank?” Sal asked, sensing there was something else.

  “The family may be in more serious trouble, Salvatore. I’m hoping your daughter Lorraine can help.”

  The car parked under the McDonald Avenue El was a four-door black Lincoln sedan. Marty Richards circled the car while Ivanov peered into the front passenger door window.

  The victim was in the driver’s seat, his head resting against the steering wheel.

  “No license plates,” Richards said, arriving beside Ivanov and looking in. “Wow, talk about getting your brains blown out. Whoever capped this guy had to be right on top of him. Is that a gun in his lap?”

  “Smith and Wesson nickel plated thirty-eight.”

  “Nice piece.”

  “The doors are locked,” Ivanov said.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, we’re cops.”

  Detective Richards turned to the uniformed officers who were first on the scene and had called it in and asked if they had something in their patrol car to do the trick.

  A minute later they had the door opened.

  “This is a real mess,” Richards said. “I’d rather not touch anything.”

  “We need to get the weapon,” Ivanov said.

  She pulled out a latex glove, carefully lifted the gun out and placed it into a plastic bag Richards held ready. She asked the uniforms to wait for the CSU techs and the medical examiner.

  “Ask CSU to take a Polaroid of the victim and get it over to Landis and Mendez on Lake Street. Make sure they get the jogging suit in the photo.”

  “Do you think Senderowitz is right about this being one of the men seen last night on Lake Street?” Richards asked.

  “Yes, I think Bernie’s pension is safe, and I think the doer is going to need a new gray business suit. Let’s get this gun over to ballistics.”

  Senderowitz arrived at Il Colosseo Restaurant at ten, hoping to find someone at work before the doors opened to the public. The detective spotted a man setting up the cash register in front and tapped on the door.

  “We open at eleven,” the man called out.

  Bernie pressed his detective badge against the window.

  The man closed the register and walked over.

  “We are very busy now, getting ready for the lunch crowd,” he said from behind the closed door.

  “I just need a few minutes.”

  The man opened the door, let Senderowitz in, and locked up again.

  “Are you
the owner?” Bernie asked.

  “I’m the manager. What can I do for you?”

  “Detective Senderowitz, Sixty-first Precinct. I’m looking for an employee of the restaurant, Vincent Salerno.”

  “Join the club. I haven’t seen him in two days. He missed his work shift yesterday and didn’t call. If you find him, tell him if he doesn’t call today he’s out of a job.”

  “Do you have any idea why he failed to show up?”

  “I have no idea why any of these kids do show up. He’s a bus boy. They come and go like the days of the week.”

  “What is your name, sir?” Senderowitz asked. “Just so I know what to call you.”

  Besides asshole.

  “Atanasio. Mike Atanasio.”

  Senderowitz took a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Atanasio.

  “Do me a big favor, Mike. If Vincent turns up, please give me a shout.”

  “Sure. Is there anything else?”

  “I’ll let you know if I think of anything. Thanks for your time,” Bernie said. “You can let me out now.”

  A moment after the detective left, a young man who had been setting napkins and silverware approached Atanasio.

  “I need a smoke break,” he said.

  “Are the tables done?”

  “Everything but the water glasses.”

  “Salt and pepper shakers?”

  “Topped off and set.”

  “Okay, but make it quick. We open in less than an hour.”

  “It’ll be done, Mike,” Bobby Hoyle said. “Don’t I always get it done? You need to chill out.”

  “When I need your advice, Bobby, I’ll ask for it. Make it quick.”

  “Got it, I heard you twice the first time.”

  When Bobby got out to the street he spotted the detective leaning against a car on the opposite side of 18th Avenue.

  Senderowitz was looking at the restaurant entrance as if he was expecting someone to come out.

  Bobby walked across to meet him.

  “You were asking about Vincent,” Bobby Hoyle said.

  “Yes, I was.”