by J. L. Abramo
“Josh Altman called me,” Sandra said.
“I understood the stipulations of his bail release were that he stay far away from you and not call you.”
“He said he wouldn’t bother me again. He said he needed me to know he was getting psychological counseling and that he was sorry.”
“And you said?”
“I said I was sorry as well. And that was that. How are you feeling about Monday?”
“What’s Monday?”
“The day after Sunday. The day Lieutenant Thomas Murphy takes over the detectives’ squad.”
“It is what it is,” Murphy said, “an occupational hazard of a chain-of-command bureaucracy. I just hope they will all still like me.”
“Who likes you?”
“Good point.”
“Your father would be very proud, Tommy, and so would your brother Michael.”
“Pride is earned, I’ll do my best.”
“Any thoughts about who will be teamed?”
“I thought about keeping Richards and Ivanov together, putting Mendez with Danny Maggio, and having you and Ripley partner—but I’m open to other suggestions.”
“Actually, that sounds good. I was wondering.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think about Ripley and Lorraine DiMarco?” Rosen asked, with a mischievous smile.
“I like them both,” Murphy said, not biting.
Captain Samson watched from the sidelines while his son went through his physical therapy session.
Although the jury was still out on long-term prognoses, by all accounts the boy was making terrific progress.
When they returned to the hospital room, Jimmy handed his father an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“I told my psychologist I was having trouble expressing my regrets about what happened. She suggested I try it in writing, so I wrote down my feelings in the form of a letter to Kenny Ramirez. I thought maybe he should see it.”
“Did it help you to write it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am glad you did. Do you trust me, son?”
“Yes.”
“Allow me to read it and if I believe it will help him in any way, I will make sure he receives it.”
“Okay.”
Later, in his car, Samson read the letter.
It was well-articulated and heartfelt, but he didn’t see how it could be of any benefit or consolation to Kenny Ramirez.
He filed it in the glove box and headed for the Six-one.
Vinnie Salerno arrived home after fourteen hours at the restaurant, exhausted but determined.
“This thing has been eating at me all day,” he said to Alison as soon as he walked in the door. “I need to talk to Detective Senderowitz. I need him to listen to the original Kevin Donahue tape again, and Theodore Wilson’s closing remarks from the debate, and hear what he thinks.”
“It’s midnight, Vinnie, it can wait until tomorrow. What time are you done at work?”
“I should be able to get out by four.”
“My class is out at five-thirty. I’ll come pick you up here and we can drive over to see him together.”
Bernie Senderowitz spent a few hours with his daughter on Friday afternoon before she had to head to the airport for her flight to Chicago.
“All set?” Senderowitz asked.
“I think so.”
“Do you need anything done at your apartment? Mail? Plants?”
“Aunt Eileen’s daughter just started graduate school at NYU. Deborah commutes from New Jersey. I told her she was welcome to use my place while I’m away. It will save her a little time and money.”
“That is very generous.”
“She’s family. Speaking of which, you should visit with Aunt Eileen sometime soon, she would like that.”
“Eileen reminds me so much of your mother.”
“That doesn’t need to be a bad thing.”
“Will you let me know when your reports are scheduled to be aired?”
“I will.”
“It will really be something to see the name Sarah Sanders beside the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the television screen.”
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed if it says Sarah Senderowitz.”
When Alison pulled up in front of the apartment house, Vinnie was anxiously waiting at the curb. He quickly jumped into the passenger seat, a laptop computer tucked under his arm.
“I called Carmine in Chicago. He was able to email me a digital copy of the telephone conversation. And I found the debate online. I’ll be able to play both for Detective Senderowitz as soon as we get there.”
“Are you sure we’ll find him at home?”
“He’s still recovering.”
“Maybe you should call.”
Vinnie dug into his pocket for his cell phone.
The unopened bottle of Glenfiddich single-malt scotch whiskey had been well-hidden far in the depths of his clothes closet. He had been thinking about it for days. Now it sat on the kitchen table, holding his full attention.
The telephone rang.
It was Ripley.
“I’m taking my boys to Coney Island to see a Cyclones baseball game. I have an extra ticket. We can swing by and pick you up.”
