Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  They drove to the scene.

  The subway station had been reopened and the trains were running on schedule.

  “Everything back to normal,” Murphy said.

  “Not for everyone,” Rosen said.

  Landis and Mendez brought them up to date.

  No one had seen Patty Bolin outside the school, getting into a vehicle or otherwise. No one had seen a girl along the route she would have taken to her home, alone or otherwise.

  “We did get something,” Mendez said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A neighbor saw a man walking up from the Kings Highway end of West Eighth very early Tuesday morning. He was placing flyers into the mailboxes, or stuffing them behind door handles. When he reached Highlawn Avenue, he turned the corner toward West Seventh and was gone.”

  “Description?” Murphy said.

  “White male. Late-thirties, early-forties. It was all he could make out from across the street,” Landis said.

  “The witness said junk ads are dropped in the neighborhood all the time, but usually by young kids,” Mendez added. “He said this particular type of flyer is usually found stuck under windshield wipers, and he thought it odd the man never hit his side of the street. Here’s the flyer.”

  “EXPERT AUTO REPAIR IN YOUR OWN BACK YARD,” Rosen read. “Did you call the phone number?”

  “It’s the number of a florist in Midwood,” Mendez said. “And by the way, the house that backed up to the wall where we found the girl.”

  “Yes?”

  “The mailbox was full, and there was a stack of newspapers at the front door.”

  “Reconnaissance,” Murphy said. “Try getting a better description. This is our fucking guy.”

  When Murphy and Rosen reached the precinct, they caught Samson on his way out.

  “Make it quick,” Samson said.

  Murphy ran through it.

  “He planned it. He found the spot, and he gave himself a time limit. He took a chance not waiting until the middle of the night. Maybe he needed to be somewhere by ten or so. I’ll be at the hospital,” Samson said. “Would you give me a moment with Sandra, Tommy?”

  “Sure,” Murphy said, heading into the building.

  “What?” Rosen asked.

  “I dropped a copy of the Patty Bolin press release on your desk. Share it with Tommy. You probably won’t like it, but it’s your case. I thought you might want to see it before hearing it on TV, and we all need to be on the same page.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Rosen said. “Give Alicia my regards.”

  “Fuck this,” Rosen said, after reading the press release.

  “What?”

  “Take a look,” Rosen said, handing the one-page statement to Murphy. “You’re a big fan of crime fiction.”

  “Neatly done,” Murphy said, scanning the page.

  “A flawless example of spin artistry. Patricia Bolin, a sixteen-year-old Lafayette High School student, committed suicide last evening. Investigators speculate her action was motivated by the death of Jennifer Greco last week. Speculate? Patty Bolin was hung by the neck off a wall and they’re painting her as a mixed-up kid who couldn’t live with the guilt she felt letting her best friend drive off with the high school heartthrob. One more of the thousands of teens who kill themselves each year. No mention of how she did it, and still no mention of the noose around Jenny Greco’s throat. Jesus, Murphy, if I didn’t know any better, this bullshit propaganda could have fooled me.”

  “Some facts need to be held back, you know that.”

  “I know it’s what the brass thinks, but what about the families? What good did all of the secrecy do for the Lake Street investigation? There is still someone out there responsible for six deaths, and a pair of mothers who still don’t understand why their children were murdered.”

  “Okay, calm down. They don’t want anyone outside the investigation to know the deaths of Greco and Bolin are connected. It would cause a panic.”

  “There is someone outside the investigation who knows very well the two deaths are connected,” Rosen said, “and I hope he’s not out there thanking us for keeping his secret.”

  NINETEEN

  “Happy New Year,” Senderowitz said, when Murphy and Rosen walked into the squad room at nine on Thursday morning.

  “Did I miss Christmas?” Murphy asked.

  “It’s Jewish New Year,” Rosen said, “the first day of Tishrei.”

  “Well, that explains it,” Murphy said.

  “Today is Rosh Hashanah,” Bernie said, “the first day of the new year. It corresponds to the sixth day of creation in Genesis, the first book of the Torah, in the Old Testament. It is supposedly the day God created Adam and Eve.”

  “And we all know how that turned out,” Ripley said, coming into the room. “Isn’t Rosh Hashanah the Day of Judgment?”

  “On Rosh Hashanah, according to Jewish tradition, God inscribes each person’s fate for the coming year into a divine book of judgment. The wicked, the righteous, and those in between. During the Days of Awe, a Jew attempts to amend his or her behavior and to seek forgiveness for wrongs done against God and other human beings. On the tenth day, all fates are sealed,” Bernie said. “The evening and day of Yom Kippur are set aside for public and private petitions, confessions of guilt and repentance. At the end of Yom Kippur, one hopes they have been forgiven by God.”

  “Removed from the shit list,” Murphy said.

  “So to speak.”

  “Could God forgive whoever is killing these young girls?” Rosen asked.

  “That could depend on whether or not he stops,” Bernie said.

  “I thought no work was allowed on Rosh Hashanah,” Ripley said, “that observers spent the day at Synagogue instead.”

  “This precinct is my synagogue,” Senderowitz said.

