Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  “A very embarrassing photograph of Mary Ellen in the shower of the girl’s locker room at the school turned up on the internet.”

  “How terrible—was it determined who was behind it?”

  “She was sure it was a few of the other girls in the group who were jealous and often bullied her. Mary Ellen was group leader. She was a very smart young woman and extremely popular. After the photograph surfaced it was hell for her. I tried hard to help her through it, and thought I might be making progress, but then she just stopped coming to see me. A week later I heard the news. I hope you can do better helping Jason.”

  “I’m sure you did all you could,” Rosen said.

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  “Were the other girls ever held accountable?”

  “There was never solid evidence of who was responsible.”

  “What kind of group was it?”

  “I thought you knew,” Sheila Kennedy said. “Mary Ellen was the leader of the school cheerleader squad.”

  Richards received a call from Detective Bob Espinoza of the Denver Police Department.

  “Raul Sandoval is out of town until tomorrow morning. Driving a rig cross country.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I called for him at work, didn’t ID myself as police. I told them it was about a late credit card bill.”

  “How did you know he had a late credit card bill?”

  “Who doesn’t have one? Anyway, I was told not to call him at work.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t believe your man will show up while Sandoval is away, and we can’t afford having our guys in a car twiddling their thumbs all day, so we pulled them away. We’ll send them back first thing in the morning, but as I told you before, there’s a limit to how long we can sit on the place.”

  “I understand,” Richards said. “Thanks for the help.”

  Kenny Ramirez woke up in the hotel with a killer hangover. He managed to raise his head from the pillow long enough to see where he was and notice there was a woman in the bed beside him.

  “Fuck me,” he said.

  Then he dropped his head and slept more.

  “Officer Stan Landis was shot and killed last night,” Samson said, when he had them all together. “I am going to tell you everything I know. Landis was off-duty. He spotted a ten-twenty at a liquor store in Bay Ridge and went in. He and a suspect were both killed. The store clerk was discovered unconscious behind the counter. One suspect was also found behind the counter, two fatal shots to the chest. Officer Landis was discovered on the customer side.

  “The clerk told investigators that two men came into the store, both in ski masks. One pointed a gun at the clerk, while the second came around to his side of the counter, had him open the cash register, and then knocked him out cold with a the grip of his weapon.

  “The detectives who arrived at the scene following the first responders have made preliminary suppositions. Ballistic and forensic reports are pending and may confirm their theories—but right now it is all speculation. It appears Landis interrupted the robbery and he killed one of the perpetrators in self-defense. The second man came at him quickly from his right, one shot to the right temple at close range. Officer Landis obviously never saw it coming and, according to the medical examiner, he died instantly.

  “Only one witness saw anything, and what he saw was a man fleeing the scene after the shooting stopped. He could not see the suspect’s face.

  “Now, please listen carefully, I am not going to say this twice. This case is in the hands of the Six-eight and will remain there.”

  “Who caught it?” Murphy asked.

  “Detectives Roosevelt and Cicero. Now, you had something to show me, Murphy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring it to my office,” Samson said. “And if anyone else has anything to share with me afterwards, take a number. Otherwise, I’m sure you all have work to do.”

  Stump slipped onto a seat at the counter of the Bridgeview Diner at 3rd Avenue and 90th Street in Bay Ridge. One of the diner’s veteran employees walked up with a guest check book.

  “Still in time for the breakfast special,” the waiter said.

  “Seen Jerry Paxton lately?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I owe him money.”

  “You’re a day late. Paxton was killed trying to take down the liquor store on Fifth last night. Guess you’re off the hook.”

  “Was there anyone with him?”

  “Two eggs, hash browns, bacon and toast. Four-ninety-five.”

  “Scrambled, well done,” Stump said, “rye bread.”

  Ripley received a call from Jack Falcone.

  “A man and woman showed up at the Popovich place in a black BMW and went inside. He walked out twenty minutes later in a different outfit.”

  “Get his picture?”

  “Coming out, suitable for framing,” Falcone said. “He went off on foot, one of our guys followed.”

  “And?”

  “He went straight to the Lobnya Lounge. I’ll send the photo over.”

  “Can you stay on him, and the house?”

  “We’re good for now. I’ll let you know if and when we can’t.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  Murphy and Rosen ran it all down for Samson.

  “What a fucking thing,” Samson said.

  “It’s fucking Shakespearian,” Murphy said.

  “I want David Rose in here for questioning—today. First, go down to see Kelly. Tell him we need the Rose house covered, front and rear. That’s two units, in uniform, in marked patrol cars. We want them parked as close to the residence as possible, preferably where they can be clearly seen by anyone looking out of the house. If they see Rose leave the house, they are to pick him up. Also, tell Kelly to put out an all points on the Rose vehicle. Then go down to the Criminal Courthouse on Schermerhorn. I will call Trenton, he will call whichever judge is down there who owes him one, and you will pick up a search warrant for the Rose residence. It will get you into the house whether or not the wife says he’s there. If he is there, bring him in. If he is not there, we’ll question the wife. I don’t want her near a phone, so bring her here. Have the two units stay with the house until a forensics team arrives, and then the rear unit can be cut loose. Do you have any questions?”

