by Blake Banner
The sandwiches and the beer arrived and we ate in silence. When I’d finished, I drained my beer and sat looking at my empty plate. Eventually, I shook my head. “I am not his babysitter.” I looked her in the eye. “He has the whole of the Jersey Mafia for his bodyguard. He knew what he was doing when he stole from the Irish Mob. I’m not going to blow the operation just to protect his life, so he can walk away afterwards scot-free.”
She finished her sandwich without answering and then sat for a bit picking crumbs from her plate. Eventually, she nodded and said, “I agree.”
I sighed. “Good.”
TWENTY-FOUR
There are no benches in Ferry Point Park. It’s more like a stretch of wilderness by the river that humanity hasn’t destroyed yet. I was sitting on the bank, watching Dehan down on the pebbles looking out at the cold, black river. It was nine fifty. We’d had a meeting with the captain at seven AM and, though he was approaching the end of his tether, he also knew he had no choice but to give me what I wanted. And he had.
At three minutes past ten, Dehan turned and stared past me at the entrance to the park. Her face went hard and she said, “Not good.”
I turned and looked. There was a man walking toward us. It wasn’t Bishop Bellini. It was Conor Hagan. He stopped beside me, with his hands in his pockets, and looked out at the stygian water.
“Imagine meeting you two here.”
I didn’t say anything and he sat next to me on the bank, studying my face.
“I figure I owe you, Stone.”
“You don’t owe me a goddamn thing.”
“That’s not for you to decide, is it? That’s for me to decide.”
Dehan took three or four unsteady steps over the pebbles to stand on the moss, a couple of feet away or three. Hagan studied her a moment. She said, “Where is Bellini?”
“He’s alive.”
“If you feel indebted to me, Hagan, stop the killing.”
He gave a lopsided smile. “You think I can stop the killing? No man, or woman, can stop the killing, Stone. You should know that.”
Dehan snapped, “So you brutalize and murder Sadiq, and then Bellini, and then Vincenzo tortures and murders three of your people, and you take four of theirs, and where does it end, Conor? You have the power and the influence…”
“Stop.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice. He said it quietly. “I have read my Kant and my Russell, and my Nietzsche, Detective Dehan, I don’t need a lecture on ethics, or morality. And I am not here to discuss my actions with you. I have evaluated the situation and I have made my decisions.”
“Why are you here, Hagan?”
He turned to me. “I told you, I figure I owe you a debt, and I want to pay it off.”
“How?”
“These bastards stole a lot of money from me, money that I had intended to help homeless and dispossessed people, and orphaned children.” He glanced at Dehan. “And before you come in with one of your wisecracks, Detective, I don’t expect to praised or admired for it. In fact, I’d rather nobody knew about it because it’s bad for my image. But I actually think it’s the least any man in my position should do.”
He turned back to me.
“What really pisses me off is that those twisted, perverted bastards used my money to fund their sick fucking operation. Now I want my money back, and I will get it back, plus twelve years fucking interest.”
Dehan narrowed her eyes. “How are you going to do that?”
“I have something Vincenzo wants.”
“The bishop.”
“He knows that if he ever wants to see that little shit again in one piece—and I mean that literally—he needs to pay me back what Bellini, Sadiq, O’Neil, and Harragan stole from me.”
Somewhere overhead, a sea gull cried havoc and laughed. I looked at my shoes a moment.
“Okay, first, there is a name that is notably absent from your list. Second, how does any of this pay back your supposed debt?”
“You’re talking about Vincenzo and Harragan’s man at the Bureau.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m coming to that. Here is how I am going to pay you back, Stone. I’ve arranged a meeting, at the abandoned Fish Fare warehouse on Coster Street. They give me my money, they get what’s theirs returned to them. I have demanded that Vincenzo be there personally, as well as your man from the Bureau. Show up, with the 7th Cavalry, at ten PM tonight, not a minute before, storm the place, and you will get your prize. Show up early, Stone, and you get nothing. I guarantee it.”
