by J. L. Abramo
“Got it,” Maggio said.
“Thank Jack Falcone for the leg up. And do whatever you need to do, within reason, to scare this guy into fucking himself, and Markov, before he decides to lawyer-up.”
Murphy was at Samson’s door as soon as Maggio and Ripley left.
“What?”
“We just got a call from Central. They received a report of a vehicle with New York plates left abandoned in a parking lot at the Wilmington, Delaware Amtrak station. Twenty-ten silver Camry. The plates match Rose’s car.”
“Did the report come from the terminal or the Wilmington PD?”
“It came from Amtrak. Claim they’ve been waiting since Monday for the police there to respond and they’re ready to have the car impounded.”
“Call them. Tell them not to touch the vehicle, tell them we will get it out of there. Then find a towing company down there who will haul the car up to the Navy Yard for a forensics search,” Samson said, “and, Tommy...”
“Yes.”
“Good work, both of you.”
Ripley and Maggio were on their way to Brighton Beach. Maggio drove, Ripley’s cell rang.
It was Kelly calling from the precinct.
“I thought you might like to know that Lorraine DiMarco phoned looking for you. She said she’s at her office,” Kelly said, and he was gone.
Ripley pulled Lorraine’s business card from his wallet and entered the office number. A receptionist put him through.
“Did you forget about me, or lose my card.”
“I haven’t had a moment, and I’m not sure about tonight.”
“I understand. I heard the terrible news about Stan Landis. Stan was a friend. Will you be at the wake this evening?”
“I’m planning to be.”
“Then I’ll see you there, and we can decide if we’re still in the mood for dinner afterwards.”
“We are convinced that we are dealing with mucocutaneous lymph node syndrome, or Kawasaki disease, so named for the Japanese pediatrician who first described it. It is most common in children under the age of five. There is no standard tool for diagnosing the condition. The diagnosis is clinical, that is diagnosis based solely on medical signs and symptoms. Sophia’s symptoms, prolonged fever, swollen tongue and swollen lymph nodes, are indicative of Kawasaki disease, but are also symptoms of other conditions, including scarlet fever, juvenile rheumatoid arthritis and measles. The tests we did last week have ruled out those conditions. The chest x-ray we did today showed a slight inflammation of the arteries, and the fact that the fever has prevailed for five days, have given us confidence in our clinical assessment. The treatment is non-invasive, and presents no danger at all to your daughter. The prognosis is extremely positive. Total recovery is nearly always realized after several days in hospital with a regimen of aspirin and intravenous immune globulin, unless there has already been damage to the heart due to poor blood flow, which we will not be able to determine until the treatment runs its course and Sophia’s symptoms subside. I understand this is a lot to digest, and I thank you for not interrupting, but now is the time for questions.”
“I have one question, doctor,” Marty Richards said. “Will our daughter be all right?”
“I truly believe Sophia will be fine, but I recommend we begin treatment immediately.”
Richards turned to face his wife. Linda’s cheeks were tracked with tears. She nodded her head.
“Do it,” Richards said. “Where do we sign?”
When Katrina Popovich answered the door, Ivanov identified herself as a police detective, throwing in a few Russian words for good measure. She told Popovich she had a few questions and said if Katrina could help her out it could save the woman a great deal of serious trouble.
Popovich invited Marina in for tea.
“What is this about?”
“It would work a lot better if you let me ask the questions. Can you tell me where you were around six Monday evening?”
“Atlanta. I left early Monday and got back this morning.”
“What’s in Atlanta?”
“I’m a sales representative for a line of women’s sporting and leisure clothing. I visited a number of retail stores.”
“I imagine you flew.”
“Yes. My boyfriend drove me out to LaGuardia in my car, around ten that morning.”
“And he had the vehicle the entire time you were gone.”
“I suppose so. I had no need of it, and he was going to be picking me up at the airport today anyway.”
“What is your boyfriend’s name?”
“Victor.”
“And after Victor dropped you here this morning?”
“He changed clothes and walked to work.”
“Does he live here?”
“He stays a lot, but he has his own apartment.”
“You said he changed clothing.”
“He keeps some things here, I gave him a drawer in the bedroom dresser and he keeps some clothing hung in the hall closet.”
“Would you mind if I looked around?” Ivanov asked.
“Is Victor in some kind of trouble?”
“We’re investigating a shooting incident that occurred Monday evening. We need to know Victor’s whereabouts at the time.”
“You think Victor shot someone?”
“We would like to be able to rule him out.”
“Why don’t you talk with him? Victor works at the Lobnya Lounge, he should be there.”
“There are detectives on their way to see him, now,” Ivanov said. “Listen carefully, Katrina. If we find out Victor was involved in a felony, and that you know anything about what happened Monday and are hiding something, you could be seen as an accessory and face arrest and prosecution.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take a look around.”
