by J. L. Abramo
“I knew a Sergei Andropov from Bykovo.”
“And I knew two or three, none related.”
“Of course, it is a common name. I sometimes forget it is not such a small world.”
“It is and it is not,” Irina said, as they loaded the last grocery bag.
“What does your husband do, if I might ask?”
“He is not with us any longer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry, I’m not, he did not pass away he simply went away. I am fortunate to have a grown son, Roman, who still lives with me. Although I am sure it is an embarrassment to him at times. Now, I must be going. Thank you for your help, it was good meeting you. Next time you are in the mood for authentic Russian country cooking, please visit The Volga, my restaurant in Gravesend.”
“It was good meeting you also,” Pavel said, “perhaps we will meet again.”
“Perhaps so, after all it is a small world.”
Ripley and Senderowitz walked out of the precinct Thursday afternoon.
“Would you care to join me for a holiday drink?” Senderowitz asked.
“Sure. I’d love to check out the Sicilian-American social club.”
“I’m afraid there would have to be a meeting of the tribunal before I could get you through the door, but I have a good bottle of scotch at home.”
“I can’t stay very long, the boys start school tomorrow and they’ll need a pep talk.”
“It’s on your way home. You can be on the BQE in minutes from my door.”
Ripley followed Senderowitz to his place in Carroll Gardens.
Bernie collected the mail and ushered his guest into the house.
Senderowitz threw the mail onto the table near the door, spilling most of it onto the floor.
“How do you find anything in that pile?” Ripley asked.
“There’s not much worth finding. Bills and junk mail. Applications for credit cards, invitations to start magazine subscriptions, Chinese menus, the weekly AARP membership plea. I go through it at the end of every month, pay the bills, and recycle the rest. If I could afford the postage, I would send all the crap back to them. I’m tempted to get a bird, so I could line the cage with it. The scotch is in the kitchen.”
“Lead the way.”
“Tell me about your family,” Senderowitz said, pouring drinks at the kitchen table.
“Kyle is eight, going on thirty. He is beginning to ask the questions a youngster would not have to ask if we didn’t live in a very confusing world. Mickey is five. In fact, he turns six next week. Kyle calls his little brother a goofball. I think Mickey is hilarious. Kids his age are natural comedians.”
“And their mother?”
“We lost her two years ago, automobile accident.”
“I’m sorry,” Bernie said.
“So are we.”
“How are you finding the change of venue?”
“Judging by the first week or so, I am guessing it can get busy. I imagine I’ll be spending less time behind a desk. And this case, a possible serial, is not unfamiliar territory. The only real difference is, if the FBI was already involved, the perpetrator would probably have a nickname by now.”
“The Hangman?”
“Something like that.”
“You said if the FBI was already involved. Will the Feds jump in?”
“If there is another killing linked to these two, and the Bureau gets wind of it, they definitely will.”
“We men in blue don’t do well with G-Men looking over our shoulders,” Bernie said, pouring them both another scotch. “No offense.”
“No offense taken, I’ll probably feel the same in time. But…”
“But?” Bernie asked, draining his glass and filling it again.
“But sometimes it’s not a bad idea to accept help, no matter who makes the offer.”
Marina Ivanov sat in her car across from the Lobnya Lounge, pointing a Nikon SLR digital camera equipped with a 55-200mm f/4-5.6G telephoto zoom lens.
Detective Ivanov focused on the two men who were standing at the club entrance, engaged in an animated conversation. She rapidly snapped a dozen shots.
One of her subjects was the night club owner, Vladimir Markov.
The second subject, younger than Markov and very well-dressed in an expensive business suit, was unknown to her.
Through the viewfinder, Ivanov had clearly seen the younger man accept a thick envelope from Markov and slip it into his inside jacket pocket. The two men then moved into the club.
Ivanov placed the camera on the car seat and pulled out her cell phone. She called Jack Falcone to ask if he was free to meet her at the New Times.
Twenty minutes later, the two detectives sat at a table in the restaurant. Ivanov brought a picture up on the LED display and passed the digital camera across to Falcone.
“Do you know the man on the left?” she asked.
“No. But I recognize the man on the right, and I recognize the location. What is this, Marina? What are you doing?”
“My job.”
“It’s not your job to run an unauthorized surveillance on Vlad Markov, and I’m sure you’ve been advised to stay clear of this case. You’re asking for trouble, Marina.”
“I’m worried Markov will try to retaliate against Alex Holden, to avenge the death of his son.”
“There are witnesses who will testify Alex was the aggressor, Markov can let the law deal with Holden.”
“I think the witnesses were bought, or threatened. You know the kind of man Markov is. Do you truly believe he’ll be satisfied with conventional justice? And I saw him pass an envelope to the other man. It could have been a payoff. What if Markov has hired an assassin?”
“The envelope could have been anything, or nothing. Even if it was full of cash, which you seem to be implying, there are countless possibilities that have nothing to do with a contract to kill Alex Holden.”
