by J. L. Abramo
“And that’s why I don’t like Mondays,” Murphy said to Rosen after they received the call.
“Well then, next time you decide to shoot an NYPD detective, don’t do it on a Saturday.”
Monday morning, Lev Gagarin and Roman Churkin arrived at the Kings County District Attorney’s Office on Jay Street accompanied by each of their parents. The two men were scheduled to give sworn testimony in the case of the State vs. Alexander Holden. A court officer outlined the procedure. They would be giving oral depositions, individually. The statements would then be transcribed and the written affidavits would be signed and notarized.
Lev was randomly chosen to be seen first, and he was taken into an interview room.
Also present in the room were Lorraine DiMarco, Attorney for Alexander Holden, Assistant District Attorney Mark Caldwell, and a court appointed legal secretary.
Lev Gagarin stated under oath that Yuri Markov had attacked Alexander Holden with a lethal weapon and Holden had acted in defense of his own life.
Soon after, Roman Churkin stated the same.
Both witnesses signed transcripts of their testimony.
Lorraine escorted the two men and their parents out of the building and thanked them on behalf of her client.
She then joined ADA Caldwell over a cup of coffee.
“Well?” Lorraine asked.
“The state will agree to reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter by reason of self-defense. After that, under the Rules of Affirmative Defense, the charges will be dropped entirely.”
“I’m not looking to throw a monkey wrench into the works, and I hope you will forget I ever brought it up, but I’m curious.”
“What?”
“You never asked them why they failed to tell the truth to the responding officers at the scene.”
“I could guess,” Caldwell said. “Vladimir Markov won’t be happy, but his happiness is not my concern. I need to get back to cases I can win, and you might want to give your client the good news. And recommend he stay alert.”
Vladimir Markov sat at the kitchen table of his Sea Gate home over a cup of heavily sugared black coffee. His wife placed a plate of buttered black bread on the table. Markov was reading an article in the New York Daily News regarding the shooting death of Ivan Gogol in Gravesend. The newspaper story was short on details. The report named the two 61st Precinct detectives involved in the incident—but there was no mention of any connection between Gogol and Markov.
Markov’s wife summoned him to the telephone. It was a courtesy call from the Kings County District Attorney’s Office, informing him of the results of the morning’s depositions by his employees, Lev Gagarin and Roman Churkin, and the reduced charges against Alexander Holden.
The legal system would not be punishing the killer of his son.
Markov returned to the kitchen table, sat, and hurled the plate of bread against the wall.
Kenny Ramirez had been up at six. He took another shower and dressed in fresh new clothes. He had shoved his old clothing under the bed, left the room key on the dresser, taken his bag and gone down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast.
Ramirez had walked back to the Amtrak Station and paid cash for a one-way ticket.
At eleven on Monday morning Kenny was sitting in his seat on the train, three hours out of Wilmington headed toward Chicago.
He would be arriving in Denver, Colorado at eight Tuesday evening.
Lorraine DiMarco’s first call was to Pavel Vasin.
“The witnesses changed their testimony and I’m sure all charges will be dropped. I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”
“I am glad it worked out. Lev and Roman are good men. All they needed was a reminder from very good parents. Some things are far more persuasive than threats from gangsters.”
“I guess they’ll be looking for new jobs.”
“They’ll have no trouble. They are both fine chefs.”
“Let me know where I can send payment for your services.”
“I did this for the family. However, if you have need of my assistance in the future, I would be glad to be of service. The work would be good for me.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Lorraine said. “Thank you, again.”
Lorraine called Alex Holden at his bakery.
“Thank you,” he said when he heard the news.
“You can thank Rachel’s uncle, Pavel.”
“I will.”
“Alex.”
“Yes?”
“Watch your back.”
“The NYPD has two officers following me everywhere I go. I don’t know whether to feel privileged or stalked.”
“Feel privileged.”
Lorraine finally called the 61st Precinct to speak with Ivanov.
She was connected to Ripley.
“Marina is out until tomorrow. You might try her at home.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Lorraine.”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to have dinner?”
“I have dinner almost every night.”
“I meant would you like to have dinner with me.”
“Sorry, I can’t help trying to be clever sometimes—particularly when I’m feeling good. I know what you meant. Would Wednesday work for you?”
“It would work fine,” Ripley said.
“Then it’s a date. Give me a shout Wednesday afternoon.”
Earlier that Monday morning, Maureen Rose had called the front office at Lafayette High School to report that her husband was ill and would not be coming in to work.
Just past noon, Principal William Pabst called the Rose home to check on his new school psychologist.
“How is David feeling, Mrs. Rose?”
“Not very well, thanks for asking. Hopefully it is only a late summer cold. If he is not feeling better in the morning, he plans to see a doctor.”
“I am sorry to hear it. We will put him on day-to-day sick leave. Please keep us updated, and tell your husband we wish him a speedy recovery.”
