Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  “When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose. We can go back to see him in the morning.”

  “Let me think about it. Is there anything new on Kenny Ramirez?”

  “Nothing,” Ripley said. “I think he flew the coop and could be halfway to anywhere by now.”

  “Let’s reach out to neighboring states with an APB and a warrant,” Samson said. “New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Delaware, for starters. I suggest we all go home and get some rest, tomorrow will be another busy day—beginning at nine sharp.”

  “Captain,” Rosen said.

  “Forget it Sandra. Just do your job and don’t try to do Chief Trenton’s. Believe me, you wouldn’t want Trenton’s job.”

  Kenny Ramirez sat alone in the crowded dining car of the Amtrak Capitol Limited, working on a cheeseburger with the works and a Coors Light.

  Ramirez occasionally gazed through the window, out over the countryside surrounding Alliance, Ohio. An older man approached and politely asked if he could share the small table.

  Wise enough to know that rudeness was often recalled more clearly than courtesy—Kenny invited the man to join him. Ramirez was in no mood for chit-chat, but his table companion was a talker. He started running his mouth the moment he was seated opposite Kenny.

  “Jim Spencer,” he said, extending his hand in greeting.

  “Dave,” Kenny said, accepting the handshake.

  “Where are you headed, Dave?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Business?”

  “Home. Returning from a conference in D.C.”

  “What do you do?”

  Ramirez reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet, and produced a business card. He passed it across the table. Spencer gave it a quick look.

  “It must be interesting and rewarding work.”

  “It has its moments,” Kenny said. He finished what was left of his beer and rose to leave the table. “Enjoy your meal and the rest of your trip.”

  “Thank you. Good meeting you, Dave.”

  “Likewise,” Kenny said, and he exited the dining car.

  On his way back to his seat, Ramirez tossed the wallet out through an open window.

  By five-thirty, Samson was sitting at the dinner table with his wife and their two daughters.

  The girls had not seen their big brother Jimmy in nearly a week.

  “When is Jimmy coming home?” Kayla asked.

  “It may be awhile, sweetheart,” Samson told his eight-year-old.

  “Can I have his room? Lucy snores.”

  “Do not,” her five-year-old sister said.

  Kayla began giggling and soon Alicia and Samson joined in laughing.

  “Do not,” Lucy said.

  Richards kissed Linda as soon as he came through the door, then he immediately went to Sophia’s crib. Richards gently lifted his eight-month-old daughter up into his arms as his wife came up behind him.

  “I’m worried, Martin,” Linda said.

  “No sense worrying too much before the follow-up tests on Wednesday.”

  “Will she be alright?”

  “If she has a heart as strong and true as her mother’s, she will be just fine,” Richards said.

  Murphy and Rosen took Ralph down to Shore Road Park.

  They strolled beneath the Verrazano Bridge near Fort Hamilton while the dog chased squirrels.

  “Does he ever grab one?” Rosen asked.

  “Never. He just likes to show them he could if he wanted to.”

  “I think I pissed the captain off this afternoon.”

  “Not even close,” Murphy said. “Sam knows you, trusts you, and he gets it. And he has developed a high threshold of tolerance working with me for so long. It would take a whole lot more than premature insubordination to make Samson blink. Speaking of which.”

  “What?”

  “Are you ready for that nap now?”

  Ripley picked his boys up from his sister Connie and took them to a kid-friendly pizza restaurant on Queens Boulevard.

  He was a little preoccupied looking forward to meeting a new partner in the morning and dinner with Lorraine DiMarco on Wednesday.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Kyle.”

  “Can I borrow forty-two thousand dollars?”

  “What for, son?”

  “I want to buy Mickey a BMW for his birthday so when he is old enough to drive he’ll have a sweet ride, and a classic,” Kyle said, grinning.

  “Good thinking. Let me check what I have in my piggy bank,” Ripley said.

  “Don’t talk,” Mickey said. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Yes, it is, son. In four days.”

  “I’ll be six.”

  “Yes, you will, son,” Ripley said, finding it hard to believe how time flew.

  Marina Ivanov was anxious to get back to the job after her involuntary three-day sabbatical. Aside from a very pleasant evening with Jack Falcone on Saturday, she had been going stir crazy waiting for Tuesday morning.

  Monday evening she was sitting beside her sister on the living room sofa at her parent’s home as their father entertained his two girls with tales of his father’s adventures as a circus performer in pre-World War II Russia.

  Their mother was busy in the kitchen, preparing a special dinner to celebrate the good news about Alex Holden’s exoneration.

  Marina’s sister Rachel glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, brought over by her grandparents from Leningrad. It was forty minutes past five. Alex usually stayed at the bakery for at least an hour after closing shop to take care of miscellaneous business but this evening, for the occasion, he would be on his way as soon as he locked up at six. He would be joining them very soon.