“I want Bellini alive, Hagan.”
He spread his hands and shook his head. “You say that like I had some say in the matter. I am just giving you information, do with it as you will.” He stood. “You have a good day.”
And he turned and walked away across the park toward Emerson Avenue. Dehan watched him go, and when he was out of the park she said to me, “Son of a bitch! He did not incriminate himself once. Not once!”
I smiled and shook my head. “He knew one of us had a wire. Whatever Bellini told him, he knew that we were not bent and this was a sting.”
“You think he’s on the level?”
“In as much as a man like Hagan is ever on the level, yeah.” I stood. “Let’s go see Frank, then we’ll go see the captain about this raid.”
It was a grim sight. It’s a truism, but when you’re a detective in the Bronx for twenty-five years, you get to see some pretty dark things. But nothing really prepares you for seeing the skeletons of fourteen young girls, all murdered in cold blood, laid out on a table in order of size from smallest, aged eleven and twelve, to oldest, aged about twenty.
I saw Dehan waver as we stepped through the door.
“You going to be okay? You want to wait outside?”
She was pale, but she shook her head. “I’m okay.”
Frank approached us across the room. He looked businesslike, but glanced apologetically at Dehan.
“I’m sorry, Carmen, I know this has a personal dimension for you, but it’s hard to be delicate about…”
“You don’t need to be delicate. I’m okay.”
“Sure… Well, first things first.” He walked the length of the table, to the tallest of the skeletons. “This here is, I am afraid, your cousin, Alicia Flores.”
She nodded. “I had pretty much accepted that was the case.”
“We were able to determine cause of death when we put the skeleton together. The second cervical vertebra was completely shattered, and the first and third had sustained damage that was consistent with a bullet wound.”
I said, “She was shot in the back of the neck.”
“I think that’s what I said.”
“Could you determine the caliber?”
He winced. “Probably a .38.”
Dehan said, “Like Sean.”
Frank nodded. “But it is impossible to be more accurate than that.” He pointed over at a whiteboard, where they had taped a blown-up photograph of the orphan girls from Alicia’s class. “The other skeletons we have been able to match with the girls in the picture, by age and general anatomy. We are running DNA profiles on them, but of course, we have nothing to match them against as yet. It’s the best we can do.”
“What about cause of death?” It was Dehan. “Did they all die the same way?”
He heaved a big sigh. “The simple answer is no. In a couple, we have not been able to determine cause of death. In those cases, it was probably damage to a vital organ that did not affect the skeletal framework. In several of them, there was damage to vertebrae that was consistent with their necks being crushed, either manually, with a garrote, or even with the foot. It is impossible to be more precise. A number show lacerations on their ribs, consistent with stab wounds to the heart. There are a couple who have what are clearly gunshot wounds to the chest, again, consistent with a .38 caliber bullet.”
I looked at Dehan. She was pale and her pupils were dilated. When she spoke, her voice was devoid
of any emotion or feeling. “So basically, either one man set about massacring these girls in a variety of ways, or two or three people had an orgy of killing, one with his hands, another with a gun, and a third with a knife.”
Frank nodded. “Yes, assuming they all died at the same time, that is correct.”
I sighed. “I’ll talk to the captain about organizing some kind of campaign, maybe a hotline, some TV exposure, to see if we can identify some of these girls. Some of them might have family. Somebody might remember them.”
Frank nodded. “Yes. Somebody should do something to bring peace to these girls.”
We left him running his DNA tests and made our way down to the parking lot. When we got there, Dehan sat on the hood of the car and stared at me.
“It wasn’t just Mick, was it, Stone?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“It was Sadiq and Bellini too.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Carmen. It was expedient. They didn’t know how much Sean and Alicia had discovered and they had to conceal the evidence.”
“How can somebody do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were they high? Coke or meth?”
I shrugged. “Maybe they were just plain evil.”
