by J. L. Abramo
“We’re on it,” Ripley said, to end the exchange.
Murphy walked over to Rosen’s station.
“Having fun?” she asked.
“Telling other detectives what to do is not one of my favorite things. I prefer bright copper kettles and whiskers on kittens.”
“What are we going to do today?”
“I’ll let you decide.”
When Samson reached the precinct the first thing he did was call Rosen into his office.
“I know you are frustrated. I called Trenton to find out where the brass and the politicians stand at the moment. They are not ready to make public the suggestion that a government official was somehow responsible for the deaths of Angela Salerno and Edward Cicero.”
“Because they don’t want to admit there are no suspects.”
“Exactly. And they are not ready to talk about the rope around Jenny Greco’s neck. They’re afraid of a panic.”
“We could use some panic. Compel young women and their parents to be more vigilant in avoiding unsafe conditions and situations. Have more eyes on the street watching their neighbors’ backs. We’re getting nowhere.”
“It is our job to find the guilty, Sandra, not the job of the bureaucrats. They can tie our hands, but we still have our heads and our legs. They can’t stop us from scratching at the dirt. And we can’t make excuses for failure. We need to work with what we have and keep digging. We can only do our best. So do that.”
“You know I will,” Rosen said.
After a very entertaining concert of Prokofiev works at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, Pavel Vasin and Mikhail Gagarin moved on to the Volga Restaurant.
When Irina Churkin spotted them walking in, she was very surprised to see the men together. She waited for them to be seated before greeting them at their table.
Not wishing to ruin what he expected would be a wonderful meal, Vasin decided to wait until after they had dined to confront Mikhail and Irina.
He handed the waitress cash to cover the bill plus a generous gratuity and asked the woman to please send Irina to the table.
“It is important that I speak with you both,” Pavel said. “I will explain. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
“We can talk in my office at the end of the back hall. I will be right there,” Irina said.
The two men were silent while they waited.
Mikhail sat uncomfortably, not knowing how to ask or even what to ask.
Irina came into the room with coffee, cream, sugar, and homemade Russian tea cakes on a silver tray.
“First, I must sincerely apologize for deceiving you. I did not meet you by chance. I sought you both out, with the intention of bringing the three of us together. I would understand perfectly if you took offense to my dishonesty, I would feel betrayed also without an acceptable explanation. I can only assure you that my actions were inspired by very grave concerns, and I beg you to hear me out.”
“If you are looking for some kind of trust from us, you chose a poor way to begin,” Mikhail said. “I am willing to listen, but cannot guarantee indefinite attention.”
“Please tell us what this is about,” Irina said.
“Alex Holden is an honest and hardworking young man. Alex owns a bakery here in Brooklyn.”
“I know Alex,” Irina said. “He supplies desserts for the restaurant.”
“What is your impression of him?”
“He has always been fair and courteous. I consider him a good man.”
“Alex has been charged with second degree murder, for stabbing another man to death. Alex swears the other man came at him with a knife, they struggled, and it ended fatally. I believe him. But there are two witnesses who claimed Alex produced the knife and that he was the aggressor—and I do not trust their account.”
“Why would two separate witnesses lie?” Mikhail asked.
“I believe they are afraid to tell the truth.”
“Honesty is not a matter of convenience,” Mikhail said.
“I agree.”
“What does this have to do with you?” Irina asked.
“Alex is hoping to be my niece’s husband and I consider him family. If Alex is convicted of this crime, it will ruin his entire life. The man Alex Holden killed in self-defense was Yuri Markov. You know who his father is. Vladimir Markov would want his son to be seen as the victim. And he would go to any lengths to see Alex punished. He wants, at the least, to see Alex convicted and imprisoned.”
“At the least?” Irina said.
“Markov lost a son, and in his mind there are no special circumstances. And there is reason to believe he may be planning a more absolute retribution.”
“I can understand your concern for your family,” Mikhail said, “and I hope you find justice. But what does this have to do with us?”
“The two witnesses I spoke of are your sons, Lev and Roman.”
There was a minute of dead silence until Mikhail finally spoke.
“Please give us a short time to talk alone,” Gagarin said.
“Of course. While I am gone, please take a moment to consider what you know of Vladimir Markov and his reputation.”
Jack Falcone arrived at Ivanov’s apartment with a bottle of expensive imported Chianti.
“How did you know I was cooking Italian?” Marina asked.
“I didn’t. But I know nothing about Russian wines.”
“There’s not much to know about Russian wines,” Marina said. “Jack, I’m really sorry if I caused you any grief on account of my actions yesterday.”
“Larimer chewed me out for running Gogol’s photo without running it past him. I took it on the chin.”
“How is Captain Larimer?”
“He still has sharp teeth, but I have tough skin. And we got Gogol, which helped curb the captain’s appetite. Captain Samson called Larimer. We can’t be certain Markov paid Gogol to harm Alex Holden but, if he did, with Gogol out of the picture Markov will need to find a replacement unless he takes it into his own hands. And that’s not his style. In any event, Larimer has patrols watching both Markov and Holden, at least for a while.”