  “Did grandfather really put his head into a lion’s mouth?” Marina asked her father.

  “He had to.”

  “Why?” Rachel asked.

  “Because the lion’s head could not fit into his mouth,” their father answered, and had his daughters laughing hysterically.

  Two police officers sat in their vehicle across Nostrand Avenue opposite the Avenue Bakery. They had been sitting there all afternoon.

  Farley sat in the driver’s seat watching the front door of the shop, while Kenton was buried in the sports section of The New York Post.

  Kenton looked up from the newspaper.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could eat a horse,” he said.

  “Pinto or Appaloosa?”

  “I say we run down to the delicatessen at the corner and grab dinner. Sit down and eat like human beings.”

  “We can’t both leave. Bring a brisket sandwich back for me.”

  “You’re no fun,” Kenton said, leaving the vehicle.

  At six, a man entered the bakery shop.

  Kenton returned later with a sack full of food.

  “A customer walked into the shop about twenty minutes ago and hasn’t come out,” Farley said.

  “Let’s eat while this food is still warm and before the bread turns into bread pudding,” his partner said. “Then we can check it out.”

  At six, as Alex headed to the front to lock up, the customer who had special ordered the birthday cake earlier that afternoon walked in.

  “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

  “Actually you are just in time. The cake turned out very well. I thought you might like to see it before it was boxed. It’s in back, give me a moment.”

  Holden returned, and carefully placed the cake on the counter between them.

  When Alex looked up, there was a gun pointed at him.

  “Open the cash register,” the man said.

  Alex complied without hesitation.

  “Empty the contents into a bag, and don’t do anything stupid.”

  Alex did as he was told, trying to avoid looking at the man’s face.

  “That’s all of it,” Alex said. “I have nothing else to offer you, unless you would like the cake.”

  “Is there a back door?” />
  “Yes. Locked from inside, a simple twist of the dead bolt and you’re out to the alley.”

  “Good. I guess I’ll be on my way.”

  With that, he shot Alex Holden three times in the chest.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Samson called Chief Trenton from his office very early Tuesday morning.

  “What made you think I wasn’t asleep?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about it. Good morning.”

  “We’ll see. What is it?”

  “Alexander Holden was shot to death in his bakery shop last evening.”

  “I heard the news last night. And you want the Six-one to handle the investigation.”

  “What are you, a mind reader?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “The crime was perpetrated in Crown Heights, Sam.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’m asking a favor. You owe me at least one. And, at the end of the day, you have the power to assign any case to any precinct in the borough at your pleasure.”

  “And if I agree, I will be in debt to Captain Anderson at the Seven-seven. And frankly, Sam, I’d rather owe you. I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. And pleasure is not exactly how I would describe the power.”

  “It’s what you signed on for, Chief.”

  “Do you find this funny?” Trenton asked.

  “No. I don’t find anything very funny lately.”

  “I’ll call Anderson and make a humble request.”

  “Thank you, Stan.”

  “I’ll ask when two of your detectives can meet with the primaries at the Seventy-seventh who caught the case, and I will let you know.”

  “Good.”

  “Sam,” Trenton said.

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure one of them is not Detective Ivanov.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Sorry if I woke you.”

  Principal William Pabst was gazing out of his office window when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Rose is on the line for you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Millie, please put her through.”

  Pabst settled into the chair behind his desk.

  “Mrs. Rose, good morning. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. I am afraid my husband is not doing so well, he was diagnosed with strep throat. David suffered headaches, high fever and throat pain all day yesterday and was given a rapid antigen test. He is now taking antibiotics. He may be out for a few more days.”

  “Tell David to take all of the time he needs. There is no reason to risk impeding a full recovery, or risk exposing others to possible contagion. Please give him our best wishes.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Pabst replaced the phone in its cradle.

  There is absolutely no reason to think the woman was not being entirely truthful, he thought. So what is troubling me?

  All hands were on deck when Samson called the troops together at nine on Tuesday morning.

  He began by welcoming Ivanov back, and introducing Danny Maggio to the squad and to his new partner.

  “As some of you have heard, Alexander Holden was shot to death in Crown Heights last evening. Chief Trenton has granted my request to run the investigation out of the Six-one. Ripley and Maggio will visit Detectives Maddox and Lombard at the Seven-seven later this morning, get everything they have collected thus far, and hopefully take over the case. It is presently being considered a robbery/homicide, and until we know more it will be treated as such. If there are any questions or problems concerning this arrangement,” Samson said, looking at Marina Ivanov, “speak now.”

  No one did.