“Go ahead.”
“There are two police officers sitting in a car outside, would you mind if I brought them in to witness your permission for a search?”
“Do what you need to do.”
They found him behind the bar at the Lobnya Lounge serving drinks.
Ripley and Maggio made him from across the room as the man in the evidentiary photograph.
“What is your name, sir?”
“Who wants to know?”
Both detectives showed their shields.
“I’m Detective Ripley, and this is Detective Maggio, your turn.”
“Victor Conrad.”
“Can we see some ID?” Ripley asked.
He opened the cash register behind him, took out a passport and a work visa, and handed them to Ripley.
“Mr. Conrad,” Ripley said, taking a quick look at the documents. “We would like you to come with us to the Sixty-first Precinct.”
“What for?”
“For questions, part of an investigation you may be able to help us with.”
“What investigation?”
“We’ll tell you all about it at the station.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then why should I come with you.”
“Because we asked you nicely,” Maggio said, as two uniformed officers made a perfectly timed entrance into the club and walked up to the bar.
“Why can’t you ask your questions here?”
“That’s not the way coming in for questioning works. Besides, you’ll like our place. There’s coffee, Diet Coke, and a terrific view of Coney Island Avenue.”
Suddenly, an older man appeared at the bar.
“What is this all about?”
“And you are?” Maggio asked.
“Vladimir Markov. This is my place you have barged into, and this is my employee you are harassing.”
“Will you come with us voluntarily, Victor,” Ripley said, ignoring Markov.
“You have the right to remain silent, Victor,” Markov said.
Victor slowly came around the bar, glaring at the two detectives.
<
br /> “Take him in,” Ripley said to the uniforms, “we’ll be right behind you.”
“It was good of Vladimir to read him his rights, don’t you think?” Maggio said to his partner, loud enough for Markov to hear. “Nice place he has here, if you’re looking for a perfect venue for the Bee Gees.”
When they were in the car, Ripley sat in the passenger seat tapping the passport and work visa on his knee, a big smile on his face.
“What?” Maggio asked.
“In my years with the FBI, I saw hundreds of phony documents,” Ripley said, “but these would make a three-dollar-bill look authentic.”
Murphy tapped on Samson’s door.
“The Rose car is on its way. It should be at the Navy Yard in two hours.”
“Call forensics and ask them to be ready to move. Call the pound and ask them to let you and forensics know the moment the vehicle arrives. When you get the call, go down there with Rosen as quickly as you can.”
Ivanov called Samson.
“Her boyfriend had the BMW Monday night.”
“Does she know anything?”
“I don’t think so, but I put a scare into her, the tried and true accessory after the fact routine, and she gave the okay to search the place.”
“Find a weapon?”
“No, but we found a Russian passport. Victor Bronski.”
“Bring it in, leave someone to watch the woman,” Samson said. “Run the name through VICAP, Interpol and Homeland Security as soon as you get back. Maggio and Ripley picked him up at the Lobnya Lounge, and they should be in an interview room with him shortly. He gave them counterfeit ID, and I think there is a good chance he is wanted somewhere.”
“On my way,” Marina said.
“Ironic,” Murphy said.
They were impatiently waiting to hear about David Rose’s car, still on its way from Delaware.
“Are you referring to anything in particular or the state of the world in general?”
“John Cicero. We pulled the Lake Street murder case, and he caught the Landis investigation.”
“I hope he does a better job than we did on Angela Salerno and Cicero’s son.”
“We got the doers.”
“They were puppets,” Rosen said. “The puppeteer is still out there.”
Part Four
THE AVENUE
…there are degrees of guilt, shades of innocence,
and they all congregate on the same avenue.
—Thomas Murphy
THIRTY ONE
The indigenous Native American inhabitants of the region, the Lenape, called it Narrioch, the land without shadows, because of the geographical orientation which kept the shoreline in sunlight all day.
The Dutch called it Conyne Eylandt, and the English later called it Coney Island, both names derived from the corresponding words for rabbit. The land was a haven for rabbits and then a bountiful hunting ground, until the resorts chased the critters away.
Rabbit Island—not a very glamorous epithet and not really an island at all—its miles of beaches and its phenomenal theme parks made Coney Island a thrilling destination attracting millions of visitors from every part of the world from the late eighteen hundreds through the first half of the twentieth century.
Coney Island Avenue stretches for five miles, north and south, from Brightwater Court to Grand Army Plaza at the southwest corner of Prospect Park, passing through the neighborhoods of Brighton Beach, Sheepshead Bay, Gravesend, Midwood and Kensington along the way.