  “Will we be good on PC for the search warrant?” Rosen asked.

  “We’ll let Trenton worry about probable cause, it’s his forte. Get to work, Ripley and Maggio look like they’re in a yank to get in here.”

  Richards and Ivanov watched Murphy and Rosen blast out of Samson’s office and Ripley and Maggio rush in.

  “Some folks have all the fun,” Ivanov said.

  “Are you good without me for a few hours, I need to take my wife and daughter over to the hospital for those tests.”

  “No problem, Marty. Nothing we can do on the APBs except wait, unless we send it out to the other forty-four states and Puerto Rico. And we won’t be hearing from Denver until tomorrow, earliest. Do what you have to do, no need to rush. And I hope everything goes all right.”

  “What am I looking at?” Samson asked, looking at a photograph fresh off the printer, sent in an email attachment from Jack Falcone.

  “A possible suspect in the Holden shooting,” Ripley said. “Seen here leaving Katrina Popovich’s place.”

  “Suspect is a strong word for a man walking out of a house.”

  “We want to take it to the two women who worked at the bakery,” Maggio said, “see if they can place him at the shop that afternoon.”

  “Do you need my permission to show a picture to a witness?” Samson asked. “Or is there something else that has both of you looking like you found Jimmy Hoffa’s body?”

  “He was followed to the Lobnya Lounge.”

  “Okay, put the picture with four or five others from our files. If both women pick this guy out, it’s a good start. But, we need to be very cautious. Getting the shooter
would be commendable, but if Vladimir Markov is behind this we want to get him too, on conspiracy, and we need to cover all the bases. If this is our guy,” Samson said, handing the photograph back to Ripley, “let’s put our heads together before moving further.”

  When Kenny Ramirez woke again he found himself alone in the hotel bed. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief, and then the woman walked out of the bathroom straight from a shower.

  “Breakfast, Romeo?” she said, wearing a towel wrapped around the top of her head and nothing else.

  Jesus, Ramirez thought, how much did I fucking drink last night?

  Murphy and Rosen rang the doorbell. A few minutes later the woman opened the front door.

  “Mrs. Rose,” Murphy said, “we need to see your husband.”

  “David isn’t here.”

  “We’ll need to come in and take a look,” Rosen said.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “This warrant says we can,” Rosen said, holding up the paperwork.

  Maureen Rose looked at the warrant for a moment, and then looked at the patrol car parked across the street.

  “Come in,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

  Stump had been walking Bay Ridge for hours. Up and down, from Shore Parkway to 86th Street, along 3rd, 4th and 5th Avenues. He spotted Spike Cassidy going into Pete’s Pizza on 4th and 97th. Spike knew the hood. Stump crossed the avenue and waited outside the pizzeria.

  Cassidy came out with a slice a few minutes later.

  “Spike, what do you know?”

  “Stump. Long time.”

  “Hear about Jerry Paxton?”

  “Everyone heard about the fool. The heat from the Six-eight been up and down here all day. They been grilling anyone who ever knew the man.”

  “They get anywhere?”

  “Nobody knows nothing, or isn’t yapping.”

  “You know anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like if anyone else went in the liquor store with Paxton.”

  “I might have a hunch.”

  “Mind sharing?”

  “Can you spare twenty?”

  Stump pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it over.

  “Nicky DeSantis,” Spike said.

  “Why you thinking DeSantis?”

  “I happened to see Jerry and Nicky together last night, not long before the store was hit. But remember, it’s just a guess. It’s what it is.”

  “A hunch, right, I heard you twice the first time. Any police hit you up for an opinion?”

  “Two detectives came in the Bridgeview. This cat Roosevelt stands up on a table like he’s Popeye fucking Doyle, raises his voice so the entire place can hear, and asks if anyone can help them out.”

  “And?”

  “You could hear a pin drop. Like I said, nobody knows nothing. And me, I keep my opinions to myself when it comes to the police. I doubt anyone is going to know for sure if DeSantis was in that liquor store unless Nicky say so himself.”

  “You know where Nicky hangs?”

  “What’s that worth?”

  Stump pulled another twenty from his pocket and passed it over.

  Easy come, easy go, he thought.

  “Nicky washes dishes tonight at the Bay Ridge Diner. He’s usually there until eleven. He has a crib on Eighth and Seventy-third, above the Purple Rose Bar.”

  “Don’t tell anyone we talked,” Stump said.

  “Do you think I’m fucking crazy?” Spike said. “You don’t tell anyone we talked.”

  THIRTY

  Murphy and Rosen came into Interview Room One and sat at the table opposite Maureen Rose.

  Captain Samson followed them in and took a seat in a chair against the wall near the door.

  Detective Rosen led the questioning.

  “I am informing you this interview is being recorded.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you have been told, you are entitled to have a lawyer present.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Please state your full name.”

