Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  The boy had been shot twice. He was rushed to the Emergency Room at Long Island Jewish Medical Center in New Hyde Park Monday night and taken into the Operating Room immediately.

  He was now in recovery, still unconscious.

  His condition was listed as critical.

  The victim was not identified until Detective Jesse Fulton of the Hundred and eleventh Precinct in Bayside, called to the hospital to investigate the shooting incident, was allowed entrance to the Intensive Care Unit following the surgery.

  Fulton recognized the boy. He had worked on a number of community service projects in Northeastern Queens with the boy’s father. The two men took part in a friendly poker game once a month.

  Fulton phoned the boy’s parents shortly before two in the morning.

  Bernie Senderowitz and Silvio Batale left the Palermo Club just past two in the morning. After Batale locked the front door, the two men exchanged farewells and walked off in opposite directions.

  Almost immediately, Silvio changed his course and he began following Bernie. He wanted to make sure Senderowitz arrived home safely, but did not want to insult his friend by suggesting the need for an escort.

  Less than ten minutes later, Silvio watched Bernie slowly negotiate the front steps, using the handrail to steady himself. Bernie emptied the mailbox, fumbled with his keys and somehow managed to get through the door. When Senderowitz had entered the house, Batale continued on his way home.

  Once inside, Bernie dumped the mail onto a table, adding it to a pile of papers and magazines already spilling over to the floor.

  Senderowitz passed through the front room, walked back to the kitchen, drank a few tall glasses of water, stumbled down the hallway to his bedroom, kicked off his shoes and fell into his bed.

  He was out cold in no time.

  Samson arrived at the hospital at two-thirty.

  Alicia had stayed at home, not wanting to wake the girls in the middle of the night. Not wanting to frighten them.

  Samson was told Jimmy was listed as critical, but his vital signs were beginning to stabilize and he would survive the gunshot wounds.

  The extent of permanent damage to Jimmy’s right ankle and left shoulder would not be determined for weeks, if not months.

  The boy remained unconscious in ICU.

  After talking with the doctor and looking in on Jimmy for a moment, Samson hurried off to find Detective Fulton.

  Ripley felt a tugging on his arm and opened his eyes.

  It was near three in the morning.

  “What is it, son?”

  “I hear noises.”

  “In your room?”

  “Yes.”

  Ripley sat up, turned on the table lamp and lifted the five-year-old up onto the bed.

  “What kind of noises, Mickey?”

  “Like scratchy noises.”

  “What do you think it is, son?”

  “Like an animal or something. It’s scary.”

  “Would you like me to come take a look?”

  “Can I just stay here with you?”

  “Who will look after Kyle?”

  “What?”

  “He’s your brother. Even though he is bigger, you need to watch out for each other. Do you really want to leave Kyle there all alone?”

  “I better not.”

  “I’ll be right here if you need me, son. I’ll never leave you.”

  “Can you walk me back to our room?”

  “Of course I can.”

  Samson found Jesse Fulton sitting in the visitor’s lounge.

  Fulton rose to offer his friend a handshake and the two men took seats facing each other.

  “How is Jimmy?”

  “He’ll live. They can’t say anything yet about permanent disability,” Samson said. “What happened, Jesse?”

  “We received an emergency call just before ten last night. A man in the neighboring house heard gunshots. Uniformed officers responded and found a young woman, DOA. Jimmy was discovered beside her, bleeding badly. He was rushed to the ER before I got to the scene. They found no ID. No one knew who he was until I arrived here.”

  “Were they found inside the house?”

  “They were found in bed together, Sam.”

  “Who was the woman?” Samson asked, once it sunk in.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t reveal her name before her family has been properly notified.”

  “I understand,” Samson said. “Can you tell me anything about the woman?”

  “I can tell you she was an English teacher at Bayside High School. Twenty-six years old, Caucasian, married, no children.”

  “Jimmy’s school,” Samson said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “The neighbor saw the woman’s husband run from the house after the gunshots and drive off. We assume he surprised his wife in bed with your son and shot them both. We put out a statewide APB.”

  “I need to call my wife,” Samson said.

  “If there is anything I can do, Sam.”

  “Thank you, Jesse. I’ll let you know.”

  Samson walked off and called Alicia. He told her all he knew. She said she would drop the girls off with her parents and be at the hospital by eight.

  Samson walked back to ICU and stood silently at the bedside looking at his damaged son.

  He recalled what his wife said the previous afternoon at the park, when they talked about the safety of the children.

  There are never guarantees.

  Samson turned when he heard someone approach and stop at his side.

  “Alicia phoned me,” Murphy said.

  Sandra Rosen sat up in her bed, reacting to the noise.

  Not fully awake, she glanced toward the sound and thought she saw a silhouette framed in her bedroom window.

  A shadow that quickly disappeared.

  Her bedside alarm clock told her it was past three in the morning.

  Rosen left the bed, went to the window, parted the sheer curtains and looked out to the back yard.

