by J. L. Abramo
“You hate Sunday mass.”
“Not as much as I hate this,” Mendez said.
Landis’ cell phone made the sound announcing a text message.
It came from Salina Mendez.
Call me when you get a chance. Please don’t say anything to Rey.
“What the hell,” Landis involuntarily said aloud.
“What?” Mendez asked.
“A friendly reminder that I’m late on my cellular phone bill. I know I paid it. Now I’ll have to try getting in touch with a live representative.”
“Good luck with that,” Mendez said. “I would put in a prayer for you at church if I wasn’t stuck here.”
“Look at the bright side.”
“What side is that?”
“Italian restaurants and barbers are usually closed on Mondays.”
“Not this particular Italian restaurant, I checked,” Mendez said, “and who the fuck would go to an Italian barber any day of the week?”
Senderowitz woke up hurting and disoriented.
For a moment he couldn’t determine where he was. He finally realized he was lying on his bed, on top of the bed covers, fully dressed.
He had somehow managed to get out of his shoes.
A voice in his throbbing head asked, When am I going to stop?
Another voice answered, Don’t hold your breath.
Bernie stumbled into the bathroom, threw cold water on his face, and opened the medicine cabinet looking for relief.
The cupboard was bare.
He moved to the kitchen and found the cure on the counter beside the sink.
He grabbed a glass a poured himself a scotch.
Marina Ivanov met Lorraine DiMarco for brunch at the Grand Canyon Restaurant on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights.
Ivanov described the incident between her sister and Yuri Markov on Thursday night and Alex Holden’s reaction.
Against all advice, Rachel’s boyfriend had gone to the Lobnya Lounge on Friday night to give Markov what Alex called a taste of his own medicine.
“What did Alex say happened?”
“He said he confronted Markov in the parking area behind the club. Markov came at him with a knife, they wrestled for it, and Yuri lost the battle. Markov was dead when the police arrived.”
“It sounds like self-defense, involuntary manslaughter maybe. Why the second-degree murder charge?” Lorraine asked.
“There were two witnesses, both employees of the club, who claimed Alex produced the knife and he assaulted Markov.”
“How does Alex explain that?”
“He says they’re lying.”
“And why would they lie?”
“Fear of Yuri’s father, the owner of the club, maybe a combination of fear and an early Christmas bonus.”
“There were no other witnesses?”
“None we know about.”
“Okay. I’ll talk with Alex in the morning and decide if I can take on the case,” Lorraine said. “In any event, I will at least advise a plea and represent him at the arraignment.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not making any promises.”
“I understand,” Marina said.
“The waffles with fresh strawberries are very good here,” Lorraine said when the waitress arrived at their table.
Ivanov took another quick look at the menu.
“I’m leaning toward the Sicilian omelet,” she said.
Samson caught him just as he was about to rush out the front door.
“Jimmy, hold up.”
“I’m sort of in a hurry.”
“Come here and sit with me, I won’t keep you long.”
Samson and his son were alone in the house and Samson didn’t want to blow the opportunity to get the talk over with, especially since Alicia had taken the girls out to Ally Pond Park for that very reason.
The boy reluctantly joined his father on the living room sofa.
“How are things with you?”
“Fine. Why?”
“You’ve seemed preoccupied lately,” Samson said, “you are hardly ever home these days.”
“School begins soon, we’re all trying to cram in as much summer activity as possible while there’s still time.”
“Speaking of school, your mother is concerned about your grades.”
“She worries too much,” Jimmy suggested.
“I worry too much, your mother worries just enough.”
“It was just a little slump. It happens to everyone from time to time. Have you checked Manning’s passing percentage lately?”
“He makes millions of dollars whether he completes or not,” Samson said, “and he’s not hoping to get into a good college.”
“I’ll ace all my classes this year, guaranteed. Tell Mom not to worry. I really need to get going.”
His father was about to ask where to as Jimmy headed for the door but he held his tongue.
Samson wondered instead how he was going to sell the football analogy to Alicia when he wasn’t certain he bought it himself.
Jimmy rushed around the corner to the adjoining street and was relieved to see the car was still waiting. He jumped into the passenger seat.
“What took so long?”
“My father, he decided all of a sudden we needed to have a chat.”
“About?”
“My grades last semester.”
“Did you blame it on me?”
“Funny. Actually, I tried blaming it on Eli Manning.”
“Is it alright? Do you want to skip this?”
“No, I don’t want to skip it.”
“Then we should go. Kenny will be home in a few hours.”
A day after burying his only son, Detective John Cicero sat alone at the kitchen table. His wife and two daughters sat together in the living room.
Both girls would be leaving on Monday morning. Maryann to begin her first year at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Lena returning to her home in Albany, New York, where she taught kindergarten.
