by Mark Dawson
40
Mackintosh knocked on the door. Polanski waited behind her, close enough to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
The door opened to reveal a man. He was dishevelled, wearing a stained T-shirt and a creased pair of cargo pants. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of alcohol.
“Yes?” he said.
“Hello,” Mackintosh said. “You remember me, Manny?”
He nodded.
“How you feeling?”
“Like shit.” He reached up and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t remember much of it, but Freddy told me. I’ve been working hard to stay clean and sober, but I relapsed.”
“You don’t have to apologise to me,” Mackintosh said. “It’s your boy you let down.”
“I know it,” he said. “I feel awful. It’s not gonna happen again.”
Mackintosh gestured with her hand. “This is Detective Polanski,” she said.
Manny nodded.
“Is Freddy here?”
“Yes.”
“You kept him off school?”
He nodded again.
“Could we come in and talk to him?”
Manny stepped aside to let them both in. He was fidgety. Polanski noticed the beads of sweat on his brow and the way he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“We won’t be long,” Mackintosh said with a soothing smile as she led the way inside. “Where is he?”
“In his room.”
“Has he said anything to you about what happened last night?”
“A little. Is it true?”
“The murder? Yes, it is. He found the body.”
“Jesus,” Manny said. “I should’ve been with him. He shouldn’t have to…”
“There’s no point beating yourself up about it,” Mackintosh said. “It happened. The best thing we can do now is get his statement. I just need to speak to him so I can understand what he saw. Once that’s done, we’ll leave you both in peace.”
“But if there’s a trial? Won’t he have to testify?”
“There’s a long way between where we are now and a trial.”
Manny Blanco fetched his son.
Polanski looked over at the boy. He had taken a seat opposite them and was looking down at the floor.
Mackintosh took out a digital recorder. “I’m going to tape the conversation—is that all right, Manny?”
He nodded.
“Freddy? That okay?”
The boy nodded, too.
Mackintosh thumbed the recorder on and spoke into the microphone. “This is Detective Mackintosh with Detective Polanski. Interview location is Number 4 Danforth Avenue, which is the home of interviewee Freddy Blanco. Also present is his father, Manny Blanco. Both have indicated that they agree to my recording this interview.” She laid the recorder on the table between them. “All right, Freddy,” Mackintosh said. “Just for the record: where had you been last night?”
“I went to the Meadowlands. The Giants game.”
Mackintosh evidently decided that they could dispense with most of the evening and cut straight to the most important moments. “You were coming back home afterwards. You took the train down to Euclid, where you got off. Then you stopped off at the bathroom. That right?”
Freddy nodded.
“Can you speak for the tape?”
“Yes,” Freddy said.
“Why don’t you tell me and Detective Polanski what happened next.”
“I went in, used the bathroom, then I left.”
“And then?”
“There was a guy… the guy…”
“The victim?” Mackintosh finished for him.
“Yes,” he said. “He came in just as I was leaving. I bumped into him.”
“What was he doing?”
“He looked like he was sick. He went over to the basin and threw up.”
“Then?”
“I left.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“Two men.”
“Get a look at them?”
“One black and the other one white. They were coming into the station.”
“Go on.”
“I had a football with me—I’d been to see the Giants. I left it in the stall so I went back to get it.”
“How far did you get before you realised?”
“I was on the street.”
“So how long before you went back?”
“Two or three minutes?”
“All right. Keep going.”
“I went back inside, went through the gate and back to the restroom. The same two guys I saw earlier were there.”
“They see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You get a look at them?”
“Not really. The black guy was older. Had white in his hair—the same as his beard.”
“The other one?”
“He was inside, then he came out. White. Younger. That’s all.”
“That’s a good start. Did you see their faces?”
He paused. “Not really. Didn’t get a good look.”
“So you think you’d recognise them again?”
“I don’t know. I can’t…” The words trailed off.
“It’s okay. We don’t need to worry about that now. Keep going.”
He stopped, swallowing on a dry throat.
“Go on—what happened next?”
“I went back inside. I saw the guy. I…”
“Then?” she said.
“I didn’t know what to do. I was scared. I thought the two men might come back. I couldn’t move. I just stood there.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know. A minute? Maybe longer.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Smith came in.”
“Yes,” Mackintosh said. “John Smith.”
Polanski noticed that Manny flinched at the mention of the name and wondered what had happened here last night.
“I spoke to him,” Mackintosh said. “What did he do after he found you?”
“Took me outside. We went to the token booth and told the woman what happened. She called the cops.”
Polanski looked over at Mackintosh and raised an eyebrow; she nodded in return and he took over.
“Let’s just go back to the two men,” Polanski said. “You didn’t really see either of them?”
Freddy left a beat. “No.”
“You absolutely sure about that?”