  Nothing. No one.

  She wondered if the events of the past week or so were messing with her mind, stimulating her imagination in less than pleasant ways. She thought the dangers and deaths she confronted on the job were putting scary visions in her head, making her hear bumps in the night that weren’t there.

  Rosen returned to her bed and tried to shake off the uneasy feeling, but she couldn’t.

  Because she knew she had heard a sound and had seen something outside her window. And it did scare her.

  Samson and Murphy sat in the visitor’s lounge, drinking coffee in paper cups from a vending machine.

  “I would have been here sooner, Sam, but when Alicia reached me I was helping Augie close his place. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m managing,” Samson said. “How is Augie?”

  “It helps that he’s back to work and keeping busy at the bar. His sister Rosie is having a rough time,” Murphy said. “Her daughters had to leave after the funeral to return to work and school. And John Cicero is not being much help to his wife. Rosie told Augie her husband is always very angry. I can understand. Cicero is totally convinced there is someone behind his son’s death who got away clean and he can’t do a thing about it. He can’t even talk about it.”

  “I’m sure it’s very painful,” Samson said. “Even with what happened to Jimmy, I can’t imagine what Cicero is going through.”

  “What did happen to Jimmy?”

  Shortly before four Tuesday morning a brick shattered the bay window at the Donner residence on West 2nd Street, landing in the living room.

  The crash woke the entire family, Peter and his father jumped from their beds and ran out to the front room of the house. Peter’s mother followed.

  “Go back to bed, Sybil,” Paul Donner said to his wife, “Peter and I will clean up the mess.”

  “I can clean up.”

  “Please, go back to bed,” her husband insisted.


  After his mother left the room, Peter’s father asked the boy to sit.

  “Tell me what happened that night, son.”

  “I never hurt the girl. I swear. After she got out of the car I drove away. Then I felt bad about leaving her all alone and I went back for her. She wasn’t there, I couldn’t find her.”

  “Why did you feel bad about leaving her where she asked you to, Peter? You said she asked you to take her to West Thirteenth Street. Didn’t you take her there?”

  “We had a disagreement. We were on Shell Road. She was upset and bolted out of the car.”

  “Shell Road, Peter, near the ballpark where she was found?”

  “It’s not the way it sounds,” Peter said.

  “Then tell me the way it was, and don’t leave out a single detail.”

  Alicia found her husband and Murphy just after four in the morning.

  “I couldn’t wait. I woke up my mother. She drove over to the house to look after the girls, they’re still asleep. I want to see Jimmy.”

  “I’ll take you to him,” Samson said as he turned to Murphy. “Thanks for coming down, Tommy. You should go and get some rest.”

  “Thank you, Tommy,” Alicia said, giving Murphy a hug.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” Murphy said. “Anything.”

  When Murphy left, Samson took his wife’s hand and led her to ICU.

  “Will Jimmy be all right,” Alicia asked as they walked the hall.

  “Jimmy will be all right,” Samson said, “but he may never be the same.”

  SIXTEEN

  Landis and Mendez sat together in Rey’s car parked opposite the Planned Parenthood Clinic on Court Street in downtown Brooklyn at nine.

  Mendez looked as if he was about to crawl out of his skin.

  Landis was reluctant to say a word.

  “You promised me you would control your temper, Rey,” Landis finally said.

  “I’m not angry with Salina. I blame myself.”

  Landis looked toward the building.

  “There she is, Rey.”

  Salina Mendez stood at the entrance, waiting for Landis to appear.

  She saw her husband approach instead.

  “Oh my God, Rey.”

  “Salina, we don’t need to do this.”

  Mendez took his wife into his arms.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry, Rey,” she said.

  “No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you feel you could not come to me with this. We will welcome this child, Salina. We will make it work. And I promise I’ll be more help.”

  “You’ll have to be, Rey.”

  “Count on it. Let’s pick up the children and tell everyone the good news.”

  “Are you very sure, Rey?”

  “Absolutely. I love you, Salina. This pregnancy is a blessing. Trust me,” Mendez said. “I’ll call the precinct and request the day off to celebrate.”

  “Did Stan come with you?”

  “Yes. We can drop him off before we go for the kids,” Rey said. “Don’t be mad at Landis, Salina, he did what he thought was right.”

  “I want to thank him,” Salina said as they walked to the car.

  Lorraine DiMarco and Pavel Vasin sat facing each other in the attorney’s office on Tuesday morning.

  Vicki Anderson brought coffee and quickly disappeared.

  “As you know, Alex Holden was charged with second degree murder,” Lorraine began, “we pleaded not guilty at the arraignment. Alex is presently out on bail. He put up his business, a bakery in Crown Heights, as collateral. A preliminary hearing has been scheduled, two weeks from tomorrow. This hearing will determine if we can avoid a trial, by having the charge dropped or by proposing a plea bargain.”

  “How may I help?”