Cicero knew Edward’s death would hit Annie much harder once the girls had gone, if his wife could possibly become more distraught.
The Sunday Daily News sat on the table in an orange plastic bag. He removed the newspaper and looked at the front page.
KEVIN DONAHUE FOUND DEAD
IN BROOKLYN BASEMENT
The fact he had not received the news from Samson or Murphy only served to reinforce his belief that the 61st Precinct was not interested in having him meddle in their investigation.
Fuck the Six-one.
Nothing was going to stop him from finding his son’s killer.
He owed it to Annie and the girls, he owed it to Eddie.
He owed it to himself.
Ripley had called his sister’s house early Sunday morning to invite her husband to join him in Box Seats at Citi Field for the afternoon game.
He had received the choice tickets as a gift from Senderowitz who in turn had obtained them when visiting with a friend at what Bernie had described as an Exclusive Sicilian-American Social Establishment.
Ripley had gladly accepted the gift, no questions asked.
“Take Kyle with you, he’ll love it and love the time with you,” Connie had said. “Mickey can stay here with us and the girls. And anyway, Philip has had issues with the Mets since they traded Carlos Beltran.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“Phil can hold a grudge.”
“I hope he hasn’t become a Yankee fan.”
“Worse,” Connie said. “He likes the Phillies.”
Kyle was very excited. Mickey was not very disappointed.
They sat watching as the Mets’ first baseman tossed ground balls to the other infielders and the Mets’ starter threw warm-up pitches from the mound.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“When you are a policeman do you fight the bad guys?”
“Something like that.”
“Like the Cowboys and the I
ndians?”
“Well we don’t call them Indians anymore, Kyle,” Ripley said. “And with the cowboys and Native-Americans it was not always clear who the bad guys were.”
“But you’re the good guy, right?”
“If you put it that way, I guess so.”
“Do you ever have to kill the bad guys?”
He had no idea how to answer the question from his eight-year-old. Kyle was becoming more perceptive every day, and the boy’s inquiries were becoming more personal and much trickier to address.
Ripley was saved by the bell when the umpire yelled Play Ball and Kyle’s attention was averted to the playing field.
Ripley knew the subject would come up again and decided he needed to be better prepared the next time it did.
“How about a hot dog, chief?” he asked after the first batter flied-out to short right field.
“Okay,” Kyle said. “Thanks for bringing me, Dad.”
Detective Jack Falcone phoned Marina Ivanov late Sunday afternoon.
“Just called to see how it’s going with Alex Holden.”
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Ivanov said. “I talked to an attorney who has agreed to speak with Alex and said she could at the least be with him at the arraignment.”
“I hope it goes well.”
“Thank you, and thanks for your help.”
“Listen,” Falcone said. “Would you be interested in joining me for a cup of coffee sometime?”
“You never invited me for coffee when we worked together.”
“I was off coffee for a while.”
“Sure. Call me,” Ivanov said.
The Lafayette High School varsity football team was practicing offensive plays late Sunday afternoon. The Patriots would be playing their first game of the season in less than two weeks.
Along the sideline, the cheerleading squad was rehearsing an elaborately choreographed halftime show.
As the sun began to set the two groups broke up.
Jenny Greco and Patty Bolin were about to get into Patty’s Camry when Peter Donner rushed up to them.
Donner was the new wide receiver who was predicted to put the school in contention for the Borough Championship. His family had relocated from Utah where, in his junior year, Donner had led the state in receptions. His addition to the Patriot’s roster was the talk of the school, and his good looks had all the girls talking.
“Jennifer, right?” Peter said.
“Jenny.”
“Can I buy you a soda or something, Jenny? I can drive you home.”
“I don’t know. My parents will be expecting me.”
“Go ahead,” Patty said. “You can tell them we went over to my house, I’ll cover for you.”
“Can you give us a minute?” Jenny asked Peter.
“Sure.”
Jenny dragged Patty away from the car.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? Look at him. My parents won’t be home until eleven. If anyone asks, you were with me. Just be home before then.”
“Thanks,” Jenny said. “You’re great.”
“And you’re lucky.”
Stan Landis was very uneasy about keeping the secret from his partner.
When he called Salina Mendez after surveillance duty at the restaurant, Rey’s wife was very upset.
She said she had to see him in person.
Landis agreed to meet Salina at her house at nine.
Rey would be out bowling with friends.
He hoped he wouldn’t be hearing Rey’s wild doubts about his wife’s fidelity were correct.
The three small children were asleep when Landis arrived.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he walked in. “On the phone you sounded like the sky was falling. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay, Stan. Rey did it again.”
“Did what again?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Congratulations?”
“No. We can’t have another child. I have much too much on my hands as it is and we definitely can’t afford it.”
