Fourth Victim

by Coleman, Reed Farrel

  “Anything on the news about Stanfill?” Gigi asked, pointing at the TV.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “You knew my brother too.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t like him very much.”

  “I didn’t, no. He had no business being a cop.”

  “So why you doing this, helping Joe out?”

  “Joe owed a debt to your brother.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “We’re partners.”

  “In business.”

  “It’s complicated,” Healy said.

  “It always is. I got nowhere to go.”

  “Joe Serpe was the best detective NYPD Narcotics ever had and I was the cop who took him off the street.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a good start to a partnership.”

  “I told you it was complicated.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Okay, let’s say this. Joe owed your brother a debt and I owe Joe a debt.”

  “Yeah, but my brother saved Joe’s life. What did he do for you?”

  “He saved my life.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a long answer to that, but the short one’s better.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He forgave me.”

  Gigi Monaco didn’t ask any more questions.

  When Serpe got back in, Healy asked Gigi to give them a few minutes together in private. She scowled, but didn’t complain.

  “Listen,” Healy whispered, “I didn’t want to bring this up in front of her this morning, but there’s something important that Blades found out.”

  “What?”

  “The freeze on Monaco’s files is probably tied to another DOI investigation.”

  “Well, yeah, we both sort of figured Monaco couldn’t have been the target. What would anyone want with a cop who’s been two years retired?”

  “But you’re not gonna believe it when I tell you the name Blades uncovered.”

  “Tell me and we’ll see.”

  “The Reverend James Burgess.”

  “Get the fuck outta here!”

  “That was pretty much my reaction, but Blades swears by her source.”

  “Rusty Monaco hated—”

  “No shit! I’m the one who investigated him every other year for kicking the crap out of some black kid.”

  “But Burgess of all people. I mean, even white folks who love their fellow man and go to church every Sunday hate that blowhard prick. Shit, Bob,” Serpe whispered, “half the brothers I know hate Burgess.”

  “I hear you, but Blades knows what she’s talking about.”

  “Did she say what the connection was between Monaco and Burgess?”

  “All she got was the name. Apparently, this is too hot to handle. Anyone gets caught leaking this. You could see how that would be trouble.”

  Healy explained to Serpe about Burgess’s business connections to the City of New York. Joe sat and took it in, only half-believing it.

  “All that clown does is bitch about the city,” he said when Healy was through. “The cops are racists. The sanitation department doesn’t plow the Brownsville streets fast enough. City hospitals don’t treat African-Americans with the best drugs. It’s fucking endless with that guy.”

  “Must be nice to bite the hand that feeds you and to get more and more food.”

  “You’d think no one in city government had heard the term conflict of interest.”

  “I think maybe that’s what the investigation is about.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t get what Rusty Monaco’s got to do with it.”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe they put a clamp down on every possible link to the Reverend Burgess and we’re the ones making something of it. But we’ll find out soon enough. Tomorrow, Blades and me are going over to the Nellie Bly Houses in Brooklyn and see what we can see.”

  “I’m coming too.”

  “No you’re not,” Healy said. “First off, you look like crap and you need to rest. I was the one who came and got you last year with your brains all scrambled and took you to Stony Brook Hospital. That was pretty serious shit. You still don’t remember calling me or what happened to you. After that knock on the head last night, we both know you shouldn’t’ve been out there on the truck today.”

  “If you got your Class B, I wouldn’t have been out there.”

  “I wanted to get one, remember?”

  “No. Must be the concussion.”

  “Very funny. Plus you gotta watch Monaco’s sister. You can’t schlep her along with us into the projects. We’ll look like the fucking Mod Squad.”

  “You’re pushing too hard, Healy. What’s really on your mind?”

  “You really wanna know, huh?”

  “I really wanna know.”

  “No one’s gonna talk to you in the projects. They’ll smell narc on you like I smell oil on you right now. The one place IAB’s got an advantage is in a place like the projects and even then, it’s only a small advantage. Don’t forget, Joe, in their eyes, IAB’s out to fuck other cops. They’ll help with that.”

