by R.J. Ellory
'Helps to have extras. Sometimes I can't wait for the crime scene snaps to be delivered.'
Parrish left him to it, saw the flash out of the corner of his eye every time it went off. He put gloves on too, started through the kitchen, rifling drawers, opening the cooker, the microwave. The cupboards were pretty much empty - one can of chili, another of adzuki beans, half empty pack of Uncle Ben's. In the fridge he found one egg and a carton of milk five days past, already swelling a little. On the shelf beneath was half a head of lettuce in Saran wrap and three slices of brown bread, stale and stiff and upright at the corners. How could people live like this, Radick had said. Easy, Parrish thought, considering that his fridge looked pretty much the same. He didn't know what he would find here, especially as Crime Scene had already been through, but he kept on looking regardless.
Half an hour and Radick was done.
'Got what I wanted,' he said. 'What d'you want to do with this now?'
'Well, we need to find this woman in Williamsburg, get Rebecca's school, talk to her friends, anyone she hung out with,' Parrish replied. 'See if a Missing Persons report has turned up.'
'You think she died because of him, or he died because of her?'
'He died because of her I should think, but hell, it's just guesswork until it's something else, right?'
Three hours and they had a name and an address in Williamsburg. They managed to trace Rebecca through Child Services to the Williamsburg Schools Register. They called Student Information, had them fax over a copy of her registration form, and there - top right-hand corner - was as clear a photograph as they could have hoped for. They called the school back, got the name and contact number for a Helen Jarvis, filed with the school as Rebecca's legal guardian: the woman they were looking for.
At five, Parrish and Radick sat in a kosher delicatessen up on Prospect Street near the Manhattan Bridge. Parrish had pastrami, open-face with melted Swiss cheese; Radick had a bagel, toasted dark, with peanut butter.
'So Rebecca lives over in Williamsburg, Danny lives in South Brooklyn. They see each other rarely. She's a good girl, goes to school, grades are fine . . . and then she vanishes.'
'I think we go talk to this Helen Jarvis,' Radick said. 'I'm all for going now.'
'Sure,' Parrish said. 'Let me finish my food.'
The traffic was better than usual, and at a quarter of seven they pulled up outside 1256 Ditmars Street.
The woman who opened the door was the better part of forty- five, maybe older. Parrish immediately recognized her from the photograph he had found in Danny Lange's apartment.
Helen Jarvis knew who they were before the badges came out.
'It's Rebecca, isn't it? Has she gotten into some trouble with Danny?' She stood right there in the doorway despite the chill. She didn't invite them in.
'Could we come in please, Miss Jarvis?' Radick asked.
Helen Jarvis stepped back without speaking, showed them into the living room.
Parrish asked about her relationship with Rebecca, whether she was a family member.
'No,' she replied. 'I knew her parents . . . many years ago, of course. They're dead, you know. Tragic really. Car crash, both of them killed instantly. Anyway, Danny was eighteen at the time, Becky was eleven.'
'And she's been living with you since then?' Parrish asked.
'Yes, she has.'
'And you are her legal guardian?'
Helen Jarvis looked awkward. 'I'm in deep, right?'
Parrish frowned.
'Child Services?'
'I'm sorry, I don't understand, Miss Jarvis.'
'I knew this was going to happen. One day it had to happen, didn't it?'
'What, Miss Jarvis? What had to happen?'
'That it would be discovered that I'm not her legal guardian. I mean, I couldn't very well leave her to be looked after by Danny, could I? He was already . . . well, he already had his own problems to deal with. He didn't want a little girl hanging around the place, did he? And anyway, there was no money. What little there was got swallowed up with bills and God knows what else. Child Services came down here, asked Danny if he would take care of his sister. He was already eighteen by then, and legally he could do that. I told him to tell them yes, he'd take her, and they went away glad not to have the problem. I then told Danny to leave her with me. He went off to Brooklyn and she stayed here.'
'And you know she's been missing from school for a week, Miss Jarvis?'
Helen Jarvis bowed her head. 'Yes,' she replied. 'I know.'
'And you didn't file a Missing Persons Report?'
'Well, I called the school on Tuesday and the principal called me back and said that she hadn't been into school since the previous Friday. I called the local police down here, and they said I had to wait forty-eight hours before I could file a report. Then it got to Thursday and I thought that I'd give it just one more day, and then Thursday came and went. I called Danny, no answer, so I even thought of going down to Brooklyn to see if she was with him.
'She's done this before, you see, run off to Danny's . . . done it at least half a dozen times, but she always comes home. I just imagine that that's what has happened. I thought I'd give her until Saturday to phone. I knew she would phone eventually, and she will. She will phone and tell me what happened, and she'll be sorry for all the trouble she's caused. She's a good girl really. And Danny is a live wire, you know? Danny is always exciting, always has something going on, but I don't think he's a good influence - not that he's a bad person, of course. I wouldn't want you to think that he was a bad person by any account, but I don't think it's good that Rebecca looks up to him so much. And it isn't like she's incapable of taking care of herself. She's older than her years, If you know what I mean. And I trust her. I just assume she's run off to Danny's again . . .'
'And you last saw her when?'
'Monday morning. Early. She went off to school as usual.'
'And there was nothing strange in her behavior? Nothing out of the ordinary you noticed?'
Helen Jarvis shook her head. 'Nothing that I can think of, no. I mean, she's a teenager, and I know that sometimes teenagers can be difficult—'
'Miss Jarvis,' Radick interjected, and Parrish could see in that moment that she knew.
They always knew. When the police appeared on their doorstep, they knew. When the black-and-white pulled up outside the house, they knew. When the kids didn't come home from school, and friends didn't know where they were, and so-and-so wasn't having a sleepover, and there was no after-hours football practice, they knew.
