“Rodriguez?” I looked from one cop to the other. “What’s so special about him?”
“He was a poster boy for the latest rehab program,” Vandergriff told me. “Rodriguez had been away for ten years for a string of liquor store holdups he and two of his buddies pulled when he was seventeen. He drew a limited sentence, because of his age, and he was given some kind of deal, get an education and go through therapy. His parole officer swears he’d turned himself around in prison, found religion, and was even working a legit job with a computer store. We can’t find anyone who has anything against him from the old days. Most of them are either dead or in jail. So who’d want to off this guy?”
“A good question, to which I have no answers,” I said. “As far as I know, this Rodriguez is a complete stranger.”
“Not a complete stranger,” Levitsky said slowly. “One of those liquor stores this Rodriguez held up when he was a kid was Johnson Liquors, run by Joseph and Rita Johnson. Your parents, I think.”
I tried to keep a straight face. “In that case, Detective, I would say he got what was coming to him. But I still don’t understand why you are talking to me.”
“Well, Counselor,” Levitsky said, “There was a witness who saw a taxi leaving the scene of Rodriguez’s murder two nights ago.”
“So talk to him,” I said, gathering up my papers.
“We can’t. He was killed last night,” Vandergriff said grimly. “He called the hotline number and told the operator that he’d seen the red cab drop off Rodriguez. Someone got to him before we did.”
“Someone in a cab,” I repeated. “A red cab, not a yellow one?”
Levitsky read from his notes: “Said vehicle is registered to the Red Star Taxi Service, owned by Ernesto Vartanoff. According to the paperwork, that cab is leased to one Dmitri Ionescu, who resides at 518 East 5th Street, which is, I believe, your address.”
“That’s right. My Uncle Dmitri lives with me. He has a room in the basement of my house, and he parks the cab in the old garage next to the house. I repeat, officers, what has this to do with me?” Big Benny Badoglio was waiting for me, and he would get annoyed, and I really didn’t want to have to deal with an annoyed Big Benny.
“Ms. Johnson, can you vouch for this uncle of yours?” Vandergriff was struggling to be polite. I guess washed-out dumpy blondes heading towards 40 don’t really rate much more in police circles, especially if they’re in the Public Defender’s office.
“If you mean have I checked his green card, no, I haven’t.” I was starting to get annoyed with these two cops.
“As an officer of the Court, Ms. Johnson…” Vandergriff began.
I stopped him before he could give me the self-righteous spiel. “Look, he showed up about five years ago, a couple of years after Romania blew up with the rest of the Balkans after the Wall went down. He told me he was my father’s great-uncle, and that he was the one who got him to the American lines and saved his life after the War. How would he know that if he wasn’t related to my father somehow? So I didn’t ask about his papers, or his green card. I just figured that he must have got out of Romania in a cattle boat or something like it, and took him in.”
Levitsky and Vandergriff gave me the “she’s lying like a tablecloth” look. “Look, guys, he’s all the family I’ve got left. My father was a war orphan. He didn’t have any papers either. Some American G.I.s found him on the road in an abandoned wagon, and cut a few corners to get him to America. My mother was another refugee, came over after the Prague Spring and the Hungarian mess in the ’50s. If you want to call Immigration, go ahead, but the old coot’s over ninety, he’s not going to last much longer, and I can’t believe he’s involved in these murders, cab or no cab. After all, it’s his route, and he’s got every right to be there. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Ruth gave me the high sign. Big Benny was waiting for me, and the interview was over.
“May we have permission to search your premises?” Levitsky asked.
“Get a warrant,” I told them. “I have a client to see.” I gathered up my folders and marched out, head held high, knees turning to jelly. Ernie Vartanoff ran a fleet of gypsy cabs, and he owed me a favor for getting his kid off with a slap on the wrist when both of us knew he’d been running a chop shop over in Coney Island. Vartanoff Junior was now selling cars in Florida, and Ernie had arranged for Uncle Dmitri to get a license to drive a cab in New York State. Uncle Dmitri insisted that he had driven a truck in the war. Of course, he didn’t say what war. For all I knew, it could have been the First Balkan War of 1912. He certainly looked old enough.
