Blood in Babylon

by Blake Banner

  Dehan frowned. “She moved him in?”

  “I say that, but what I mean is, she helped him to buy the place, organized things for him, like. She told me she wanted him near the church, so he would have folk lookin’ out for him. Didn’t help him much in the end, though, did it?”

  “Did you witness any of the events of that night?”

  “People told me about it, but I was out at work at the time, otherwise I would have called the police. Then later that night, well, I was at the church, helpin’ out.”

  I nodded. A bird had started singing in the plane tree behind me. “So you saw Joy there?”

  “Yeah, oh yeah! We’re both regulars.”

  Dehan frowned. “You can be sure of that after twelve years? That she was there?”

  The woman laughed. “Well, when something like that happens, it kind of fixes everything in your mind, don’it? And him getting killed like that, right next door to my house. Poor soul, and it was his birthday, too.”

  I smiled. “I guess it’s never the right day to get stabbed in the heart. So Joy was there and you spoke to her?”

  She returned the smile a little uncertainly. “Of course, I didn’t mean… Yes, I spoke to Joy, for sure. She was all flustered cause she’d promised her daughter, Mary, they was gonna watch a movie together.”

  “You have a remarkable memory.”

  Another nervous laugh. “Like I said…”

  “So do you remember at what time Joy left?”

  She frowned. “Joy ain’t a…?”

  Dehan laughed. “Not at all! We just need to get the whole sequence of events clear, so we know who was where and when.”

  “Sure, well, I guess she left a little after ten. I know she kept sayin’ her movie was at ten thirty, and she don’t live far from the church.”

  “Thank you, Mrs…?”

  “Forester, Aileen Forester.”

  We made our way down the steps, heard the door close behind us and strolled back, through the midday sunshine, toward the church parking lot where we had left the car. After a minute, Dehan said, suddenly: “Walk and talk. So Ned had motive, means and opportunity.”

  “Arguably, but I wouldn’t mind being the defense attorney on that case.”

  “Don’t interrupt me when you’re thinking.”

  “Cute.”

  “Now, who else had motive? Maximilian, Justinian and Annunziata Chester. I don’t know what that company is worth, but if their valve is in every cardiology department in the world, the company is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and twenty-five percent of that is one hell of a motive.”

  “It is indeed, especially when it’s in the hands of somebody who is bringing shame on a family that is sensitive about its reputation.”

  “But not just that, Stone. If he’d been sane, or normal, at least, he could have contributed handsomely to the family stock, enhanced their reputation and contributed positively to the company. Instead, he runs the risk of damaging the family brand beyond repair. So, yeah, we agree. The Chester siblings have a hell of an incentive to get rid of their brother. But what else do we know about them? Did they have opportunity? Did they have the means? I want to know why Martinez never pursued that angle.”

  I thrust my hands into my pockets and sucked my teeth. “Maybe he’d made up his mind it was Ned. Maybe he spoke to the siblings and they convinced him they were in the clear. There is virtually no reference to them in the report.”

  I unlocked the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Dehan got in beside me and slammed the door. Then I sat tapping the walnut steering wheel with the key. Dehan watched me for a moment.

  “You going to play me a tune or are we going somewhere?”

  “I might break into song, with By the Rivers of Babylon.”

  “Boney M? Seriously?”

  “When we get to the station, let’s find out exactly who owns the house. Let’s find out where the Chester siblings are and drop in to see them. We also need to trace Ned. I want to find out if his fingers still hurt when he looks in the mirror.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  I cruised slowly back up to the circus and then came down White Plaines; all the way, I was forming a map of the area in my mind, positioning the few players we had so far where they had been at the time Al was stabbed, ten-thirty on the Friday night.

  When we got to the station house on Storey and Fteley, Dehan went to dig up what she could on Ned and I went to do some background research on the Chester family of eminent surgeons.

  For an eminent family, they tended to keep a pretty low profile, but there was enough available from both official and unofficial sources to put together some kind of a picture.

