by Ronnie Allen
Frank listened to everything Mrs. Larcon recounted without moving a muscle or making any judgmental expression. He exhaled deeply before he spoke. “Mrs. Larcon, do any of your children have a record?”
“A police record? Meaning were they ever arrested? Oh, no, no, no. Thank God. They don’t do any drug dealing themselves. Everything is for their personal use.” She nodded, as if that made it all right.
“Is there a drug dealer you know of who might be upset with your husband for not paying him or her fast enough?”
“I don’t know any of them personally, by their name, or what they look like. When they send a courier to the house to get payment--in cash, of course--they don’t tell us their name either. And, to be honest, we don’t ask.”
“Just how many times did you pay off these people?”
“A few, for each twin. Different dealers, each time.”
“How did you feel when you had to do this?”
“Horrible, as any parent would, but even though I didn’t approve, I didn’t want to see any of my children maimed by these bastards.”
Frank shook his head. “I’m going out on a limb here, Mrs. Larcon. But what would have AriellaRose or Adam done, if you and your husband said ‘no’?”
“An all-out tantrum. And we couldn’t bear that. So we just sighed, after all the yelling and screaming, and gave in.”
Frank cleared his throat. “All right, Mrs. Larcon. Let me have your children’s cell numbers, and Detective Valatutti will call them. Coming from our department, they’ll be more cooperative as we won’t allow them not to show. You’ve been through enough. Can we get you something, or answer any questions?”
“Thank you, Doctor Khaos, you are very kind. Clara will call Valerie. She’s the only one who will come over.”
“One more thing. You said Valerie was on your husband’s design team?”
“Yes.”
“Was she with him Tuesday?”
“No. This Tuesday, he worked with the eveningwear team. Valerie works with him on lingerie. Larcon Fashions has many divisions.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Larcon. We can show ourselves out.”
CHAPTER 7
Frank, Nick, and Lieutenant Rojas looked at the life of Steven Larcon in a file they had printed in triplicate. Their eyes scanned the minimal pages thus far. Just identifying info, basics--name, address, phone, businesses, along with a retouched photo of him from Money Magazine. Frank’s back had been facing the door. The Loo, taking off his glasses and staring at Sam when she had entered, triggered Frank’s brain to pay attention.
“Now, that’s much better, Detective.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
When Frank heard her voice, he looked up. He swiveled around to face her and was taken aback. He didn’t expect this vision, this Venus, who responded to his hungry gaze with an offhanded smile. Oh crap, she cleaned up good. “About time. You look great. Pull up a seat.”
She sat next to him. “Thanks.”
The lieutenant slid over his file to her. She nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be in my office. You’ll catch me up to speed later. Behave yourselves, both of you.”
“Sure, Loo.” Nick smiled.
“Hey, Loo. You expect me to work with this homecoming queen? No, make that homecoming princess.” Frank’s gaze traveled over her long blonde hair, flowing to mid-back, and up then to her sparkling blue eyes. That navy suit accentuated the specks of gray that popped within her iris. And her body. Oh, man. She had the perfect figure. Just a hint of cleavage. So this woman knew how to tease. Or she covered herself because she wasn’t really interested.
“Yes, Doc. I do.”
Sam laughed.
Frank laughed too, realizing she had assumed the comment about behaving themselves meant the way they treated her. She’d been right.
After the lieutenant closed the door, she blurted it out. “You mean to tell me you went to make a family notification, dressed like that? With a skull on your T-shirt?”
Nick came to his defense. “No, he dressed for the occasion.”
“He doesn’t approve of my style, either. Mr. Conservative.”
“Oh, so you put on a solid T and leather jacket.”
Frank interpreted that her statement was meant to be snide, not a question. He and Nick exchanged looks. “How did you know?”
“I just figured it was your style.”
Frank smirked. He leaned over to her a bit to get a whiff of her fragrance. “What are you wearing?”