“I will, and thank you again for your concern.”
Rosen and Murphy walked out of their meeting with two IAB detectives after clearing up the details regarding the altercation with Joshua Altman on Saturday, and after being given a clean bill of professional health.
“How about lunch?” Murphy asked.
“What a total waste of time that was,” Rosen said. “Could they have come up with even one more stupid question?”
“They could have asked if you were in fear for your life.”
“Are you asking?”
“I guess I am.”
“Not for a moment. I have envisioned a number of ways I might meet my maker, Tommy—but that was not one of them. Lunch sounds great.”
Samson and his wife, Alicia, sat in a small conference room at Long Island Jewish Medical Center with Dr. Alan Jackson. Jackson was the surgeon who had been in charge of tending to Jimmy Samson’s gunshot injuries six days earlier.
“As you are aware, your son has been removed from the critical list and released from the Intensive Care Unit. His condition is stable. As I mentioned before, the extent of long term disabilities will take some time to determine—weeks if not months. It will be a gradual and strenuous process. Jimmy is a strong, athletic young man—but the damage was considerable. I suggest he be transferred to New York Hospital in Flushing as soon as it is safe to move him.”
“Why is that?” Samson asked.
“Their resources for physical and psychological rehabilitation are at least as comprehensive as those at this hospital and, as an employee of the City of New York, you would be afforded better insurance compensation if he was treated in Queens as opposed to here in Long Island.”
“Psychological rehabilitation?” Alicia asked.
“It is strongly recommended that Jimmy undergo both physical therapy and psychological counseling,” the doctor said. “Your son experienced both types of trauma. Psychological effects are
more difficult to evaluate and easier to conceal—and can be equally debilitating. Please trust me on this.”
“Of course,” Samson said, gently squeezing his wife’s hand.
The Avenue Bakery had been serving residents of Crown Heights in Brooklyn for more than thirty years, and had gained a reputation which now brought customers in from all parts of the borough. The shop sat nestled among a variety of retail storefronts on Nostrand Avenue, between President and Carroll Streets. The bakery had been established by Saul Holden, who apprenticed his only son in the business from the time the boy was in grade school. When illness left Saul too weak to manage the strenuous day-to-day duties of running the business, his son Alex took over the operation.
When his father passed-away two years earlier, Alex inherited the well-established enterprise—lock, stock and apron.
Alex and his two baker assistants arrived at four in the morning, seven mornings a week, to prepare the breads, rolls and pastries needed for opening inventory. His helpers remained until noon, continuing to prepare additional pastries, pies, cakes and special orders. Two more employees, Katherine and Susan, arrived at seven to open the bakery and manage the front of the shop. Both left at three. Alex remained to run the bakery, alone, until closing at six.
That Monday afternoon, Alex was whistling as he worked, feeling good. He had just learned he would not have to serve time in prison for defending his own life.
Just before one, a man walked into the shop and approached the retail counter. He greeted Katherine with a hearty “good day” and a broad smile.
“Good day to you, sir,” Katherine said, returning the smile. “How can we help you?”
“I would like to order a birthday cake for my dear mother.”
“We have a number of excellent choices in the display case at your right.”
“I was hoping for something special, something custom made perhaps.”
“Would you be needing that tomorrow?”
“I would need it today.”
“I’m not sure we could have a special order ready for you today. I would need to check with Mr. Holden.”
“Would you do that?”
“Certainly, sir, give me a minute,” Katherine said, and she headed back to the kitchen.
Alex followed Katherine from the kitchen a minute later and walked around to the front of the counter to greet the customer.
“Alex Holden,” he said, extending his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” the man said, accepting the hand shake. “You have a wonderful shop—highly recommended.”
“Thank you. Please follow me,” Alex said.
He led the man to a small table at the front window while Susan and Katherine attended to other customers.
“We usually require more time for special orders,” Alex said.
“I was supposed to come in yesterday, but I was occupied with my two very demanding children. And I was tied up with business all morning. If I fail to provide one of your cakes for my mother’s birthday this evening, my sisters will kill me. I would be more than happy to pay the full cost in advance.”
“Would six this evening work for you?”
“I may be a few minutes late.”
“I can wait a short while past six. Let me show you some photographs so we can get started.”
Murphy and Rosen left Clemente’s Maryland Crab House in Sheepshead Bay, crossed the parking lot, and climbed into the car.
“How can you eat that much and not need a nap?” Rosen asked.
“Who said I don’t need a nap?”
Murphy put the key in the ignition and let it rest.
“What now?” Rosen asked.
“I don’t know how many more times we can ask the same people the same questions without losing our audience appeal. I suppose we could go back to Avenue J and look for the one of hundreds of kids wearing Midwood High School jackets like the one in the flower shop.”
