Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  When no one had anything to say, Samson got things rolling.

  “Rosen, Murphy, you’re up.”

  “We can now say, with great confidence,” Rosen began, “that David Rose was the man responsible for the deaths of Jenny Greco and Patty Bolin. The fliers in Rose’s car matched those found on the street adjoining the subway station where Patty Bolin was discovered. Clothesline in the vehicle matched the rope found at both murder scenes. Rose had motive, if you could call it that, a disturbed reaction to the suicide of his daughter. And Rose had opportunity—he worked at the school the girls attended and, since his wife has changed earlier testimony, there is no one to account for his whereabouts at the time of either murder. Forensics is still working the vehicle for prints, on the interior and on the doors and trunk, and looking for hairs or fiber which might put either or both of the girls in the car. How Rose landed in the trunk of the car, in Delaware, is still a mystery.”

  “Any theories?” Samson asked.

  “Rose was found gagged, bound and DOA,” Murphy said. “Preliminary findings by the medical examiner suggest he died of massive blood loss and hemorrhaging resulting from a severe blow to the head. Batman estimated the time of death at three to four days ago. We were glad to hear he didn’t die while the vehicle was being towed back here. As to how he wound up where and how he was found—we played around with a few ideas. We considered an accomplice in the murders, who turned on him, killed him and dumped the car and the body—but we ruled it out as highly improbable. We considered the possibility that someone discovered he was guilty of the killings and took the law into their own hands—we both decided the thought was just too karmic. Bottom line is, we just don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really need to run,” Chief Trenton interrupted. “Can you get all of that on paper for me by early this afternoon?”

  “Probably,” Murphy said.

  “We’ll need it to prepare for a press conference,” Trenton added. “We need to make an official statement as soon as possible.”

  “No problem,” Rosen said.

  “Thank you all again,” Trenton said, and rushed out.

  “Gee,” Murphy said. “No one said you’re welcome.”

  “He came down here to sincerely express his appreciation, not to fish for a you’re welcome. And no one should need to thank you for doing your job,” Samson said. “Ripley, Maggio, your turn.”

  “Victor Bronski and Vladimir Markov,” Maggio began, “are in custody—awaiting arraignments this afternoon. Bronski was arrested and charged with first degree murder, and he subsequently signed a full confession. Markov was later arrested and charged with solicitation of first degree murder after Bronski named Markov as the man who employed him to do the job. If indicted, neither will be granted bail. If convicted, both face the possibility of life imprisonment. Unless the D.A. seriously screws the pooch, neither will be seeing the outside of a prison for a very, very long time—if ever.”

  “Marty?”

  “Raul Sandoval is scheduled to return to Denver from a two-day trucking assignment sometime this morning,” Richards said. “We’ve been working with Detective Sonny Wasinger of the Denver PD. They’ll be watching Sandoval on the chance Kenny Ramirez pops up in Denver. We’re waiting for word. It’s all we really have going right now.”

  “All right,” Samson said. “We need written reports on the Rose case and the Holden case by this afternoon, but there is no need for two detectives to write each statement. Choose which of you will sit and write, and which will take off and be back at four to cover the evening watch.”

  “Isn’t it your job to delegate?” Detective Murphy asked, before he could stop himself.

  “No problem. Heads or tails,” Samson said, fishing a quarter from his pocket.

  “Heads.”

  Samson flipped the coin.

  “Heads it is. Detective Rosen writes the report. Ripley, heads or tails,” Samson said, retrieving the coin.

  “Tails.”

  “Heads again, Ripley you’re writing. Murphy, Maggio, beat it and be back here at four. Rosen, let me know if you hear anything more from forensics on Rose’s vehicle. Richards, let me know if you hear from Denver. And thank you all again for the great work.”

  With that, the captain retreated to his office.

  Rosen stopped Maggio and Murphy on their way out.

  “Tommy, have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll see you at four,” Maggio said, and headed out of the squad room.

  “What’s up? If you want to switch it makes no difference to me. A coin toss is not the law.”

  “I’m good,” Rosen said. “It seems like Sam has been hard on you lately.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Have any idea why?”

  “I’m afraid I know exactly why,” Murphy said.

  THIRTY THREE

  Back in his office, Samson called down to Desk Sergeant Kelly.

  “Thanks for holding our calls.”

  “Why does everyone wait until you begin your meetings before lighting up my telephone?”

  “Why is the sky blue? Anything important?”

  “Those determinations are above my pay grade. Detective Cicero phoned, he would like you to call him at the Six-eight. Michaels called from forensics for Detectives Rosen and Murphy, she is at the lab. There was a call from Denver PD for Richards or Ivanov.”

  Samson stepped out of the office.

  “Sandra, give Michaels a shout at the forensics lab. Marty, Denver wants to talk with you,” he called across the room.

  Then he returned to his desk and phoned John Cicero.

  “We found the scumbag who killed Officer Landis. Nicky DeSantis,” Cicero reported.

  “Are you sure?”