“Lavender and sandalwood.”
Frank nodded. “Nice. Like it.”
“Oh, thanks. Okay, so how did you make out?”
“Wife not all broken up.”
“No, I wouldn’t assume so. She has an alcohol addiction.” After they moved in toward the table to pay attention, she went on. “I follow him on Twitter. He complains about it, a lot.”
Frank frowned and narrowed his eyes. “He talks about his wife’s addictions on social media? That’s quite passive aggressive of him. What kinds of things does he say?”
“In several tweets last month, he complained about how much money it’s costing him. He even tore into the rehab. Wilbur Resort in the Hamptons. They’re initiating a law suit against him for slander.”
“That’s significant. He doesn’t seem to object to paying off his kid’s drug dealers, to protect them. Any tweets about them?” Frank intended to pay attention to her every word.
“No.”
“Okay, she also told us he had a lot of enemies,” Frank said.
Sam bit her lip. “Um, um.”
“Twitter again?”
“Yes, a lot of bickering. For long periods of time. He has a habit of airing the dirtiest of laundry.”
“Okay, here are some names.” Nick read from his list. “Meghan Mason.”
“Yes, designer jeans. Very glitzy, stones, glitter, floral designs. Very expensive. Two to three hundred bucks a pair. But she’ll only go up to size twelve. Most women in the United States are over size fourteen. She’ll blatantly call them bimbos, or America’s fatties on social media. Actually, she’s my favorite designer.”
Frank cocked his head and studied her. How can she afford two hundred bucks for a pair of jeans on a cop’s salary? “Hold on. Mrs. Larcon wore jeans fitting that description. We’ll ask her.” He noted the file.
Nick laughed. “How do you know so much?”
She grinned. “I love, love, love fashion. It’s one of my downfalls.”
Nick went to the next one. “Okay, Fashionista. Lacy Lust. But I can guess that one.”
“Yes. Erotic lingerie. Very minimal and very expensive. The strippers in the clubs in this area wear her stuff.”
Frank held in a grin. “You know that, how?” His mind traveled to seeing her in the sweats, sans under garments. She’d look damn awesome in something minimal.
“One of them posted on Facebook that the fortune she spent on her outfit wasn’t worth it. The crotch split when she was performing a lap dance.”
“Sorry, I asked.”
“Larcon does lingerie, too. Competition?” Nick asked.
“His is more conservative. Much more. More like bride on wedding night, not hooker.”
“Slim difference there,” Nick admitted.
“Who else?”
Nick’s finger trailed down the page. “Jaye Manning.”
“He designs conservative men’s suits and accessories. He does have an arrangement with Larcon. He makes ties and handkerchiefs to match Larcon’s gowns, in the same fabrics. Gorgeous. Next?”
“That’s all she knew of,” Frank said.
“Don’t believe her. There’s tons more. We’ll subpoena his social media accounts. He’s on all of them, and a lot. Don’t think he uses an auto program because he responds within minutes. He seems mean spirited and negative about everything.”
“Okay. Good info. His kids all have drug problems. Anything about them?” Frank asked.
“No. Only bad things about his wife. He doesn’t post pics of any of his children either. We should get their social media accounts, as well.”
“Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got. A guy who has enemies and a dysfunctional family. The same as every murder victim in New York. So far, we have nothing.” Frank slumped in his chair and blew out a breath. “This superficial bullshit isn’t cutting it. Get me more to work with.”
“Hold on. I called the kids. They’re coming in tomorrow. Sam, you and I will interview them, as Frank--”
Frank’s cell rang, interrupting Nick. He looked at the ID. It was a Facetime call from Frankie. He answered it, without excusing himself, and smiled at the oval faced little boy with the squared chin, the brown oval eyes, and military haircut, who was a replica of himself, thirty-seven years ago. This time, those eyes were reddened from profuse tears.
“Frankie, what’s the matter?”