Heading from Prospect Park toward the Atlantic Ocean the cross streets are named alphabetically—Albemarle, Beverly, Cortelyou, Ditmas, Foster—until at Avenue H they take on the names of letters themselves, through Z. Just past Avenue Z, Coney Island Avenue crosses the Belt Parkway, and less than two miles further south it ends at the Boardwalk and the shadowless beach.
The 61st Precinct sits on Coney Island Avenue between Avenue W and Gravesend Neck Road.
When Ripley and Maggio came into the Six-one, Sergeant Kelly stopped them at the front desk.
“Your guy is sitting in Interview Room One, mumbling in some foreign language. Samson needs to see you before you get started.”
When they reached the squad room, Captain Samson came over to meet them.
“Call Ivanov on her cell, she interviewed Katrina Popovich. Marina is on her way back, but you should know what she learned before you begin the questioning. What did this guy give you for ID?”
“A bullshit passport,” Maggio said. “Victor Conrad.”
“Ivanov found a passport at the Popovich place. Victor Bronski. She’s bringing it in. We’re trying to find out who the fuck he is.”
The detectives sat down at the interview room table opposite the suspect.
“Can I have a lawyer?”
“If you feel you need a lawyer. As we told you before Victor, you are not under arrest. You are simply here to answer a few routine questions,” Ripley said, “to help us eliminate you as a subject in an ongoing investigation so we can move on to other avenues of inquiry.”
“What investigation?”
“Why don’t we just get started? You will be hearing all you need to know in the course of the interview.”
“I have nothing to hide, and I need to get back to work. So, let’s get this over with.”
Maggio led the questioning.
“Please state your name, for the record.”
“Victor Conrad.”
“Victor, hope you don’t mind if we call you Victor,” Maggio said. “Victor, where were you at six this past Monday evening?”
“I was having dinner with my employer, Vladimir Markov.”
“Where was that?”
“At Mr. Markov’s home, he is an excellent cook.”
“I’m sure he is. I would ask what he prepared, but I missed lunch today,” Maggio said. “Was there anyone else present?”
“No.”
There was a light rapping on the door. Ripley stepped out, came back in almost immediately, returned to his seat, and whispered into his partner’s ear.
Maggio let Ripley continue the questioning.
“What time did you arrive at Markov’s home, and when did you leave?”
“I arrived no later than five, and left shortly before ten, does that answer all of your questions?”
“We have a few more, please bear with us. Where is Markov’s home?”
“At Rockaway Beach, do you need the address?”
“No, the address is not important. Did you drive the BMW out there?”
“Excuse me?”
“According to Katrina Popovich,” Ripley said, “you had her BMW from the time you dropped her at LaGuardia Monday morning until you picked her up and drove her back home this morning so, what I am asking is, did you drive her car out to Rockaway Beach Monday evening?”
“Yes, I did.”
“We have a witness who spotted a man matching your height and build getting into a black car on President Street near Nostrand Avenue around six Monday evening. That witness noted the license plate number of the vehicle. We ran the plate number and it matched Katrina Popovich’s registration. Is it possible you are mistaken about the time you arrived in Rockaway?”
“It is your witness who is mistaken. The car was with me all evening and, as I already told you, I was in Rockaway by five. I cannot remember ever being anywhere near Nostrand Avenue and, what was it?”
“President Street.”
“I doubt I could find it.”
“Well, if that’s the case, you weren’t anywhere near the Avenue Bakery that afternoon,” Ripley said.
Victor was silent for a few moments before he spoke again.
“Was that a question?” he finally said.
“Sorry. I phrased it awkwardly. Were you in the Avenue Bakery on Nostrand Avenue between President and Carroll Streets on Monday afternoon?”
“No.”
“The thing is, Victor, and I have to admit it puzzles us,” Maggio
said, “the thing is we showed six photos, including one of you, to each of the two women who worked the front of the bakery shop. They both quickly picked you out as the man who had been in around one on Monday afternoon to order a birthday cake for his mother.”
“My mother is long dead, and the two women are mistaken. Either we are done with this nonsense, or bring me a telephone to call a lawyer,” he said, rising from his chair.
“Sit down, Victor,” Maggio said. “We’re not quite finished here yet.”
“We need to return your passport,” Ripley said.
He took the passport from his pocket and placed it on the table.
“You may want to take a look at it before you leave, Victor” Ripley said. “Make sure everything is in order.”
Victor opened the passport.
The color went out of his face.
“Victor Bronski,” Maggio said, as he locked Bronski to the table restraint, “you are under arrest for the suspected murder of Alexander Holden.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to call a lawyer.”
“Sit tight,” Maggio said, “we’ll send in a telephone.”
The two detectives left the room, Samson met them outside the door.
“We arrested him,” Ripley said, “I hope we didn’t jump the gun, he wants a telephone.”
“Fuck jumping the gun, everything he gave us was bullshit,” Maggio said. “And the look on his face when I cuffed him to the table was priceless.”