  “We found the gun with DeSantis, according to ballistics it was a positive match. He matched the physical description from the liquor store clerk, and he was a known associate of Jerry Paxton.”

  “Did you get a confession?”

  “We were too late. DeSantis was found in his place. Single shot to the temple. No sign of forced entry, nothing disturbed, the weapon was in his mitt, and he definitely pulled the trigger. I’m sure it will go down as a suicide. He was a cop killer and now he’s fucking dead, it’s good enough for us.”

  “Thanks for letting us know.”

  “It was the least I could do,” Cicero said.

  He’s still angry at the world, Samson thought, and who could blame him?

  Samson called Officer Mendez.

  “Rey, I know I told you to stay away but I need to see you. Can you get down here to the precinct?”

  “Sure. Give me an hour.”

  A minute later, Richards was at the captain’s door.

  “Sonny Wasinger is on the line from the Denver PD. They spotted Kenny Ramirez and he wants to know what we would like them to do. Since the decision is ultimately yours, I thought you should talk to him yourself.”

  “Sit down, Richards. I’ll put us on speaker,” Samson said, taking the call, “Detective Wasinger, this is Captain Samson.”

  “We followed Raul Sandoval to a hotel near downtown. He picked up your suspect and took him back to the house. They are both in the place now. Would you like us to take Ramirez in?”

  “Ramirez is probably armed.”

  “This is Denver, not West Bumfuck. We even have a SWAT team.”

  “We would like him alive.”

  “I think we can take him alive. But if you’re worried you could always come out here and take over. It’s not like we don’t have other business.”

  “I didn’t mean to question your abilities, Detective.”

  “Forget it, I’m not easily offended.”

  “Please pick him up. Thanks for all your help.”

  “I’ll let you know when we have him in custody. And, Captain.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll have to make your own arrangements for getting Ramirez back to New York.
We don’t have the budget or the manpower to spare.”

  “I understand. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  After the call, Samson turned his attention to Richards.

  “How is your daughter doing?” he asked.

  “The doctors believe she will be all right. They want to keep an eye on her in the hospital for a few more days.”

  “When do we expect Ivanov?”

  “The funeral was at ten, she should be in any time.”

  “Let’s get a head start on this. Find out what you can about the earliest flights to Denver tomorrow morning while I work at getting authorization.”

  Danny Maggio walked into the campaign headquarters of Marco Acevedo on Kings Highway. He found his wife coaching a group of college kids on the art of cold calling. Annie spotted him as the group took to the telephones and she met him at the door.

  “Half day?” she asked.

  “Day and a half, I’m on the four to midnight. How’s it going here?”

  “We’re not ready to throw in the towel. We’ll hang on until the primary. But to call it an even contest would be like calling the Alamo a fair fight. The Wilson campaign is outspending us at least five to one. Money talks. And the City Comptroller, with his big office in Manhattan, is a lot higher profile than a state representative in a Brooklyn storefront.”

  “How about lunch?”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Thursday?” Maggio said.

  “Give me five minutes.”

  Samson had just received word that Kenny Ramirez was in custody when Ivanov arrived at the squad room. He waved her over.

  “You’re going to Denver in the morning,” he said.

  “Colorado?”

  “That’s the one. Richards will fill you in.”

  Samson spotted Mendez coming in as Ivanov walked off. He waved Rey over and brought him into the office.

  Samson brought Mendez up to date on Nicky DeSantis.

  “Suicide?” Mendez said. “Open and shut?”

  “No one cares to even consider an alternative scenario. The prevailing attitude seems to be that the shooter did everyone a favor and we move past it as quickly as we can. I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Stan would probably agree as well.”

  “Trenton would like you to say a few words at Stan’s funeral tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course,” Rey said.

  “And he said you should expect a call to go in to see him early next week. I’m guessing there is a detective’s shield waiting there for you.”

  Rosen had waited until Samson was done with Mendez before going to his office.

  “I spoke with Michaels. They found Patty Bolin’s prints in Rose’s car, and blood evidence matching Patty’s blood type. They pulled prints from the doors, steering wheel and trunk that don’t match David Rose. They are working as quickly as they can, going through all available databases for a hit.”

  “Good news. Add that to the report. Chief Trenton needs it as soon as possible. He wants to hold a press conference in time for news at five. He is visiting the parents of both girls this afternoon.”

  “I’ll deliver the report to Trenton personally by two at the latest,” Rosen promised.

  “Thank you. Please get a copy to me also. You can call it a day as soon as Detectives Murphy and Maggio get back in. We have a funeral first thing in the morning. Everyone in blues.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Rosen said, “about how fucked up things have become when finding out who killed someone is considered good news.”

  Rosen swung by the high school after dropping her report off at Chief Trenton’s office. She felt Principal William Pabst should hear the news about David Rose before Trenton made it public.

  “How terrible, so many lives affected,” Pabst said.

  Rosen had nothing to add.

