by J. L. Abramo
“How did you establish the time?” Ripley asked.
“There were two officers stationed outside the shop to protect Holden from possible threats we are sure you are aware of. Holden traditionally closed the shop at six, and then remained to do whatever it was he did until leaving an hour or so later. Officer Farley saw a customer arrive just as Holden was about to lock up at six. Holden welcomed the man into the shop, Farley had the impression Holden knew the man. At around six-forty, when no one had exited the shop, Farley and Officer Kenton left their vehicle to investigate. They found the front door unlocked, and Holden behind the counter,” Maddox said. “If it is determined the officers were in any way derelict in their duty, it will be dealt with accordingly—however that will be the one aspect of the investigation which will remain with the Seventy-seventh. We take care of our own house cleaning here, as we are sure you do in the Six-one.”
“Understood,” Maggio said.
“Anything to add?” Ripley asked.
“We have been canvassing the area since last evening and into this morning with no results. I think we pretty much exhausted the field. We can give you a list of all of the people we spoke with—so you do not have to duplicate our efforts if you decide to continue interviewing,” Lombard said.
“We trust you covered the bases,” Maggio said, “but we will take the list, and all of the evidence collected thus far, to insure the case file is complete going forward. It wasn’t our idea to take the case away from you—we do what we’re told.”
“No sweat,” Maddox said, “we have our hands full as it is.”
“Do you think it was a robbery?” Ripley asked.
Before either could answer, the Desk Sergeant was at the door.
“Detectives, there is a man here who says he knows something about the shooting last evening.”
“Bring him down here, Coleman,” Maddox said.
Maddox looked over to Lombard, both rose from their seats, and started out of the interview room.
“It’s all yours,” Maddox said, and they were gone.
The squad room of the Six-one was a hive of busy bees.
Captain Samson was sequestered in his office, painfully putting together a budget for the precinct, knowing his final proposals would be cut to pieces.
Rosen and Murphy sat at their respective computer terminals, hunting and pecking at their keyboards, writing statements regarding the shooting and arrest of Detective Josh Altman.
Ivanov and Richards were running between phones and the fax machine, alerting four neighboring states about a wanted fugitive named Kenny Ramirez.
Samson called down to Sergeant Kelly at the front desk.
“Is Officer Mendez in the house?”
“He and Landis just rolled out in their cruiser.”
“Get word to Mendez when you have the chance, I’d like to see him in my office at four this afternoon.”
Coleman escorted a man of about sixty years old into the interview room.
He was unshaven, poorly dressed, but clean.
He clutched a leather bound bible in his two hands.
“This is Noah Booker, no address,” Coleman said. “These are Detectives Maggio and Ripley, Mr. Booker—they will be taking your statement.”
Coleman quickly exited.
“Take a seat, Mr. Booker,” Maggio said. “Please tell us what you can about what happened last evening on Nostrand Avenue.”
“Will it matter what I say?”
“What do you mean?” Ripley asked.
“I live on the street. I’ve had a little trouble with the police, once or twice. So, will it matter what I tell you?”
“Are you wanted for anything right now?” Maggio asked.
“No.”
“Any felony convictions?”
“Never.”
“Anything wrong with your eyes or your ears?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t come all the way down here to waste our time with a load of bullshit.”
“I did not.”
“Then, it could matter what you tell us.”
Booker settled into a chair opposite the detectives.
“The boy, Alex, he was good to me. Every evening I knocked at the back door of the bakery, between six-thirty and seven, after he locked up the front. He always gave me something to eat from the shop, bread, cookies, whatever, sometimes he had other food for me, sometimes he threw me a few dollars. I don’t drink or do drugs.”
“And last evening?” Ripley asked.
“As I was coming up the alley toward the back of the shop, a man came out the rear door. He held his hand down to his side—he may have held a gun.”
“Did you get a look at his face?”
“No. He was walking away from me. It was dark in the alley.”
“Can you describe him at all?”
“White, six feet, well dressed.”
“What then?” Maggio asked.
“I followed the man up the alley. He turned right onto President Street. I turned after him and saw him climb into a car and drive off.”
“Can you describe the vehicle?”
“Mid-size. Black.”
“That’s it?” Ripley asked.
“I got the license plate number.”
Booker pulled a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, torn from a Chinese take-out menu he had picked up off the street. He passed it across the table.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Maggio said.
“I always carry a pencil,” Booker said.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Ripley asked.
“First thing I did was go back to the bakery and rap on the back door. No one answered, and it was locked. Then I went around to the front, and the police were already there. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to get in the middle of any kind of bad business. But when I heard Alex was killed, I decided it was my business.”
“Thank you for stepping up, Noah,” Ripley said, pulling a business card from his wallet. “What you had to say matters a great deal. If you ever need a hand with anything, give us a call and we will do what we can.”
