“What was Monaco’s story?”
“He found blood in the stairwell and a bayonette at the base of the steps. He made his way up to the roof access door, which had been pried open. When he came out onto the roof, he didn’t see anyone. Eventually, he found Bogarde DeFrees hiding behind a vent shaft. Monaco said he told the kid not to move, but that DeFrees pulled a gun on him and ran. Monaco gave chase. He claimed the kid was running at a pretty good clip, stumbled, and went over the side.”
“Too easy,” Blades said. “All too pat.”
“Hey, I’m with you, but the prints on the knife were DeFrees’ as were the prints on the nine millimeter.”
“The blood on the steps?”
“African-American male, type O, but not DeFrees’. Never identified. The assumption was the blood belonged to the other party who was mixing it up with DeFrees in the stairwell.”
“So Bogarde DeFrees was armed with both a knife and a gun, but DeFrees ends up dead and this guy he was fighting with … what happened to him? Did he have like a Star Trek cloaking device or something? Because if the pictures and diagrams in the file are right, he would have had to have run past Monaco to escape.”
“We never found the other guy,” Healy admitted. “Monaco contended that they musta both gone up to the roof when they heard him approaching and that they split up once they got up there. The assumption is that after DeFrees went over the side, the other party slipped back down off the roof.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well,” he said, “let’s see if we can prove it now. We couldn’t four years ago.”
The cover story that Hines and Healy concocted was purposefully lacking in detail. Their pitch was that there was new information concerning the identity of the second party in the stairwell that day in September 2001 and that they were rechecking all the facts they had gathered back then. When people asked what that new information was, they just said they weren’t at liberty to discuss it. Hines did most of the talking with Healy hanging back and observing. Although people did seem motivated to talk, they didn’t have much to say that shed any new light on the day in question. Many simply recognized Healy and asked after him. Those who didn’t feel like talking were four years more beligerent and resentful and took the opportunity to rage against the machine.
“Well, that didn’t get us anywhere,” Healy said.
“I tell you what, you surprise me.”
“How’s that?”
“Most of those people liked you.”
“For a white cop, you mean. I musta had my moments, huh?”
“I guess.”
“It’s what, four? I’m beat.”
“Me too. Let’s go get a drink,” she said. “We’ll start on Building #3 when we get back.”
Things were different when they got back. Word had spread all through the houses about the two of them nosing around and their brilliantly vague story that had gotten some folks to open up a little, suddenly seemed a whole lot less brilliant. No one was talking now and no one was very interested in asking after Healy. Actually, this is what thay had expected in the first place and, if they’d gotten it when they made their initial canvass, neither Detective Hines nor Healy would have given it much thought. But the cold shoulders, slamming doors, and sideway glances coming now as they did, were just pissing them off. It was like a veil of silence had descended on the Nellie Bly Houses and it hadn’t happened by accident.
“Somebody put the clamp down tight,” Blades said, as they walked out of Building #3 into the fully fallen night.
“You could see it in their eyes, somebody put the fear of God into ‘em.”
“Ain’t God they’re afraid of.”
“Who then?”
“Shit, in these projects, could be any number of candidates. We’d have to know what gangs run outta here, who’s dealing outta what building.”
“You wanna call it quits for today?” he asked.
“Hell no! They ain’t talking today, not gonna be any better tomorrow.”
“Okay. Building One or Two?”
“You pick.”
Healy started for Building #1 with Hines at his heels.
They made pretty quick work of the first several floors of Building #1, though it would be more accurate to say the building made quick work of them. If door slamming was an olympic sport, there were several gold medal prospects in the Nellie Bly Houses. But when they got to Apartment 5F, things changed. The door to 5F opened wide for Hines and Healy and there was anything but silence waiting for them inside.
Based purely on the look of her, Evelyn Marsden was a bit of a caricature. She was a very heavyset black woman of fifty with dark skin, a massive bosom, and a dead serious demeaneor. Her hair was slicked and straightened; wore a too-tight print dress; carried a tattered bible in her hand. Her apartment was plainly furnished, neat as a pin, and smelled faintly of frying bacon. The walls were lined with religious-themed paintings and quilts that featured bible quotations. There were several renderings of Jesus, on and off the cross. Interspersed with the religious wall hangings were seemingly incongruous framed photos of the Brooklyn Bridge, the distant Manhattan skyline, fog over the Brooklyn skyline, shots of the concrete and asphalt quad taken from a high vantage point, black and white portraits of homeless men, fishing boats at Sheepshead Bay, the rides at Coney Island. But the thing that caught the attention of both Hines and Healy was the shrine.
Lit votives of all shapes, colors, and sizes filled the center portion of an old roll-top desk. Scattered among the candles were wooden, plaster, and metal crosses, rosary beads, prayer cards, handwritten notes, bible pages, and wallet-sized photos of a smiling little boy with missing teeth and a school uniform. He was a skinny kid, but you could see Evelyn’s face in his. On the top ledge of the desk, resting against the wall, were two 8” x 11” ornate, gold picture frames. One frame held a pastel drawing of a beatific Jesus. The other was of the kid. He was older in this shot, maybe eighteen or nineteen, more serious. The school uniform had been replaced by a sweater and a reversed Kangol cap. A gold cross was nailed to the wall just above the pictures, centered between the frames.
