by J. L. Abramo
“Listen, bro. I wanted to be there for you but I caught a haul. I’m on my way to Oakland, and then I have a pick-up in Portland returning to Denver. I won’t be back until Thursday morning. You have a phone?”
“A burner.”
“Give me the number. Grab a hotel for a few nights. I’ll call you when I get back and come pick you up.”
Ramirez gave him the cell number.
“I’m really sorry, bro. That’s why they call it fucking work.”
“It’s okay.”
“We’ll have a serious party when I land.”
“Sounds good, Raul,” Kenny said.
And then said fuck, when Sandoval was off the line.
“All right,” Samson said when they were all gathered. “Let’s try to make this thorough and quick. Ripley, Maggio, you’re up.”
“We have a witness who saw a suspect exit the rear door of the bakery at the approximate time of the shooting,” Maggio said.
“Okay.”
“He didn’t see the man’s face, but made the plate number of the car the man drove off in. We had the plate run. It came back registered to a woman named Katrina Popovich, residing in Brighton Beach.”
“Who is she?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Well, we need to find out, and find out who might be using her vehicle. She needs to be watched, to see where she goes, and who might be with her or show up.”
“I reached out to Falcone. He said he could have the woman, her place and the car watched starting now for at least a day or two,” Ripley said.
“Good call. But it’s just a car, and who else drives it isn’t going to help us if there is no one to positively identify the guy who left the scene.”
“There’s the cake,” Maggio said.
“The cake?”
“All of Holden’s employees were interviewed when they arrived to work today, two baker assistants arrived at four in the morning, and the two women who run the front of the shop were in at seven. They showed up for work like any other day, none of them knew about the shooting. But the two women said a man had come into the shop, early yesterday afternoon, ordered a birthday cake, and was supposed to pick it up before closing. There was a birthday cake sitting out on the counter when Holden was found.”
“And you think it might be our guy?”
“It’s possible,” Ripley said. “And both women said they would know him if they saw him again. I asked Falcone to have their watchers try to get photos of any men who show up at Katrina Popovich’s place, so we can run them by the women from the bakery for an ID.”
“That’s a little better. We still need to know who Popovich is, get on that first thing. And ask Falcone to let us know if and when they need to pull their men away, so we can send our own team down to take over. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Richards, Ivanov, what have you got?”
“We went out to the trucking company where Ramirez worked before he jumped. There was only one guy he was tight with, Raul Sandoval,” Richards said. “Sandoval moved back home to Denver. The Denver PD will keep an eye on Sandoval, and be on the lookout for Ramirez, but for only so long. The detective we spoke with said they were pretty thin on manpower.”
“And you got all of the other notices and photographs out?”
“Yes,” Ivanov said.
“Murphy, Rosen?”
“We went over to the high school to talk with David Rose again,” Murphy said. “We waited until half past two, thought we could catch him at the end of his day.”
“Teacher?”
“School Psychologist,” Rosen said. “The principal told us Rose had been out sick two days, so we went to the house.”
“And?”
“Spoke to the wife. She said he was asleep, had taken sleeping pills. We never got past the door. We gave her a card, asked that he call.”
“Okay.”
“We get to our car and see a kid in a Midwood High School jacket go in. The guy who was asking about printing services at the flower shop, where the phone number of the auto repair flyers we found around the Bolin crime scene led us, was with a kid in a Midwood jacket.”
“Those jackets are not unusual in Midwood.”
“In the car we ran Rose’s name, and his wife’s, through DMV for registered vehicles. They show one car, a late model silver Camry. It’s not in the driveway, and it’s not on the street. If the guy is knocked out in bed and his wife is at home, where’s the car?” Murphy said.
“In the repair shop or parked around the corner? If you are thinking this guy Rose is involved in the Greco and Bolin killings you’re reaching.”
“What we’re doing is working the case, we’re trying.”
“How long has Rose been at the school?”
“He just started—moved over from a school in Boston.”
“Find out where and why before you go back to the house.”
“Got it.”
“If there’s nothing else,” Samson said, “I’d like to blow this pop stand.”
There was nothing else. Gradually, they all left the precinct.
Kenny Ramirez walked out of Union Station in Denver with no idea about where he was or where to go. Kenny did what you do when you blow into a strange city with no clues, he approached a taxi driver.
“Where can I find a hotel around here?”
“A hotel down here is going to set you back two-fifty, minimum.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Minimum.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Down on East Colfax you can get a room for around eighty-five. It’s not far, two miles or so.”
“Take me,” Kenny said.
When Ramirez left the cab, in front of the hotel, he looked around. A 7-Eleven store just to the east. A bar on the west side which, by the looks of the congregation at the entrance, was a gay club. A row of shops across the avenue including a Middle Eastern restaurant, a smoke shop, and a Wendy’s.
At the check-in desk he asked for a room for two nights.