“We would like you to come with us to the Sixty-first Precinct to write up a statement?” Maggio said. “Then lunch is on us.”
“Can you give me a ride home after?” Booker said, without irony.
“Anywhere you like,” Ripley said.
Ivanov and Richards sat in Al Gerard’s office at Eastern States Moving and Hauling in Farmingdale, Long Island—asking the Chief Dispatcher what he knew about Kenny Ramirez.
“I have no idea whether Ramirez has talked to anyone. I haven’t heard from him since it happened. And you’re not going to find anyone here in the terminal, they are all out driving. We go as far south as Florida, as far west as Illinois and Missouri, and often pick up more cargo on the other end. Drivers are sometimes out for days. The best place to catch a trucker is at home, and they’re never at home.”
“Is there anyone who Ramirez was particularly friendly with?”
“Ramirez was not the friendly type, and the drivers rarely see each other or buddy up. But, come to think of it, there was one guy who Ramirez seemed pretty tight with.”
“Name?”
“Raul Sandoval.”
“Can we get an address?”
“I don’t have one. Sandoval was from Colorado. His mother had some serious medical problems and he moved back to Denver about six months ago. I can give you his SSN and a photocopy of his CDL license if it would help.”
“It could,” Richards said.
The meeting with the Assistant District Attorney went quickly, and the two detectives were back in their car just after noon.
“He is going to lose his job, probably serve time.”
“He had you in handcuffs, took a shot at me.”
“Josh has serious psychological problems.”
“He does, but I don’t think that will help him much.”
“Am I that irresistible?”
&nbs
p; “Except first thing in the morning before coffee,” Murphy said.
“It’s not funny.”
“I know, Sandra, it is sad—but we didn’t write the script, and we’re lucky it played out the way it did.”
“What now?”
“I guess we go back to the high school, but I agree with Sam about waiting until school is out. If we can’t catch him there, we can try getting a home address from Pabst.”
“And now?”
“Now we take Ralph for a quick run, and then do what we usually do at this time of day.”
“Lunch?”
“Lunch,” Murphy said.
“Thank God for tradition.”
Ripley and Maggio escorted Noah Booker into the Six-one as Samson was headed out. Maggio took Booker up, Ripley stopped to talk to the captain.
“What do you have?”
“He got a license number on a suspect in the Holden shooting. He’s here to write up a statement.”
“Hold weight?”
“I think it is good.”
“Run the plates, but don’t move until you talk to me. I need to run out to Long Island Jewish, Jimmy is being moved to New York Hospital in Queens tomorrow and I need to sign some papers. I should be back by three, no later than four. Call me if you think we need to move sooner.”
“I don’t believe this was a robbery, Captain.”
“Nor do I. It was a hit. And if it leads back to Vladimir Markov, we need to do this right.”
Ivanov and Richards were heading back to Brooklyn on the Southern State Parkway. Richards drove. Ivanov was quiet.
“Can you keep your nose out of the Holden case?” Richards asked.
“Can you keep your nose out of my business?”
“Sorry.”
Ivanov took a deep breath before speaking.
“No, I’m sorry. I was out of line. I know what you were asking. I fucked up once already, you’re trying to offer sound advice and I hear you. I’m glad the case came over to the Six-one. I have total confidence in Ripley, and Maggio has a good rep. I’ll trust them to do their job, and we’ll do ours. So let’s reach out to the Denver PD and see if we can catch a break. How is your daughter?”
“We’ll know more after tomorrow,” Richards said.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, but I don’t know if luck has much to do with it.”
“Luck has something to do with everything,” Ivanov said, “and sometimes it’s actually good luck.”
Chief of Detectives Stanley Trenton called a press conference at one on Tuesday afternoon. It was televised live on New York One.
Trenton never actually stated the deaths of Jenny Greco and Patty Bolin may have been related, but the insinuation was impossible for the news hungry reporters and a public hungry for answers to ignore. Trenton had been ordered to refuse questions.
The families of the two girls were somewhat prepared. They had been forewarned and asked, emphatically, to avoid or deflect any questions from the media—for the sake of the investigations.
In an apartment in Midwood, a woman who was unprepared stood in front of the television as Trenton made the announcement. Her legs went out from under her, and she grabbed onto the couch to keep from crashing into a coffee table.
She pulled herself up onto the sofa and wept.
TWENTY EIGHT
After Maggio helped their witness write up a statement, and Ripley put in a request to run the license plate, the two detectives took Booker to the Del Rio Diner on Kings Highway.
“Why are you living on the street?” Ripley asked.
“I can handle the rent. I was working in the meat department at the Shop Rite on Bay Parkway. They laid quite a few people off. I was expendable. I’ve been looking for work, but it’s difficult to land a job when you have no address, a phone booth for a contact number, and you’re closing in on sixty.”