“I can take the subway. I should be at the ballpark in an hour.”
“Perfect,” Ripley said. “We’ll buy you a hot dog and a beer.”
“We’ll see about the beer.”
Senderowitz threw on a windbreaker and a cap.
On his way out he took one more look at the bottle of scotch.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he said.
“The line is busy,” Vinnie said.
“What’s the quickest route?”
“Take the Belt Parkway to the Gowanus and get off at Hamilton Avenue. We should be there in twenty-five minutes.”
Thirty minutes later, after getting no answer at Senderowitz’s door, they returned to the car.
“Fuck.”
“Relax, Vinnie. I’m hungry, let’s find a restaurant. We can try calling again after dinner.”
At the ballpark Bernie Senderowitz resisted beer—but then he was not very fond of beer.
During the game, he paid more attention to the interaction between Ripley and the boys than to the play on the field.
It reminded him of all of the time he had missed in his daughter’s life.
Ripley insisted Bernie join them for a nightcap after the game.
“Root beer floats—and we’ll give you a ride home.”
“I’m in,” Bernie said.
Vinnie tried reaching Senderowitz a few more times later Friday night with no luck.
“One more day isn’t going to hurt,” Alison said. “Let’s get some sleep.”
And they called it a day.
THIRTY NINE
At two on Saturday morning open trucks stacked with temporary police barricades began rolling out of garages and storage warehouses in Brooklyn and Queens.
NYDOT and NYPD personnel worked through the night to block off Coney Island Avenue, and the side streets feeding into the avenue near the 61st Precinct, from all vehicular traffic.
Eight twelve-inch high four-foot by eight-foot risers were arranged in front of the entrance to the precinct and covered with carpet—creating a thirty-two-foot wide, sixteen-foot deep stage. A podium was set at center stage front, and eight chairs were set at the back of the stage—four to the left and four to the right of the podium.
Candidate Wilson and his wife, along with Congressman Acevedo and his wife, would be seated stage left. The First Deputy Mayor candidate, his wife, Chief Stanley Trenton and Captain Samson would be seated stage right.
Detectives and police officers from both the 61st and 60th Precincts would be stationed at points throughout the cordoned area, handling traffic, pedestrian and crowd control.
Richards and Maggio, each with two uniformed officers, would be at the back of the stage to the l
eft and right, behind the seated guests. Murphy and Rosen would be posted at the front of the stage—left and right of the podium.
Bernie Senderowitz woke up feeling the need to walk-off the Root Beer float from the night before.
He thought about Ripley’s boys. Kyle and Mickey had called him Uncle Bernie when they dropped him off at home.
He thought about how proud he was of his daughter.
As he was passing through the kitchen, he spotted the bottle of scotch on the table.
Senderowitz picked it up and emptied it into the kitchen sink.
A few minutes after Bernie left for his walk, Vincent Salerno phoned Detective Senderowitz and got no answer.
By nine on Saturday morning everyone had found their stations.
Marina Ivanov and Jack Falcone, her former partner from the Sixtieth, stood drinking coffee at the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Avenue W. It was noticed by some that the two detectives had arrived together.
Rey Mendez and two other uniformed officers stood at the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Gravesend Neck Road. Rey’s colleagues were joking, amiably, about his imminent ascendancy to detective—asking if Mendez had completed his thrift store shopping for a plainclothes wardrobe.
By nine-forty-five, hundreds of people had arrived—crowding the avenue from Avenue W to Gravesend Neck Road.
Detective Ripley and six uniforms stood behind the congregation at the opposite side of the avenue.
Shortly before ten, the guests-of-honor stepped up onto the stage—Theodore Wilson smiling and waving at the crowd as he found his seat.
Captain Samson looked as if he would rather be anywhere else.
At ten, Marco Acevedo came to the podium to introduce the newly chosen Democratic Party candidate for mayor.
Murphy spotted someone he knew, standing at the front of the crowd at center stage.
Murphy worked his way over.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said, coming alongside.
“There was a call for volunteers, so I signed on.”
“I’m glad I ran into you. I was hoping we could get together for a drink sometime.”
“Sure, whenever you like.”