“Eighty-four-ninety-nine a night,” the girl said.
The cab driver knew his stuff.
Kenny put two one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
“Do you have a credit card, sir?”
“No.”
“Then you will have to put down a refundable two-hundred-dollar room deposit to cover any additional charges. Damage, mini-bar, phone calls.”
In no mood to argue, Ramirez dropped two more C-notes on top of the first two.
“Keep the change,” he said.
He filled out a form, using the name James Spencer. Where it asked for an address, he simply wrote Chicago. The desk clerk didn’t ask for ID. He took his key and went up to his room on the second floor.
He took a shower, changed clothes, and went out to stretch his legs after the thirty-six-hour train ride.
Four blocks west of the hotel, Kenny spotted a restaurant and bar called The Irish Snug.
He went in.
After putting the girls to bed, Samson and Alicia sat together on the living room sofa. Samson had said hardly a word since arriving home.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“We have at least four open homicide cases, and Kenny Ramirez is in the wind—God knows where,” Samson said. “Sometimes I wish I was buried in a basement somewhere, clerking an evidence room.”
“No you don’t.”
“It’s all the violence, Alicia, all the death.”
“James?”
“Yes?”
“What would you have done if you were Ramirez?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you came home one day and you found your wife in bed with another man, what would you do?”
“That’s a foolish question—like asking what I would do if the sun rose in the west. It could never happen.”
“Try to forget me in particular for a moment, my unquestionable fidelity. Try to
put yourself in his shoes for a moment.”
“I try putting myself into the shoes of every felon who comes into my world. That is what makes the job so terrible, and so intoxicating. It is how I form speculation about motive, how I develop assumptions about what the criminal was thinking before the crime and is thinking after, come up with ideas on how to outsmart him and bring him in. But if I were really in his shoes, found myself in a situation where reason doesn’t necessarily prevail, I don’t know what I would do. And I doubt Kenny Ramirez knew what he would do until it actually happened.”
“Do you feel sorry for him?”
“I feel sorry for all of them.”
After a very enjoyable evening, which included a fine Italian dinner in mid-Manhattan and a laugh-out-loud French comedy at the Angelica Cinema in Greenwich Village, Stan Landis and Steven Wallace sat in Stan’s parked car in front of Wallace’s residence, which sat above a beauty salon on Fifth Avenue in Bay Ridge.
“Your partner sounds like quite a character.”
“Rey Mendez is one in a million. He is impossible, totally loveable, and a great cop. I trust him with my life. I’m going to miss riding with him.”
“Did something happen?”
“A promotion is about to happen. Rey is up for a detective’s shield. When it comes through, as I am certain it will, we’ll be riding in different types of vehicles.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Detective Landis has a nice ring to it.”
“It does, but I’ll need to put some more time in first. I’ll get my turn, as long as sexual preference has nothing to say about it.”
“Could it?”
“It’s a lot better in the department than it was, but we’re not quite there yet. Bottom line is, one never knows but can always hope.”
“That’s pretty much the bottom line for everything,” Steve said. “Would you like to come up for a drink?”
“What do you have to drink?”
“Almost everything, and there is a liquor store just across the street if I don’t have what you like.”
Landis looked across the avenue and then turned to Wallace.
“Call nine-one-one, Steve, now. Report a ten-twenty, a robbery in progress, and give the location of the liquor store. Tell the operator it’s a ten-thirteen, an officer needs immediate assistance, and give my name. And, Steve, please do not leave this vehicle. ”
“What are you going to do?”
“Whatever I have to do,” Landis said, and he climbed out of the car.
TWENTY NINE
Murphy was staring at the screen of his desktop computer Wednesday morning when his cell phone rang.
“Miss me, Rosen?”
“I guess I did, wait a minute while I reload.”
“Nice.”
“I thought I would swing by your place and pick you up, we can grab breakfast before we go in.”
“I’m already in, been here since six.”
“What got into you?”
“It was the meeting yesterday afternoon. Every time I opened my mouth, Samson seemed to shoot me down.”
“That’s Samson,” Rosen said. “He’s famous for playing devil’s advocate.”
“I think it was his way of telling me to do the work.”
“Find anything?”
“Maybe. But there is still something missing. I’ll show you what I found when you get in.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll bring coffee and bagels.”
“See if you can find me a scrambled egg, bacon and cheese on hard roll.”
Samson walked in ten minutes later.
“You’re in bright and early,” Murphy said. “Can I show you something?”
“Not this minute.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Stan Landis was shot and killed last night.”
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?”
“I’ll tell you what I know when everyone else gets in. Right now, I have to call Rey Mendez and ruin his fucking day too.”
“I said stay home for a couple of days, Rey. Don’t make me have to say it a third time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll see you this evening at the wake.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mendez had already been in uniform when Samson called. He changed into a pair of cargo shorts, Nike running shoes, and a Brooklyn Nets T-shirt. He walked into the kitchen. Salina was trying to feed the three kids.