  Max Chester was the ‘patriarch’ of the family. That was a position that, had he not become psychotic, Aloysius would have occupied, being the eldest son. Max was the next in line. He had been married to the same woman for almost thirty years and had two children, a boy and a girl. He was the CEO of Chester Cardio-Valves Ltd, as well as practicing as a heart surgeon. He lived in New York, in a large apartment in Manhattan.

  Justinian Chester, the youngest of the three brothers, was also a surgeon, though his specialization was neurosurgery. He was also married and also had two children. However, in the last five years, he had retired from practice and now devoted his time to research, and his family. He lived in Queens, in a large mansion beside the John Golden Park, by Little Neck Bay. He was listed as one of three directors of CCV Ltd.

  The third director was his sister, Annunziata Chester. She was a neurologist, but not a neurosurgeon. She specialized, like her brother, in research, but of a different type. Where Justinian researched and developed equipment for the company, Annunziata researched the functioning of the brain, how we store information as memory, and the impact of degenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s and dementia. She, unsurprisingly, was also married, though I could find no reference to children. She divided her time between her vineyards in northern California and her apartment on Riverside Drive.

  I picked up the telephone and called Chester Cardio-Valves Ltd.

  “CCV Limited, how may I direct your call?”

  “This is Detective John Stone of the NYPD. Put me through to your CEO, Maximilian Chester.”

  There was a tiny hesitation. “Hold the line, please.”

  I held the line for three minutes and was about to hang up and get my jacket when the voice came back and said, “Thank you for holding, putting you through.”

  His voice was quiet and oddly devoid of emotion or feeling. He said simply, “Who is this?”

  “Mr. Chester?”

  “Yes, this is he. To whom am I speaking, please?”

  “Detective John Stone, of the NYPD.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “It’s about your brother, Mr. Chester.”

  “Justinian? What has he to do with the police?”

  “No, your brother Aloysius, Mr. Chester. The one who was murdered.”

  There was a very long silence. I was about to ask if he was still there when he spoke abruptly.

  “I have nothing to add to the statement I made at the time of his death, Detective Stone. We had disowned Aloysius as far as it was possible for us to do so, and I really have no interest in reviving this business. He shamed our family and none of us wants anything to do with him or his legacy!” He said the word like it made him sick and he wanted to spit it out of his mouth.

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Chester, you may have information relating to an ongoing homicide investigation. All we want is to have a short conversation with you and ask you a few simple questions. I hope you’ll cooperate with us.”

  He sighed. “Of course I’ll cooperate with the police. But I have a business trip this afternoon and I shan’t be back until tomorrow. I’ll have my secretary call you as soon as I get back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chester.”

  He hung up and I sat looking at the phone. Dehan loomed over me wi
th a paper cup of coffee in each hand. I took one, sipped and grimaced. She sat.

  “I didn’t have time to go down to the deli. Be happy with what you’ve got.”

  “Our emergence from the caves was predicated on the exact antithesis of that very advice.”

  “Ned.”

  “Yes.”

  “While you were scratching your ass and talking to your rich friends in Queens, I found Martinez and asked him how come he didn’t look at Al’s brothers and sisters as suspects. He says obviously he did, but they all had alibis and there was not a shred of evidence to connect them to the crime. DA said it was a non-starter and to focus on Ned.”

  I shrugged. “Makes sense, I guess. What about Ned?”

  “OK, get this. He’s still in the ’hood. He lives at 1942 Chatterton Avenue, his workshop is at the back of his house, at 1957 Bruckner Boulevard.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “His workshop? What kind of workshop?”

  She leaned back and crossed her ankles on the corner of the desk. “Ned was the only suspect Martinez ever had. As far as he was concerned, there could be no other suspect because Ned done it.”

  I grunted.

  She raised a finger. “The problem was that there was nothing—literally nothing—to tie Ned or anybody else for that matter—to the scene of the crime.”

  “I’m aware of that, Dehan. Tell me about the workshop.”