“I need to find out who the other man is, Jack. I need to be sure I’m not just being overly imaginative, or paranoid. If I put in a request for an ID search myself, I will find the trouble you say I’m looking for. Will you help me?”
“You’re asking a lot, Marina.”
“I know. And I don’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“And if I can’t help you, is the invitation for a home-cooked dinner off the table?”
“It’s not like that, Jack. I honestly do want to spend time with you, apart from all of this drama. Whatever you decide, I will understand, and the dinner invitation still stands. I look forward to it.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Okay.”
“I need to go,” Falcone said, rising from his seat.
“Okay.”
“Send me the photo when you get a chance,” Falcone said, just before turning to leave.
Ivanov left the restaurant shortly after Falcone and drove directly back to the Lobnya Lounge. She pulled into the rear parking area and sat. Twenty minutes later the man who had accepted the envelope from Vlad Markov walked out of the back door. He climbed into a Cadillac and drove off. Marina followed. He parked in front of an apartment house on Avenue T in Gravesend, left his vehicle, and entered the building. Marina made note of the address and returned to the 61st Precinct. She uploaded the photo of the man to her computer and emailed a copy to Falcone at the Sixtieth.
Carla Jackson stood on West Sixth, near the corner of Avenue T, looking up the street toward Avenue U. She had just walked out of the Cusimano and Russo Funeral Home, having come for Patty Bolin’s wake.
“Carla?”
She turned to the man’s voice, surprised to find he had come up so close and so quietly behind her.
“You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I saw you arrive,” Carla said. “You didn’t stay very long.”
“I was uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t see a person in that room who looked comfortable.”
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“No thanks. My father is on his way to pick me up. I normally walk, but my parents are freaked out by what happened to Jenny Greco. They won’t let me go anywhere alone. I think they worry too much, and it’s not convenient at times.”
“They want to be vigilant. It’s important for parents to feel as if they can protect their children.”
“I guess so,” Carla said, turning away to look up West Sixth Street. “Here’s my father now.”
As the car pulled up to the curb in front of Carla, she turned back to the man to thank him for offering her a ride.
He was gone.
TWENTY
Senderowitz walked into the detectives’ squad room at the Six-one at nine on Friday morning. He was a bit hung-over from celebrating the Jewish holiday with a group of Sicilian-Americans who wouldn’t know Rosh Hashanah from Luxembourg Independence Day. The room was deserted.
According to Desk Sergeant Kelly, Samson was at the hospital and could be reached if needed, Richards and his wife were taking their daughter to the pediatrician for the child’s routine check-up, Ripley would be in after escorting his boys to their first day of school and a trip to the shooting range, Murphy and Rosen had already hit the streets getting nowhere on the Jenny Greco and Patty Bolin investigations, and Ivanov was due in any time.
Senderowitz looked around the empty office, wondering what the hell he would be doing if he wasn’t there. The phone rang twice in ten minutes, both calls for Detective Ivanov. Jack Falcone and Lorraine DiMarco.
Bernie gave Ivanov the two messages as soon as she walked into the squad room a few minutes later.
Ivanov called Lorraine first.
They made arrangements to meet for lunch at the New Times Restaurant on Coney Island Avenue. It was close to the precinct but not at the precinct. Ivanov had been advised to stay away from the Alex Holden case, no sense making it obvious she was ignoring what was probably good advice. Marina and Lorraine decided to meet at eleven, to beat the noon crowd.
Ivanov then called her former partner at her former precinct.
Jack Falcone had identified the man in Ivanov’s photo.
“Ivan Gogol. Gogol is paid muscle, which makes me as curious as you are about his business with Vladimir Markov. And, on top of that, Gogol shouldn’t be out on the street.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s wanted for two felony assaults, suspected of murder, and no one has been able to track him down. We’ll stake out the Lobnya Lounge, hope he shows his face there again, and pick him up. Let us handle it, Marina.”
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to do some serious cooking.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Falcone said before ending the call.
Ivanov thought about it for only a moment.
“Bernie?”
“Yes?”
“Are you busy?”
“Yes. I’m busy wondering what to do with myself.”
“I just got a tip on the location of a wanted felon. He’s holed up here in Gravesend. Would you ride with me?”
“Sure. Do we need to take back-up?”
“I don’t think so. We can always call it in if we find out otherwise.”
“Let’s go,” Bernie said.
Murphy and Rosen walked into Midwood Florists at Kings Highway and East 14th Street near the B Train Station.
The woman behind the counter was arranging red and white roses.
“Good morning, can I help you?”
“Good morning,” Rosen said. “Are you the owner?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Have you ever seen this before?” Rosen asked.
“I don’t know if I’ve seen that particular flyer, but I’ve seen too many like it under my windshield wiper or slipped under the door.”
“Do you know why this particular flyer has your phone number on it?” Murphy asked.
