Tragic

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Marlene giggled and pushed him away. “That’s better, lover boy. But enough. Go wash up. Dinner is ready, and then if you’re good, you can resume your attentions.”

  A few minutes later, the couple was seated on the couch in the loft, which was essentially a large open space housing the kitchen, dining area, and living room, where they sat, with three bedrooms down the hall. “So how did your day go?” Marlene asked as she sipped Chianti.

  “Mmmph flurgle lafa,” Karp replied with a mouthful of meatball. He swallowed and smiled. “Actually had an interesting conversation with an attorney named Mahlon Gorman, who represented Vince Carlotta. He thinks Charlie Vitteli was behind the murder.”

  “That’s no surprise,” Marlene said. “He have any proof?”

  “Not really, just some compelling reasons,” Karp said. He started to tell her about the conversation, but when he reached the part about the three young men who’d shown up at the Carlotta residence before the murder, Marlene frowned and spoke.

  “One of them spoke with a Russian accent?” she asked.

  “Apparently,” Karp replied. “Why?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but I had an interesting conversation today, too, that involved three young men, one of them a Russian,” she said and told him about Nicoli Lopez.

  Karp thought about it as he stuffed a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. “Think that’s a bit of a coincidence?” he asked.

  “Yes,” his wife replied. “But how many times over the past twenty-plus years have coincidence and fate played into this family’s life and our careers? You willing to overlook coincidence now?”

  Karp looked at her and smiled. “Not at all,” he said. “I was just making a comment. I can see the gears turning in that pretty head of yours. What do you have in mind?”

  “I have a couple of ideas,” Marlene said.

  “Care to enlighten me?”

  “Well, one will be to call your cousin Ivgeny and see if he’s heard anything in the underground Russian community about this,” she said.

  Karp nodded. It was a subject they didn’t talk about much, but Ivgeny Karchovski was not only his cousin—their grandfathers had been brothers—and a former colonel in the Soviet Army, he was also the head of a Russian organized crime family in Brooklyn. Ivgeny had helped him in the past, including assisting in preventing a terrorist attack, but both men knew that they had to stay at arm’s distance given their respective careers.

  “Fine, let’s throw a Russian gangster into the pot and see what trouble comes of that,” he replied.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Marlene said with a laugh.

  “I didn’t say I did,” Karp replied.

  “You didn’t say you didn’t, either,” she retorted.

  “Isn’t that a double negative?” Karp replied. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

  “The wine may be confusing you, but I’m not,” Marlene said lightheartedly. She was quiet for a moment and then added, “Seriously, and if you also don’t object, I think I’m going to go have a chat with Antonia Carlotta.”

  Karp frowned. “I was going to have Clay talk to her. What would be your standing in the case?”

  “Private investigator working for Nicoli Lopez. Maybe if I can find out something about her boyfriend, you might get a break in the case,” Marlene said. “And maybe a woman’s touch is called for here. I’d like to take a shot at it, anyway.”

  Karp thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “As long as you call Clay in if this turns out to be more than a coincidence.”

  Marlene smiled and leaned over to kiss him. “Thanks. Now are you finished with dinner?”

  Karp arched an eyebrow. “I believe I am. So I take it you’d like some help washing the dishes?”

  Marlene rose from her chair and held out her hand. “The dishes can wait. But I got an itch that needs to be scratched.”

  9

  MARAT LVOV WOKE UP SHAKING from a bad dream in which three grinning hags peered down at him as he bobbed in a cauldron of hot water. His own sweat felt warm and sticky on his back and his head pounded from the liter of vodka he’d consumed the night before.

  As though to orient himself in the dark, he reached out with his fat hand to touch the nude body of the woman sleeping in the bed next to him. Actually, “woman” was a stretch. She was a child, fourteen years old, maybe younger, though hard to say about some of the fresh meat off the boat from the former Soviet Union, where records were poorly kept and life was cheap.

  One of his many businesses was trafficking in underaged girls lured to America with promises of jobs as nannies or domestic servants only to be sold into sexual slavery. He got a kick out of advertising his merchandise—albeit in thinly disguised code—on the back pages of one of New York’s famous alternative weekly newspapers. And he routinely singled out one of the younger, more attractive girls to “sample” for himself, keeping them drugged and virtual prisoners in his impressive home in South Brooklyn.

