A Deadly Legacy

by Julie Vail

  She muted the call. “I’m sorry, Johnny.” I smiled. Only Alex and my mother called me Johnny. I leaned over and kissed her for a long time, then I took her hand and brought it to my lips. I rubbed the back of her hand over my cheek. The feel of her was as natural and comfortable as breathing.

  “Thank you, lady.”

  She eyes filled with regret and her smiled warmed me, and I felt the fog lift. And in that brief interlude between denial and the epiphany that I was falling in love, it hit me that my resurgence had begun.

  The small gift by her front door—a fresh strawberry—would find her when she walked in, along with a note that said simply Fragolina. It was all I could give her—tonight. For now, it was enough.

  FOURTEEN

  Murdered Cop On The Take

  By Mike Ramparth, New York Times staff writer

  filed January 12, 1972

  Vincent Testarossa, the New York City cop who was found murdered Friday was working for the mob, it is believed. No one was available at press time from the 312th precinct where Testarossa worked to confirm or deny the allegations.

  Sources close to the investigation tell The Times that Sergeant Testarossa, a fifteen year veteran of the force was accepting money from known mobsters in the Vitello crime family, and it is believed that the decorated cop was being paid to turn a blind eye to various crimes, including gambling, prostitution and mob hits.

  Testarossa was found shot execution-style Friday afternoon outside a neighborhood cafe. Testarossa left a wife and three children.

  It had been over two weeks since the badly decomposed body of David Crane had been found, but I felt no wiser than I did on that day.

  “Message here from Kevin Meyers,” I said to Alex, having just seen the message on my desk. “He called yesterday. Wasn’t he supposed to get in touch a few days ago?”

  “Yeah. I hate it when people we need to question don’t follow our orders.”

  We got in the car and drove to Dock 52 in Marina del Rey. The day was warm, with the Santa Ana winds starting up already. It was that time of year—but really, the Santa Ana’s kicked up anytime they pleased, and when they did, it was horrible on so many levels.

  I put a junior detective on finding out about Rob Chambliss’ arraignment. He’d made bail, I was sure of it. But I should have been called by now to testify at his preliminary hearing.

  I was looking out the window, minding my own business. But with Alex, my business was never my own. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at me. I ignored him. He glanced over again. I pretended he wasn’t even there—hard to do, him being . . . well, Alex. After the third time, I raised my hands in that classic Italian hand gesture that means, what the fuck?

  He gestured back, classic Alex for you KNOW what the fuck.

  I shrugged and stared out the window, suddenly finding something interesting in every storefront. Finally, I gave in.

  “I don’t know. I’m nuts about her. What the fuck do you want me to say, Alex?”

  He paused and checked out the storefronts as well. Then he shrugged. “It’s enough. I’ll report ‘I’m nuts about her’ to Lisa, and I will get laid.”

  “Bravo.”

  We drove down and parked near dock 52. We found the area where the team works out and asked around for the assistant coach. We introduced ourselves.

  “Coach Grayson told me about David Crane,” he informed. I waited for more, and it didn’t come. Generally, when someone hears of someone else’s passing, they react: ‘Oh, NO. Oh, that’s TERRIBLE.’ From this guy? Stugots. Not good.

  I questioned him first about Matt Chambliss, Jesse Walters and David Crane, and Kevin Meyers told us pretty much what Bill Grayson did: that they were good students, good athletes, and close teammates. Then I questioned him about Robert Chambliss, and he said he had seen Chambliss hanging around. “Probably because, you know, his brother is on the team.” Yeah, thanks. That was helpful.

  “When was the last time you saw Robert Chambliss here?” I asked. Kevin Meyers was a well-built fellow, but stood no more than five-foot-six or seven, and not more than 150 pounds, but built—ripped actually—more so than the others. His hands were huge, and calloused. His nails were bitten to the quick, and on the right index finger, which he kept playing with, the nail was torn off half way down. He had red hair, too, which he felt made us instant brothers, I guessed, given that he became informal and familiar almost immediately. I didn’t like it. A little fear was good when the cops were talking. I liked a ‘yes, sir’ every now and again. This guy, he wasn’t very quick on the uptake, and once he saw we weren’t getting familiar and cozy right back, he became slightly bored with us. I personally thought we were very personable.

  “Oh, first or second day of early practice, probably.

  “When was that?”

  “Um, beginning of August. He was hanging out, watching.”

  “Yeah? What else?”

  “That’s it. Just watching. Nothing special. Asked a lot of questions. Came back the next day, asked about some of the shells. Asked if he could borrow one some time, take his girl out.”

  “What is a ‘shell’?”

  “A canoe . . .” He pointed toward the water. “That thing—a boat.”

  “And what did you say when he asked you that?”

  “I said sure, you know . . . to shut him up.”

  “Did he ever come back? He take a boat out?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, he did.”

  “You know Chambliss well?”

  “Not really.”

  “Who’d he take in the boat with him?” I asked.

  “The girl, I guess.”

  “You see what she looked like?”

  “Blond . . . whatever. A girl.” He shrugged.