  “Be patient, Sensei, I’m getting to that. So, about a year after Al died, once the investigation had gone cold, some anonymous relative of Ned’s ups and dies too, leaving Ned some money in trust, on the condition that he get some qualifications and makes something himself.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, sir. I am tellin’ you God’s own truth. So, Ned went to community college, learned how to fix cars and set himself up in a garage: Ned’s Auto Repair and Hot Rod Workshop. Seems to be doing well, too, ’cause he bought the premises and the house at the back of it an’ all.”

  “Son of a gun...”

  “You ain’t wrong, compadre. That’s what he gone done.”

  I spread my hands. “So we get a court order and we follow the money. Either he’s telling the truth and it’s a bizarre coincidence, or he’s lying and he set it up himself.”

  “Gotta be a cinch.”

  “So why didn’t Martinez follow this up?”

  “He didn’t know. The case went cold. Let’s face it, Stone. This is Babylon, like the woman said. If a fat, old schizophrenic gets mugged and dies, it doesn’t take people long for people to forget and move on. After a year, the case was forgotten. A hundred other homicides had been committed by then, in the Bronx alone.”

  “And Ned knew that.”

  She nodded.

  “OK, that’s good work, Dehan.”

  “Gee, boss, thanks.”

  “Wiseass. Let’s go talk to Ned. I want some answers, and he is going to give them to me.”

  SIX

  It was a five minute drive to Ned’s garage. When we pulled into his forecourt, he stepped out of the workshop with his hands in his pockets, staring at the Jag. He was tall, strongly built, of mixed race, with startling blue eyes. As we climbed out, he jerked his head at my car.

  “That’s a beautiful car. Jaguar Mk II. Mid sixties?”

  “1964.”

  He peered through the window and smiled. “Right hand drive, walnut, spoke wheels. Man, she’s a beauty.” He glanced at me, still smiling. “You got the original British plates?”

  “Yup, at home in the safe.”

  He made a face, looking at the car again. “I wouldn’t want to work on her, man. You need a specialist. I ain’t got that kind of skills.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “It’s OK, I have a guy who looks after her. You Ned Brown?”

  He looked at me more closely now, then at Dehan, then back at me. “Who’s askin’?”

  I pulled out my badge and showed it to him, and Dehan did the same. “I’m Detective John Stone, of the NYPD. This is my partner, Detective Dehan. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  He looked genuinely confused. “What about?”

  “Al Chester.” I pointed at his right hand. The index and middle finger were crooked and slightly misshapen. “Did he do that to you?”

  “Yeah, man. You know he did. What’s this about? I thought that case was closed.”

  Dehan smiled. “Not closed. It just went cold, Ned. Now we’re going to heat it up again.”

  He sighed. “Man… OK. Let’s go inside.”

  He led us through the dark maw of the entrance into a dimly lit prefab. There were a couple of cars raised up on hydraulic lifts; a couple of others were standing with their hoods up. I saw a total of eight cars. Two of those were custom jobs. There were also a couple of guys in blue overalls who glanced up and watched us cross the workshop toward his small office. Ned was doing OK.

  In the office, there was a desk, a kettle, a bunch of dirty mugs, a computer, two hard plastic chairs with wheels and a couple of calendars with naked women on them. He sat against the desk and folded his arms. Dehan leaned against the doorjamb and I sat on one of the hard plastic chairs.

  I studied him a moment and he studied me back. I tried to visualize him stabbing a sixty-year-old schizophrenic. It wasn’t impossible. I spread my hands.

  “Convince me you didn’t kill Al.”

  He frowned like he thought I was crazy. “Fuck you!”

  I turned and smiled at Dehan. “This is the New Yorker’s answer to everything he doesn’t understand.” I turned back to Ned. “You ever heard of the New York alphabet? Fuckin’ A, fuckin’ B, fuckin C…”

  He shook his head. “You’re funny. So what else? You say I did it. Prove it. Meantime, let me get on with my job.”

  I gave a small shrug. “I’ll tell you. Detective Dehan is convinced it’s a slam dunk. You did it and she’s going to prove it…”

  “Yeah? Martinez thought the same thing.”