She was quiet for a while. “That’s where he came from.” She looked up at me. “That night. He was fresh from the slaughter.”
I stepped forward, pulled her to me and put my arms around her. She clung to me and started sobbing. It was convulsive, a pouring out of pain she’d held inside for twelve years, of anger and rage and impotence. We stood like that for maybe five minutes, until the storm subsided, then she stepped back and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeves.
Some women, when they cry, look puffy and red and unattractive. Dehan was definitely one of them. Her nose was shiny and her cheeks were soaked. I pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to her. She gave a silly laugh and blew her nose in a way you could describe as anything but feminine. When she’d finished mopping her face, she hesitated and tentatively handed the handkerchief back. I smiled and shook my head. “Keep it.”
She laughed. It was an oddly girly laugh, strangely out of character. “I’ll wash it for you.”
“I want you to take the night off, Dehan.”
Her face hardened suddenly. “No way! Don’t do this to me, Stone. Do not do this to me!”
I held up both hands. “Okay, if you want to come along, do. But I think this thing is too close to you. I think if you are wise, you will stay…”
She interrupted me. “I’m a girl! We do this kind of shit sometimes! I am fine, and you have got to let me be there at the…”
“At the what? At the kill?”
“I was going to say at the finish.”
But we both knew she was lying.
TWENTY-FIVE
We had four cars plus mine, and eight officers plus myself and Dehan. We approached along Ryawa Avenue in the south and Viele in the north, without sirens. The first two cars turned down Manida Street and took up positions at the back of the warehouse. We turned down Coster Street and blockaded the exit with the cars. The windows were boarded up and the steel door was closed, but a close look showed there was no padlock on it.
I detailed two officers to stay with the cars, training their weapons on the door. The other two were to come in with Dehan and me and make the arrests. I checked my watch. It was nine fifty-five, and we waited in silence.
At exactly ten o’clock, I stepped to the door and eased it back. I expected it to wake the dead, but the rollers had been oiled and it was quiet. I opened it enough to allow us access and slipped in. Dehan followed, and then the two uniforms. We took up positions and listened.
We were in a large hangar. It was dark, but there was a soft glow coming from the back. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see that the hangar formed an ‘L’ shape and turned right at the end. That was where the glow came from, as well as a faint murmur of voices. I gestured we should move forward and the two uniforms headed for the wall at the angle of the ‘L’. Dehan was behind me and we made for a pillar that covered the angle, and the source of the light. We were in shadow.
We crouched behind the pillar and, keeping low, I peered around. What I saw was not what I expected to see.
Vincenzo was there, in his Armani suit. He was standing. He had two of his boys with him. One of them I recognized as the Neanderthal who’d been in Sonia’s office. They were standing in front of a chair. It was like a scene from a noir B movie from the fifties. There was a man tied to the chair. He looked badly bruised, but he was alive. It was Bishop Bellini.
I could see the two uniforms looking over at me, waiting for instructions. I gestured ‘stand by’.
Alvaro Vincenzo spoke suddenly, spreading his hands in an exaggerated Italian mannerism, making funny steps with his feet. “I’m confused, Monsignor. You know, maybe you can give me some guidance. Because, you, being a bishop, you got a direct line to God, right?”
Bellini muttered something. Vincenzo ignored him.
“That’s your thing, right? Everybody’s got a thing in this world. Tony here, and Joe, their thing is breaking people’s bones. They are really good at that, and with pliers. You like the pliers, right, Tony? Tony is real good with pliers, because pliers are like his thing.
“My thing?! My thing is making money, and keeping money. Money is my thing, Monsignor. And like Tony and Joe, I am real good at my thing.”
He took a couple of steps closer to the bishop, jutting out his knees as he walked. He leaned forward so his face was close to the bishop’s.
“You know why I am good, Monsignor Roberto Bellini? Because… because I am not stupid! Because I do not allow people to screw me! Because I am fuckin’ ruthless!”