  When he tired of a girl, he’d sell her off as used goods and choose another from the next shipment. Of course, his elderly Russian Jewish neighbors thought he was just a businessman, one of the Novyi Russkiy, or “New Russians,” known for their conspicuous-consumption lifestyles. That, too, amused him.

  Life was good, but the dream of the three hags had frightened him badly. As he touched the girl, he was surprised by how cold she felt. She’d been plenty warm earlier that night as she whimpered, squirmed, and cried out in pain beneath his grunting. He shook her slightly but still she didn’t stir. Willing his pounding heart to calm down, he listened for the sound of her breathing and heard nothing but the ticking of the clock next to his nightstand. His voice trembling, he softly called out to her.

  “She can’t hear you.”

  It took Lvov a few moments to recognize the deep, cold voice of Joey Barros, whose tall, dark figure he could just make out in a corner of the room. His visitor leaned over and pulled the chain on a reading lamp behind his favorite chair. The light did little to illuminate the room but he could see the skeletal facial features of the man well enough.

  “You!” Lvov half whispered, half screamed the moment before his bladder voided, adding more damp warmth to the bed beneath him.

  “Yes,” Barros said quietly before nodding at the girl next to Lvov. “Wasn’t she a little young?”

  Trembling, Lvov turned his head slightly to look at the girl. He tried to scream again but his voice was so high-pitched that it came out as a strangled whistle, a frightened tea kettle boiling over as he scooted as far away from her as he could get. He realized in that moment that he had not been lying in his own night sweat but in the warm blood that had poured from the gaping wound in her throat. Her beautiful blue eyes were open but also blank and unmoving as they stared sightlessly at the ceiling. But more horrifying was the smile that curled her lips ever so slightly.

  Surprisingly fast for such a fat man, Lvov’s hand flew to the red button flashing on the nightstand next to him. It would summon his bodyguards to dispatch the intruder. He would then fire them, if he was merciful enough not to have them garroted, for allowing Barros to make it into his bedroom.

  Barros’s expression turned to one of amusement. “There’s no one there,” he said. “I believe they’re out back having a smoke and no one’s watching the chicken coop.”

  Lvov’s eyes widened as he realized he’d been betrayed. But he wasn’t done yet. He rolled over and flung open the drawer of the nightstand, grasping for the Russian-made Makarov pistol he kept there.

  “You looking for this?” Barros asked, holding the handgun up with a pencil stuck in the barrel. He dropped his hand and the gun fell toward the floor.

  As the Makarov dropped, Barros moved toward Lvov. A straight-edge razor appeared in his hand as if by magic and gleamed wickedly as he held it up.

  “NYET, PLEASE, NO!” Lvov screamed as he tried to scoot away from the approaching blade, but his progress was stopped by the body of the dead
girl. “I did what you asked. Bebnev will kill the others tomorrow. Then you can kill him and have no more problems!”

  “Only one,” Barros growled.

  “I’ll pay you anything!”

  “You don’t have enough.”

  “Girls, drugs . . . you’d be a happy rich man,” Lvov pleaded.

  “Not my thing,” Barros replied. “I’m happily married, and I don’t do drugs.”

  “Anything!” Lvov squealed.

  “You don’t have anything I want,” Barros said as he held out the blade and leaned over as though he intended to shave his cowering victim.

  Desperately trying to sink into the mattress, the Russian gangster sobbed and held out his hands to ward off his attacker. He was surprised that such a thin man could be so strong as Barros grabbed his face with one hand and swung the blade with the other. There was a burning sensation across his throat and the feel of warm liquid running over his skin; then he was choking as blood drained into his severed windpipe.

  “Shhhhhhh,” Barros said, placing a finger to his lips as if to comfort a child awakened by a nightmare. He straightened up and stood looking down as the fat man clasped his hands to his throat in a futile effort to stop the hemorrhaging. The hands fell away, the body tried to draw a few last gurgling breaths, and then it was over except for the twitching.