  “That’s Detective Martinez to you, Ned. Me? I’m not convinced yet.”

  “Oh, you’re not? Well, that’s real big of you, man. The Great White Hope is gonna save my poor black ass.”

  “I didn’t say that. If you killed Al, you’ll take your punishment and I don’t give a damn what color your ass is. What I am telling you, and you’d be smart to listen, is that I am undecided whether I think you did it or not, and I would like to hear reasons why you’re not. Talk to me.”

  He looked around at the walls and the ceiling, like he suddenly found his small office deeply unsatisfactory. “Man! I already been through this one time! How come I have to go through it again?” He gestured at the workshop with his open hand. “I got customers waitin’ on their cars, and instead of doin’ my job, I gotta be in here, talkin’ to you!”

  I nodded. “So stop wasting time, Ned. What happened that night? You tried to break into his house.”

  “Hey! You know what? I changed a lot since then!”

  Dehan spoke for the first time. “Cut the bullshit, Ned. What happened? How did you break your fingers?”

  “I told you guys already! Yeah, he broke my damn fingers and I went to ER. The guys were with me.”

  I turned to Dehan. “He’s right. There were about six guys involved in fabricating that piece of crap alibi. But thinking about it, at least two of those guys are doing time now. I think we should leave Mr. Brown to get on with his work, and go visit those alibis, start picking them apart. I think that will be quicker.”

  I went to stand and he raised both hands. “OK, OK…!” He sighed loudly. “That night, what happened?” He looked up at one of his nude calendars on the wall, over to his left. He didn’t seem to see it, though. “Me and the guys was hangin’, drinkin’ some beers. It was cold, we didn’t have nowhere to go, but we didn’t wanna go home, know what I’m sayin’? It was early. So we was kind of prowlin’ the hood. Then I saw that…” He shook his head. “Man, he was some kind of freak! Every time I saw him, he’d just do
my fuckin’ head in, man! He was fat, and big, with that crazy blond hair, and breathing like that, and so fuckin’ fat, man! I mean, he must’a been three hundred pounds, at least! He shouldn’t be that fat! And always breathin’ through his fuckin’ mouth, makin’ that noise… Made me crazy.” He shook his head. “I just hated that freak, man, more than I can say.”

  Dehan said, “Enough to kill him?”

  “No. But every time I see him, I had to tell him. ‘Yo, freak! You a fuckin’ freak, man!’ Like maybe if I made him realize what a fuckin’ freak he was, it might help him to change. You feel me?”

  Dehan snarled, “Yeah, you’re a regular Fritz Perls.”

  I said, “You terrified him. He was a vulnerable, sick old man and you scared him half to death.”

  He avoided my eye, looking at the walls again, sucking his teeth. “Yeah, life’s a bitch.”

  “So what happened that night?”

  “I was talkin’ to him, man, and he was just, like, ignorin’ me, like I wasn’t there. Like he was this big white dude and I’m the black dude and he don’t need to talk to me, ’cause he’s better’n me. You know what I’m sayin’ to you? He disrespected me. So I went over and I talked into his fat, ugly face, and I pulled on his arm. And he goes crazy, makin’ weird-ass noises, groaning and grunting like a fuckin’ hog, and he runs. And I ran after him. All I wanted was to talk to him!”

  Dehan snorted. “Why’d you try to get into his house?”

  “I told you! I was tryin’ to talk to him.”

  “What about?”

  A sudden, incongruous smile split his face and he emitted a high-pitched shriek of laughter. “I wanted to know why he was so fuckin’ weird! I wanted to know why he was so fuckin’ weird, man…” His laughter trailed away.

  I nodded. “Yeah, you’re a regular behavioral psychologist. A real genius. So what happened, you pushed through his gate. Was that all of you or just you?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes flicked over my face. “That was all of us. We was pushin’ on the door. I got my fingers around it, then he slammed it shut, man. Broke two of my fingers. He did it twice.”

  Dehan snorted a laugh. “Must have hurt a lot. Witnesses said you were crying like a girl when you left the house.”