“What don’t you know?”
“I was watching McCauly’s face in the rearview mirror the whole time and I noticed his reactions to your mentioning Monaco’s will and to me whispering Burgess’ name.”
“That’s a cute trick, the mirror thing.”
“Whatever. That’s not the thing. See, I understand why mentioning the will and Burgess got a rise outta him. Shit, mention Burgess to any white cop in this city and he’ll break out in hives. And the will, us knowing about it made him nervous because he was surprised we knew about it.”
“Is this going someplace?” Healy asked.
“Did you see the look on his face when you showed him Edgerin Marsden’s photography?”
“No, I was too busy looking at the photo myself. What did I miss?”
“He kept steady, but he got them buggy eyes. He seemed even more nervous than when you brought up the will. Why should Edgerin Marsden mean a thing to McCauly?”
“He shouldn’t.”
“My point exactly,” she said.
Healy shrugged his shoulders. Except for the time he’d spent with Blades, he was beginning to seriously regret his decision to help Serpe. This Monaco thing just kept getting bigger and bigger and less connected to the actual murder that started the chain of events. Maybe, it was time to try something out of character for him to see if they couldn’t reel it back in. He stood up.
“What’re you doing?” Blades asked.
“We’re getting off.”
“We are? Why?”
“Do you like old movie houses?”
“What?”
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll see.”
All morning long, Joe and Gigi had watched the screen crawl and jumped from channel to channel in hopes of catching something else on Stanfill’s murder. They got nothing new because there was nothing new to get. But by about 3 o’clock, the local cable news channel had set up shop at the strip mall. The first person to be interviewed was the dojo owner. He said he had noticed a foul odor when he opened up the studio that morning and called the gas company. The gas man came and tested for a leak. He didn’t find one, but he had to confess he noticed the odor as well. Frustrated, the dojo owner said he tried to locate the source of the smell himself. He figured out it was coming from the lawyer’s office and went next door to talk to Stanfill.
“I knew he was there, because his car was parked in the lot. But he didn’t answer the door or the phone when I called. I figured he was sick in there or something, so I called nine-one-one.”
Next up was video footage of a twenty-something female reporter standing in the snow out in front of a condo development called Pine Winds Estates.
“Susan Stanfill Palanco, Brian Stanfill’s ex-wife, who lives in this development, became concerned about the lawyer when he didn’t show up to pick up their young son on Friday evening for his scheduled visit. At first, say police, she was angry when her former husband did not return her phone calls. Not having heard from him all weekend, she decided to call notify the Nassau Police. We tried to get a comment from Mrs. Palanco, who has since remarried, but no one answered the doorbell. When we called the home, a man answered and said Mrs. Palanco was grieving and attending to her son.”
But the person Serpe was really interested in was last to appear. An impatient, hatchet-faced man, in a tan trench coat, a shield clipped to his left lapel, stood in front of several hand-held microphones. He didn’t like the attention, but gave a brief statement.
“My name is Detective J.W. Keyes of the Nassau County Police Department. While the exact cause of death is yet to be determined, it does appear that Mr. Stanfill’s death was the result of foul play. We are in the process of collecting evidence and we will release details when they are forthcoming. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
He retreated behind the yellow tape without answering a single question being shouted at him by reporters.
Joe Serpe clicked off the TV, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know Keyes, but he knew the type. This guy wouldn’t be easy to bullshit.
“Come on,” he said to Gigi, “let’s get out of here.”
It was a risky thing to do and neither Bob Healy nor Raiza Hines was generally the risk taking type. Maybe that’s why Healy had prospered in IAB and why Hines looked like she’d have a similar career ahead of her. Joe Serpe, on the other hand, had risk taking in his DNA, and it had gotten him pretty far before his fall. Even so, Healy wasn’t sure Joe’d approve. Five more steps and his partner’s disapproval wouldn’t matter.
The First Revelation Baptist Church had once been a grand movie theater much in the style of its big brother, Radio City Music Hall, but by 1979 it had fallen on hard times. They’d first destroyed its beauty by chopping it up into a multiplex that featured Blacksploitation flicks and low rent movies like Dracula’s Dog. Then there was a suspicious fire that didn’t quite do the arsonist proud because only one old bathroom was destroyed. Who starts a fire in a bathroom? Eventually, it was purchased by a local church group and its new minister, Reverend James Burgess.
The marquee, the only classic feature of the original theater that had remained intact over the years, protected a wedge-shaped shadow of dry sidewalk even as the snow piled up on the rest of the street. On the brilliant, red, blue, and yellow neon bordered marquee were the times for Sunday worship. There were emergency numbers to call for help with your heating bills, with your landlord, with the City. But the star of the show, the man with top billing, was James Burgess.
“You sure you wanna do this?” Healy asked Blades as he grabbed the door pull.
“No, but hell, we’re not getting anywhere the way we’re going. Let’s give the Rev a shake and see what falls from his tree.”
Healy held the door for Blades and followed her in. Once through the second set of doors and in the lobby of the old theater, they were greated by a tall, muscular man in his mid twenties. His coffee colored skin was freckled and he wore his hair in braids and corn rows. He had a jumpy, uneasy air about him, as if his well-cut black suit was the last thing he wanted to wear and this church was the last place he wanted to be. Still, he was polite enough when Detective Hines showed him her shield and asked to speak to the Reverend James Burgess.