“What’s with the homeboy outfit?”
“Stan Landis was killed last night.”
“Oh my God, Rey, I am so sorry.”
“The captain asked me to take a few days off. I need to get out for a while and clear my head. Run. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”
“I’ll have breakfast for you when you get back.”
Mendez took the elevator down to the ground floor, walked out of the building, got into his car, and went looking for Stump.
Rosen walked into the squad room holding two white paper bags. She spotted Samson in his office and came to Murphy’s desk. “Kelly just told me about Landis. Fuck. How is Sam taking it?”
“He’s angry.”
“What do we know?”
“The captain said he’ll fill us all in when the others get here.”
“Fuck.”
“Let’s try to get our minds off it until he talks to us. This might help a little. Take a look,” Murphy said, tapping his computer monitor.
“What am I looking at? I forgot my binoculars at home.”
“It’s a death notice from a rag called the Newton Tab, this past April.”
“Newton?”
“Massachusetts. Mary Ellen Rose, seventeen, died in the home of her parents. She was survived by her father, David Rose, a school psychologist at Fenway High School, mother, Maureen Rose, and brother, Jason, fifteen.”
“Cause of death?”
“Not mentioned, but I called the Newton PD and they sent this,” Murphy said, handing Rosen a fax.
“Suicide by hanging, holy fuck.”
“Nice colloquialism.”
“Did you show this to Samson?”
“He wasn’t ready for new business. But I would like to know why this girl decided seventeen years was long enough.”
“It says here she was a student at Newton South High School,” Rosen said, “give the school a call.”
“I was waiting for you. To make the call, and for my egg sandwich.”
Mendez found Stump on a bench at Seth Low Park in Bensonhurst watching a basketball game. The bench was the man’s office. The man’s street name was a consequence of a run-in with a pit bull belonging to a Brooklyn drug dealer, resulting in the loss of a right hand. Stump was Rey’s confidential informant. Rey’s CI was an encyclopedia of Brooklyn criminal activity. From behind the bench, Mendez placed a hand on Stump’s shoulder.
“Jesus, Rey, you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“You need to have a heart for one of those,” Mendez said, sitting on the bench.
“Is that a nice way to talk to a man when you about to ask a favor.”
“Stan Landis was killed.”
“Shit, Rey, I’m sorry to hear that. I liked Stan. I know you was tight.”
“You know a guy named Jerry Paxton?”
“I heard the name. Bay Ridge I think. You need to talk to him?”
“I wish I could, but Jerry’s dead. I’d like to know who he might have partnered with on a liquor store stick-up.”
“I could ask around.”
“Do it quietly, I don’t want to spook anyone into going underground.”
“I’ll be extra careful who I ask and how I ask it.”
“Thanks. You still have my cell number?”
“Right here,” Stump said, tapping a finger to his forehead. “Listen, Rey?”
“Yes?”
“I hate to ask at a time like this.”
Mendez pulled out his wallet and he placed t
wo twenty-dollar bills into Stump’s left hand.
“I’m in a hurry for this.”
“Express delivery,” Stump said. “I hear you.”
“Why not just say I’m a police detective?” Rosen asked.
They had carried a desk phone into an empty interview room.
“Citizens who work in schools have mixed feelings about the cops. They hate admitting they can’t handle all contingencies without outside help. Put it on speaker.”
“Okay,” Rosen said, punching in the number.
The call was answered after four rings.
“Newton South High School, this is Mrs. Mumford.”
“Mrs. Mumford, this is Doctor Rosen calling from New York.”
“How can we help you, Doctor?”
“I’m working with a young man named Jason Rose here in Brooklyn, psychological counseling. Jason was a former student at your school. He is having issues related to the death of his sister, Mary Ellen, and I am having trouble getting him to talk about the particulars.”
“You’ll want to talk to Sheila Kennedy. Sheila is the counselor here, and she worked with both of the Rose children.”
“Can you connect me to Ms. Kennedy?”
“If she is in, please hold a minute.”
“Thank you.”
“Nice work, Doctor,” Murphy said.
“Quiet.”
“Doctor Rosen, this is Sheila Kennedy.”
“Ms. Kennedy, Jason Rose is having trouble dealing with the suicide of his sister. If I knew more about why Mary Ellen may have taken her own life, I would be better equipped to help the boy.”
“I thought I could help Jason, but I wasn’t given enough time. I tried helping Mary Ellen, but I was in over my head. I’m glad to hear Jason is seeing a more experienced professional. Have his parents been much help?”
“They are a bit shy on the subject of their daughter.”
“I had the same problem. It is so tragic, David Rose is a psychologist himself—and he couldn’t help his own children.”
Murphy was giving his partner a thumb up, she waved it off.
“Tell me about Mary Ellen, what was going on with her that would push her to such an extreme?”