  When Lvov was still, Barros wiped the blade of his razor on the silk sheet and reflected on how much pleasure killing the man had given him. He didn’t often have the time or privacy to watch one of his victims slowly die, but that night he was in no hurry, nor was he afraid of getting caught. Vitteli had made a call to the head of the Malchek gang in Little Odessa for a favor: he’d asked that Lvov’s guards take a cigarette break after the fat man went to sleep and leave the back door open.

  Barros would have preferred not to kill the girl. He was the father of two nice young women, both of them away now at college, and this girl had done nothing wrong. She was just in the wrong bed at the wrong time.

  She’d been awake, nude and lying on her back uncovered when he crept into the room and silently stalked up to her side of the bed. Her eyes were bright and shining in the moonlight that came in through the window but she’d shown no fear, despite her young age, at his appearance like a ghoul in the night.

  Then he noticed the fresh bruises on her face and the trickle of blood that ran from a corner of her mouth. It will be a pleasure to kill that pig for you, he thought as he held up his razor and showed it to the girl.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” he whispered and pointed in the direction of the fat man snoring next to her. She’d nodded and he knew she would not scream.

  For a moment he’d considered letting her live, but he hadn’t stayed out of prison this long by leaving witnesses. She seemed to know what he was thinking and surprised him by tilting her head back to give him better access to her throat. She whimpered once when the razor bit into her creamy white skin but then turned her gaze to the ceiling and died quietly.

  When the girl was still, Barros circled the bed to the nightstand and opened the drawer where the bodyguards told him Lvov kept a gun. He removed the Makarov using a pencil lying on the top of the stand and quietly closed the drawer. Then he waited patiently. It was going to be fun to toy with Lvov and watch the terror grow as the fat pig realized that death was near at hand.

  Vitteli had agreed with his argument that Lvov needed to go. Bebnev would kill the other two and then Barros would kill him afterward. But first Lvov, the only direct link between them and the plot to kill Vince Carlotta. He had to die.

  As a man who hated loose ends, Barros had also suggested that Jackie Corcione needed to “have an accident. Maybe throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge . . . just another queer who decides to off himself rather than be a faggot.” But Vitteli nixed it.

  “He’s Leo’s kid, and I’m not ready to go there yet,” Vitteli said.

  “I should take care of that loose end now,” Barros growled. “It was a mistake to let him stay around this long.”

  Vitteli cocked his head at the criticism. “You questioning me, Joey?” he said. “After all these years? And everything I’ve done for you?”

  Barros literally bit his tongue. “I’m just saying that Jackie’s a danger,” he backtracked. “I say we get what we need out of him, and then he takes a fall.”

  “Maybe, but I’ll decide when,” Vitteli said. “Or are you the boss now?”

  Barros had looked the other way. “No, you’re the boss.”

  For now, Barros thought, as he picked Lvov’s cell phone up, made sure it was off, and put it in his pocket. He would leave it with Bebnev’s body tomorrow, and it would look like a tit-for-tat gang killing. But who knows? Charlie’s getting a little timid. Maybe he needs to retire.

  Leaving the house through the back door, Barros waved to the bodyguards standing in the shadow of a tree, smoking their cigarettes. They waved back, but he was already gone.

  10

  “GOOD MORNING, BOBBI SUE,” MARLENE said, poking her head into Hirschbein’s office at the East Village Women’s Shelter. She smiled as she saw the clutter of books and papers lying about on every piece of furniture and hanging precariously from the bookshelf as though it might grow into an avalanche at any moment and bury the director. “My offer still stands if you ever want my help organizing.”

  Laughing, Hirschbein shook her head. “Oh, goodness, no. I operate best amidst chaos. I’d never be able to find anything if someone cleaned up after me. What brings you in today?”

  “Mind if I ask Nicoli Lopez to meet me in the Room?”

  Hirschbein regarded Marlene with an arched eyebrow. They’d known each other for a long time, and she knew when her friend was on the scent of something important, something that was likely to be dangerous. “Anything I should know about?”

  “No, at least not at the moment, but I promise to fill you in when I can,” Marlene said.