He kept the cab in the garage, he took it out at nightfall and returned at daybreak. He slept in the basement in between. He paid Ernie for the cab, and he paid me for the apartment, and that was that. Uncle Dmitri had been a fixture in my house for five years, and I had stopped questioning him about his life in Romania. All I got were evasive answers.
So why did I suddenly get the creepy feeling that I’d been had?
I pushed that thought to the back of my mind. Big Benny was waiting for me, so I greeted him in the conference room with my usual aplomb.
“Hello, Mr. Badoglio,” I said. Big Benny had put on a suit for his arraignment, a hot purple number, with wide lapels, with a tasteful selection of chains clearly visible through the chest hair underneath. I noticed that two of the chains carried crosses, and one had some kind of religious medal. I noted that the chains were all gold, like his rings. Just as well; silver gave me a rash.
My nose twitched. I could smell garlic under the Brut, and I’m really sensitive to garlic; even the smell makes my stomach curl. I couldn’t let Benny know this, though.
“Let’s see what we have here…” I opened my folder. “According to this police report, you have been accused of beating one Kim Park, the owner of a grocery store. Mr. Park claims that you threatened to destroy his property and maim his daughter unless he paid you a thousand dollars every week for protection. Is this true?”
Benny leaned forward eagerly. “Am I going to the joint if I plead guilty?”
“Do you want to go to prison?” I asked. Benny usually spent a lot of time explaining to me why he didn’t want to go to jail, how he hadn’t really meant to break someone’s arms or legs, but that the victim had resisted his request for payment, and that he was only following orders.
“It’s better than getting my throat ripped out, like Jimmy Rodgriguez,” he said. He fingered the crosses at his neck. “I heard there wasn’t much left of him after the wild dogs got to him.”
“Wild dogs?” That wasn’t in the newspapers!
“Yeah, some punk kid getting high under the boardwalk saw a whole pack of ’em.” Benny shuddered expressively. “He was telling everyone about it, even called the cops, said he was getting a big reward for it. Well, he got his reward all right. I saw the meat wagons taking away what was left of him.”
“Are you carrying garlic?” I asked suddenly.
“You bet I am! And so’s everyone else I know,” Benny said. He leaned closer and said in a confidential whisper, “There’s something real spooky out there, Ms. Johnson. You may think I’m nuts, but my old Nana, she was from the Old Country, and she told me stuff when I was a kid. Vampires, they can’t stand a cross, and they only operate at night. You know those two muggers who they found on the beach? They were drained! And so was that character who was looking at the little kids. We’d have taken care of him, me and the boys, but the cops got him first, and they let him go!” Benny clearly didn’t think the police were doing their job when it came to pedophiles.
I was fascinated. I had seen Big Benny take on cops and a couple of other prisoners, and I thought there was nothing that could scare him. I was wrong. Big Benny was definitely frightened out of what few wits he had.
“It’s enough to keep business off the streets,” Big Benny said. “Except maybe for those crazy Russkies in Brighton Beach. Nothing scares them.”
“I suppose aft
er the Gulag, nothing would,” I commented. “And Communists don’t believe in vampires.” I consulted my notes. “Well, if you want to plead guilty to assault…”
“Please!” A polite Big Benny? The world had just stood still.
“I’ll see what I can do about a reduced sentence.”
“No!” Big Benny fairly yelped. “At least, not until they catch this weirdo.”
And so I left my client happily facing his nice, safe prison cell, and went back to my office, where Detectives Vandergriff and Levitsky were waiting for me with a search warrant.
“We really didn’t want to do this,” Levitsky said.
“We would have preferred it if you’d let us search your house without it,” Vandergriff added.
“Find an unmarked police car and take me home and look for yourselves. Just don’t scare the neighbors, okay?” Off we went, with the boss’s permission, to question Uncle Dmitri.