  He sat alone on a bench in Manhattan Beach Park watching three men playing the card game Durak at a nearby picnic table.

  The oldest of the three appeared to be in his late-fifties, close to his own age. The two younger players looked to be in their mid-twenties.

  One of the younger men, the last player to have cards remaining in his hand and therefore the loser of the game, shuffled the deck. The durak, or fool, as the loser of the previous game was called, always dealt the following game.

  He rose from the bench and approached the table.

  “Izvinite,” he said, “please forgive my intrusion.”

  “What can we do for you?” the oldest of the three players asked.

  “I was hoping you would allow me to join the game. It has been quite some time since I have had the pleasure of a good contest.”

  “Do you still remember how to play, old timer?” one of the younger men asked.

  “Please excuse my son, he means no disrespect,” the older man said. “I am Mikhail Gagarin. Come, sit with us. You and I will play as partners and show these young fools a thing or two about old timers.”

  “Spasibo, I would enjoy it very much. I am Pavel Vasin.”

  The two men shook hands and Pavel sat opposite Mikhail at the table.

  “Now, Lev.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I believe it is your turn to deal,” Mikhail Gagarin said, giving his guest a sly wink.

  After several games, which the older men won handily, Lev Gagarin and Roman Churkin excused themselves and left the park.

  “Would you care to continue playing, two-handed?” Mikhail asked when the younger men were gone.

  “I would like to offer you a cup of tea,” Pavel said, “perhaps lunch. I wish to show my appreciation for your hospitality.”

  “I never say no to tea,” Gagarin said, collecting the deck of cards.

  Sarah Sanders and Eileen Kaplan left Temple Beth El of Bensonhurst, following a prayer service which had included a reading of Genesis XXI. The passage told of the birth of Isaac to Abraham and his young wife, believed to have occurred on Rosh Hashanah.

  “Thank you f
or joining me, Sarah,” her aunt said.

  “I value every opportunity to spend time with you.”

  “Even in synagogue?”

  “Why not in synagogue?”

  “I sometimes worry you have lost interest in our history and traditions,” Eileen said.

  “Is it because I chose to call myself Sanders? I changed my last name, wisely or unwisely, for professional reasons,” Sarah said. “It wasn’t meant to imply a rejection of my Jewish heritage.”

  “What do you think about the story of Abraham and Isaac?”

  “At the risk of sounding blasphemous, which is truly not my intention, Abraham was not exactly a candidate for father-of-the-year.”

  “His faith and acceptance of God’s will ultimately spared the child.”

  “Granted. But I’ve always felt God cut it a little too close.”

  “Have you reached your father?”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “You called him?”

  “I dropped him a note, asking him to contact me.”

  “When?”

  “Three days ago. No response.”

  “Are you certain he received the note?”

  “It would have been hard to miss.”

  “Give him time, Sarah.”

  “And if I hear nothing?”

  “Make another attempt, don’t give up on him.”

  “I’ll think about it, Aunt Eileen.”

  Ivanov and Richards were called to Coney Island Hospital early Thursday afternoon.

  The detectives found Paul Donner in the Emergency Room waiting area.

  “What happened?” Richards asked.

  “My son was brutally beaten. He’s in there with a broken nose, cuts above both eyes, and two fractured ribs.”

  “Who?”

  “Peter was devastated by being banned from playing ball. He went to the school to watch practice and he was assaulted. He wouldn’t say who.”

  “If he won’t name names, there’s not much we can do,” Richards said.

  “It’s not a question of who, but why. He is being treated as a murderer. What you can do is clear his name.”

  “He tried to take physical advantage of a young female student,” Ivanov said. “That alone would create animosity toward your son.”

  “Are you saying Peter deserved this severe punishment?”

  “I am not saying that, and I don’t condone it. And again, if he names his attackers we will deal with them firmly. But, let’s not forget, he forced that girl from his car and he abandoned her in a dark, unsafe place,” Ivanov said. “Your son could be feeling somewhat responsible. He may have turned up at practice today looking for punishment.”

  “How do we check alibis without suggesting Patty Bolin’s death was more than a routine adolescent suicide?” Murphy asked.

  “I never said teen suicides were routine, I said they were prevalent. What really upsets me is, in this particular case, it’s a fabrication,” Rosen said. “How can we expect to find the truth by telling lies? And what might we risk by not warning the public there is someone really scary and dangerous out there?”

  “I’m sorry, Sandra, I used a poor choice of words. I do understand your argument. At the same time I can appreciate the company line. And at the end of the day the brass wins the debate. We may live in a democracy, but we don’t work in one. And, you never answered my question.”

  “What was the question?”

  “How do we confirm everyone went directly home when they claimed they did the night Patty Bolin was killed, without raising red flags?”

  “I don’t know,” Rosen said.

  “Thank you for the meal, and of course the tea,” Mikhail Gagarin said.

  “It was my pleasure,” Pavel Vasin said. “It was wonderful talking with someone from my generation. And someone from the old country who is not a thug or a criminal.”

  “Surely you don’t believe all the new Russian immigrants are gangsters.”