  “Things got better after I got—when I left. Crime’s down even in the projects. There must be better cooperation than there used to be.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Joe. The lovefest ain’t happened yet. Remember Abner Louima? People don’t forget that kinda torture. And Amadou Dialou? Those shots are still echoing around the projects.”

  Serpe knew what his partner was saying was the unfortunate truth. He understood that the projects were worlds unto themselves with unique cultures and codes and means of survival. It had been nearly impossible for him to get cooperation working cases in the projects. Even when he partnered up with black detectives or after some warring drug factions got innocent kids caught in the line of fire, folks in the projects kept their mouths shut. Not that he blamed them. The NYPD hadn’t exactly distinguished itself by making it a friend to the black man. It didn’t matter, anyway. On balance, the dealers had more to hurt you with than the cops had to protect you. You help the cops and this week’s kingpin pays some shorty to stick a cap in your ear.

  “Okay, for now, I’ll keep away,” Serpe said. “Besides, I gotta get those Suffolk PD files on the first four homicides. But you get a lead or something, I’m in.”

  “We get something and you’ll know it.”

  [In Any Language]

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 15TH, 2005—EVENING

  The Little Greek Café was on Hawkins Avenue in Ronkonkoma. For years before Joe Serpe had rebuilt his life, he’d eat dinner there a few times a week. When he was done, he would head across the street to Lugo’s for an evening of Absolut and absolutely any woman who offered up her bed. The place was crowded, if not full. Maria, the waitress who had been at the café for so many years she was as much a part of the décor as the blue vinyl booths and the cheesy frescos of the Mediterranean, lit up at the sight of Joe.

  “You abandoned me, no?” she said with a wink.

  “You? Never.”

  “You sure you’re not Greek? I think you Greek.”

  “Italian, Maria.”

  “I think your grandparents, they swim to Sicily.”

  “Could be.”

  “Is so. I feel it.”

  Things had changed. Maria was a little older, grayer. The booths had a few more tears repaired with duct tape, but Maria didn’t skip a beat. Although Joe hadn’t been in for more than a year, her routine about his family tree was the same. “What happened to your head?”

  “Banged it into a wall.”

  She didn’t believe him. “Sure. Sure. Take any seat you want, Joe.”

  “I’ll take that two-top over there by the booth. Someone’s meeting me in a few minutes.”

  “A woman? I was right. You breaking my heart.”

  “When you see who’s meeting me, Maria, your heart will be all better. I promise.”

  “Men and their promises. Pffff!” She waved her hand. “Worthless.�
�

  Serpe sat down, staring blindly at the menu. He was pretty spent from work and he was still suffering the after effects of the knock on his head. He was also very much on edge about Stanfill. There was nothing on the radio all day. Now he figured it would be at least Monday before someone else found the body. No lawyers, not even the strip mall variety, worked on Sundays. Once they found the body, it would be a few days until the Nassau cops worked their way through the dead lawyer’s calendar and back to Joe. The added time was anything but a reprieve. On the job, there was this detective who had to retire because of panic attacks. “It’s not the attacks themselves,” he told Serpe. “I can deal with those. It’s the waiting for them to happen that gets to me.” If he hadn’t fully understood then, Joe got it now.

  Detective Timothy Hoskins fairly strolled into the café like he owned the place. Everything about him, from his sneer to his lumbering gait, a warning to the rest of the world: I’m a badass motherfucker. Keep your distance. Serpe knew better. Hoskins dumped himself into the seat across from Joe with a thud and purposefully scraped the chair legs along the blue and white tile floor as he pulled up to the table. He waited for Serpe to say the first word.

  “Christ, Hoskins, give it a fucking rest. Don’t you ever get tired of this tough guy bullshit? We’re here to do business.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re here. I’m here to eat.”