“I’ll give you a yell,” Murphy said, as Wilson came to the podium.
Acevedo and Wilson shook hands, Acevedo returned to his seat, and Wilson greeted the crowd and began speaking.
“Tommy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know a good criminal defense attorney?”
“Lorraine DiMarco. I know her well, there are none better.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Sure,” Murphy said.
“Put in a good word for me.”
With that, he stepped up to the podium, pulled out his service revolver, and fatally shot Theodore Wilson three times in the chest.
Then Detective John Cicero quickly dropped the weapon, threw his arms above his head, and went down to his knees.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are too many to thank here for encouraging and inspiring me to write and strive to become better at it—and as many to thank for supporting my humble efforts by spreading the word.
However, I will name those who have been particularly influential.
Linda Abramo—the best publicist a brother could wish for.
Sonny Wasinger and Daniella BaRashees—always first in line for each new book.
Andrea Cataneo—who has been on my side since day one.
Eric Campbell and Down & Out Books for unparalleled faith and loyalty and for working so diligently and professionally to make the writing as good as it can be.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.L. Abramo was born in the seaside paradise of Brooklyn, New York on Raymond Chandler's fifty-ninth birthday. Abramo is the author of Catching Water in a Net, winner of the St. Martin's Press/Private Eye Writers of America prize for Best First Private Eye Novel; the subsequent Jake Diamond novels Clutching at Straws, Counting to Infinity and Circling the Runway; Chasing Charlie Chan, a prequel to the Jake Diamond series; the stand-alone thriller, Gravesend; and Brooklyn Justice.
Abramo’s short fiction has appeared in the anthologies Unloaded: Crime Writers Writing Without Guns; Mama Tried: Crime Fiction Inspired by Outlaw Country Music; Murder Under the Oaks, winner of the Anthony Award for Best Anthology of 2015; and Coast to Coast: Private Eyes From Sea to Shining Sea.
Circling the Runway won the Shamus Award for Best Original Paperback Novel of 2015 presented by the Private Eye Writers of America.
www.jlabramo.com
www.facebook.com/jlabramo
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ALSO BY J.L. ABRAMO
The Jake Diamond Mystery Series
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Circling the Runway
A Jimmy Pigeon Mystery
Chasing Charlie Chan
Stand-Alone Novels
Gravesend
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OTHER TITLES FROM DOWN & OUT BOOKS
See DownAndOutBooks.com for a complete list
By Anonymous-9
Hard Bite (TP only)
Bite Harder (TP only)
By J.L. Abramo
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Gravesend
Chasing Charlie Chan
Circling the Runway
Brooklyn Justice
Coney Island Avenue
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood
Death is Not Forever
No Harder Prison
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay
Lost
By Eric Beetner (editor)
Unloaded
By G. J. Brown
Falling
By Rob Brunet
Stinking Rich
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Dana Cameron (editor)
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon Anthology 2014
By Eric Campbell (editor)
Down, Out and Dead
By Stacey Cochran
Eddie & Sunny (TP only)
By Mark Coggins
No Hard Feelings
By Angel Luis Colón
No Happy Endings
By Jen Conley
Cannibals and Other Stories
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
A Cougar’s Kiss
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
The Pyongyang Option (*)
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo
Big Shoes
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Richard Godwin
Wrong Crowd
Buffalo and Sour Mash
Crystal on Electric Acetate (*)
By William Hastings (editor)
Stray Dogs: Writing from the Other America
By Jeffery Hess
Beachhead
By Matt Hilton
No Going Back
Rules of Honor
The Lawless Kind
The Devil’s Anvil
No Safe Place
By Naomi Hirahara, Kate Thornton and Jeri Westerson (editors)
LAdies’ Night
/> By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johnston and Tammy Kaehler (editors)
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright and Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon and Ruth Jordan (editors)
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
Cooking with Crimespree
By Jerry Kennealy
Screen Test
Polo’s Last Shot (*)
By Dana King
Worst Enemies
Grind Joint
Resurrection Mall (*)
By Lawrence Kelter and Frank Zafiro
The Last Collar
By Ross Klavan, Tim O’Mara and Charles Salzberg