  “I bumped into one of our students in the hall today. Carla Sanchez. She asked about Mr. Rose, she seemed concerned about his absence from school considering last Friday night.”

  “What about last Friday night?”

  “Carla left school late after a meeting of the cheerleader squad. She couldn’t get her car started. Rose came along and offered her a ride home. She asked if they could make a quick stop at a convenience store on the way. She ran in to pick up a carton of milk and when she came back out Rose was gone. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “According to his wife, Rose failed to return home Friday night and, as far as we know, it was the last anyone heard of him until his car was found.”

  “That would make Carla Sanchez one of the last to see David Rose alive,” Pabst said.

  “That makes Carla a very lucky young woman.”

  When Detective Murphy arrived at the Six-one, Rosen was waiting at his desk anxious to tell him about her talk with Pabst.

  “What do you make of it? Did he decide to let her live?”

  “Or something distracted him,” Murphy said. “And whatever happened in the few minutes she was in the store, it got him killed. Fuck, Samson said he wanted to see me as soon as I got in.”

  “Will you call me tonight?”

  “I’m stuck here until midnight, you’ll probably be asleep.”

  “You’ll never know unless you call,” Rosen said.

  “Have a seat,” Samson said when Murphy entered the captain’s office.

  “If this is about why you have been on my case lately,” Murphy said, slipping into a chair. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  “You do?”

  “Either you have lost some of your great confidence in my abilities, or you have been prepping me. It’s like knowing an ax is going to fall, but not knowing which one.”

  “I had a long talk with Trenton. We came to the agreement that it was time I didn’t have to run the precinct and supervise the squad. We also agreed that if changes were to be made, they should happen before we have a new mayor, and possibly a new commissioner.”

  “How soon?”

  “Two weeks from this Monday you will be Lieutenant Murphy and the detectives unit will be yours. I’ll move to the Precinct Commander’s office down the hall, and you will move your wall of fame in here.”

  “So,” Murphy said. “What’s the good news?”

  Tillie Germano looked out of her window above the Empire Beauty Salon on Avenue U and West 9th Street and noticed a man come out of the pizzeria across the avenue and walk briskly away from her up 9th toward Avenue T.

  Tillie glanced at the wall clock in her kitchen. It was twenty minutes past eleven. Mrs. Germano knew that Johnny Fazio locked the door at eleven every night. Religiously. Fazio was always in a hurry to get back to his wife and children after thirteen hours at a hot oven. She also knew Johnny was alone in the pizzeria from ten until closing, when they stopped deliveries and he sent everyone else home.

  Something wasn’t right, and there had been trouble in the neighborhood not long before. Tillie called 9-1-1.

  Murphy picked up the call from the night desk sergeant.

  “Avenue U and West Ninth Street, look for the patrol car.”

  Murphy looked at his watch.

  “Jesus, Flynn. The night guys should be here any minute.”

  “Look for the patrol car,” Flynn repeated, and rang off.

  “What?” Maggio asked. “Don’t tell me we caught one at ten fucking minutes before midnight.”

  “I won’t tell you on our way to Avenue U,” Murphy said.

  “This is Johnny Fazio’s place, I went to school with him,” Murphy said, when they pulled up in front of the pizzeria.

  Officers Janda and Mackay had been first on the scene.

  “Looks like a robbery,” Mackay said. “The register was emptied. I spoke with the woman who called it in. She saw someone leave, but couldn’t see his face.”

  “What about John Fazio?” Murphy asked.

  “In the men’s room,” Janda said. “He’s gone, Murphy.”

  “Goddamnit. He had t
hree young kids. God-fucking-damnit.”

  “It might be too late to start canvassing without disturbing everyone else in the neighborhood,” Janda said.

  “I want four uniforms here first thing in the morning going door-to-door.”

  “The funeral for Stan Landis is tomorrow morning,” Mackay said.

  “Right after the service, then, and I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here until a forensics team and the medical examiner arrives,” Murphy said.

  He headed to the restrooms in back. Maggio followed.

  Murphy looked down at the body. Speechless.

  “Jesus Christ,” Maggio said, coming up beside him, “how many times did the maniac need to kill him?”

  “Motherfucker,” Murphy finally said. “This was no robbery. I know who did this to him.”

  “Well, let’s go get the fuck.”

  “The fuck is locked up at Riker’s,” Murphy said, “and I need a fucking drink.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  Augie Sena was alone cashing out the register in Joe’s Bar on Avenue U just past one Friday morning when Murphy tapped on the window.

  Sena let Murphy and Maggio in and relocked the front door.

  Twenty minutes later, Augie brought a second round of beers and joined them at the table. Murphy poured the scotch and held court.

  “So here’s to Johnny Fazio. We played ball together at Fort Hamilton. He was one of the best fielding third basemen I ever saw, high school or otherwise. His batting average senior year was third highest in the borough.

  “Fazio goes straight from school into the Marines, and at eighteen he’s with the Second Battalion Fourth in Kuwait waiting to see how Saddam would respond to the Desert Fox air attacks in Iraq.