“Were you any good?” Maggio asked.
“Modestly speaking, and I have nothing if not humility, I could have run that department a lot more efficiently and successfully—but I didn’t have the job seniority and the manager was someone’s son-in-law.”
“I can’t promise anything, but my Uncle Vito owns a butcher shop on Eight-sixth Street. I’ll give him a call, see if he is looking for help and willing to give you a shot,” Maggio said, pulling a business card from his wallet. “Keep this with Detective Ripley’s card. Give me a call in a few days—I’ll let you know if Vito is game. And call either of us if you run into any unforeseen dilemma.”
“Thank you,” Booker said, before going back to the hefty menu.
“What would you like to eat?” Ripley asked.
“Everything,” Booker said.
Officers Landis and Mendez were patrolling the neighborhood in their cruiser.
Mendez was driving.
Landis was humming.
“What’s with you?” Mendez asked.
“I have a date tonight.”
“Someone new?”
“Met him in a bar a few nights ago.”
“In a bar?”
“It’s either a bar or the supermarket, Rey.”
“Do you know much about him?”
“School teacher, lives in Park Slope, great sense of humor.”
“He know you’re a cop?”
“Yes.”
“What’s on the agenda?”
“Dinner and a movie.”
“Nice. I hope all goes well. Tell the guy if he ever does you wrong, I’ll rip his lungs out.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be sure to mention it.”
Mendez answered a call on his cell. He listened, said okay, and put the phone away.
“Salina?” Landis asked.
“Kelly. Samson wants me in his office at four.”
“Did you fuck up?”
“It would be pretty hard for me to fuck up without you knowing about it before the captain.”
When Ripley and Maggio returned to the Six-one from dropping Noah Booker at a run-down housing project on New York Avenue, Ripley found a fax on his desk.
“Katrina Popovich. Doesn’t sound much like a man’s name.”
“No, it doesn’t. What do you have?” Maggio asked.
“The word on the license plate number Booker gave us. Katrina Popovich, twenty-eight years old, Brighton Beach address, black BMW.”
“Do you think Booker got it wrong?”
“I really don’t.”
“Then this guy borrowed a car to go rob a bakery?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Ripley said.
“Do we really need the captain’s permission before we make any move?”
“I think we can safely get away with having the woman and the vehicle watched, very discreetly, strongly prohibiting any contact.”
“You know the captain better than I do.”
“Not much better, I’ve been here less than three weeks, but I think he’ll be fine with it as long as no one knows they are being watched. I’ll call Jack Falcone over at the Sixtieth—ask him what they can do.”
Samson had some time before his scheduled meeting with Rey Mendez.
After taking care of arrangements for the transfer of his son to New York Hospital in Queens the next day, he ran over to Coney Island Hospital for a quick visit with Senderowitz. When he reached the hospital room, he bumped into Sarah Sanders coming out.
“He’s doing a lot better. I brought some mail from his place. I’m on my way back there to try making the place look like something other than a war zone.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I picked up everything I should need. The back seat of my car looks like a janitor’s closet.”
“I’m really glad you’re with him now.”
“I’m willing to give him a chance,” Sarah said, “but it’s the only chance I have left to give.”
Murphy and Rosen met with Principal Pabst in his office.
“We had a few more questions for David Rose,” Murphy
said, “and we didn’t want to barge in on him before seeing you first.”
“Mr. Rose has been out the past two days.”
“Oh?”
“His wife says he has strep throat.”
“What do you think?” Rosen asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t say he has strep throat, you said his wife says he has strep throat. Any reason to believe it is not the case?”
“Not really.”
“Not really? Well that settles it,” Murphy said. “Is he sick often?”
“I couldn’t really say. Mr. Rose just started here last week. He transferred from a high school in Boston.”
“Could you give us a home address?”
When Samson arrived at the Six-one just before four, they were all in the squad room. He stopped at Murphy’s desk.
“I’m expecting Mendez any minute. Shouldn’t be more than a ten minute meeting. Afterwards, I want everyone together to recap the day. If we get an early start, maybe we can get out of here at a decent hour. Spread the word.”
Ten minutes later, Officer Mendez was sitting in Samson’s office.
“I hear you and your wife are expecting another child. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll get right to the point. I put your name in for Detective Third Grade. You’ve put in the time, and if my request is approved I think you have the talent and determination to keep moving up very quickly. I’ll know something by next week.”
“If it goes through, will I stay here at the Six-one?”
“It’s not up to me, but I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m going to miss riding with Stan Landis.”
“Believe it or not, before I was bumped up I rode with Murphy—and I felt the same way. You get over it.”
Four hours out of Denver, Kenny Ramirez phoned Raul Sandoval.
“Where are you?”
“On the Amtrak. Should be there by six-thirty, seven latest.”