“That’s my boy Edgerin. These here are his pictures,” she said, gesturing at the photos on the wall. “He woulda been the next Gordon Parks had the Lord not taken him for hisself.”
Blades and Healy stared at each other, wondering who was going to ask the question. Healy took the plunge. “What happened to your son?”
“I know it ain’t Christian of me to hold the anger and hate in my heart against you folks, but Lord, it’s so hard sometimes.”
“How do you mean?” Blades wondered.
“It’s near four years and y’all still askin’ round ‘bout that DeFrees boy. Now he been called to the Lord, but he was such a bad child, getting in all kinds of things. Y’all will never let that go, what happened to him. My boy Edgerin, he was killed not a day later, gunned down right in the courtyard, and you folks ain’t never done a thing ‘bout it.”
“Gunned down?”
“Someone walked right up to him and shot him in the head, robbed his camera and all his film, took everything he had, everything he was ever gonna have.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Healy said. “Can you give me the name of the detectives that spoke with you? Maybe my partner here can check if there’s been any progress in the case.”
Blades shook her head yes. “I will do that for you, Mrs. Marsden. And even if there’s nothing to report, I’ll get back to you. I give you my word.”
“I can’t never get past that day. Edgerin was upset about something, but I didn’t have no time to listen to him.”
“Somebody dies. Somebody close feels guilty. It’s the way of life.” Healy explained about his wife’s death and his own guilt. He may have been talking about Mary, but he was thinking about Debbie Hanlon.
“Edgerin was never no troubled boy,” Evelyn was crying now, clutching her son’s portrait to her chest. “He was blessed
to always know what he wanted to be. Person knows what he wants, makes him peaceful. But that day … Lord, I just didn’t have no patience to listen. I know Jesus has forgiven me. Somehow, I can’t forgive myself.”
When the grieving mother wasn’t looking, Healy gave Detective Hines a nod that it was time to go. She winked back in agreement. They spent a few more minutes with Evelyn Marsden, taking her phone number, and reassuring her that someone would get back in touch with her about Edgerin’s case.
They did a few more floors, but it was getting late and getting them nowhere. Healy suggested they quit for the night. Blades didn’t take much convincing. They walked back to the car in silence. When they got there, all four tires had been slashed and pellets from the smashed front windshield adorned the top of the dashboard like careless diamonds.
“Looks like someone else besides Evelyn Marsden took exception to our being here,” Blades said. “Too bad they took it out on your car.”
“Yeah, too bad,” Healy agreed, trying unsuccessfully to contain a smile. “What you smilin’ at?”
“We hit a nerve.”
“That’s what you’re smilin’ at?”
“Someone’s trying to warn us off. That means somebody’s scared.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Maybe not for my car, Blades, but for us, yeah.”
It was near midnight when they got to Blades’ West Village apartment. Healy had AAA tow the car back to Long Island, to the body shop he’d had Serpe’s wrecked car taken to after Joe’d been run off the road last year. The whole time the tow driver was hitching up his car, Healy was thinking about Noonan’s Body Shop and about Debbie Hanlon. That got him thinking about Albie Jimenez and the weird paths down which crimes can take a man. Healy couldn’t believe that Rusty Monaco’s getting murdered on a dead end street in Wheatley Heights had led him back to the Nellie Bly Houses. He thought he’d left behind men like Monaco and places like the projects when he put in his papers, but if being around Serpe had taught Bob Healy anything, it was that you never really leave the job behind. “Nice place.”
“You want something to drink?” Blades asked. “A beer.”
“My apartment’s probably the size of one of your closets out there on Long Island.”
“Just about,” he confessed.
He could have hitched a ride back to the island with the tow truck driver, but decided to pass up the lift. He would only have to come back tomorrow anyway, so Blades and him could finish canvassing and talk to the local precinct detectives about Edgerin Marsden. He felt terrible for the mother. So did Blades, but like they discussed as they waited for the tow, Edgerin Marsden’s murder was, like so much else that happened at the time, swallowed up in the wake of 9/11. He couldn’t really blame the detectives who caught the Marsden case for not doing a full court press on it. Those were strange days. Everybody was in shock and operating on autopilot.
“Here you go.” She handed him a bottle of Corona. She had one of her own.
“Thanks.”
“The couch looks pretty, but sleeping on it don’t do much for your back.”
“I’ll live with it,” he said. “What did you think about the kid’s photographs?”
“Edgerin Marsden’s? They were good, I guess. I ain’t much for photography. Why you wanna know?”
“I’m not sure. There’s just something about them that I can’t get outta my head.”
“Whatever. Let me go get you some bedding.”
As he watched Blades walk away from him, he felt a pang of desire that made him as uncomfortable as anything he’d felt in years. It also felt pretty damned good.