“Follow me, please.”
They did as he asked and walked up a floor to what had once been the balcony level.
“This here is where our pipe organ is situated,” the young man said. “You can have a look while I see if the Reverend is available for y’all.”
Healy and Hines shrugged at each other. They thought they might as well do as the man said and have a look. The pipe organ wasn’t quite as grand as St. Patrick’s, but it wasn’t shabby either. The multiplex partitions had been undone and the original configuration of the theater, if not the art deco embellishments, had been restored. Long, curved pews had replaced the old lean-back seats and there was an altar on the stage. There were a few big crosses here and there, but not a crucifix in sight. To a Catholic like Healy, it barely seemed a church at all and he told Blades so.
“Beats my church growing up,” she said. “One my folks took me to was an old dry cleaners. No matter what they did to fancy it up, you could still smell those awful chemicals.”
The young man reappeared. “The Reverend will see y’all now. Please follow me.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” Healy said.
“Khouri.” He left it at that. “Here we are. Just through that door there.”
The Reverend James Burgess was a larger than life figure and a big man. He had a cool smile, an easy energetic manner, a rich voice, and a sharp tongue. He kept his head shaved, his moustache trim, and his clothes neat. The clothes didn’t call attention to themselves, but they were well tailored with a high thread count. As he approached Hines and Healy, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.
“Detective … Healy,” he said, extending a hand. “I never forget a face, espec
ially one that belongs to one of New York’s Finest.”
“I’m retired,” Healy explained before the bullshit got higher than the snow. “This is Detective Hines.”
“Anything but retired,” she said.
“Pleasure to meet you, sister.”
Blades let that go. Healy kept quiet too. Burgess was certainly more charming than Finn McCauly, even if he was just as full of shit.
“Please sit. The church office, I fear, is a little spartan. My office at our charity headquarters on Utica Avenue would be more comfortable,” Burgess said. “Maybe you’d like to meet me there at a—”
“That’s okay, Reverend. We’re here unofficially, really,” Hines said.
“How’s that?”
“Well, the detective that you accused of covering up the murder of Bogarde DeFrees at the Nellie—”
“Monaco, Detective Monaco,” Burgess said, a prideful smile on his face.
“Yes, him,” Blades answered.
“What about him?” The smile vanished.
“He drove an oil truck on Long Island since his retirement two years ago. He was robbed and murdered while making a night delivery,” Healy said. “Monaco was one of five men killed over the last few months while—”
“Yes, I do believe I read something about that, but I was unaware that Detective Monaco was among the victims. It’s a pity for his family. Still, I am not sure why you are both here. Especially you, Mr. Healy, as you’re retired.”
“We hoped Detective Monaco’s death might reignite the investigation, stir up people’s memory,” Hines said. “As you know, although there wasn’t enough evidence to take disciplinery action against Monaco, that the case is still open. Since Mr. Healy was the lead detective back then, I’ve asked him to consult.”
“That’s very admirable, Detective Hines, but I haven’t heard a whisper on the street. I am afraid that there are continuing threats to our community’s young men in the guise of a uniform and badge. The death of one racist bully who had already done his damage and gone is like one drop of rain in a vast ocean.”
“Then there’s nothing you can tell us?” Hines said.
“I will keep my ears open, detective.”
“Thank you for your time, Reverend. We’ll let you get back to your good works.”
Burgess shook Raiza Hines’ hand and wished her well. But when he shook Bob Healy’s, he held on tight. “Thank you, Mr. Healy,” he said. “I recall that you did try to do the right thing by us when this happened.”
“No thanks necessary. For me, the right thing is the right thing.”
Hines and Healy found their way out on their own and made their way back to the subway. This time the silence between them lasted much longer than on the ride here. Maybe that was because the ride was underground and there was only black and grimy walls visible outside the train. Gone were the bucolic snow scenes to soften the subway’s metal chatter. It was also that Healy was exhausted and still had a long ride back to Kings Park ahead of him.
“That got us nowhere, with Burgess I mean,” Blades said, the train pulling out of the Broadway-Lafeyette station. “That man gives nothing away.”
“I know. Still, it was worth a shot, huh?”
“But now he knows people are watching.”
“Blades, that man knows people are always watching. That’s how he can be so cool.” The train slowed.
“This is me,” she said, standing up. “You sure you don’t wanna stay over again and just go home in the morning?”
“I wish I could, but tomorrow will be really busy. I gotta get in early.”
“You sure I can’t tempt you?”
“No. I’m not sure of that at all.”
She smiled, leaned over, kissed him softly on the mouth, their lips pulling apart slowly. Then, suddenly, before he could think, breathe or speak, she was out of the train. When the subway jolted forward, he looked up to see half the people in the car with him were staring. Not all of them were smiling.