“Samson read me the riot act and gave me a three-day vacation.”
“Well then, we can eat slowly. It’s pretty gutsy of you to cook Italian food for a police detective with an Italian mother.”
“I’m sure I can’t cook as well as your mom, Detective, but I bet I look as adorable in an apron. Are you going to open that wine?”
Pavel Vasin slipped out to the sidewalk in front of the Volga to have a cigarette and give Mikhail and Irina time to talk. When he returned he found that Mikhail had been chosen to be the spokesperson.
“You are suggesting our sons lied. That they were warned by Vladimir Markov against truthfully telling what they saw.”
“Yes. I believe Markov threatened the young men.”
“What could he intimidate them with that would compel them to lie, loss of their jobs? We know Lev and Roman. They are honorable men. Even if they were threatened with personal harm, they would not put their own safety above that of an innocent man. They were not raised to allow harm to come to others in order to protect themselves.”
“But they may have been raised to protect their families, at all costs.”
“Do you believe Markov threatened harm to us?” Irina asked.
“I believe that is the one warning even honorable men might find difficult to ignore.”
“What are you asking us to do?” Mikhail Gagarin said.
“Lev and Roman are scheduled to sign statements Monday morning. If they put their signatures to false testimony they could be doing great harm to an innocent man and, if found out, could risk prosecution for perjury and obstruction of justice. If they did, in fact, witness Yuri Markov as the aggressor, I am asking you to encourage your sons to tell the truth before it is too late.”
Murphy and Rosen walked out of the precinct at seven on Saturday evening.
“Try not to get too cr
azy with Augie Sena tonight,” she said as they parted ways.
Rosen had her evening at home well planned out. A brisket sandwich and Cole slaw from Mendy’s Deli, a Pilsner Urquell or two from her refrigerator, a hot shower followed by a single malt scotch and a book.
Sandra Rosen was partial to crime novels, and she was particularly fond of Elmore Leonard.
Rosen’s apartment was a railroad flat on the first floor of a brownstone in Prospect Heights. When she arrived home she dropped the deli bag on the kitchen table, set her firearm and shield on the dresser in her bedroom, got out of her street clothes and into a plush terry cloth robe monogrammed with the words Brooklyn’s Finest—a gift from Tommy Murphy.
Then she returned to the kitchen to give the sandwich the attention it deserved.
Murphy and Augie had a quick bite to eat at Joe’s Bar and Grill to start the evening.
“We could stay here and drink,” Murphy said. “It would be a lot more economical and I’ll buy.”
“My objective is to get out of this place for a change.”
“I’m hip.”
“That’s funny, you don’t look hip.”
“How about My Father’s Place on Cropsy?”
“Perfect.”
Detective Josh Altman had been sitting in his car across from Rosen’s building for nearly thirty minutes before she finally arrived home.
He sat for another hour before getting out of the vehicle.
Altman crossed St. Mark’s Avenue and rang Sandra’s doorbell.
Rosen put down her book, looked through the peephole, and opened the door.
“Josh. What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“This isn’t the time or the place. Call me Monday at the precinct.”
“We need to talk now.”
“Please, Josh. You have to leave.”
Altman violently pushed her to the floor and stepped inside. He closed and locked the door behind him.
When Rosen looked up he was standing over her pointing a gun.
A pair of handcuffs dangled from Altman’s other hand.
TWENTY FOUR
“How is your sister Rosie holding up?” Murphy asked.
“All right I guess, considering. She went to visit her daughter in Albany this weekend. Every time I see John he asks if there is anything new with the case. He must believe I have a phone tap at the Six-one. But I would be more worried about John’s state of mind if he wasn’t asking.”
Augie Sena’s observation reminded Murphy of something Samson had said with regard to all the questions thrown back at Murphy and Rosen when they were conducting interviews at the high school.
It would be more surprising if they didn’t ask.
“You put a bug in my head,” Murphy said. “Do you mind if I call Rosen to run it by her?”
“Go for it. I’ll grab another round.”
Augie returned to the booth with two whiskeys and a couple of bottles of Sam Adams.
“Did you reach Sandra?”
“No answer. She must be taking one of her legendary thirty minute showers. Remind me to try again later.”
Kenny Ramirez was carefully staying within the speed limit on the Staten Island Expressway, heading to the Goethals Bridge and New Jersey. He had realized immediately after jacking the car that he needed to be in the driver’s seat. Pointing a gun from the passenger seat at a driver doing sixty miles an hour would not give Kenny much leverage.
Kenny had told the driver to find an isolated spot where he could set the man free. They found a deserted side street off Stillwell Avenue at West 16th under the Belt Parkway. Of course, Ramirez couldn’t let the driver walk away if he hoped for a head start out of New York in a stolen vehicle. So, when they pulled over to the curb, Kenny hit the man square in the temple with the .357, knocking the man unconscious.