The woman took the flyer from Rosen.
“I have no idea, but it would explain why I’ve had a few calls about brake jobs and oil changes.”
Murphy took a similar handbill from the counter. It included a coupon for a discount on gerbera daisies.
“I don’t go around littering the streets with my leaflets,” the woman said. “They are there for customers who come into the shop.”
“Anyone seem unusually interested in this one lately?” Murphy asked.
“Funny you should ask.”
I’m funny even when I’m not trying, Murphy thought.
“Someone asked where I had them printed.”
“Someone you know?”
“No.”
“Could you give us a description?”
“White male. Five-ten maybe. One-eighty. Nicely dressed, casual. Brown hair, brown eyes. Sorry, I’m sure that would describe a million people.”
“I’m surprised you remember that much detail,” Rosen said.
“I remember because he was in here with a teenager. I’m guessing his son. Very nondescript also, but the boy was wearing a spanking new Midwood High School jacket. I asked if the boy was new to Midwood and the father thanked me for my help, took the flyer, and ushered the boy out. Just like that. The boy never said a word. If his father came in to buy flowers, he changed his mind. And that’s really all I can tell you.”
“Did you tell him where you had these done?” Murphy asked.
“The Print Shop. It’s just up Kings Highway at East Eighteenth.”
“Do you think you would recognize the man if you saw him again?” Rosen asked.
“Maybe, certainly if the boy was with him.”
“If you do, could you give us a call?” Rosen said, offering a business card.
“Sure. Did this man do something wrong?”
“If he had these car repair handbills printed,” Murphy said, “he got the phone number wrong. Thanks for your help.”
“Well?” Rosen said when they walked out onto Kings Highway.
“I don’t know. Let’s go talk to the printer.”
Senderowitz and Ivanov turned onto Avenue T, heading for the apartment building Ivan Gogol had entered when Marina followed him from the Lobnya Lounge the night before. “Bernie.”
“Yes?”
“I need some counsel.”
“You kid’s make me feel ancient. What’s up?”
“This guy Gogol, it has to do with the Holden case and the captain told me to stay out of it.”
“Are there warrants out on Gogol?”
“Yes.”
“Then if we find him it will be a good collar.”
“Yes, but the captain might consider it too much a coincidence.”
“We were going for a bite to eat. I spotted the guy going into the building. I thought I recognized him from a wanted bulletin, we were within our precinct borders, and I was pretty sure he was carrying. So we went in to check it out.”
“That might wash with Samson, and I really appreciate you climbing out on the limb with me—but then there’s Jack Falcone.”
“Your old partner at the Sixtieth?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“He’s not big on coincidences either. Jack identified Gogol from a photo I took last night, and I didn’t tell him I knew where Gogol was stashed.”
“I can handle Sam. You will need to handle Falcone. If you feel it’s a problem, call Jack. Otherwise, here we are,” Bernie said as they pulled up in front of the building. “Let’s at least find out if the bird is in his nest.”
The man behind the counter looked up at Murphy and Rosen when they walked into the Print Shop.
“You came at the perfect time,” he said. “We’re running an incredible special on wedding invitations.”
Rosen and Murphy threw each other a quick glance.
Rosen tried to suppress a smile.
“Just kidding, Detectives. What can I do for you?”
“How did
you make us?” Murphy asked.
“I spotted your gun. We don’t get many armed robberies in this business. There’s nothing to steal but paper. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know if you printed this flyer?”
He took a look.
“This wasn’t printed. It’s a photo copy.”
“Was it done here?”
“I couldn’t tell you. We don’t do offset printing for anything less than one hundred copies. Someone comes in with something like this wanting fewer and I point them to the self-service copy machine. They make twenty copies, I make two bucks, done deal.”
The superintendent jumped when he felt the tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a photograph held up to his face. He shut down the vacuum cleaner and pulled out his earplugs.
“Know this guy?” Senderowitz asked.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“I didn’t mean to. I rang but there was no answer. Know this guy?”
“Not really. He comes in to visit his brother.”
“Is he here now?”
“He left thirty minutes ago.”
“And the brother?”
“Out of town. He lets your guy stay in his place while he’s gone. I don’t like the idea, but these are characters you really don’t want to say no to.”
Ivanov stayed quiet, just watching the veteran detective work.
“What apartment?”
“Three B. Third floor. Far end of the hall.”
Senderowitz pulled out a business card.
“You’ll call me if my guy shows up?”
“Sure.”
“And you never talked with us.”
“Right.”
“Thanks. The carpet looks good by the way.”
“The carpet looks good?” Ivanov said when they were out on the street.
“We all want to feel pride in our work. What now?”
Before Ivanov could answer, Bernie’s cell rang.
“Senderowitz.”
“Where did you disappear to?” Sergeant Kelly asked.
“We grabbed a snack. What’s up?”
“Richards and Ripley are not in yet. I need you to check out a lead.”