Tragic

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “And who coincidentally has a pal named Joey acting as the middleman,” Fulton added.

  “So will this mystery informant be testifying to any of this?” Guma asked.

  “Not a chance,” Karp replied. He recalled Ivgeny’s description of the three conspirators groveling and crying as they competed to tell their side of the story. “Wouldn’t matter; the information was gained on the battlefield of good versus evil in the alleged ‘fog’ of saving two lives and is for background only.”

  “Ah, or in my people’s parlance, somebody beat the living snot out of these three goombahs until they talked,” Guma said. “I’m surprised they’re not also sleeping with the fishes.”

  “I think that was part of the original plan,” Karp said. “But, as Clay noted earlier, a ‘concerned citizen’ put a stop to it. Fortunately, no one beat the snot out of anyone, so at least we don’t have to deal with that when they get lawyers. I’ve no doubt, however, that having the snot beat out of them was the least of their worries, so they talked, though the person asking the questions was coming at it blind, so he may not have heard everything there was to hear, or been told the truth.”

  Guma stared down at his cigar for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling. “If I got this right, even if this witness and these statements were allowed at trial, we wouldn’t have enough to convict Vitteli and his cohorts,” he noted. “Miller doesn’t know much of anything, except what DiMarzo told him, and DiMarzo only knows what he heard from Bebnev. He didn’t meet with anybody himself, except this Lvov character briefly, and Lvov is dead. Otherwise, all DiMarzo knows is that Bebnev told him that he met with Lvov, some guys named Joey and Jackie, and that Bebnev says he also overheard part of a conversation in which the name Charlie was mentioned.”

  “Yeah,” Fulton agreed. “And according to your informant even the shooter, Bebnev, doesn’t know much more than what he told DiMarzo. He claims to have met with Lvov and this guy Joey—Joey Barros, we assume—and Jackie, probably Jackie Corcione, both of whom were present when Carlotta got shot, and that they hired him to kill Carlotta. Lvov was the moneyman, but as far as we know, Bebnev had no further contact with Barros, Vitteli, or Corcione.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Karp agreed. “But at least now we know we haven’t been barking up the wrong tree. There were other possibilities—a mob hit from some gang trying to take over the docks, or revenge, or even a robbery that went bad. Now I think we can rest assured that Vitteli and his boys are factually guilty of Vince Carlotta’s murder, and that’s step one. Now we work on getting the admissible evidence to prove it beyond any and all doubt.”

  “To do that it’s going to take a lot more pieces to put this puzzle together,” Guma replied.

  “But we have an idea of what the picture’s going to look like,” Fulton added. “So where do you want to start now, boss?”

  As his two old friends spoke, Karp rose from his chair and turned around to look out the window at the snow-covered streets below. With the flakes of snow flitting like moths into the lights from the streetlamps, he thought the city was at its most beautiful after a late-night storm before traffic and the multitudes hit the street. But it wasn’t the beauty of the streets that made him furrow his brow at the conundrum Fulton’s question posed. Where do we start from here?

  Then, far below and across the park just east of the Criminal Courts Building, he saw three apparently homeless people wrapped in rags, tramping through the fresh-fallen snow as they struggled up the sidewalk against the wind. I guess it’s not quite as beautiful when you’re out in it without a home to go to or even a warm place to rest for a few hours.

  “We start at the bottom and work our way up,” he announced as he turned around and looked at each of the men in their eyes. “We nail these three punks and see who they’ll roll over on and what else they might know. We keep plugging in pieces until we have enough to convict the bastards who put them up to it. Ultimately, the three killers go first, then on to the conduits and intermediaries who will lead us to the kingpin.”

  He looked at Fulton, who was holding a large plastic container on his lap. “I take it that’s from New Rochelle.”

  Fulton stood up and carried it over to a table Karp had set up next to his desk. He opened the flaps of the container and announced, “Merry Christmas!”