“I only really saw the black guy.” He spoke firmly now, as if his previous hesitation had been an aberration.
“Would you remember him if you saw him again?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
“Because I might ask you to take a look at a few photographs if that’s okay? Not today, but maybe tomorrow. You can tell me if any of the photographs I show you look like the guys you saw. You think you could do that?”
“Okay.”
“You all done?” Manny asked.
“You got anything else?” Mackintosh said to Polanski.
He shook his head.
“Then we’re done,” Mackintosh answered. “For now. But I’d like Freddy to come to the precinct house this afternoon so that I can take a full statement. Do you think you could bring him along?”
“Yes,” he said.
“All right, then. Thanks for answering my questions. You’ve been brave, Freddy.”
The boy nodded, but didn’t reply.
Manny showed them to the door.
“About last night…” he started.
“Forget it,” Mackintosh said. “Smith said you go to meetings?”
“Yeah.”
“Then get back to them again. Stop drinking. You’ve got a kid who needs you. Don’t fuck it up like that again. You hear me? We good?”
Manny Blanco nodded.
“Bring him to the precinct this afternoon. Four o’clock. I’ll see you then.”
&n
bsp; She turned, opened the gate and headed for the car. Polanski followed. He glanced back; Manny had already closed the door.
Polanski got into the Sonata next to Mackintosh.
“What do you think?” she asked him.
“About the kid? He’s scared.”
Mackintosh nodded. “That’s not unreasonable. He found a dead guy; probably lucky he didn’t get killed himself. I’d be scared too.”
“What about the father?” Polanski asked.
“I’d say he was repentant,” she said.
“What happened last night?”
She allowed herself a smile. “He was out of his mind. Punched Smith in the face. I doubt he can remember a thing.”
“So what do we do?” he asked. “You think we need to call social services?”
Mackintosh shrugged. “No,” she said. “I’ve seen junkies and alcoholics before; usually they don’t give a shit about anything other than themselves and where they’re gonna get their next drink from. He wasn’t like that. He was upset. And the house was neat and tidy. It was clean. I had time to look around last night: they had food in the fridge.” She glanced across. “What would you do?”
“The same. I’d give him a chance to show he’s serious about looking after his kid. Have another heart-to-heart with him when he comes in. Make up your mind then.”
She nodded. “You’re right. You wanna sit in?”
“If I’m back in time.”
“Where are you gonna go?”
“I want to speak to Smith.”
Mackintosh took Polanski back to the precinct so that he could pick up his car. He set off again, driving south on the Shore Parkway, gazing out at the grey expanse of water. He’d been to Coney Island with his kids in the summer, but it was winter now and everything was different. The sky was bleak, with a vault of iron cloud punctuated with openings of powder blue that were quickly covered over as the clouds rolled across. There was a little passing traffic and the occasional pedestrian on the sidewalks on either side of the broad avenues.
He checked the GPS for directions and parked on Coney Island Avenue between an Enterprise car rental franchise and a business that rented ugly stretch Hummers for weddings and other occasions. It was raining as he stepped out of his car, a persistent drizzle of the kind that threatened to seep into the fabric of his clothes and chill his bones. He didn’t have an umbrella, and he cursed his forgetfulness as he pulled up the collar of his jacket to provide a little protection from the elements. The forecaster on WNYC had predicted snow tomorrow, but, as Polanski glanced up into the rain, he wondered whether the prediction might have been a day too late. It felt cold enough to snow right now.
The restaurant was fifteen blocks from the sea, but the air was heavy with the smell of salt. Polanski made his way along the street, avoiding the attention of a huckster in a fur coat and a rabbit hat who was offering a black goop that he promised was caviar from a foldable outdoor table.
Red Square wasn’t impressive. The restaurant looked pitiful: the owner had tried to bring Russian influence to bear, but his budget hadn’t stretched far enough to do it properly. The sign looked authentic, with Cyrillic flourishes on the letters, but everything else looked gaudy and trashy. There was a fibreglass statue of Lenin next to the entrance, but the local seagulls had signalled their disdain for it with a splattering of droppings that no one had ever bothered to remove.
Polanski stepped beneath the building’s canopy and looked through the dusty windows. The place was empty save for a cleaner, who was nonchalantly running a vacuum cleaner between the tables. Polanski tried the door. It was open.
He went inside.
41
Milton was busy. Vadim had done a deal on two large sacks of beetroot and he wanted the vegetables to be turned into borscht that could be frozen before they could spoil. Milton had peeled and boiled two big bags of potatoes, sautéed carrots and onions until they were soft, shredded six cabbages and then added everything to a pot to cook. He had washed and boiled the beets and now he was peeling and slicing them into matchsticks that he could add to the soup. He had plastic gloves on his hands to prevent the beets from staining his fingers purple.