  Christ. “But you saw him take a boat out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Huh?”

  I pressed the bridge of my nose. “When did you see Chambliss take the boat out?”

  “Uh, I really don’t know.”

  “Alright, Kevin. When was the last time you saw David Crane?”

  “Saw him? End of last year . . . May or June, before the summer break—before he went home.”

  “To Michigan?”

  “Yeah, wherever he lives. Yeah.”

  “So you never saw him at all after he left to go home?”

  “Right. I spoke to him, though.”

  “When?”

  “Friday . . . uh, let’s see . . . we had a tournament the next day . . . Saturday.” Meyers took out his Blackberry. “. . . Saturday the fourth, with another school. So, Friday night, I spoke to him. Heard he was back in town and wanted to make sure he’d be here for the tournament Saturday.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He never showed.”

  No kidding. “You think that’s when you saw Chambliss take the canoe out with the girl?”

  He blew out a breath. “You know . . . maybe. I mean, I didn’t think a lot about it at the time, getting ready for the tournament and all. But, yeah. I bet that was when I saw him. Sounds about right.”

  “Don’t go away,” I said, and walked away with Alex on my heels. “So, the Cranes speak to him on the second, he’s seen by Jesse Walters moving in to the Westchester house on the third, and later that day, Meyers talks to him on the phone. David says he’ll be here for the tournament the next day, then doesn’t show.”

  “You think the blond Meyers saw was actually Crane?” Alex asked.

  “He’s small enough to be mistaken for a girl at a distance, don’t you think?” Alex shrugged. “I don’t know. He mistakes a kid on his own team for a girl? If it was Crane, he doesn’t see that it’s Crane?”

  “Give me a sec.” I walked to the end of the wooden dock and dialed Pete Tabor. After a short wait, he came on the line.

  “I think David Crane was killed August third or fourth. Does that fall in line with your findings? I know you said approximately three weeks prior to when he was f
ound, but is around that time consistent?”

  “Hold on a minute, man . . . I happen to have the file right here. Wanna know why?”

  “Of course.”

  “SID found a gun in the creek, downstream. They were in here comparing holes, et cetera.”

  I thought a minute. “Right handed.”

  “That would be a good guess. The gun is with them now, and they’re trying to do their ballistics thing. Just to let you know—and Sebastian will be calling you—they also found a piece of copper plumbing in the water directly below where the body was found, size consistent with the fracture to the victim’s skull. That’s with the lab folks as well, but I’ll be surprised if they find anything on it. You never know, though.”

  “When will you know?”

  “When they know, you’ll know, John. Now, to answer your question, not only is it possible that the victim died on the third or fourth, it is highly likely. Given the weather conditions, the amount of insect activity, and the level of decomp, that’s what our findings indicate.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate it.”

  “I know. See ya, John.”

  I hung up. “He agrees to time of death.”

  “Okay.”

  “They found a gun, and a piece of pipe they feel is consistent in size to the fracture in the victim’s skull.”

  “Good. That’s good, Johnny.” Alex began to pace. He felt it, too. Like this was all starting to come together. I walked back over to Kevin Meyers.

  “We’d like to look in the boathouse, at some of your . . . shells. Would that be okay with you?”

  “Uh . . . I’m gonna have to call someone . . . I don’t think I can let you . . .”

  “We got it,” Alex chimed in. I shot him a look. “We understand. Hey, can we look some of these over?” And, as often happened, Alex noticed something I failed to—half a dozen shells of various lengths sitting dockside, and aching to be looked over.

  Kevin Meyers shrugged. “Sure—why not?”

  I crouched down over one. “This one . . . holds, what, six?”

  “Eight. See?” He took the time to count out where everyone sits, including the coxswain.

  David was a coxswain.

  “And this one here?”

  “Four man. See?”

  “Now, the team that David was on . . .” I began.

  Was a coxswain . . .

  “Eight man. He sat back here, see?” Kevin Meyers was in his element now. All business.

  Sat back here . . .

  “What about this one?” I asked, walking over to a lonely yellow number, sitting off in a corner.

  “That one we’ve used in the past for practice. It’s old. Should have been tossed months ago. I’d better get rid of this thing before Grayson sees it.”

  “Not so fast, junior.” I stood, having seen enough for the moment. I led him away, while Alex got on the phone. He was calling SID; this I knew.

  “I understand David was seeing a doctor. Some kind of a problem with his arm.” I changed the subject, all the while keeping my hand on his shoulder. “You know anything about that?”

  “Yeah . . . maybe. I mean, all the guys get sore, practically live on NSAIDS, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’m talking about David now. Coach Grayson says he was having some arm trouble, so were you really expecting him to return to the team? Kevin?”

  “Sure, I mean . . . they all play in pain, you know? Part of the deal.”

  “Coach Grayson said he wasn’t sure David was returning.”

  “Well, maybe he got better.”

  “Yeah? What was wrong with his arm?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A few of the guys—you included—are pretty buffed up. You using steroids? Anything like that?”

  His eyes shifted to the right. The lie was right around the corner. “Nah, no way . . .” Insulted. Incredulous. There it was.