  “Maureen Helen Rose.”

  “Also present are Detectives Sandra Rosen and Thomas Murphy, and Captain Samson, of the Sixty-first Precinct, New York Police Department. Can we get you anything before we begin, Mrs. Rose?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “When was the last time you saw your husband, David Rose?”

  “This past Friday morning. David failed to return home that evening.”

  “To your knowledge, where was your husband prior to the time he was scheduled to return home.”

  “To my knowledge, he was at the high school.”

  “Lafayette High School.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you concerned about his failure to return home?”

  “The later it got, the more I was concerned. When he was out all night, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “Had he ever spent the entire night away before?”

  “David has had a very difficult time since our daughter died. There were a few times when he said he needed to get away, needed to be alone for a day or two. But he always told me his plans beforehand.”

  “On Monday morning, you called the school to report that your husband would be out sick. He had been gone for more than two days. Why didn’t you report him missing?”

  “He had just begun a new job. I didn’t want the administration thinking David was irresponsible or had serious personal problems. I still had hope he would come home, or at least call. So I didn’t report his disappearance to the school, or to the police. And then, when I saw the press conference on TV, I was so confused and frightened, I didn’t know what to do.”

  At this point, the woman broke down, sobbing violently. Samson stepped out of the room.

  “Take as much time as you need,” Rosen said, “before we continue.”

  The two detectives waited, uncomfortably, while the woman worked at regaining her composure. Samson returned, placed a bottle of water and a box of tissues on the table, and returned to his chair.

  Maureen Rose took a drink, and a deep breath.

  “I am all right to go on,” she said after a few minutes.

  “Do you know where your husband is now?”

  “No.”

  “Has he contacted you at all since Friday?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have an idea about why we are interested in your husband?”

  “I believe I do. God save him. God save us all,” she said. “Can I go back home before my son returns from school?”

  Rosen looked behind her to Samson, he gave Rosen a nod.

  “We have a team searching the house. They should be done before Jason returns. We can let you go home if you allow an officer to remain with you, inside the house. We cannot allow you to try contacting your husband, and we need to know if he tries to contact you. It would be best for everyone, David included, if he came in.”

  “Please don’t hurt him,” Maureen Rose said.

  Ripley called Katherine Grant and Susan Beck, the two women who worked at the Avenue Bakery, and asked them to come down to the Six-one.

  Katherine arrived first, and the two detectives took her into Interview Room Two. Maggio placed six black and white photographs of the same size on the table in front of the witness.

  “Can you identify the man you saw in the bakery Monday afternoon?”

  She immediately pointed to the photo they had received from Falcone.

  “Thank you,” Maggio said.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Forgive us for any inconvenience.”

  “Is that the man who killed Alex?”

  “We don’t know,” Ripley said. “We are investigating possibilities.”

  “He was very friendly, good looking, well dressed.”

  “We don’t know,” Ripley said.

  A few minutes later, Susan Beck chose the same photograph.

  “Wh
at will happen with the bakery?” Maggio asked.

  “We don’t know. Alex has a sister with business experience. We hope it will stay with the family and the staff will be asked to stay on. We won’t know anything until after the funeral. But, the more I think about what happened, I’m not sure if I would be alright working there again.”

  Stump called Mendez. They met at the Del Rio.

  Stump gave him Nicky DeSantis as a “possible,” Nicky’s work schedule that evening, and the apartment above the Purple Rose.

  “How will I recognize him?”

  “Nicky is hard to miss. He was a less than successful heavyweight. Has a face that looks like it was put into a blender. Cauliflower ear, a nose broken two or three times, and a Frankenstein scar above his left eye. He should be wearing a ski mask all the time.”

  “Will he be hearing that someone was asking about him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thanks, Stump.”

  “From what I know, there were no witnesses,” Stump said.

  “I’ll get him to confess.”

  “Mendez?”

  “Yes?”

  “It cost me the forty you gave me for the dope on DeSantis.”

  Mendez handed Stump another sixty.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Stump said.

  “I’ll do what I believe my partner would do.”

  “They both identified him?” Samson asked.

  “Without hesitation,” Maggio said.

  “Was he followed when he left the Lobnya Lounge?”

  “I just spoke to Jack Falcone. The suspect hasn’t left the place. Falcone believes he might work there,” Ripley said. “And we did a background check on Katrina Popovich. No criminal record, but Vladimir Markov is her uncle.”

  “Go to the Lobnya, bring two uniforms in a patrol car along, find him and bring him in for questioning. Tell him it is routine, but make sure everyone in the place knows he is being taken away, especially Markov. If he refuses to come, wait there for an arrest warrant. I’m going to send Ivanov to see Katrina Popovich, and question her about where she was at the time of the murder and why her vehicle was spotted on President Street off Nostrand at the time of the murder. I’ll put in a request for a warrant to search the house and car so, if Popovich has no good answers for Marina, we will be prepared for a search of both. I’m sure Chief Trenton will be impressed with how busy we are doing our jobs on hump day.”