Fourth Victim

by Coleman, Reed Farrel

  “But there is something you can do about this!” Healy said, slapping his hand against the front page of the paper. “You’re the one with the debt here, partner, not me. Try and remember that. So what’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to start casting the big net, asking around all the companies who lost a driver. Maybe there’s a link the cops aren’t seeing. With Hoskins catching the cases, that wouldn’t surprise me. Then I’m going to pay a call to the Monacos.”

  “And me?”

  “You get the easy part.”

  “I’m gonna love this.” Healy rolled his eyes.” I can tell already.”

  “You’re gonna call your little brother George the ADA and get all the info on the homicides that they’re not printing in the papers.”

  “Oh, is that all? Should I also sprout wings and fly like an angel? That would be easier.”

  “The wings are optional.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “While you’re at it, call your homies at IAB and get a hold of Monaco’s jacket.”

  “That I can do. It won’t be easy, but—”

  The phone rang and Healy answered, “Mayday Fuel, good morning.” When he turned back around, Joe Serpe was gone.

  While most drivers got along, the owners of COD oil companies weren’t exactly part of a tight knit community. These were small operations run by fiercely competitive men who’d chop their own profit margines down to nothing to steal a customer from the next guy. So while Serpe had engendered a lot of good will when he was a driver and by clearing the Russian mob out of the COD oil business, not many of his fellow owners were apt to roll out the red carpet when he came calling.

  Baseline Energy on Long Island Avenue in Holtsville had been the first company to lose a driver back in late November. It was the first cold week of the heating season and Steve Reggio was doing night deliveries so customers wouldn’t get caught short on Thanksgiving. The cops found his body alongside his truck on a dead end block in Hagerman where it bordered North Bellport. He’d taken two bullets to the chest and one to the back of the head. They figure the killer got away with about twenty-five hundred bucks in cash.

  Baseline Energy was a profitable company. Unlike Joe and Bob’s dusty yard, Baseline’s was blacktop paved and their offices were housed in a neat little concrete bunker. Their eight trucks were all newer than Mayday’s ragtag fleet of four. Many of the trucks were just rolling out of the yard on their way to load when Serpe pulled up. He waited for the trucks to leave before heading into the office.

  There were two women—mother and daughter, he figured—answering the phones when Joe stepped inside the office door. The mom was in her fifties and trying way too hard to hide her age with a raven black dye job, skin-tight clothes, and a layer of makeup so thick it could’ve been peeled off like a rubber mask. She wasn’t unattractive, but Joe thought all the hedging just made her look older. The daughter was maybe twenty, came by her black hair naturally, and had everything else her mom aspired to.

  “Can I help you?” Mom asked, putting down the phone.

  “Is Jimmy in?” “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Joe Serpe from Mayday Fuel.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re the guy that killed the Russians last year, right? I read all about that in the paper. Good riddance, but it was a shame about that retarded kid.”

  “Yeah, he was a good kid.” Joe took the opening. “Shame about Stevie. I knew him a little bit from the terminal and Lugo’s. A real sweetheart and a good looking boy.”

  The daughter blanched. The phones started ringing again, but both mother and daughter ignored them. Finally, the mother shouted for her daughter to pick up.

  “I’m Marie, Jimmy’s wife,” said the mom, offering her hand to Joe. “You have to forgive Toni, that’s my girl, she and Stevie.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope they string that cocksucker up—Pardon my French—when they find him. But the kids were engaged and when they got married, Jimmy was gonna make him a partner. Now.”

  Both mother and daughter had tears streaming down their faces and no one was answering the phones.

  “I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here.”

  Now suspicion crept into the eyes of mother and daughter along with pain and grief. Marie stood up and came around the desk like a mother lion ready to protect her young. Joe put his hands up, palms forward.

  “Listen, ladies, I’m not here to cause you any pain or anything or to try and take advantage of your grief.”

  “Then why are—”

  “If you read that stuff about the Russians last year, then maybe you know that me and my partner used to be NYPD detectives; pretty good ones, at that.”

  The daughter unclenched her body, but the mother wasn’t letting down her guard just yet. “So what’s that got to do with anything?” she asked. “You know they found another dead driver last night.” “I heard it on the news this morning, yeah.”