[Hard Hard Days]
MONDAY, JANUARY 17TH, 2005—MORNING
Most mornings it was usually dark and hauntingly quiet when Joe Serpe got to the yard. Sometimes the quiet would be shattered by an early morning LIRR train pulling in or out of Ronkonkoma Station or, when the wind blew just right, by the whining of jet engines from the airport. Snow only added to eerie silence. And it was snowing intensely by the time he got out of his car to unlock the chain link gate. Gigi got out of the car to help. She wasn’t the type of woman to sit on her hands and let other people do for her. Joe had to confess, if only to himself, he kind of liked having Gigi with him. She seemed to like it too. Gigi fit in Joe’s world. Blue collars didn’t frighten her.
“Keeps snowing like this,” he said, looking up into the dawn sky, “and I won’t send any trucks out.”
“You’ll lose alotta money, won’t you?”
“Some, but it’s not worth getting someone killed by a skidding truck or having a truck flip over and spilling three thousand gallons of home heating oil into a front yard.”
“Makes sense.”
“Besides,” he said, wiping the snow off his face and turning to Gigi, “if it stays this bad, most guys won’t put trucks out today and my customers will still be there tomorrow.”
When he reached the key to the lock, Serpe froze.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The lock’s cut. Get back in the car.”
“But—”
“Get back in the car!” he barked, pocketing the keys and replacing them with his Glock. “I’m not waving to you in five minutes, call nine-one-one and drive the hell away from here.”
She didn’t argue. Serpe waited until he saw her get behind the driver’s wheel and lock the doors. He undid the ruined lock and unraveled the chain that held the two sides of the fence gates together. He wiggled his gun hand into the opening and pushed the gate back so he cleared enough space to walk through sideways. He closed the gate behind him so that if something happened to him, Gigi would have time to get away. As Serpe walked slowly ahead, he realized he should have taken the flashlight out of his trunk. It was just light enough to render the flash useless, but there were spots in an oil yard that were dark even under a noonday sun. He didn’t turn back.
First thing he did was to look at the snow for other footprints. There weren’t any as far as he could see, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t broken in before the snow started falling. He turned to his right and saw that the lock on the trailer door had also been cut. He was tempted to check the trailer first, but thought that might be a set up. He’d be very vulnerable climbing the stairs and turning his back. So Serpe walked away from the trailer and did as thorough a search through the rest of the yard as he could in the diffuse light and intensifying snow. He was glad Healy was stuck in the city. Not that Healy couldn’t handle himself. Serpe’d seen him in action. It was just that he didn’t know his way around the yard and the trucks the way Joe did and that was dangerous.
Serpe climbed on top of the tugboat’s tank, which gave him a good perspective on the entire yard and adjoining lots. Nothing. At least nothing out of the ordinary. By the time he’d climbed down off the truck and checked under the chassis of all the trucks, his mouth was cotton dry and his heart was pounding. It was time for the trailer.
He nearly slipped climbing the snow slick wooden stairs, which were wobbly at the best of times. The lock clanked to the landing without much of a fight, but Serpe hesitated to go into the trailer. As open to attack as he had been before now, it was nothing compared to his vulnerability at this point. The trailer door opened out. If he stood behind it, the door would pin him against the landing rail. He’d have nowhere to go and no way to get there. If he stood on the steps and threw the door open, he would be as easy a target as a shooter was ever likely to find. Still, he chose to open the door from the steps.
He yanked the door open and dived off the steps. When he hit the ground, he rolled into shooting position. Nothing. No one. No sound. He leaned over, found a stone with his free hand, and tossed it through the open door. Again, nothing. He carefully climbed the stairs, came into the trailer, sweeping his gun at the blind spots in the room. He was alone, but when he turned on the office lights, he saw that Santa had delivered a late Christmas gift.
Blades was right, the c
ouch was incredibly uncomfortable and Healy hadn’t slept very well. Problem was, Healy couldn’t blame it on the furniture. He had spent half the time dreading that Blades might come to him in the night. He spent the other half hoping she would. It was clear she had been flirting with him the other night at the bar and although she had conducted herself like a complete professional during their time at the Nellie Bly Houses, Healy had caught her glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He may have been out of practice with women, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize the signs of attraction. He certainly was recognizing them in himself.
They’d taken the F train back into Brooklyn. Detective Hines had thought to stop at IAB and get a car, but the snow put the kibosh on that idea. In any case, the subway stop was located only a few blocks from the precinct in one direction and the Nellie Bly Houses in the other. Neither Healy nor Hines was much in the mood for a morning of door slamming, so they chose to go to the precinct first. If they had known about the lack of enthusiasm with which they were to be greeted at the local precinct, they might have chosen differently.
It wasn’t that they were getting the usual bullshit because Hines was IAB. On the contrary, both Blades and Healy had been purposefully vague about their departmental association. Blades had introduced herself as Detective Hines and she had introduced Healy as a friend and retired detective. It was the Marsden case itself that had produced the reaction. Though the number of homicides in New York City had shrunken from an astounding two thousand plus per year to somewhere in the six hundred range, detectives didn’t like open cases any better now than in the bad old days. When they persisted, one of the detectives whispered to them in confidence.
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