My house is on a quiet street off Ocean Boulevard, lined with trees. Back when Brooklyn was a suburb of Manhattan, someone had built up a whole row of houses, complete with a garage for the family Model-T. A lot of them had been taken over by the real Orthodox Jews, who had huge families, and couldn’t live where they had to drive to shul. My parents had bought the place back when they were married in 1961, and later remodeled the upper story into another apartment.
“Who lives here besides you?” Vandergriff asked.
“I rent the upstairs to a friend,” I explained. “She’s not home right now.” Judy was at a science fiction convention with her jewelry, which she designs and sells for enough money to keep her going. I don’t charge her much, and she has the place more or less to herself. I don’t make a fuss about the weird smells that occasionally escape from her kitchen, and she doesn’t make a fuss about Uncle Dmitri. She also helps me out from time to time with my personal problems.
“And this Uncle Dmitri of yours?” Levitsky asked.
“He’s in the basement. There’s a separate entrance, under the front stoop.” I tapped on the outside door. “Uncle Dmitri?”
“He’s not answering,” Levitsky said, after a few minutes.
“He almost never goes out during the day,” I said. “I hope he’s all right.”
I tapped on the basement door again, with the same result.
“Is there another entrance to this apartment?” Vandergriff asked.
“There are some stairs through the kitchen,” I said. I led the cops through the house to the back of the kitchen. I usually keep that door closed. After all, why should I go down into the basement? If Uncle Dmitri wanted my company, he could come up, but he didn’t usually want my company. Come to think of it, he didn’t want anyone’s company. Uncle Dmitri was pretty much of a loner.
I tried to turn on the light, but the switch didn’t work. “Uncle Dmitri?” I called down the stairs into the darkness. “There are some people here to talk with you.”
No answer.
“He’s a very sound sleeper,” I said. I got the emergency flashlight that I keep over the kitchen sink in case of blackouts, and led the way down the stairs.
Levitsky and Vandergriff had their hands on their weapons.
The basement was dark as the tomb and smelled like one, musty and damp. Uncle Dmitri had painted over the windows, so no light could get in, not even the smoky haze that passes for sunlight in New York in November. I let my flashlight play around the room. The place was furnished with some old chairs, a broken-down sofa, and a huge wooden crate covered in dust.
“No facilities?” Levitsky asked.
“There’s a bathroom in the corner.” I pointed the flashlight beam towards it. “Just the basics, a toilet, sink and shower. This was going to be my own space, with a private entrance, but it just didn’t work out that way.” I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is my parents’ yahrtzeit…memorial.”
“I know what yahrtzeit is,” Levitsky said.
“Hey, it was nearly ten years ago, and I’ve learned to live with it.” I played the beam of the flashlight around the basement, and didn’t see anything else. “I guess Uncle Dmitri isn’t in.”
“I thought you said he slept down here,” Vandergriff said. “I don’t see any bed.”
“Maybe he uses the couch.” I didn’t mention the crate lurking in the corner. I hoped the cops didn’t make the connection I did, with Uncle Dmitri’s living arrangements.
“What about food?” Vandergriff asked.
I shrugged. “I guess he eats on the job. He’s got kitchen privileges if he wants them.” Come to think of it, I’d never actually seen him eat anything, in the five years that he’d been living in the basement. And I don’t recall any garbage either. “Uncle Dmitri?” I called out again.
“I guess Uncle Dmitri flew the coop,” Levitsky said grimly.
“He doesn’t usually go out during the day,” I said lamely, as I led the cops back upstairs. “He might have stepped out for a moment to check the cab. Kids sometimes steal things, like the radio or the hubcaps.”
We went out to the garage. Uncle Dmitri’s cab was there. Uncle Dmitri wasn’t.
Vandergriff gave me one of those “cop looks” again. “Ms. Johnson, as an officer of the Court, you are bound to uphold the law, and to cooperate with the police. I would strongly advise you to call us as soon as your uncle gets home.”
He handed me a card with his name, fax and email on it.
“I will do that, Detective.” I watched the two of them leave, then put the kettle on for some tea.