  “There are two witnesses who claim Holden produced the murder weapon and attacked the victim unprovoked. Alex told me they were lying and I believe him. The victim’s father, Vladimir Markov, is a very powerful and intimidating man. His influence is far reaching. We suspect Markov coerced the witnesses into giving false testimony.”

  “Coerced?”

  “Threats or hush money, or both,” Lorraine said.

  “And if the witnesses were somehow persuaded to reconsider their account of the incident?”

  “I believe we would be looking at self-defense, involuntary manslaughter with a suspended sentence.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Vasin said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Lorraine.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me give you a warning, which I will share with my niece, Marina. Whether or not his son was the aggressor, Vladimir Markov will hold Alex responsible for his son’s death. As well as anyone who tries to protect Alex. It is the Russian way, when a father loses a child, to settle the score.”

  “That particular sentiment is not exclusive to the Russians,” Lorraine said.

  Murphy and Rosen had arranged to meet for breakfast at the New Times before going in to the precinct.

  They were both suffering from lack of sleep.

  “Listen to this,” Murphy said. “Jimmy Samson was found in bed with a twenty-six-year-old school teacher.”

  “Sam told me.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning. I went to the hospital to see how they were doing.”

  “Why did Samson ask me to keep it quiet and then turn around and tell you?”

  “Maybe he was afraid you might accidently talk out of school.”

  “Are you saying I’m a blabbermouth? I wasn’t planning to tell anyone else. And I wasn’t trying to raise your eyebrows.”

  “Please don’t be angry, Tommy, I’m not criticizing you. I’m flattered you chose me as a confidant. But it is a story that begs to be gossip. If it slips out before Samson and Alicia are prepared to address it, it could cause the family unnecessary grief. I know you will keep it under your hat, and so does Sam. And I’m really sorry if I was out of line.”

  “No, you’re right,” Murphy said. “I need to be more careful about talking before thinking.”

  “Sam was only asking you to keep your hat on for a while.”

  “I can do that. Did you hear Salina Mendez is pregnant again?”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And you look tired.”

  “I had trouble sleeping last night.”

  “Do you want to tell me why? Or are you afraid it will wind up on the front page of the Post?” Murphy said, and then quickly added, “I’m kidding, Sandra, what kept you awake?”

  “Lately I’ve had this unpleasant feeling someone is watching me.”

  Lafayette High School teachers, administrators, staff and volunteers reported for orientation late Tuesday morning.

  A half-day designated for meeting new colleagues, visiting assigned class rooms and discussing curriculum for the new school year.

  William Pabst had asked for a private meeting with David Rose at eleven in Pabst’s office.

  The principal wanted a few words with the new school psychologist.

  “First, I wanted to personally welcome you to Lafayette High School and tell you how fortunate we feel having you aboard,” Pabst began, “especially in light of the tragedy a week ago Sunday. There will be many questions. There will be anxiety and confusion. We are certain you will be of great help.”

  “Thank you for your show of confidence.”

  “Jenny Greco was a very popular student. She had many friends, she made friends easily. Until classes resume on Friday, we don’t know how her death will affect friends and classmates or the student population in general. We will be monitoring the situation very closely. At the moment, we are most concerned about the young women who were with Jenny last. They all came very close to unsuspected danger.”

  “I understand your concern,” Rose said.

  “We have asked the other members of the cheerleading squad to come in for a special assembly at five. We would like you to meet them, talk
with them and answer questions. Help them get through this shocking event in a positive and healthy manner. Can you do this for us, David?”

  “I will do my best.”

  Paul Donner met with his son’s lawyer early Tuesday afternoon.

  “From what I have heard, the search for Jenny Greco’s killer is ongoing,” the attorney said. “This tells me the District Attorney doesn’t truly believe Peter committed the crime or doesn’t believe there is enough real evidence to make a case.”

  “Then why haven’t they dropped the charge?” Donner asked.

  “For the time being they need a suspect, to alleviate pressure from the media, the public and the Mayor. Peter fits the bill. He was the last known person to see the girl, he has no alibi for the time of her death, and there’s a general feeling he lied to the police.”

  “Peter did lie to the police.”

  “Lied about what?”

  “About what happened with the Greco girl that night.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Peter is a teenager. Boys his age have trouble controlling their libidos. He and the girl parked and shared a few beers. Peter got a little fresh. The girl was not interested. She became upset and left his car. He drove off. He went back to apologize and to take her home, but she was gone.”

  “Where was this?”

  “On Shell Road, close to where they found her.”

  “Why did he lie?”

  “Peter was afraid his aggressive behavior would blemish his reputation at the new school, and jeopardize his high school football career.”

  “And now he is a murder suspect.”

  “But if he’s cleared, if the killer is found, he may be able to regain his status. Could we wait awhile to see how the police investigation develops?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. Withholding the facts is an obstruction of justice. It could make a bad situation worse. Your son should talk with the police and tell the truth.”

  It was a perfect early September day in Brooklyn.