“You never told me what was so important you had to run over to my place Saturday night after trying to out-drink Augie Sena. Not that I’m sorry you showed up.”
Murphy told her what had been on his mind.
“Not very much, thinking back on it,” he said.
“Not very much sounds promising right now. Let’s go talk to him again.”
“Can we take that nap first?”
Samson walked into a deserted squad room just past one.
Everyone is out making headway, he thought, optimistically.
He moved into his office and began attacking the pile of paperwork that had been accumulating as a result of his frequent visits to hospitals.
He was anxious to get home to his wife and his two young daughters, but needed to wait until the troops reported in.
Chief of Detectives Trenton phoned to speak with Captain Samson thirty minutes later.
“We will be releasing the details of Jennifer Greco’s death tomorrow, and introducing the suspicion Patricia Bolin’s death may not have been a suicide. We need to encourage parents and young women to be more vigilant, and the suggestion that the two deaths could be related may elicit useful testimony.”
“I can think of at least one of my detectives who will be glad to hear that.”
“Please tell all of your detectives their discretion thus far has been greatly appreciated. I am not so far removed to have forgotten how terrible it is to have to lie or withhold information from a victim’s family.”
“I will.”
“The parents of the two girls will be informed before the announcement. I will take care of it, personally.”
“Thank you.”
“I have chosen a detective to temporarily replace Bernie Senderowitz.”
“Who?”
“Danny Maggio. Maggio earned his shield a year ago, and has already been decorated. I spoke with his CO at the Fifth Precinct in Manhattan, and with Maggio. They are both agreeable to a temporary transfer. Danny grew up in Gravesend.”
“I knew his father,” Samson said.
“Maggio will report to you at the Six-one tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Good.”
“Now,” Stan Trenton said, “tell me how your son is doing.”
Her son arrived home from school and began asking questions she had no answers for.
Questions about why his father had been out the entire night before, and had not yet returned home.
“Your father had to leave town on business, he received a call late last night and left very early this morning.”
“When will he be back?”
“He wasn’t sure, he will let us know. Now, take care of your homework. If you get it done before dinner you can watch a movie later.”
After the boy went to his room, she sat at the kitchen table staring at the wall telephone—not sure if she was waiting for it to ring, or waiting to find the courage to use it.
TWENTY SIX
Richards and Ripley had spent most of the morning and early afternoon scouting the neighborhood with the faint hope they would come across Kenny Ramirez strolling down the street enjoying the sunny September day. Every twenty minutes they circled back to Bay 38th Street on the chance Kenny had decided on one more of Mom’s home cooked meals before skipping town.
A call from Officer Landis sent them to West 7th Street to investigate a shooting incident. Landis met them at their car as they pulled up.
“Twenty-nine-year-old male victim, seated at the kitchen table, two fatal gunshot wounds in the back. We found the suspect, his wife, sitting on the front porch with the weapon in her lap,” Stan Landis said. “She is handcuffed in the back of the squad car. Mendez is inside waiting for you and the medical examiner and forensics.”
“Did she say anything?” Ripley asked.
“She said he had called her a fat pig one too many times.”
“Stay with the woman,” Ripley said.
The two detectives entered the house.
Thirty minutes later they were heading back to the Six-o
ne.
When Ripley and Richards popped into the squad room at three, Samson threw them an arm wave through his office window—but stayed put. He had decided he would wait until Rosen and Murphy came in, so he could avoid having to say everything twice. When Sandra and Tommy finally appeared, the captain called them all together for a pow-wow.
“I spoke with Chief Trenton,” Samson began. “The true nature of Jenny Greco’s death will be officially revealed tomorrow.”
“It’s about time,” Rosen said.
Samson let it pass, he understood Rosen’s frustration.
“It will also be suggested that Patty Bolin’s death was not a suicide as previously considered.”
“I will not go back to those parents and tell them we lied.”
“Detective Rosen, don’t say you will not do something before you are asked to do it. It could easily be perceived as premature insubordination. Chief Trenton will be handling the notifications. He asked me to thank you all for sitting on this for so long. Ivanov will be rejoining us tomorrow,” Samson continued, promptly changing the subject. “We will also be joined by Daniel Maggio of the Fifth Precinct. Danny will partner with Ripley until Senderowitz, hopefully, gets back on his feet. He is a well-respected young detective, and he knows Gravesend. I worked with his old man before most of you kids climbed into your first uniform. I’ll leave it at that for now—you will learn more when you meet him in the morning. Any luck today, Murphy?”
“I guess we were lucky at Internal Affairs, but after that luck slipped out the back door. We did try to do a follow-up interview at the high school, but the subject was out for the day.”
“What was that about?”
“It was about something you said,” Murphy answered. “One of the staff was much less inquisitive than the others when we spoke with them earlier. It got me wondering why.”
“I remember what I said, but it is often just a matter of personality. It may be nothing.”