  “That’s five of us, Marie. Two in the last few days. Rusty Monaco, the fourth victim, I used to be on the job with him and I guess when he was killed. I mean, how many more of us are gonna have to get killed before the cops find this guy?”

  Marie relaxed, finally. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. Milk, no sugar.”

  “I’m kinda glad, I guess, that someone else is gonna look into this. That detective who came and talked to us was kinda an asshole,” she said, replacing the pot.

  “Big, red-faced guy with a funky eye, named Hoskins?”

  “Yeah, him,” she said, handing Joe the Baseline Energy mug. “Toni, answer the phones while I talk in the office with Mr. Serpe.”

  Bob Healy assumed getting hold of Rusty Monaco’s records, though not strictly kosher or legal, would be easily done. He still had a lot of friends with juice inside NYPD IAB and anything that might help catch a cop killer—even if that cop was a mutt like Monaco—was probably doable. Skip Rodriguez, Healy’s former partner, promised to give him a call when the copies were ready to be picked up. That meant a trip into Brooklyn and a few drinks at Cloudy Dan’s bar—on Bob Healy’s tab, of course—with Skip. Although Rodriguez was a bit of a cutthroat, Bob missed him and looked forward to hanging out at Cloudy Dan’s.

  Dealing with Suffolk County Assistant District Attorney George Healy was a very different kettle of sharks. Several years younger than his brother and more ambitious by half, George had risen to the head of the Major Crimes Unit and prosecuted most of the headline cases, such as they were, in the county. When that East Hampton billionaire got clubbed to death by his wife and her handyman lover, it was George’s case. And when the cops finally brought in the Oilman Murderer, it would no doubt be George’s case to try. It wouldn’t help Bob’s cause that his brother hated Joe Serpe and resented him for his interference in the Russian mob case nearly as much as Hoskins did.

  “Major Crimes Unit, ADA Healy,” George said, distracted. “Please hold a second.”

  Bob heard his brother cover the phone with his hand.

  “Hey, little brother.”

  George hated when Bob called him that. “What is it?” “Late breakfast?”

  “Sure,” he said, trying to get Bob off the phone. “Where?” “What are you in the mood for?” “A month’s vacation in Tuscany.”

  “Sorry. How about the diner in Hauppauge in forty minutes.” “I’ll be there.”

  Joe Serpe had worn the same grave look of concern on his face for nearly thirty minutes, interrupting his trance with the occasional I see or time heals. He’d gotten all the useful information out of Marie Mazzone in about five minutes, but he hadn’t wanted to upset her anymore than she already was. Now, however, she had moved way beyond the murder to complaints about her husband’s inattentiveness. So when the office door swung back, Serpe almost clicked up his heels. That was until he saw the look on Jimmy Mazzone’s face.

  “What the fuck you doin’ sniffin’ around my business?”

  “He was just asking a
bout Stevie,” Marie jumped to Serpe’s defense, which pissed Jimmy off even more.

  “Did I ask you? Get out there and answer the fuckin’ phones.”

  Marie didn’t argue. She got up, nodded so long to Serpe, and brushed by her sneering husband.

  “So now that your lawyer’s gone, you wanna answer my—”

  “Your wife was right. I came by to ask about Steve Reggio’s murder. Fact is, I came in to talk to you. Ask your daughter.”

  “I don’t have to ask my daughter shit. Now get outta here. Stevie’s dead and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that. You just worry about your own shop and let me worry about me and mine.”

  “Whatever you say, Jimmy.”

  Serpe got up and walked past Mazzone into the front office. “Bye ladies. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Joe didn’t linger. He thought Jimmy’s level of belligerence was a little over the top, but he’d worry about that later. For now, he had other owners to piss off.

  The diner called attention to itself like a fake twenty carat diamond ring. Beneath the flash and glitz, it was nothing more than a luncheonette. George Healy was already in the lobby, pacing the terrazo and checking his watch, when his brother came in.

  “You’re late,” George said.

  “I’m five minutes early.”

  “Like I said, you’re late.”

  “And mom always thought I was the crazy one. Come on, let’s sit.”