His lower lip quivered, as he tried to contain himself. “I’m in big trouble, Dad.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I had a fight in school and it was bad.” His sobbing increased. “I--was--just protecting--Jessie.”
“Who’s Jessie?”
Frankie sniffled and swallowed before he answered his father. “My girlfriend.”
Frank put his lips together to avoid smiling. “Your girlfriend? You’re seven.”
“I know.”
“How come I don’t know about your--” He stressed the word. “--girlfriend?”
“I’m keeping her a secret.”
Nick covered his mouth, with a smile underneath.
Okay, he has sons, Frank decided. Sam has that “how sweet” look on her face. Okay, she has that maternal instinct. He stifled a chuckle. “You’re not supposed to keep any secret from me. But what happened?”
The crying intensified. “Chubbs started up with her, pulling her hair. And he’s so much bigger than us.”
“It’s not nice to make fun of someone’s weight, Frankie. You know that.”
“No, Dad, that’s his name. Charlie Chubbs. Anyway, he wouldn’t leave her alone, and I told him to stop. Then he pushed me.”
“There was no teacher around?”
“They were busy talking and getting classes on line.”
“Then what happened?”
“I told him to get away from me. Dad, he’s in fifth grade. Then he said something that really got me upset.”
“What did he say?”
“He said--” The sobbing increased. “That--I--didn’t even--have a Mommy--to come up to school--to protect me.”
Frank saw Sam’s expression change from nurturing to grim. Apparently, she hadn’t known.
“Dad, I got so upset--and I didn’t--want him to see that--so I pushed him hard and put my leg around his--and I got him on the ground in a submission hold, and I punched him bad--a lot--and I busted open his lip, and the security guards broke us up, and carried me into Doctor Cohen’s office, and he told me I was suspended.” Frankie sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “He said there’s zero tolerance for fighting in his school.”
“Suspended. Okay. For how long?” Frank had had his share of suspensions for fighting when he was Frankie’s age, but their circumstances were way different.
“Two days.” His sobbing became whimpering, but then Frankie went silent for a minute. “I’m in big trouble, aren’t I?”
“You think? We’ll talk about this when I get home in a couple of hours. Right now, just stay in your room. No TV, no computer games. Got that?”
“Yes.”
Frank remained stoic. “Good.” He disconnected the phone, sat back in the seat, and heaved a sigh. Resting his elbow on the armrest, he covered his mouth with his fingers spread apart.
“Frank. He’s seven and it’s a sensitive issue for him. He had to protect himself.”
“Believe me, Nick, I know. I know exactly what he’s going through, but I had hoped he’d learned how to process it better than me.”
“I’m sorry about your wife, Frank,” Sam said.
He barely looked up.
“What’s with the submission hold? Who taught him that?” she asked.
Frank stared at her, stunned. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. I am not.”
Nick snorted. “This guy, here, is an MMA champion, third degree BJJ Black Belt.”
“You’re kidding me?” she snapped, throwing his words back at him.
“You’re familiar?” Frank asked.
“I know what MMA is. The academy brought those guys in to teach us self-defense. But the specifics, I don’t.”
“BJJ is Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. It’s a form of ground fighting. Submission holds.”
Sam looked bewildered. Frank was almost at a loss for words. He shook his head in disbelief. “Ever watch wrestling on TV?”
“Eww, no! The thought of gross tattooed men, throwing each other around a wrestling ring, is not exactly my idea of sexy.”
Frank laughed. “She doesn’t censor anything that comes out of her mouth, by the way.” I’ll have to change her mind on that one. “Millions of women would beg to differ with you on that.”
“Good for them.”
Oh, man. She is one opinionated princess. Frank just laughed and shook his head. “Hey, you look like you’re in shape. Where do you work out?”
“A gym near me in Brooklyn.”
Frank liked that. “I live in Brooklyn, too. Mill Basin. Where are you?”
“Madison,” Sam said.
“I know the area.”