There was a creaking noise from the basement. Uncle Dmitri crept into the kitchen, a little more rumpled than usual.
Detectives Vandergriff and Levitsky came in through the outside kitchen door at the same time, hunkered down, hands hovering at their gun-butts, ready to take on anything. Maybe they were expecting a Waco standoff?
I stood between the two parties, not knowing who to guard from whom.
“Put those shooters away,” I said, finally. “No one’s going to kill anyone today.”
“Where were you?” Vandergriff demanded, not giving an inch.
“I was downstairs,” Uncle Dmitri said blandly. “I’m not a big man. You just didn’t see me, that’s all.”
Levitsky stood up and motioned for Vandergriff to do the same. “Mr. Ionescu, we’re not here to arrest you,” he said, in the soothing tones you use with a deranged druggie coming down from a speed high. “We just have some questions about the events of two nights ago.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. I stiffened, ready to spring into action, but Levitsky showed me the little BlackBerry that has become the Twenty First Century’s answer to Star Trek’s tricorder. This interview was going to be recorded, one way or another.
The kettle started tooting. I ran and got out the teabags. “Can I give you anything?” I asked, inanely. You don’t serve tea to cops when they’re on duty.
Levitsky shook his head No, not taking his eyes off Uncle Dmitri for a minute.
“Two nights ago?” Uncle Dmitri repeated, blinking at the cops.
“Your cab was seen leaving the scene of a crime.” Vandergriff stated. “Your log says that you took up a fare at 11:43 and left him at a point near the boardwalk. He was subsequently found dead.”
“So? I didn’t kill him.” Uncle Dmitri shrugged.
“Did you see anything that could lead us to the one who did?” Levitsky asked.
Uncle Dmitri’s eyes narrowed. “It was dark. I’m an old man. I drive the cab, I pick up the people who call for rides, I leave them off. I saw nothing.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Ionescu?” Levitsky wouldn’t give up.
Vandergriff said, “We could get a forensics team in here to run your prints, Mr. Ionescu.” That was a threat if I ever heard it.
“Show me probable cause,” I snapped out. “Uncle Dmitri, do you have any money on you?”
“I got a dollar.” He fished a grubby bill out of his pants pocket.
Uncle Dmitri glared at Vandergriff under the bill of his shabby cloth cap.
“That wasn’t really necessary, Ms. Johnson,” Levitsky said, chidingly. “Mr. Ionescu isn’t being arrested, only questioned as a material witness.”
“Y’know, Jack, I don’t think it would do much good to have the lab boys in here,” Vandergriff said suddenly. His eyes looked out into the distance, as if he was seeing something far, far away.
“I don’t think so, either,” Uncle Dmitri said, with one of those untoothy smiles.
“Maybe I should go and call in,” Vandergriff added, and stumbled out the kitchen door with a dazed look on his face.
Levitsky eyed Uncle Dmitri with respect. “That’s a neat trick,” he said. “I’ve never seen Vandergriff back away like that.”
Uncle Dmitri shrugged modestly. “I didn’t want that shaygets around. He bothers me.”
“And a nice Jewish boy like me, doesn’t?”
“What kind of Jew becomes a policeman?” Uncle Dmitri countered a question with a question.
“A Litvak,” Levitsky snapped out. “You know about Litvaks, Mr. Ionescu. We never take anything for granted. We question everything, and we don’t stop until we’re satisfied. I’m not satisfied that you’ve told us everything you know about these killings.”
“Would you two like to sit down?” I said. I balanced my mug of tea carefully, and I sat down at the kitchen table.
Levitsky pulled up one chair, Uncle Dmitri another, still eyeing each other warily. The old alpha male taking on the new boy on the block; I could practically smell testosterone burning.
“Now,” I began, in my best Lawyer Voice, “Detective Levitsky, are you accusing my uncle of a crime?”
“I want your uncle to tell what he knows about the murder of Jaime Rodriguez,” Levitsky said. “Like I said, he’s a material witness. He was on the scene.”
“And the proof of that?” I countered.
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