by J. L. Abramo
“Let him stew for a while, and then go back in and show him this.”
Samson handed Ripley a fax.
Ripley held it up, so Maggio could read along.
“This guy is fucked either way,” Maggio said.
“He is,” Samson said, “but I have good idea which way he’ll go.”
After getting the call, it took them nearly an hour to reach the Brooklyn Navy Yard police impound—crawling at five miles an hour on the Gowanus.
“Expressway my ass,” Murphy said, when they pulled into the yard.
When they finally located David Rose’s car, the Crime Scene Unit was already there. Derek Fielder was watching as Joan Michaels was opening the driver side door.
“The door was unlocked,” Fielder said when Murphy and Rosen joined them. “The keys are in the ignition.”
Murphy spotted something in the back seat and went for the back door.
“Hands off, Detective,” Michaels warned, as she passed the car keys to Fielder. “I hope you didn’t come down here to get in our way.”
“It’s all yours. But could you please reach back there and hand me one of those flyers?”
Murphy quickly looked at the flyer and handed it to Rosen.
“Jesus, this is our guy,” Rosen said. “We need to find him.”
“I think we just did,” Fielder said, looking into the opened trunk.
“Victor,” Ripley said, when he and Maggio returned to the interview room, “this document states you are wanted in Moscow for the murder of two MUR inspectors.”
“Where is a telephone?”
“It’s coming. Meanwhile, Victor, let us tell you now what your choices are,” Maggio said, “since they will not change when a lawyer gets here. Either you confess to the fatal shooting of Alexander Holden, help yourself by naming anyone else involved, and face prosecution here in the great state of New York or, if you prefer, we send your ass back to Moscow and you can pray they blindfold the firing squad.”
Murphy and Rosen climbed into their car after notifying Maureen Rose that her husband had been found.
“That sucked,” Murphy said.
“How do you think she took it?”
“I don’t know, shock, relief?”
“What a fucking thing,” Rosen said.
“That’s one way of putting it. I feel sorry for the boy when all of the news hits the street.”
“Let’s get back and write it up. Maybe there’s still a chance we can have a fairly pleasant evening.”
“I’m sure the visit to Torregrossa will be enjoyable as hell.”
The viewing room at Torregrossa and Sons Funeral Home was filled to capacity.
Mendez sat in the front row with his partner’s immediate family—father, mother, two sisters and brothers-in-law. Chief Trenton and Captain Samson sat together a few rows back on the aisle, both in uniform. Detectives Murphy and Rosen sat together behind their captain. Additional members of the Landis family—uncles, aunts, cousins, were scattered throughout the room. Richards sat with Maggio, while Marty’s wife was camping out at the hospital with their infant daughter. Bernie Senderowitz had sent his regrets from a different hospital, and Marina Ivanov was at a different funeral parlor. Detective Ripley and Lorraine DiMarco stood together against the rear wall.
The casket was closed.
“Is it too late for dinner?” Lorraine asked.
“I haven’t had time to eat a thing all day.”
“What about your boys?”
“Kyle and Mickey are staying over at my sister’s for the night.”
“Let’s go,” Lorraine said.
As they left the building, they nearly collided with a man rushing in. He nodded an apology, found the viewing room, walked briskly down the aisle, and said a few words to Mr. and Mrs. Landis. On his way back up the aisle, he stopped to greet Chief Trenton.
“My condolences, Chief,” he said, offering a hand.
Trenton accepted the handshake, and the man was quickly gone.
“Who’s the suit?” Samson asked.
“City Comptroller, Theodore Wilson.”
“What is he doing here?”
“Campaigning,” Trenton said. “Looks like a shoe-in to win the Democratic Mayoral Primary next week, and he’s already started kissing babies. I heard you cleared two major cases today.”
“It was my detective’s squad,” Samson said. “Rosen and Murphy found David Rose dead in the trunk of his car, with enough physical and forensic evidence to prove he killed those two high school girls. Ripley and your boy Maggio got a confession in the murder of Alexander Holden, and convinced the shooter to roll over on Vladimir Markov as a conspirator. We picked Markov up. They will both be arraigned in the morning.”
“What about the fugitive who shot your son?”
“He may show up in Denver, we have eyes out there.”
“Tell all your people I said they have been doing a great job, and I appreciate their diligence.”
“I think you should drop by the Six-one and tell them personally.”
“You’re right, I’ll do that.”
When Samson and Trenton headed out, Murphy and Rosen followed.
Once out on the street, Chief Trenton walked off and the two detectives joined the captain.
“We’re going to Joe’s Bar and Grill up the street,” Murphy said. “Drink to Stan Landis. Augie is setting them up as we speak.”
“Did you invite Richards and Maggio?”
“Maggio is in. Richards said he needed to get to the hospital.”
“Lead the way,” Samson said.
“Who was the cat in the Armani suit that offered his hand to the Chief?” Rosen asked as they walked.
“Wilson, City Comptroller,” Samson said.
“What does a comptroller do?” Murphy asked.