  “Ivanov and Richards are on Kenny Ramirez,” Samson continued. “I agree he has probably fled New York, so we will need to get word out to the surrounding states I listed last evening. Get photos out to the state and county officials, and politely ask that they filter the information to the locals. Let’s get photos out to news services in all of those states, and ask them to run a photograph of the subject in the major dailies. Ramirez knows we are looking for him, so we may as well let everyone else know. Ramirez is wanted for murder, so we should get cooperation. It is trying to find a needle in a larger haystack, but it is all we have unless Ramirez turns himself in. I have put in a request for real time reports on all phone calls in and out of his mother’s home, and I expect it to be granted. You should also speak to his co-workers at the trucking company on the chance he has made contact, and try to find out if there is anyone outside of New York he may reach out to for help.

  “Rosen and Murphy, you will continue on the Greco/Bolin cases. With any luck, the announcement from the department later today will shake a tree or two. I would like to talk with you about the uneasy feeling you expressed last evening before you do any follow-up interviews at the high school.

  “We have a lot on our plates. We are a team, but will we make more progress if you all remain focused on your particular investigations—please do so, unless an emergency necessitates otherwise. We will meet every evening at five to make sure everyone is updated on all of the ongoing cases. If there are no questions, go to work. Sandra and Tommy, let’s have a quick word in my office.”

  With that, Murphy and Rosen followed Samson, and the others got down to business.

  Kenny Ramirez sat looking out of the window as western Iowa raced by beneath him. Nebraska and Colorado lay ahead, Illinois safely behind. Moving into and out of places where he had never been.

  Passing through.

  He played with the burner cell phone he had picked up at an all-night kiosk at Chicago Union Station. He wanted very much to call his mother, but he knew better. He wished he would have thought to get her a phone like it before he left New York.

  Kenny tried remembering the night a week earlier that had changed his life forever, but the visions were hallucinatory and surreal—it was like trying to recall a terrible dream, like trying to make sense of something senseless. When he saw the two of them through the open bedroom door in his bed in his home, he lost himself. He went to find his gun without thinking, and shot them both without hesitation.

  Kenny tried to understand why he had acted so quickly, so instinctually. It was their fault, they asked for it, they had it coming, they made him do it. It was rage, shock, disappointment, retribution, any of an endless list of emotions that may have pushed him to act so rashly, so fatally.

  And then, for a moment, Kenny Ramirez toyed with the idea it was love. He acted as he had because he truly loved his wife. But he quickly chased the thought away, terrified by its implications and its irrationality.

  As the Omaha skyline came into view, all Kenny was left wondering was how long he could survive.

  “I would like you to postpone visiting the high school for the time being,” Samson said.

  “What do you suggest we do during the time being,” Murphy asked.

  “I suggest you write up individual statements concerning the events of Saturday night. You have a meeting with ADA Randall Washington at his office at eleven-thirty. Washington will being handling the prosecution’s case against Josh Altman.”

  “What will the charges be?” Rosen asked.

  “Something like abduction and forced imprisonment with the threat of serious physical harm, and armed assault against an NYPD detective. It will not go well for Altman. I realize it is difficult to testify against one of our own, but Altman crossed the line, and he is clearly dangerous. Do not be tempted to sugarcoat your statements.”

  “Understood,” Rosen said.

  “If, afterwards, you still feel compelled to follow up on your concerns about an employee at the high school regarding his failure to bombard you with foolish questions—wait until the school day is over. Perhaps you can visit the subject’s home.”

  “Are you trivializing my instincts, Captain?” Murphy said.

  “I would never, Detective.”

  Sarah Sanders walked up the stairs leading to Bernie Senderowitz’s door.


  She emptied the mailbox, pulled the key from her pocket, and walked into her father’s apartment.

  What greeted Sarah was disheartening.

  Her plan was to quickly clean the apartment, to have it look and feel like home when her father was eventually released from the hospital—but as she looked around she realized there would be nothing quick about it. The place appeared as what it was—somewhere to sleep and drink and not much more.

  The refrigerator held various fast food leftovers, the kitchen sink held empty glasses sticky with alcohol, the bed was unmade, and articles of clothing were dropped haphazardly on the bedroom floor. The bathroom was relatively clean, but the hamper overflowed with laundry.

  A small table at the front entrance was piled high with mail, with more mail spilled onto the floor at its feet.

  Sarah realized she would need some time and supplies to do the clean-up job, and decided to tackle the task later in the day. Instead, she gathered all of the mail, moved it to the kitchen table and began going through it. Discarding junk mail, and separating those correspondences she would bring to Senderowitz when she visited the hospital.

  She found the note she had left in her father’s mailbox nearly two weeks earlier.

  “Oh, Bernie,” she said aloud. “What do I do about you?”

  Ripley and Maggio sat in an interview room with Detectives Lombard and Maddox at the 77th Precinct in Crown Heights.

  “Alexander Holden was fatally shot, three times in the chest, at close range—almost certainly across the display counter in the bakery shop. The cash registered had been emptied. Holden and the shooter were alone in the shop, all other employees having left by three. He was killed between six and six-thirty. The shooter exited the rear door to the alley. There were no known witnesses and no reports of gunshots,” Lombard began.