  Serpe waved for Maria to come take the order. She scowled at Hoskins as he ordered two cheeseburgers, double fries and extra raw onion. Joe ordered gyro meat over a salad and asked Maria to bring over a couple of Greek beers. She came back with the beers, some bread, and yogurt sauce. Neither Serpe nor Hoskins made a move to clink bottles. “You eat that gyro shit? It’s cat meat.”

  “Meow.” Serpe ignored him, dipping his edge of pita into the yogurt sauce.

  “Very funny. So, what’s this business?”

  “I want copies of the files on the first four murdered drivers.” Hoskins made a show of spitting out his beer. “That’s almost as funny as the cat noise and that wasn’t too funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Good thing you’re paying for dinner or I’d be outta here.”

  “That’s weird. I thought you were paying for dinner because me and Healy solved your case for you and you didn’t look like the total incompetent piece of shit that you are in front of the press,” Joe said, smiling the whole time. “But as long as I get those files, I’ll spring for dinner.”

  “Fuck you!” Hoskins made to stand.

  “Sit the fuck down or I’ll tell the press about how you had nothing to do with closing the case on Albie Jimenez, Debbie Hanlon, and Hank Noonan. How do you think you’ll look on the cover of Newsday giving back your medal and commendation?”

  Hoskins snarled, but he sat down. “I ain’t got ‘em yet. Besides, you don’t have the balls.”

  “Try me.”

  “Maybe you don’t give a shit about yourself, but you wouldn’t do it to Healy’s brother, the ADA. Never mind how I would look. He wouldn’t look too good neither.”

  “And how do you think the DA and the Commissioner will look, Hoskins? The two of them would look worst of all. Who do you think would catch the shit for that? Not me. What could they do to my rep that hasn’t already been done? I’m a private citizen, a disgraced cop, remember? You keep playing chicken with me and you’ll find out what that feels like, being a disgraced cop. You wouldn’t last five minutes without having people to bully or a badge in your pocket to bully them with. You’d eat your gun before the ink was dry on your papers.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, you said that. Listen, thanks to me and Healy, you’ve had a good streak, but it won’t last. Another driver gets killed and people will start paying attention again. They’ll also notice that you haven’t picked up Burns yet for the Hanlon and Noonan murders. I’m sure Newsday will be only too glad to remind the good people of Suffolk County. I’ve lived here long enough to know they don’t like murderers running around the county.”

  Hoskins leaned across the table. “What is it you really want?”

  “That’s simple. I want to find out who killed Rusty Monaco.”

  “The guy was a piece of shit. He probably deserved what he got, the cunt.”

  “Did I hear you right?”

  “You heard me right. He was a worse cop than you. He probably had it coming.”

  “Even if he did, I want the files. So here’s the deal. Get me copies of the case files. If Healy and me find the killer, we turn it over to you. You get the glory and I find out who killed Monaco. Tough deal to pass up when there’s no downside for you.”

  Hoskins considered it, running his fingers along the stubble on his cheeks.

  “Keep your fucking deal,” he said, standing up. “And keep your food too.”

  “Too bad, Hoskins, because I won’t be the only one going to the media.”

  “Who—”

  Just then, Gigi Monaco slid out of the booth behind the table Hoskins and Serpe were seated at.

  “I believe you know Georgine Monaco,” Serpe said to the detective.

  “So my big brother was a piece of shit and a cunt who had it coming to him? Mr. Serpe warned me about you. He was right, you’re not even trying to solve my brother’s murder,” she said loudly enough so that the other diners were beginning to pay attention. Hoskins noticed them noticing.

  “You heard wrong. That’s not how it is.”

  “No?” Gigi held up a hand held digital recorder. “Should I play it back so everyone here can listen?”

  “Forget it,” Hoskins said, but didn’t sit back down.

  Maria delivered the food to the table.

  “Sit down and eat,” Serpe said.

  “I got no appetite to eat with a rat.”

  “I wrap it for you to go,” Maria said to Hoskins.