  “Okay then, ask reception to see if they can locate her,” Hirschbein said. “It’s almost noon and I think she was registered for our morning parenting class for new mothers, so she should be in the building. Oh, and nice to see you, too, Marlene.”

  A few minutes later, Marlene sat in the Room of Tears waiting for Nicoli and wondering if this was the best course of action. She was taking a chance that the girl would turn around and tell her boyfriend that the wife of the New York County district attorney was looking at him as a possible murder suspect; it was clear Nicoli still loved Gnat Miller, and he was her child’s father. If she warned Miller, he might run as well as alarm the others, which could greatly reduce the chances of the case ever being solved. But Marlene felt that she needed to take a chance that Nicoli would understand what was at stake.

  There was a knock at the door and Nicoli entered. She smiled when she saw Marlene, but then frowned when she saw the older woman’s serious expression.

  Marlene sat her down on the couch next to her and quickly explained the situation, leaving out the names of Vitteli, Barros, and Corcione. “Three young guys show up one evening at Vince Carlotta’s house in New Rochelle acting like they’re looking for work. One of them stays in the car; the other two come to the door, one of them speaks with a Russian accent. Vince Carlotta doesn’t believe their story; he even writes the license plate number down. A few days later, Vince is murdered; one guy stays in the car, the other two are in an alley, and one of them shoots Vince.”

  Marlene let it sink in before continuing. “Now, on the other hand, you think Gnat’s involved with two other guys, one of them a Russian, in something criminal, something bigger than he’s done in the past. He’s got no job, but suddenly he comes into a lot of money, enough to rent an apartment.”

  Nicoli’s face looked like she might be sick and she shook her head violently. “He’d never do something like that,” she argued. “He was a little wild when he was a kid and got in scrapes with the law, but it was little bullshit stuff. Nothing violent. What you just said, it’s just a
coincidence.”

  Marlene reached over and placed her hand on the girl’s arm. “It might be. But there’s this, too; the night you said Gnat went out with Frankie and came back with the car smelling like smoke, that’s the same night the three guys showed up at the Carlotta house. And the next time he went back out with those guys was the night Vince Carlotta was murdered.”

  Nicoli’s face crumpled and she began to cry. “He didn’t do nothin’. He’s a good man and a good father. He just needed a break.”

  “Look, again, it may not be anything; like you said, just a coincidence,” Marlene replied gently. “But Nicoli, we . . . I . . . need to check it out. Maybe I find out he’s not involved and you can rest easy. But if it turns out he was there, he needs to answer for it. The victim’s widow and baby deserve justice. But it’s not just for them or the rest of us who can’t let murderers get away with their crimes; it’s also for Gnat . . . his peace of mind and his soul, if you will.”

  Tears welled in Nicoli’s eyes as she turned away from Marlene. “No, please . . .”

  “Listen to me, Nicoli. You’ve seen what a guilty conscience can do to a man, especially if he’s a basically good man like you describe Gnat to be. Maybe he got caught up in something more than he bargained for or that he didn’t expect or want, but it’s eating at him now like a cancer. You’ve seen how it’s changed him—the sleeplessness, the crying, the paranoia and anger . . . hitting you. It’s not going to get better. In fact, it’s going to get progressively worse until maybe he’s a danger to himself, or someone else. Maybe he loses it again with you, only worse, or maybe it’s with Billy Junior, or even a complete stranger. Whatever he did, he’s falling apart as a result, and it’s partly up to you how far he disintegrates.”

  “He’s Catholic; he could go to a priest,” Nicoli said desperately. “Or see a shrink or somethin’.”

  “That might help, and I emphasize the word ‘might’ from personal experience,” Marlene replied. “It might help his conscience to confess to somebody. However, confessions only go so far when dealing with something like murder if you don’t do something to atone for it. But even if this didn’t bother him at all and he was sleeping like a baby every night, not a care in the world, he’s still not free of it. Like I told you, a number of people involved in this case believe that the three suspects were paid a lot of money to kill Carlotta and make it look like a robbery. Anybody willing to do that is eventually also going to want to tie up any loose ends, if they’re smart.”