Ramirez put the man in the trunk of the vehicle, hands and feet bound with clothesline he had conveniently found in the back seat. He gagged the man with a handkerchief he pulled from the guy’s jacket pocket.
He also found the man’s wallet.
As he closed the trunk, Kenny Ramirez noticed the blood dripping from the man’s ear.
By the time he came off the bridge into Jersey, Kenny had already stopped thinking about the man in the trunk.
Detective Rosen sat in a chair at her kitchen table. Hands cuffed behind her back, feet secured to the cross brace at the chair legs with a leather belt, a strip of duct tape across her mouth.
Detective Altman sat across the table, watching Rosen, looking for any sign of fear. He found none. His weapon sat on the table near his hand.
“We can’t talk with you gagged like this,” Altman said. “If I let you speak, will you promise not to make a racket?”
Rosen nodded her head. Yes.
Altman gently removed the tape from her mouth.
“Josh, you need to end this now, before it’s too late.”
“I still love you, Sandra.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
It was classic unrestrained Rosen, and she knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say.
“What am I going to do with you?” Altman said.
Rosen couldn’t help wondering the same thing.
“I think it’s time to cry uncle, Augie. I need to drive home without being pulled over by a police patrol car and having to convince a couple of uniforms that detectives are allowed to break the law.”
“Are you sure you’re not there already?”
“Not so I can’t fake it. We need to do this more often.”
“Next time I’ll bring a bottle home to my place, I have a very comfortable couch. Be careful. And you asked me to remind you to give Rosen a call.”
In his car, Murphy phoned Rosen. There was no answer.
Murphy fired up the engine, pulled out onto Cropsy Avenue, and soon found himself driving to Prospect Heights.
“What’s your plan, Josh? Are you waiting for me to say I’m glad you dropped by? I’m glad you dropped by.”
“This is not a joke.”
“You’re right, it’s not. It’s a disaster. If you cut me loose now, and can convince me you’ll commit to getting help, I will let you walk out of here instead of taking you in.”
“You’re not saying what I want to hear, Sandra.”
“I can’t say what you want to hear, Josh.”
“Okay, then,” Altman said.
He put the tape back over her mouth and sat staring at her.
Murphy would be asked many times why he didn’t simply ring the doorbell when he reached Rosen’s house.
He could never come up with a reasonable answer.
In any case, Murphy chose to walk to the back of the building instead.
And he looked into the kitchen window.
Rosen was bound and gagged in a chair, Josh Altman was sitting with his palm resting on the butt of a nine millimeter handgun, and Rosen’s cell phone sat in the center of the table between them.
No one ever questioned why Murphy decided to do what he did next.
Soon after crossing the Pennsylvania state line, Kenny Ramirez could see the lights of Philadelphia.
He wanted to put at least one more state between him and the police so he continued driving south.
The cell phone rang. Rosen and Altman watched it vibrate on the table. Altman reached for the phone and looked at the display.
“It’s your boyfriend again. He must be worried about you. Maybe he’ll decide to come by.”
“I did. Put your hands in the air. Now.”
Murphy was standing in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the mud room off the rear entrance. He held his weapon in both hands, trained on Altman’s chest.
Altman hesitated for a moment and then went for his gun.
The shot knocked both Altman and the chair to the floor.
Murphy moved quickly to the table, grabbed Altman’s weapon, and tossed it into the kitchen
sink.
Murphy handcuffed Altman, arms behind the man’s back, and secured Altman’s legs with the hobble strap he had retrieved from his car.
He un-cuffed Rosen and phoned for backup and an ambulance while she removed the tape from her mouth and freed her legs.
When he finally turned his attention back to Rosen, Sandra was rubbing the bruises on her wrists.
“Miss me?” she asked.
Kenny Ramirez stopped at a department store off Interstate-95 north of Wilmington, Delaware. He purchased a large gym bag, a few pair of jeans, three long sleeved cotton shirts, T-shirts, socks and underwear.
He located the Wilmington Amtrak Station and left the car in the long term parking lot.
It was a short walk to the Doubletree Hotel on King Street. Ramirez paid for a room with a credit card from the vehicle owner’s wallet.
He pulled up a number from his cell and called Raul Sandoval in Denver from a public pay phone outside of the hotel.
Kenny used a complimentary internet station in the hotel lobby to check train schedules.
He went up to his room, phoned the front desk to request a wakeup call at six in the morning, took a hot shower and fell into bed.
Ramirez was asleep in minutes.
The man in the trunk would not survive the night.
TWENTY FIVE
Sunday had been relatively quiet at the 61st Precinct. On Monday, the joint was jumping.
The Six-one was keeping the Internal Affairs Bureau very busy.
Monday morning, IAB detectives would be interviewing Senderowitz at the hospital and then talking to Ripley at their offices at 315 Hudson Street in Manhattan concerning the shooting death of Ivan Gogol.
Rosen and Murphy were summoned to visit IAB on Hudson Street later that morning to talk about Josh Altman.