  “I’m Jewish, but you’re the second person tonight who’s wished me a season’s greeting in connection with the detritus of a murder case.”

  “Yeah? Well, I have no idea what you just said, but you’re going to believe in Santa Claus after Marlene and I describe what’s in here,” Fulton replied.

  Twenty more minutes passed, during which time Marlene and then Fulton described what happened in New Rochelle as well as the contents of the box, beginning with the license plate number of the car. “Which, of course, was registered to William Miller of Brooklyn,” Fulton said.

  “The same car in which Miller, DiMarzo, and Bebnev were ‘found’ today,” Marlene added.

  When Marlene and Fulton were finished describing the contents of the container, Karp put down the pencil he’d been using to take notes and sat back in his chair. “Nice work, you two,” he said.

  “Want me to get this stuff off to the lab?” Fulton asked, closing the container.

  Karp thought about it, then shook his head. “At the last bureau chiefs’ meeting someone said that the labs are backed up. I’d like a fast turnaround, but without raising a lot of questions, given the sensitivity of the case. In fact,” he said, turning to his wife, “would you mind calling Jack Swanburg and the Baker Street Irregulars and see if they can do a rush job?”

  “Would love to,” Marlene replied. “I haven’t talked to that sweet old man in far too long.” She looked at her watch. “It’s only half past nine in Colorado; I’ll give him a call while you’re doing the lineups. Anything else?”

  “Well, I hate to ask,” Karp said, looking at Marlene, “but I’d like to get Nicoli Lopez over here. I have an idea on how to work this.”

  Now? Marlene thought, glancing out the window at the night and the still-falling snow.

  “It may be my only shot at this,” Karp explained.

  Marlene studied her husband’s face and then nodded. “I’ll call Bobbi Sue Hirschbein; she’s a live-in director and sleeps at the shelter. I’ll let her know I’m on my way. Besides, I promised Nicoli I’d let her know when we brought Gnat in; I think she’ll want to come anyway.”

  “Many thanks, my dear; Clay will have a driver for you. And now, if you’d introduce us to Antonia, you can be on your way,” her husband replied.

  Marlene led the way into the big meeting room off of the district attorney’s personal offices, which, among other things, was used every Monday morning for a bureau chiefs’ meeting where major cases would be presented by anxious assistant district attorneys for vetting by the senior staff.

  Antonia Carlotta was slumped at one end of the long table. Her face pale and drawn, she sat up as they entered the room. Marlene made the introductions. “Antonia Carlotta, this is District Attorney Roger Karp, Special Assistant District Attorney Ray Guma, and Detective Clay Fulton you already know.”

  Karp stepped forward to offer his hand. “My condolences on behalf of all of us,” he said. “I met your husband a few times and always came away impressed.”

  Antonia dipped her head slightly but didn’t smile. “He had that effect on many people,” she said. “Me most of all.”

  “I’m also sorry to have kept you waiting,” Karp said. “A lot has been happening this evening, as I’m sure you’re aware, and it’s important that we do things the right way and in the right order.”

  “Of course.” Antonia nodded and hesitated a moment before asking, “I understand you caught the men who did this?”

  “I’m sure you understand that I can’t discuss the details of the case,” Karp replied, looking earnestly into her eyes. “But I will say that we’re making progress. As part of tha
t, I’d like you to view what we call a lineup in a few minutes. It may or may not include men you recognize.”

  “Will they be able to see me?” Antonia said. She suddenly looked frightened.

  “No,” Karp replied. “They won’t even know you’re in the building. You’ll be in a different room and looking at them through a one-way mirror. Will you do this? Good.”

  As they all filed out into the hallway, Marlene turned to Antonia. “I have to go,” she said. “But I’m leaving you in good hands. Call me anytime, about anything.”

  “Thank you,” Antonia said, shaking Marlene’s hand warmly. “You’ve given me hope that there will be justice.”