“Makes enough friends to run for mayor,” Samson said.
Rey Mendez was last to leave the funeral home, other than the family. He said goodbye to Landis’ parent’s, made a quick stop at the casket, and walked out onto Avenue U.
It was just before ten.
Mendez climbed into his car, took U to Stillwell Avenue, and crossed Bay Parkway where Stillwell became 75th Street.
He turned right on 7th Avenue and parked on 8th at 73rd Street, against the fence that ran along the Staten Island Expressway.
He walked across the avenue and into the Purple Rose.
Mendez ordered a Corona at the bar, took it over to a table by the front window, and sat looking out for Nicky DeSantis.
Ripley and Lorraine sat at a booth in the Del Rio Diner.
Dessert and coffee had just arrived.
“I would have liked to take you to a fancier place,” Ripley said.
“First of all, we are splitting the bill. I’m big into sharing. Secondly, this is my favorite place. There is nothing you could possibly want to eat that is not on the menu.”
“I’m a fan of sharing also,” Ripley said.
Ripley was feeling a bit self-conscious.
Lorraine found it charming.
“How are you adjusting to the new job?”
“Good. They do things differently than we did in the Bureau. Not better or worse, just different. I’m learning fast.”
“I heard you broke the Holden murder case.”
“We were very lucky. The suspect copped to the shooting because he was terrified of the alternative.”
“I’m glad you got Markov,” Lorraine said, “and I’ll stop talking shop.”
“Listen,” Ripley said.
“I’m listening.”
“My youngest, Mickey, has a birthday coming up. Six years old. It’s hard to believe. Anyway, we’re throwing a little party on Friday at my sister’s house around six. Connie, her husband, their two girls—and Samson and his wife are coming with their two girls.”
“And you were wondering if I would care to join you.”
“Yes.”
“I would love to. This chocolate c
ream pie is amazing.”
Mendez had no trouble recognizing DeSantis. Nicky’s damaged face was everything Stump had described, and worse.
A single entrance to the building served both the bar and the upstairs rooms. A door to the stairs leading up to the apartment stood at the end of the short entrance hall, the door to the bar was on the right.
Mendez quickly slipped on a pair of latex gloves as DeSantis entered the building.
When Rey stepped out of the bar he was close enough to touch DeSantis as Nicky unlocked and opened his door.
Mendez pressed his gun roughly into Nicky’s back.
“I’m walking up behind you,” he said. “If you try anything funny I will kill you right here on the stairs.”
They reached the top and entered the apartment. The music from the bar below made the floor vibrate.
“Are you carrying?” Mendez asked.
“No.”
“Is there a weapon in this place?”
“Listen,” DeSantis said.
“No, you fucking listen. I am an impatient man, and a have a very short temper.”
“On top of the dresser. In the bedroom.”
“Show me.”
He followed DeSantis to the back of the apartment.
“Get on the bed,” Mendez said. “Sit on your hands, and keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” Nicky said.
Mendez moved his gun to his left hand, and picked up the .38 caliber handgun from the dresser with his right.
“Is this the weapon you brought into the liquor store last night?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I warned you, Nicky, do not fuck with me. I am here to ask questions, and your job is to answer honestly. I am not leaving until you tell me what I need to know, or you are dead. Now, is this the weapon you brought into the liquor store last night?”
“Yes.”
“Then this would be the weapon you used to kill Officer Landis. I am guessing you are aware of the penalty for killing a New York City police officer during the commission of a felony robbery.”
“I didn’t know he was a cop.”
“He was my partner. I knew him as well as I know myself, so I know he identified himself and when your partner drew down on him he had to shoot the scumbag in self-defense. And then you, you miserable fucking coward, blindsided Officer Landis and put him down like a dog.”
“If you are a cop,” DeSantis said. “I want to turn myself in.”
“Is this the weapon that killed my partner?”
“Yes.”
“Show me how you did it.”
“What?”
Mendez came up beside DeSantis, on Nicky’s right.
“Show me your right hand.”
DeSantis complied.
“Take the gun.”
DeSantis didn’t know what to do.
“Let me help you,” Mendez said.
He placed the weapon in DeSantis’ right hand, covered Nicky’s hand with his own left hand, and raised the gun to Nicky’s right temple.
“Careful,” DeSantis said, “this thing is loaded.”
“Put your finger on the trigger,” Mendez said.
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“Do it,” Mendez said, pointing his own gun at Nicky’s forehead.
DeSantis put a finger on the trigger, and Mendez covered it with his own.
“Was it something like this?”
“The gun wasn’t against his head,” DeSantis said, he was as white as a ghost. “I was a few feet away.”
“I prefer this,” Mendez said. “No chance of missing the shot.”
Then Rey Mendez pressed down on Nicky’s finger and the gun fired.
THIRTY TWO
Samson had called a mandatory meeting of all Six-one detectives for ten Thursday morning. Chief of Detectives Trenton would be joining them.
After dropping the girls at school, Samson drove out to Queens to learn how his son was doing at the new hospital.