“Good. Very good. I’m finally learning some things about you. They just threw us together today. Where do you work out?”
“With Frankie in Brooklyn. But, for me, in my gym in Manhattan. Harlem.”
Her eyes widened. “Harlem? Why would you go there?”
“Because it’s my gym.”
“Yeah. I live in Brooklyn and my gym is there.”
“No, princess. My gym as in I own it.”
“Why would you own a gym in Harlem? Can the residents there afford it?”
“It’s free,” he told her.
“Excuse me? You own a gym and you let people come for free?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes begged him for an explanation.
“Okay. I won’t let you suffer anymore. I rehab New York City gang members, just released from prison.”
“Who pays for this?”
“My parents adopted me at ten and left me a shitload of dough. I wanted to give back and--”
Interrupting his explanation, Dingo Withers entered the room and slapped a file down on the table in front of him. Looking up, seeing Withers, Frank didn’t hide his disgust, even though the man looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes had puffed up more than usual, his fingertips yellowed from his nicotine habit. Frank could have sworn that his wrinkles had deepened since last time he had seen him, a few weeks ago. “What’s this?”
“The latest on Jen’s investigation. Not much has happened, but there have been many more gang related killings since hers, with similar MOs, so we’re picking it up again. I’ll be getting all the crime scene reports, and as per Loo’s order, little Miss Photographic Memory here, has been assigned to assist. We’ll get them, Frank. I know we will.”
Frank sat solemn and didn’t respond right away. He felt like doing what Frankie did. He was seething inside. But he, unlike Frankie, couldn’t show it. A psychiatrist assaulting a detective first grade wouldn’t fly, and he’d lose his license, to boot. But he sure as hell would take it out on the heavy bag for an hour tomorrow.
“Okay, Withers, we’ll see. I won’t hold my breath. What have you got so far on the Larcon case?” Frank’s fingers involuntarily tapped on the folder Withers had placed in front of him, but he knew his head should be in the job now. He picked up the folder and placed it on a ledge behind him. This was one folder he wouldn’t forget and leave there.
“I brought
this over. It’s the only bit of evidence they’d let me take. It’s what this rookie found.” He removed a manila envelope from his attaché. He put on gloves and handed Nick, Frank, and Sam a pair. After tearing the seal on the envelope, he retrieved a clear baggie, further protecting the white band that Sam had filmed in the bush. The band had snapped on a branch, but the letters on it were visible now. He handed it to Frank. “Recognize it at all?”
“Could be a gang band. They wear them in all colors. DSF? I don’t know of any gang in New York City with these initials. And I’ve been in contact with every one over the last five years. There are smears on here. I’m assuming they took blood samples and fingerprints, already.”
Withers nodded in the affirmative.
“If you put the ends together we could see it’s smallish. More a woman’s size than man’s. That goes along with what I said at the scene. Might be women.”
“However, this may not even be from said crime. We can’t jump to conclusions that it is, rookie, until we get serology and DNA back. Rule number one. Don’t form a judgment without the science to back it up.”
“You’re right, Withers. You’re right.”
“What else did you say at the scene?” Frank’s curiosity was on a professional level. She had impressed him with her knowledge about Larcon. Maybe she could help them find Jen’s killers.
Withers handed Sam back her phone. “She made two recordings. Knock yourself out, Frank.” He handed the flash drives to him.
“Okay. What else did they come up with?” Frank stared hard at Withers who sat at the end of the table.
“The ME figured the time of death was between four and five a.m. It was deduced from the path, the body transport, and the state of the body. Then they recovered his car in a parking lot of a strip club. Meat packing district. Close to the water. The owner of the club called 911 and the precinct closest to it went. They called me, knowing it’s your case,” he said to Nick and Sam. “Crime Scene sent a team to the parking lot. So, you two, have a lot to start with. This case is going to be so big, rookie, I have a feeling you’re going to regret taking it on.”