“And Rey doesn’t know.”
“Rey doesn’t know, but he is going to be able to tell soon. I don’t know what to do. Rey will never agree to an abortion and I’m terrified to go behind his back.”
“Wow.”
“I was hoping for a little more wisdom from you, Stan. What am I supposed to do?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Not much.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Please think fast.”
“I’ll call you,” Landis said.
Josh Altman watched from his car as Sandra and Murphy walked into Rosen’s house.
Rosen had told Josh, just before Christmas no less, she couldn’t see him outside of work anymore.
Sandra claimed it was much too difficult having a romantic relationship with another detective in the same precinct.
He had tried for weeks to change her mind.
It only made their working together more uncomfortable as the time passed.
Altman suspected the situation was a big factor in Rosen’s decision to transfer out of the Six-three.
Now here she was with a detective from the Six-one.
Altman had heard a little about Thomas Murphy. How Murphy couldn’t even protect his own brother from being killed by a rookie cop.
What could Sandra possibly see in the clown?
Josh Altman allowed himself several minutes to calm down before speeding off.
Peter Donner had a cold six pack in his car.
He drove onto Shell Road.
The street was deserted at that time on Sunday night.
The businesses, predominantly auto salvage yards and tire dealerships, were all shut down.
The baseball field was dark and vacant.
Peter parked in the shadow of a large Norway maple away from any of the streetlamps and reached for a Budweiser.
He asked Jenny if she cared to join him and she accepted.
After a few beers Jenny let him kiss her. Before long Peter’s hand moved between her legs.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Come on, I thought Brooklyn girls liked to have fun.”
“I said stop.”
When he didn’t comply Jenny pulled herself away and jumped out of the car, seriously scraping her upper arm on the door frame as she did.
She moved away, hurrying down the desolate street.
“Jenny, I’ll behave,” Peter called from the car. “It’s not safe out here. Let me give you a ride home.”
When she didn’t stop walking he punched the accelerator and raced off. Minutes later Jenny could hear a car approaching from behind.
She imagined Peter had changed his mind about leaving her out there alone.
Jenny put her head down and picked up her pace, unable to decide what to do.
The car came to a stop and she heard the car door opening, then quick footsteps following her.
The dimly lit street was menacing and her arm was bleeding.
“Swear you won’t touch me again and take me straight home,” Jenny said as she turned to face him.
TWELVE
Rose Greco had not notified the police yet, but she had made a number of anxious phone calls late Sunday and early Monday morning.
One of the girls who had been to cheerleader practice the previous day told Mrs. Greco that Jenny had left the field with Patty Bolin.
When Patty got the call from Jenny’s mother she was about to lie, to tell Mrs. Greco Jenny had stayed with her for a while after rehearsal, but the serious concern in the woman’s voice was unmistakable and alarming.
“Is Jenny alright?” Patty asked.
“She didn’t come home last night. Carla Jackson said she was last seen with you.”
“She took a ride with the new boy on the team. They were going to have a soda. He said he would take her home.”
“How could you l
et her go off with a stranger, Patty?” Rose asked. “What is the boy’s name?”
“Peter Donner. I think they live on West Second near Quentin Road.”
Rose hung up on Patty and found a phone number for the Donners.
Jenny’s father had stayed home from work, sick with worry. He told his wife he would talk to the boy.
“We picked up a few bottles of pop and I drove her home. It was around nine,” Peter said.
“Where exactly did you leave her?” Andy Greco asked.
“West Thirteenth Street, across from the elementary school.”
“That’s not where we live.”
“That’s where she asked me to drop her, sir. Is she alright?”
Andy Greco hung up on Peter and called 9-1-1.
Landis and Mendez were back in their vehicle across from Il Colosseo at eight Monday morning.
It was unusually quiet in the car.
Landis was trying to come up with something to do or to say that might help Rey’s wife with her dilemma.
It was Rey who broke the silence.
“Do you ever wish you weren’t gay?” he asked.
“Do you ever wish you weren’t Hispanic?”
“No sense wishing for what you can’t change.”
“There’s your answer.”
“Got it.”
“Do you ever wish for another child?” Landis asked, biting his lip.
“I did before we had the boy. Now that I have satisfied that Latino requirement, I think we’re good. Jesus, we can’t even afford the three we already have.”
“What if Salina got pregnant again?”
“She’s not going to get pregnant again. Unless you know something I don’t know.”
“The only thing I know that you don’t know is my birthday,” Landis said, deciding he was not yet prepared to take it any further.
“June nineteenth,” Mendez said.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No, just attentive. It’s this stake-out that is fucking unbelievable.”
Lorraine DiMarco met with Alex Holden at eight-forty-five, just before the arraignment scheduled for nine.