The doors to the kitchen opened and a man Milton did not recognise came inside. He was shorter than average, with russet-coloured hair that was thinning at the crown. He had a well-groomed ginger beard that was flecked with white, and wore a pair of spectacles with oval frames that looked both expensive and a little prissy. He wore a suit and was carrying a rucksack over his shoulder.
“I’m looking for Mr. Smith,” the man called out.
Milton took off the gloves and went over.
“Yes?”
Vadim turned to him with a sour expression on his face.
“You’re Smith?” the man said.
“That’s right,” Milton said.
“Who are you?” Vadim asked, asserting his ownership of the kitchen—and the people who worked there—with typically arrogant bluster.
“Detective Polanski,” the man said. “NYPD. Who are you?”
Vadim paused. “I am owner,” he said, but with a little less of the bombast.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Smith,” Polanski said.
“Fine,” Vadim said. He turned to Milton. “Finish borscht after. You make time up over lunch.”
“Can we go somewhere quieter?” Polanski said to Milton.
“This way,” Milton said.
There was a covered alley at the back of the restaurant. Milton opened the door and indicated that Polanski should go through. He followed, closing the door behind him. They kept the trash cans in the alley. The garbage hadn’t been collected for several days, and the air was funky with the smell of rotting food. Milton was able to ignore the stench, but he could see that Polanski was taking some time to adjust.
“Christ,” he complained.
Milton took out his cigarettes and lighter. He offered the pack to Polanski, but he declined. Milton took one out of the pack, put it to his lips and lit up.
“This is about last night?” Milton asked.
“That’s right.”
“I spoke to Detective Mackintosh. Are you working with her?”
“Sort of. Mackintosh is in homicide.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m Internal Affairs.”
Milton stifled his surprise; he drew down on his cigarette, turned his head and exhaled into the alley. His immediate thought was what Freddy had told him last night: that one of the men he had seen was a cop.
“What does Internal Affairs have to do with this?” he asked.
“Can’t tell you that, Mr. Smith. I’m looking into what happened last night. That’s all I can say.”
Milton could tell that there was no point in pressing him too hard. “You want me to go over it all again?” he said instead.
“Not all of it,” Polanski said. “I’ve read your statement. There are just a few things I wanted to circle back on. That okay?”
“It’s fine. Ask whatever you need.”
“You saw the body?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing there?”
“What do you think? It’s a restroom, Detective.”
“And you were just passing through the station?”
“I was coming back from the Giants game.”
“Same as Freddy?” Polanski said.
“Yes,” Milton said. “Have you spoken to him?”
Polanski nodded. “This morning.”
“Was his father there?”
“Yes. I understand he took a swing at you.”
Milton reached up to touch the bruise on his face. “It was nothing,” Milton said. “Was Freddy okay with his mother?”
“As far as I know. She brought him home this morning when his old man got out of the drunk tank.”
Milton probed gently, aware that he was asking the questions and that that wouldn’t last forever. “What did Freddy say?”
&nb
sp; The detective wrinkled his nose at the continuing stench. “Ah, fuck it,” he said, gesturing to Milton’s cigarette. “I will have one. Anything to take the smell away.”
Milton took his pack from his pocket and gave it to Polanski. The detective took a cigarette and Milton lit it for him.
“The kid,” Milton said, prompting as delicately as he could. “What did he say?”
“Can’t tell you that,” Polanski rebuffed.
“He had a rough night,” Milton said, still trying to nudge a little more out of him.
“He did.”
Milton could see that Polanski wasn’t going to give him anything else.
“Look,” he said, “you heard what the boss said: this is coming off my lunch hour. I don’t want to rush you, but I need to get back. Do you have anything specific you want to ask me?”
“Did you notice anyone coming out of the restroom before you went inside?”
“No,” he said. “The station was quiet. And if you’re wondering whether I could’ve seen whoever it was who stabbed your victim, the men who killed him were probably already out of the station before I got there.”
“So the kid found the body and just stayed there?”
“He hid. I don’t think that’s unusual. He’s thirteen.”
“I guess. Freddy tell you anything else?”
Milton could see that Polanski’s curiosity had been piqued by something that Freddy had—or had not—said that morning. Had he mentioned that he had recognised one of the likely killers in the precinct last night? Milton hoped not, but there was nothing that he could do. He wasn’t prepared to mention it until he had a little more information, specifically about Polanski and whether or not he could be trusted.
“Mr. Smith?” Polanski pressed.
“No,” Milton said. “Freddy was frightened. We spoke about the football. He caught a ball that one of the players tossed into the crowd. That was the best thing that happened to him last night—it went downhill after that.”
“And that’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
Polanski dropped the cigarette to the ground and trod on it. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a card. He took out a pen and scrawled something on the reverse.