“It’s okay. I begin physical therapy tomorrow. I can carry weight on my right ankle, but the cast is doing all the work. We won’t know until it comes off if I’ll be able to run again. They’ll also be slowly working my shoulder. And I’m supposed to see a psychologist later this morning. Is that necessary?”
“It can’t hurt,” was all Samson would say.
“Have they found Kenny Ramirez?” Jimmy asked.
“There are some promising leads.”
“I can’t help thinking we pushed him. I don’t see him as a murderer. I mean, I wonder about what I might have done in his shoes.”
“Share those thoughts with the psychologist.”
Richards stood at the bedside looking down at his daughter.
“It breaks my heart, tubes and monitors, she’s so small.”
Linda had been at Sophia’s side all night, camped out in an extra bed courtesy of the hospital.
“She is doing very well. Her fever has been steadily coming down. They will do an X-ray later this morning to check the arterial swelling. The doctors are very optimistic about full recovery,” Linda said. “She may be small, but she’s a tough cookie. Like her father.”
“And so beautiful,” Marty said. “Like her mother.”
Senderowitz was sitting up in bed trying to read a crime novel—a police procedural written by a retired NYPD detective. At every turn, Bernie thought about how he would have handled the evidence. He finally gave it up, because all he could really think about was getting out of the fucking hospital.
The door of the room opened as Senderowitz put the book down.
“Well,” he said, “look what the cat dragged in.”
“I just heard what happened or I would have come down sooner,” Vincent Salerno said.
“Good of you to come. I live for visitors, this place is hell. Thank God I get sprung tomorrow.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“Thanks,” Senderowitz said, unable to suppress a smile, “my daughter is taking me home.”
“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“I had nearly forgotten myself. But enough about me—how are you?”
“I’m good. I’m still at the restaurant, but there’s a new manager. Bobby Hoyle. Bobby is training me to wait tables. And I’m taking classes, studying for the electrician’s apprentice exam.”
“That’s terrific, Vinnie. Are you still seeing Alison?”
“Every morning,” Salerno said. “We got a place together. It’s good.”
“You’re making my day, young man.”
“Did they ever find the man on the tape with Kevin Donahue?”
“No. After the showdown in Chicago, the investigation hit a dead end.”
“I can’t stop thinking I brought it on Angie, and Eddie Cicero.”
“You went to Angela for help because she was your sister. If she needed help, she would have come to you.”
“Angie thought I was a fuckup, and I couldn’t blame her.”
“Try thinking of how proud and pleased she would be about how you have turned things around. What happened to Angie and Eddie was tragic, but it was out of our hands. How are your folks doing?”
“They’re still hurting a lot. Angie was the light of their lives. But they’ve both told me it wasn’t my fault. Sometimes I wonder if they say it because I’m all they have left.”
“Trust them.”
“I wish Eddie’s father didn’t blame me.”
“John Cicero lost a son and he needs to blame someone.”
“I still listen to that recorded conversation. Often.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Vinnie said, “looking for an answer there—somewhere. Jesus, I can recite the entire conversation by heart. I can even impersonate the voices, at least as well as I can do Christopher Walken.”
Bernie reached over to a nearby table and grabbed a pen and paper.
“If you ever need to
talk, Vinnie,” Senderowitz said as he wrote, “here’s my address and phone number. You are welcome anytime, I’m sure I will be craving company.”
Ripley sat with Lorraine DiMarco at her kitchen table over coffee.
“You’re looking a bit wrinkled, Detective.”
“I have a change of clothes at the precinct.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, were you?”
“It’s an old habit from my bureau days,” Ripley said, “as far as being sure of myself—when you asked me in last night.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t remember when I was so nervous. Probably sometime back in high school.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting your boys tomorrow,” Lorraine said.
Murphy and Rosen walked along the waterfront in Shore Road Park while Ralph was off chasing squirrels.
“So this guy loses a daughter and decides to take out a vendetta against innocent girls simply because they’re cheerleaders,” Rosen said. “It boggles the mind.”
“Sadly, it is not an unusual story,” Murphy said. “What boggles my mind is how he winds up in his car trunk in fucking Delaware.”
An anonymous caller informed the desk sergeant at the 68th Precinct that the shooter in the attempted liquor store robbery Tuesday evening was Nicky DeSantis.
The caller gave an address on 8th Avenue and hung up.
The sergeant passed the word on to the primary investigator, Detective John Cicero.
“Look like a suicide to you?” Cicero asked, looking down at the body on the bed.
“Maybe,” Detective Washington said. “Did he leave a note?”
“I doubt this fucking mope could write his own name.”
At ten, all except Detective Ivanov were gathered in the squad room with Samson and Chief Trenton. Ivanov was attending Alex Holden’s funeral.
“I am aware of the accomplishments of this entire squad. Yesterday was a remarkable day for the Six-one,” Trenton said. “I am here today to learn more about those efforts. I have a meeting at eleven, so I may need to quietly slip away. But the main purpose for the visit is to express my appreciation and respect for your outstanding work. Thank you.”