He looked back at his boys. They looked passive, as though they were watching a TV show just because it was on, not because they were interested. Vincenzo’s knees were still going, like he had a nervous condition that affected his legs, first one and then the other. His little ‘I am a tough guy’ dance.
“Your thing is talking to God. So I am wondering…” He laughed an incredulous laugh. “I am wondering how come, how come, if you can talk to God, He allowed you to do something so fuckin’ stupid as stealing money from me!”
I frowned at Dehan. She was frowning back. Had Hagan sold Vincenzo a line?
The Don was talking again.
“What’s that? What’s that? You didn’t steal from me? No, no, no!” He was raising one hand. “Let’s see, Monsignor, if we understand each other here, because you, and that fuckin’ Mick, Father O’Neil, and that other fuckin’ Mick, Mick Harragan…” He turned laughing to his boys. “You see that? They’re so fuckin’ stupid they even call themselves Mick!” The boys laughed and he turned back to Bellini. “And that fuckin’ Arab, Khan, see, you all enjoyed my protection, which you were always very happy to use when it suited you. But you see, that comes at a price. It means, you run a business, you pull a heist, you do a job, and I get my percentage. Anything, anything that goes down, I get my interest, my fuckin’ consideration. And you had the fuckin’ gall! You had the fuckin’ affrontery! You had the fuckin’ impudence to scam Conor Hagan, without my fuckin’ permission, and steal one hundred fuckin’ thousand dollars from me!”
With that, he gave him three powerful back handers that echoed around the warehouse.
I turned to Dehan and nodded. Conor Hagan was a subtle and intelligent man, who should never be underestimated. I looked over at the two officers and signaled again to await my signal.
Then another voice spoke. It was deep and resonant, and familiar.
“Let’s get this over with, Alvaro. I am not comfortable here. I don’t even know why you called me.”
I couldn’t see the speaker. He seemed to be sitting on a crate behind Tony. Vincenzo turned toward him. “I told you. Hagan wants to talk to you. He’s given us a gesture of goodwi
ll; the least we can do is listen to him. He’s a fuckin’ Mick but we are all Catholics. I’d rather cooperate with him than get into a fuckin’ war with him.”
“I’m giving him another five minutes. If he doesn’t show, I am out of here.”
“He’ll show, if he wants his fuckin’ money.”
I knew in that moment that he did not plan to show and he had written off the money. He was going to recover it another way. I gave the uniforms the thumbs up and stepped out from behind the pillar. At the same time, Dehan stepped out from the other side, and I shouted, “Freeze! NYPD! You are surrounded! Drop your weapons!”
Tony reached for his piece. I shot him in the heart and he kind of folded up and lay down. Immediately, there was an answering shot from behind Vincenzo, and one of the two uniformed cops fell. I shouted again, “Freeze!”
Dehan was shouting into her radio to the two cops I’d left at the cars, “Officer down! Officer down! Move in!”
Then, everything happened at once. Vincenzo stuck his hands up in the air, while Joe pulled his piece to fire. The other uniform screamed, “Drop it!” and the unseen shooter fired twice and dropped him. Dehan and I both fired and Joe went down. Feet were running behind us. Another shot and the light went out. Dehan was shouting, “A flashlight! A flashlight! Get back to the car! Get a flashlight!” More feet running, and for a moment there was a silhouette against the pale oblong of the open door. One of the uniforms, a crack, a spit of fire, and the silhouette cried out and fell.
Then there was stillness and absolute silence. Dehan’s voice again. “Officers down! Repeat, officers down! Request immediate back up to Coster Street!”
I whispered to Dehan, “Cover me!” and sprinted headlong for the door, keeping low. I threw myself on the floor and rolled to the left of the opening. Two cracks and two whining ricochets off the steel blind. I crawled toward the opening, took a hold of the door and heaved it back, widening the gap by about four feet. Then, I frantically scrambled and rolled over the threshold under a hail of bullets, next I was up and running for the nearest car. A movement behind me and a voice shouted, “Detective! This one!”