  “Tell me about Dr. Stan Ondrak.”

  Meyers shrugged. “I don’t know him really. Doc some of the guys go to?” I didn’t think that was true either.

  “Okay, pal.” I slapped him on the shoulder, like he was an old buddy. I walked back over to the yellow shell. It was dirty and grimy, but one thing was perfectly clear. If you spend enough time in this job, you learn how to recognize two things.

  One thing is blood. And the other thing’s a liar.

  ††††

  I called Madeline Crane in Michigan. They had gone back home yesterday.

  “Mrs. Crane, does the name Dr. Stan Ondrak mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, an orthopedic doctor David was seeing. He was in terrible pain with his right shoulder.”

  “Did David ever share with you a diagnosis, ever talk about what the doctor said to him?”

  “Well, detective, I don’t know if we mentioned it, but David suffered from lupus. It’s fairly rare in men, and he had been doing well lately, but I guess the rowing and such caused the pain in his joints to flare up again. That’s all the reason I can think of for him to see a doctor. It’s been fairly recent, so we haven’t . . . didn’t . . . discuss it too much.”

  “Did David ever mention a diagnosis of Avascular Necrosis? That sound familiar?”

  “No . . . well, maybe. That sounds familiar. I was a little unclear and planned to talk more about it with David when we spoke again. I know this doctor had taken x-rays—maybe did an MRI, I don’t recall—told him to take NSAIDS, things like that. David only saw him a couple of times. I don’t think he liked this doctor.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say, detective. David said he stopped seeing him, but he didn’t say why.” She paused. “I thought I had all the time in the world to . . . to discuss this with him.”

  I thanked her, then I hung up and sat at my desk for moment. I opened the file on David Crane and took out the photograph his parents had given us. I thought about Karen. I thought over my career up til now. When, I thought, did I become numb to the human aspect of homicide work? I turned the photograph over in my hands. The picture was blurry at first, then it slowly came into focus.

  The boy in the picture was blond, His hair was on the longish side, and hung down over one eye. His features were delicate, feminine, which was inconsistent with his body, which was hard and muscular. His eyes were a hazel-green, and bright—like he knew he was destined for only good things. This was a good kid, a strong kid. I could see by the angle of his jaw that he could take a solid punch from life if he had to. His smile turned up on one side more than the other, and it gave him a look of cockiness, but not in a bad way. He looked like his mother.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. “What the hell did you get yourself into, huh?”

  I stared at the picture for a long time.

  Lilacs filled the room where my mother sat, next to the ebony coffin where my father rested. She waited all day for the brotherhood to come pay their respects. But none came. The shame of his death weighed heavy, tarnishing spit-shined shoes and gold shields the brethren spent years having to repolish after Sergeant Testarossa’s death. Changes were made, policies were revamped, while my mother sat alone, and waited for one person to come by and say, ‘I’ll tell his story. I’ll set it right again.’

  David Crane had a story, and I would tell it. I stood and put the picture in my pocket.

  ††††

  The large mahogany door listed twelve doctors, all with specialties in the arena of Orthopedic surgery. Dr. Stan Ondrak was the only man we were interested in. On TV or in lousy crime fiction, the cops interview, harass and arrest everyone connected with the crime in 48 minutes, or in 365 pages. Real police work wasn’t like that, unfortunately. We rarely got the opportunity to wrap things up in a neat little bow. Oh, we solved the crimes—don’t get me wrong. But often there were compromises, and the bow tended to look slightly skewed, when all was said and done. We had waited more than a week to speak with the good doctor. I wanted my ducks in a row before we sta
rted working on him.

  “We’ll wait,” Alex told the receptionist after she told us he was with a patient. “But not too long.”

  We sat in the waiting room, and I leafed through a Sports Illustrated for Kids.

  “You know how many Tommy John surgeries these guys perform each year on kids, because the baseball coaches are too stupid to stop them from throwing curve balls?” I groused.

  “It’s all about winning, cabron. It’s scary. I pulled Bryan out of a game last season because he hurled a curve. Right in front of me. He knows better. I told him if he ever did it again, his ass’d be warming the pine. Know what he told me? The manager taught him. I’m the goddamn coach, I’m there most of the time. When did this little lesson occur?”

  “Bry telling the truth?”

  “Yeah. I talked to Gary, the manager—nice guy, known him for years. Told him we were out if it ever happened again.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Detectives?” The receptionist stood at the door to the exam rooms, and we got up and followed her down the hall, past exam rooms and offices bearing doctor’s names. She led us into Stan Ondrak office and closed the door.

  “Gentlemen,” he said without emotion. “Take a seat. What can I do for you?”

  Stan Ondrak was a tall, lanky man, but he was in shape. He was balding, what hair he had was shaped around his head like a horseshoe. He was graying at the temples.

  “Dr. Ondrak, we wanted to talk to you about David Crane.”

  “Yes? What about him?”

  “He was a patient of yours?”

  “Yes. I only saw him twice, I believe. Last year.”

  “And you were treating him?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “May I ask why you’re asking?”