  Bob Healy was careful not to say anything about the purpose of this meeting until they had ordered their food.

  “A half a melon, dry toast, and green tea! Christ, George, you an assitant district attorney or a model?”

  “Very funny, big brother,” he said as the waitress walked away. “And by the way, the answer is no.”

  “The answer to what?”

  “Come on, Bob, don’t play dumb with me. It doesn’t suit you. A fifth driver was killed last night and you’re partnered up with the hero of the oil business, Joe ‘the Snake’ Serpe.”

  “Okay, you got me, so—”

  “There’s no so here, brother. The only reason I even agreed to this meeting was to tell you that this is the first and last conversation we’re ever going to have about these homicides. When the Suffolk PD catches this guy—and they will catch him—I’ll be the one to prosecute the case. I can’t be seen to have given out any information to—”

  “You sound pretty confident, little brother. I figure they’ll catch him eventually too, if he doesn’t die of old age or run out of drivers first. You know who the lead detective is, huh?”

  “Hoskins,” George mumbled, frowning.

  “Bingo! The same prick who would be tripping over his own shoe laces while the Russian mob murdered women and children and took over the COD oil business. Yeah, him.”

  “That’s outta my hands, Bob, and you know it. Even if I agreed with everything you just said, I couldn’t help you with this.”

  Bob Healy stood up and threw a twenty dollar bill on the table. “Where are you going?” George asked. “Back to work. I just lost my appetite.”

  Serpe was on his way to his third stop of the day, Five Star Fuel, but he couldn’t get the second stop out of his head. Panther Oil was out of business. An ancient cab-over Ford with a for sale sign in its dirty front window sat out by the empty, gated yard collecting dust and very little interest. Joe knew it had been a small operation, but hadn’t realized that Cameron Wilkes, the second victim, was running a one man show. Most everyone knew and liked Wilkes, one of the few African-American owner/drivers in the business. For fifteen years he drove for other companies before taking the leap this past September. They found him dead in Wyandanch in the first week of December. Fifteen hard years for three months of independence. Joe wondered if it was worth it.

  Five Star was a one star operation run by Tommy Breen, a man as popular as a bad case of the crabs. His drivers were all head cases and nasty to boot. His equipment was worse. Five Star had a raggedy six truck fleet that was kept running with duct tape and prayers. Oil trucks carry hazardous material, but Five Star’s trucks were themselves hazardous. They were all scavenged rebuilds whose parts had seen better days during the first Reagan administration. And Breen’s idea of fleet maintainance included the use of retreaded rubber on front tires, which was strictly forbidden by law. He was also known to run his trucks with heating oil—essentially diesel fuel—which was also completely illegal. Yet, Five Star seemed never to get anymore grief from the IRS, Department of Transportaion, or New York State Department of Environmental Protection than any of the other COD operators.

  Joe knew several other owners who had, to no apparent effect, dropped dimes on Five Star to rat out Breen’s practices. It was a bit cowardly, but sort of SOP in the business whenever someone bent the rules, by which they all had to live. Though it was never talked about directly, everyone knew and understood. It was kind of like old time baseball, when there were unwritten laws about when pitchers could throw at batters. There was no hot dogging or home run trots in old time baseball. And in the COD oil business, people knew how far they could bend the rules.

  Five Star’s office was a run down shack in a dirty, pitted yard. Next to the office, a burly hispanic guy in filthy coveralls was doing a rear brake job on ‘77 Mack with a dented tank, mismatched fenders, and balding tires. As Serpe approached him, the man slid his torso under the rear axle.

  “Nice rig,” Joe said to the mechanic’s legs.

  “You think so, jefe?” a voice echoed from under the truck. “I think you are blind or a liar, no?”

  “Maybe both. Breen around?” “You his amigo?”

  “If I was, I’d be the only one,” Serpe said.

  The mechanic slid out from under the truck and stood up, wiping his stubbled face with a greasy blue rag. He wasn’t more than five foot nine, but he was big through the chest and shoulders. He had the telltale cold stare—both blank and threatening—of someone who’d survived a long bid. When he shoved back his sleeves and peeled off his blue latex gloves, the tats confirmed what Joe already guessed.