  With his entourage in tow, Karp led the way down a flight of stairs to the seventh floor and then conducted a short walk along the hallway leading to the “stand-in” room and viewing room. He asked Detective Pete McNeely, assigned to the DAO detective squad, who ran the office lineups, to explain the process to Antonia.

  “Sure,” McNeely said. “The room on your left is the ‘stand-in’ room; that’s where we’ll bring a half-dozen men in at a time for you to see. The room on your right is the viewing room, where you’ll be with DA Karp, ADA Guma, and Detective Fulton. If the men have lawyers, they can be present in either room, but the lawyers are prohibited from speaking or in any way disrupting the process. They are there strictly and solely to observe.”

  Leading the way into the stand-in room, McNeely said, “The men will stand here in a line. They will appear to be looking at you, but as you can see, it just looks like a mirror and what they actually are looking at are their reflections. But if you’ll step with me into the viewing room”—the detective led the group into the next room—“you’ll see that your side appears to be clear, though somewhat tinted.”

  “How does that work?” Antonia replied.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked that,” the detective said, obviously pleased to be “the expert” on the matter. “Here’s how: A so-called one-way mirror has a very thin reflective coating applied to one side, about half as much coating as would be on there if you wanted to make the mirror truly opaque. In this case, the ‘mirror’ surface reflects about half the light that strikes it, and that’s what the men in the lineup see. The rest of the light goes through so that someone on this side sees what is going on in that other room. But the real secret is how the two rooms are lit. In the stand-in room, you probably noticed that the lights are very bright and we see in there quite clearly; in the viewing room, it’s dark, so very little light passes through to the stand-in room—too little to see anything. Put another way, I’m sure you’ve stood outside a dark office building at night and all of the windows look like mirrors. However, if a light is on in an office, you can see inside just fine because the light is escaping. Does that all make sense?”

  Antonia smiled. “Yes, much more sense now,” she said. “Thank you for explaining.”

  As the detective blushed and stepped back, Karp said, “Are you ready to proceed?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Okay then, Detective,” Karp said to McNeely, “let’s get cooking.”

  Once they entered the viewing room, Karp explained what was going to happen next to Antonia. “Six men will be entering the room. They will look straight ahead and then turn sideways before turning straight ahead again. Each individual will be holding a number. I’ll ask you at that point if you recognize any of them. If you do, just tell me the number the man is holding. Are you ready?”

  Looking nervous, Antonia nodded, and six men were marched into the stand-in room and told to face front, then sideways, then front again.

  “Do you recognize any of these men?” Karp asked.

  Scanning the faces, Antonia bit her lip; then she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s fine. Mrs. Carlotta, would it be fair to say that you did not get a good look at the driver of the car that came to your house several nights before your husband was murdered?” Karp asked.

  “I didn’t see him at all. My husband saw the back of his head, but I didn’t look.”

  “I see. So if the man driving the car was in the stand-in room, would you recognize him?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “Thank you,” Karp said and pressed an intercom button. “We’re ready for the next group.”

  The six men were led out and six more replaced them and followed the same procedures. “Do you recognize any of these men?” Karp asked.

  Antonia’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Well, Number Four, he looks like the second man, the one who stood behind the man who did most of the talking,” Antonia said. “I think it’s him but I am not completely positive; he kept his head down and didn’t say much.”

  “Okay,” Karp replied before pressing the intercom button again. “Thank you, the next group please.”

  “I’m sorry,” Antonia said, wiping at her eyes. “I’m not much help.”

  “You’re doing fine. Relax as much as you can,” Karp said as the second six were replaced with a third set.

  “Number Two,” Antonia said immediately before she was even asked.

  “Number Two? Please explain.”

  “Number Two, that’s him,” she said with contempt. “I will never forget that face. He’s the one who did most of the talking. The one with the accent and the strange eyes.”

  Karp was just about to release the group when Number Two spoke up. “Vali otsjuda!” He sneered at the mirror.