  “I got a better idea. Stick it up his ass.” Hoskins intentionally banged into the table as he left. All the food spilled onto the floor, the thick white dishes smashing when they hit the tile.

  Maria was still screaming at him even as the door shut behind him. Joe Serpe didn’t understand Greek, but he didn’t have to. Tim Hoskins was a detestable man in any language. Maria refused Joe’s help in cleaning up the mess. Serpe put two twenties and a ten on the table and left.

  “So, I guess that didn’t go how you wanted it,” Gigi said, as Serpe opened the car door for her.

  “Don’t sweat it. He’ll get me the files. If he wasn’t going to get them, he’d’ve stayed and eaten to rub my face in it. That shit with the breaking dishes, that’s just what bullies do.”

  “I know, my brother was one.”

  Joe Serpe didn’t say a word as he closed the car door.

  [Cloaking Device]

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 16TH, 2005

  The Nellie Bly Houses were four depressing, twenty story beige brick towers, that jutted up into the Brooklyn skyline like a grouping of amputated middle fingers. Healy shook his head at the sight of them. You didn’t have to be a philosophical sort to wonder about the thought processes of the men who had created this vertical ghetto. He told Blades as much.

  “Ghetto,” she said, snickering. “There’s a word you don’t hear much in the twenty-first century. Next you’re gonna start talking slums and shit.”

  “I don’t mean ghetto like that. I mean it like warehouse. It’s just backwards.”

  “I guess I understand.”

  They parked Healy’s car and walked around to the back of Building #4; the building from which fifteen year-old Bogarde DeFrees either fell or was pushed. Healy pointed at a thick hedge that marked out a border between Building #4 and a sad little playground of moot see-saw anchors, swingless swings, and holes in the black rubber mats where slide support poles used to sit.

  “There used to be a wrought iron fence right here where he landed. They replaced it with these bushes, I guess. It was pretty fucking gruesome with the kid impaled on the
fence. Blood was everywhere and the fence was all twisted from the force of the impact. And I only saw the crime scene photos.”

  “These?” Blades said, opening her copy of the file.

  “Those.”

  “He fell pretty far away from the building.”

  “That’s why the detectives who originally caught it, pretty much thought the kid was pushed or thrown from the roof. If he just fell, he would have landed closer to the footprint of the building.”

  “Mighta jumped.”

  “Yeah,” Healy agreed, “that could account for it too. Now you see why we had a nightmare making a case. Without eyewitnesses or forensics to prove Monaco tossed the kid … And it wasn’t like the young Mr. Defrees was an untroubled victim here. He was pretty well familiar with the arcane workings of the child welfare system and the juvee institutions this fine city has to offer. He’d spent a few overnights at the Kings County Psych unit too.”

  “Even if Defrees was a gangsta or a total head case, it doesn’t justify murder.”

  “You’re right, but I’m just trying to point out how hard it was to make a case.”

  They walked around to the central commons, a quadrangle of asphalt paths and green-painted concrete wedges meant to imply lawns. They were marked off with short poles and slouching runs of chain between them. There was a big patch of blank concrete fill in the middle of the quad where a full-size bronze likeness of Nellie Bly, the world famous 19th century journalist and adventurer, had once rested. Where the statue had got too was anybody’s guess. She always did suffer from wanderlust, that Nellie Bly. The main entrances to the project buildings were set at the extremes of the paths.

  “So what were Monaco and McCauley doing here in the first place?” Blades asked as they made the turn around Building #4 for the commons.

  “Guy in the building tipped off the local precinct about a fence operating out of an apartment on the top floor. Of course the guy who ratted out the fence had bought a stolen credit card himself. Problem was, the card had been cancelled and the fence had a strict no money back policy. When McCauley and Monaco came to arrest the fence, a woman on the floor came screaming that there was some sort of commotion going on in the stairwell leading up to the roof. Monaco told McCauley to stay with the prisoner and went to check it out. What really happened from that moment until the time Bogarde DeFrees hit the wrought iron twenty stories down is still pretty much unknown.”