[Last Laugh of the Day]
THURSDAY, JANUARY 20TH, 2005—AFTERNOON
Mayday Fuel had finally caught up with all the stops they didn’t service during the snow storm. They had picked up several new customers from other companies that were still too backlogged. Healy even appreciated having Gigi around for help because the volume of calls was beyond anything he’d yet to deal with. Unfortunately, the Monaco thing was at a standstill. Healy’s fresh set of eyes hadn’t seen any red flags in the homicide files that his partner hadn’t picked up on and days had gone by without any revelations or new information. Sometimes, as Serpe had said to Healy that morning, there’s less there than meets the eye, sometimes a lot less. Any good detective knew the truth of that. They both had a long list of investigations that started off promising and led nowhere.
Serpe had yet to hear from the Nassau cops and he was beginning to hope, if not quite believe, that Brian W. Stanfill had neglected to make a note of their appointment. Even if the lawyer hadn’t written it down, the cops would hear the phone messages and backtrack to him through phone records. Maybe the cops just didn’t think he was worth talking to. It had been confirmed that Stanfill’s death was a homicide. Although the news reports didn’t list all the damage, it was pretty clear that he had suffered a lot before succumbing. That came as no surprise to Joe.
Healy hadn’t heard from Blades nor had he called her. He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. That wasn’t the only thing he couldn’t get out of his head. He was ashamed to admit it, but the looks he got from the people on the subway car had stayed with him too. He tried convincing himself that their disdain was because he was twenty years Blades’ senior. He knew better. The world never changes as fast as you want it to. Healy wondered if the world really did change where race was involved.
The phone rang and Healy waved at Gigi that he’d get it. He was glad for the distraction.
“Mayday Fuel, how can I help you?”
“That was a kiss goodbye, Healy, not the kiss of death.” It was Blades.
Healy smiled so broadly that Gigi noticed and she wriggled her eyebrows at him. He spun his chair around.
“Hey, about that.” he said, not having a clue how to finish the sentence.
“Forget it. Wasn’t the first dumb thing I ever done.”
“Don’t say that.”
“That’s not why I called, anyway.” Healy’s heart sank. “Why did—”
“I’m outta IAB. Cleaned my desk out today. Got the bump to detective second. Gonna be working outta One PP as a liaison with the feds.”
“One Police Plaza, huh? Congratulations,” he said without meaning it.
“You just said congratulations like I’m sorry your dog died.”
“Congratulations,” he said it with a little more feeling. “I guess the dog’s only sick.”
“I’m sorry, Blades. It’s just suspicious timing. Were you up for a—”
“Fuck you, Healy! Fuck you!”
Click.
“What’s the matter?” Gigi asked. “You look like your dog just died.”
His laugh had nothing to do with humor. But what he had said to Blades was true: the timing of her promotion did seem strange. Healy could see she was good and she had integrity. The thing was, Skip wouldn’t have thrown her to the wolves if she’d already proven herself and was ready for a bump. He didn’t blame her for taking the promotion and transfer. He felt like shit for opening his big mouth without thinking how his doubts about the offer might come across as doubts about her.
“When you think Joe’ll get back?” Gigi asked.
“Unless my ears are failing me,” Healy said, “that’s the tugboat now.”
And sure enough, as Healy finished his sentence, the old green Mack pulled into the yard. It was still light out and the other trucks would be in soon. Even though there hadn’t been a driver killed since Albie Jimenez, Joe was wary about keeping trucks on the street after dark, especially now that word was out that he was lookin
g into the murders. He didn’t want someone making an example of his drivers. The old Mack’s brakes squealed as Serpe aligned the truck and backed it into its spot of honor right next to the trailer. Bob Healy may not have learned to love life in the yard, but he did find a strange comfort in the sounds of the place; the rumble of the Mack’s engine at idle, the clicking of the meter during truck transfers, the quiet after the morning surge of phone calls.
“Hey,” Joe said, limping into the office. He tossed his map and ticket box on the desk, handed his cash to Healy, and smiled at Gigi. He found he wanted to stroke her cheek, but stopped himself. “I’m gonna wash up. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Come over here,” Healy said to Gigi. “Let me bore you with how to cash out a driver until he’s ready.”
“You’re fifty-seven cents short,” Gigi announced proudly when Serpe stepped out of the bathroom.
He threw three quarters on the table and told her to keep the change. They got a small laugh out of that. The last laugh of the day. There was a knock at the trailer door. Since Serpe was standing he got it. When he looked through the small, scratched pane of plexiglass in the door, his heart jumped into his throat. He recognized the hatchet faced detective from the TV, though he struggled to remember the name that went with it. Joe waved through the plexiglass for the detective to step back and pushed the door open.
“Can I help you? You lost or something?” Serpe asked.
The detective flipped out his shield. “Detective E.W. Keyes, Nassau County PD. Can I come in?”
“Nassau. I guess you are lost.”
“I didn’t realize you did standup, Mr. Serpe. Can I come in?”
Serpe hadn’t figured on this. He thought that if the Nassau PD wanted to speak to him, they’d just call and invite him in. But Joe should have paid more careful attention to his own initial assessment of Keyes when he’d seen him on TV. Keyes was good and knew he’d catch Serpe by surprise by showing up this way. Serpe wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Come on in,” he said, gesturing. “This is my partner Bob—”
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