  Quickly, Karp pressed the intercom button. “Number Two, is there anything you’d like to add to your comment? I have a stenographer right here who will want to get every word.”

  The man did not respond except to continue sneering. “Okay,” Karp said. “That will be all.” He turned back to Antonia. “I appreciate you coming in on a night like this. Now, however, it’s late, and I’m going to ask Detective Fulton here to get one of his people to drive you home.”

  Antonia nodded. “Anything I can do,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then added, “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Karp. I’m glad you have these men, but they’re just the tools someone else used. They’re not the real reasons my husband is dead.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Karp replied. “But hopefully they will lead us to the real reason.”

  15

  AFTER A DETECTIVE WAS ASSIGNED to escort Antonia home, Karp leaned back against the hallway wall. “That went well,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  “She didn’t pick out Bill Miller, the redheaded guy in the first group,” Fulton noted.

  “Which makes sense if the driver never got out of the car,” Karp pointed out. “As for group two, she was tentative, but she picked Frank DiMarzo out. And she nailed Alexei Bebnev in the third.”

  “All this proves so far is that Bebnev, and probably DiMarzo, went to Carlotta’s house,” Guma said.

  “In Miller’s car,” Fulton noted. “We got the license plate number. And her story corroborates the other evidence we gathered, too.”

  “Right, which probably puts all three of them in New Rochelle,” Karp said. “But it doesn’t put them in Hell’s Kitchen a few nights later.”

  “And none of those jokers who were with Carlotta—Vitteli, Barros, and Corcione—said anything in their statements to the detectives on the night of the occurrence about the gunman having an accent; plus the perps were wearing masks,” Guma said.

  “One step at a time, my friend. We have the car now, and maybe somebody will recognize it from the crime scene. Let’s talk to Carlotta’s driver, Randy McMahon,” Karp said. “In the meantime, you’re right, Goom; it certainly looks suspicious, but we need to flip one of these three before they all lawyer up.”

  “So who’s going to be first up to the plate?” Guma asked.

  Fixing his friend with a sideways glance, Karp made up his mind. “I want to talk to Nicoli Lopez before we try Gnat Mil
ler. So why don’t you see where you get with DiMarzo first, Goom; then we’ll try the shooter, Bebnev. He has the most information, but I think he’ll be the toughest nut to crack, and we won’t be taking any lesser pleas than murder from him. But considering Bebnev was ready to shoot DiMarzo, a little falling out between friends, maybe Frank will be willing to talk about it.”

  “Where do you want to do this?” Guma asked.

  “The lineup room, so I can watch from the other side and get a feel for these guys.”

  Guma and Fulton walked into the stand-in room, where they were joined by a stenographer. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and DiMarzo was shown in by McNeely. Karp noted the deep dark circles under the young man’s eyes. Doesn’t look like Frank’s getting much sleep, he thought.

  Motioning to a chair across the table from him, Guma sat down and said, “Have a seat, Frank.” He looked at the stenographer and nodded. “My name is Ray Guma; I’m an assistant district attorney with the County of New York. We’re here tonight with Frank DiMarzo. Mr. DiMarzo, I’d like to ask you some questions about the December fifth shooting death of Vincent Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. But first I want to introduce the other people here in the room. The gentleman leaning against the wall in the corner behind me and to my right is NYPD Detective Clay Fulton, assigned to the New York District Attorney’s Office. The stenographer is Carole Mason; she works for the DAO and is here to take down every word we say. Is that clear?”

  DiMarzo, who for the most part kept his head down since sitting, except to glance up briefly with each introduction, nodded.

  “Mr. DiMarzo, you nodded,” Guma said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up so that Ms. Mason can record your affirmation.”

  “Yes, I understand,” DiMarzo said sullenly.

  “Good, now I’m going to advise you of your Miranda rights,” Guma continued, and did just that. “Do you understand your rights?”

  “Yes.”