  “There are so many here in Brooklyn, it gives the rest of us a bad name. Forgive me. I will avoid the subject if we have the good fortune to meet again.”

  “Let us plan on it. Do you enjoy Prokofiev?”

  “Very much.”

  “I have a pair of tickets to the Brooklyn Academy of Music this Saturday afternoon, a program of his work including the orchestral suites from Romeo and Juliet,” Gagarin said, “if you would care to join me.”

  “I would be delighted. But surely you have family or a friend who would be as pleased.”

  “Since my dear wife passed away, I have been looking for someone with an appreciation for fine music and a good card game. My son does not fit the bill, and my daughter is away. And I believe I may have found a new friend.”

  “Very good,” Pavel said, “But I insist on treating you to dinner after the concert. There is a restaurant I have wanted to try. The Volga. I have heard many good things about it.”

  “I know it, and I know the woman who operates the restaurant. She is the mother of my son’s friend, Roman, who you met earlier.”

  “It’s settled then. Let’s speak Saturday morning to make arrangements.”

  The two men exchanged phone numbers and went their separate ways.

  Mikhail Gagarin, home to his apartment on Ocean Avenue.

  Pavel Vasin, off to discover what he could about Roman Churkin, the second of the two younger men playing cards in the park.

  Samson and his wife left the hospital on Thursday afternoon to pick up Kayla and Lucy at Alicia’s parents’ house.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “It must have been going on for months,” Alicia said, sitting beside her husband in the car, “since last spring, or winter.”

  “It would explain his falling grades, his distraction.”

  “How could we have been so unaware?”

  “You knew something was going on. Don’t blame yourself for not being able to guess what it was. He hid it well, which leads me to believe he knew what he was doing was not acceptable.”

  “I could never have guessed a relationship with an older woman, a school teacher. He’s just a boy.”

  “He is a young adult. Mature enough to be tempted and excited by the prospect, but not experienced or wise enough to have anticipated the possible ramifications.”

  “Honestly, Sam. Do you feel Jimmy is responsible for the teacher’s death?”

  “Only as much as we are all responsible for our actions if they prove to be harmful, even if not intentional. And the effects of this disaster reach far beyond Jimmy, the woman, and her husband. The decision he and Rebecca Ramirez made changed everything, and everyone. It set all of our lives on an entirely different course. What they did was wrong in so many ways. It’s fair to say she should have known better, as an adult who was employed to guide our children, but Jimmy had to realize it was wrong as well. The woman lost her life, her husband lost his freedom and Jimmy may have lost the ability to pursue his passion for athletics. So now, we need to work at adjusting to the new reality and put questions of responsibility aside.”

  “Jimmy has also lost his innocence,” Alicia said.

  “An inevitable human experience.”

  “Has he lost your confidence and respect?”

  “Absolutely not, and he has not lost our love. If Jimmy trusts that fact, we will all work through this together. Which brings me to the subject of the girls. We can’t be distracted from their needs. Tomorrow Kayla begins second grade, and Lucy begins kindergarten. They must both be feeling anxious, we need to assure them there’s nothing to worry about. Assure them they will be fine, and Jimmy will be fine.”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  “For?”

  “For being a strong and compassionate parent to our children.”

  “I am learning day to day,” Samson said, “and I am very fortunate to be learning from the best.”

  Vladimir Markov entered the kitchen of the Lobnya Lounge to speak with Lev Gagarin and Roman Churkin. The t
wo chefs were busy preparing for what was expected to be a very hectic evening, a large number of dinner guests who would abstain from cooking at home on the holy day.

  “I understand you are scheduled to make a sworn statement this coming Monday morning,” Markov said.

  “Yes, a deposition. At the defense lawyer’s office,” Roman said.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “It is not something to look forward to,” Lev admitted.

  “Do not be concerned. Simply repeat what you said to the police on the night my son was brutally attacked and killed. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lev said, without hesitation.

  “Good. Then there is nothing to worry about.”

  The two young men remained silent until Markov left the kitchen.

  “Did he ease your anxiety?” Roman asked Lev.

  “Not much.”

  He followed the woman to the Shop Rite Supermarket on McDonald Avenue at Avenue I in Bensonhurst.

  He waited for her to leave her car and start toward the store entrance before parking his car beside hers in the lot.

  He walked the short distance to the Dunkin Donut shop, where he had a clear view of the supermarket exit. He purchased a coffee, watched and waited.

  Thirty minutes later he saw her exit the market, pushing a shopping cart loaded with groceries.

  He timed his approach, reaching his vehicle just as she arrived at hers.

  “Good day,” he said, as she opened the trunk of her car. “May I offer my assistance?”

  “You are kind,” she said, placing a bag into the trunk. “I welcome your help. Do I detect a Russian accent?”

  “I am from Moscow,” he said, helping to unload the shopping cart.

  “Yes, the big city. I was a country girl, raised in Bykovo.”

  “I know it well, I worked at the airport there as a younger man. I am Pavel Vasin,” he said. “Perhaps I knew some of your family back home.”

  “I am Irina Churkin, but my maiden name was Andropov.”