  “What you want with Tommy?”

  “To talk.”

  “Talk to me first.” “You his secretary?” “You a comedian?” “You got a name?” “Yeah.” Silence.

  “Me too.”

  “You smell like five-o, so where’s your tin at?”

  “And you stink like a shitbird, but I’m not a cop anymore and you’re not inside, so let’s start over. I’m Joe Serpe from Mayday Fuel.” Serpe stuck out his hand.

  If the name meant something to the mechanic, he didn’t show it. “They call me Zeus.” He shook Serpe’s hand.

  “Hands of steel,” Joe said, taking back his hand. “Is Tommy around?” “Out on his truck.”

  “Did you know the driver that was killed?” “Dave? I knew him. Asshole. What about him?” “Nice way to talk about the dead.”

  “I talk about him to his face worse when he was alive. Dying don’t get you no extra points. Besides, Dave’s no different from the rest of these fuckeeng drivers.” Zeus’ English got worse and his accent got more pronounced as he grew more agitated. “They can all get killed.” He spit for emphasis.

  “What about Breen?”

  Zeus stepped forward, the cold stare on his face replaced by an angry, more overtly threatening glare. “You shut your mouth about Tim. The man, he save my fuckeeng life.”

  Before Zeus could take another step, Serpe stuck the muzzle end of his Glock under the mechanic’s chin.

  “Listen to me, Zeus. I’m not a cop no more, but don’t for one fuckin’ second think I won’t blow your worthless brains through the top of your fuckin’ head. I’m not here to bust your boss’ balls or cause him grief. I just wanna talk to him. When I put this away,” Joe said, pressing the Glock a little harder into the fleshy area between Zeus’ chin and adam’s apple, “I’m gonna give you a card to give to him and I’m gonna give you a card to keep. Tell him to call me. You gimme me a ca
ll if you want extra work, because to keep these pieces of shit trucks on the road, you must be a magical fuckin’ mechanic. Shake your head yes and step back.”

  The mechanic shook his head and stepped back. Serpe tucked the gun away and handed Zeus two refrigerator magnets shaped like oil trucks with Mayday’s name and phone numbers printed on the tank.

  “These ain’t no cards.”

  “I own an oil company, Zeus. What the fuck do I need business cards for?”

  “I see your point.”

  “Go finish your brake job and maybe the next time we meet, we can leave the macho bullshit out of it.”

  The mechanic didn’t say anything. He stuffed the magnets in his pocket and walked back toward the jacked up Mack. Serpe watched him until his body disappeared under the truck.

  [Fu Manchu]

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 7TH, 2005—AFTERNOON

  Skip Rodriguez wasn’t sitting where he was supposed to be nor was he anywhere to be found inside Cloudy Dan’s bar in Red Hook. Even after the new rules about rotating officers in and out of IAB were established in the 90s, it was uncomfortable for regular cops to hang with their IAB brothers and sisters. Cloudy Dan’s, once the exclusive hangout of the toughest, most crooked longshoremen on the planet, had become IAB’s ironic little joke. It was sort of their home away from home and away from other cops. And it was the place where Bob Healy and Skip Rodriguez used to meet to conduct their business away from prying eyes and curious ears.

  Sitting in the red vinyl booth where he and Skip always met, was a rail thin, dark- skinned black chick, drinking a Diet Coke and trying to force down a bowlful of Cloudy Dan’s famously awful chili. Healy gave her a lot of credit for even trying. The joke was that the local rats fed the chili to their pet roaches under the table. Bob Healy sat at the bar, ordered a Jack and Coke, and sipped while he waited for Skip to show.

  Twenty minutes later, when he was gnawing on ice cubes and had left messages on both Rodriguez’s cell and land line, he got up to leave. He was shaking his head in disgust and cursing under his breath as he stepped through Cloudy Dan’s front door and walked back out into the bright, but heatless, Brooklyn sun. He was so pissed off that he didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind him. He started at the touch of an unexpected hand on his arm. Jumping back, he slid his hand under his coat for his old off-duty piece. When he recognized his potential attacker as the chili eating black chick from Cloudy Dan’s, he relaxed and flushed red with embarrassment.