Helen Jarvis had that expression. Defeat. Overwhelm. Pained resignation. Her words - nervous, too fast, all too eager to explain the what and where and how - had been merely a delaying tactic. She had spoken of the girl in the present tense, the past tense, the present tense once more.
'No,' she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. And then again, 'No.'
'We found her in Danny's apartment,' Parrish told her. 'On Monday. We found Danny a few hours earlier.'
Helen Jarvis's eyes widened.
'Both of them,' Parrish said. 'Danny was shot at close range, and Rebecca had been strangled.'
'Strangled?' Helen asked, and it wasn't that she misunderstood the word, or was unable to appreciate the concept, it was that she was hit broadside by the image of her Rebecca choking to death with someone's hands around her neck.
She started to breathe then, fast and short, started to hyperventilate, and Parrish told her, firm but gentle, to stand up, to walk around, to take deep, deep breaths. He told Radick to fetch her a drink of water, but Helen said she wanted a glass of whiskey. It was there in the cupboard above the sink, the glasses to the right.
She sat down, she stood up again, and then she started to cry.
She cried for half an hour, her chest heaving, her voice strained, her eyes red and swollen and desperate. She kept looking at Parrish as if he could say or do something to make her feel better, but he could not, and she knew it.
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Never once did she ask if she was in trouble. Never once did she enquire as to whether she would be under investigation from Child Services. That fact alone told Parrish that Rebecca could not have found a better home after the death of her parents.
As they were leaving Parrish held back a moment. He sent Radick on to the car.
'I need to ask you something about Rebecca's appearance,' he said.
'Her appearance?'
'I wanted to know whether she wore nail varnish.'
Helen Jarvis frowned. 'Not that I'm aware of. I mean, she might have done, but I don't recall ever having seen her wearing nail varnish. Why?'
Parrish shook his head. 'And her hair was cut short in back and then close in to her face, right?'
'No, her hair was quite long. Straight down her back, parted in the middle.'
'Okay,' Parrish said. 'Someone is going to be in touch with you, Miss Jarvis. Unfortunately, you might be the only person who can make a formal identification, and then there'll be the funeral arrangements to take care of.'
Helen Jarvis raised a handkerchief to her face.
'Is there someone who can come and be with you?'
Helen looked vacant for a moment, and then she shook her head. 'I'll be okay,' she said, but Parrish knew she wouldn't.
Parrish reached out and touched her hand, and then he left her standing in the hallway and made his way to the car.
Radick drove, Parrish sat in silence. They would have to file a report with Child Services. Helen Jarvis, having spent the last five years caring for Rebecca, never once having made a claim for financial support from the county, would have to endure weeks of criticism from the very people who should have helped her. Parrish, having seen and heard so much of this, could not fault what she had done. So easy to judge from an objective perspective. She had convinced herself that Rebecca was with Danny. Rebecca was sixteen, and Parrish knew from personal experience how his own daughter had been at that age. At some point the parental chains had to come off. At some point you had to accept the fact that the world was out there, that it was waiting for them, and if they were going to make it. . . Well then, they would make it. Or they wouldn't. If you chose to collect them from school one day to ensure they'd get home safe, then it could be the following day that a hit and run might kill them at the crosswalk. Life had sharp corners and rough edges. Life had spikes.
Radick asked if Parrish wanted to be dropped at home.
'Precinct,' Parrish said.
'You've been on shift since this morning, Frank. You should go home.'
Parrish smiled. 'It is my home.'
TWELVE
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2008
'A dream . . .'
'A dream? More like a nightmare.'
'About the girl?'
'The girl and her brother.'
'Tell me.'
'What's to tell? It's just a dream. Doesn't mean anything.'
'It can do.'
'I don't agree.'
'You don't have to. Just tell me anyway.'
'She talked to me. She was beside me in the car, and she was talking to me.'
'What did she look like?'
'I don't know exactly. I couldn't look sideways at her, could only look directly ahead. And she asked me not to look at her anyway . . . she said she didn't look her best.'
'Because she was dead?'
'I assume so.'
'And what did she say to you?'
'I can't remember.'
'You want to try and remember?'
'It has no significance. I do not think that the solution to her murder is my dreams.'
'Her murder? What about her brother?'
'That's a casualty of war. Overdose and murder are just occupational hazards for people like Danny Lange. Anyway, that's not the issue right now.'
'You don't want to talk about this anymore, Frank?'
'No.' 'What do you want to talk about?'
'I was gonna tell you about JFK.'
'I looked up some stuff last night on the internet.'
'What you'll find on the internet and what I can tell you are not the same thing.'
'I know that. I was just reading up some of the history of it.'
'Idlewild?'
'Yes, Idlewild.'
'Well, that was what it used to be, and then, when it became JFK Airport, things didn't change a great deal aside from the scope of what they were getting up to. Even as Idlewild, right from the point it opened in '48, this airport was run by the Mob.'
'Your father used to tell you about all of this?'
'Sure he did. He told me the whole history of the Mafia in New York, how it all started, how it all ended up.'
'And how did that make you feel? When he talked to you about these things?'
'Made me feel he was the smartest guy in the whole freakin' world.'
'A saint, even?'
'The Saints of New York? No, that wasn't for years.'
'So tell me about it. Tell me some of the things he used to talk to you about.'
'Well, to tell you the truth, the height of the Mob's control of New York was from the Thirties to the Fifties, certainly as far as the docks were concerned. That was the International Longshoremen's Association. You saw On The Waterfront?'
'Marlon Brando. Yes.'
'Right, Marlon Brando. Anyway, that was all about that shit. The way the unions and the mob controlled which ships could get loaded and unloaded, and whether the crews were working down there. The largest ILA local, Brooklyn 1814, was controlled by a guy named Anthony Anastasio, but they called him "Tough Tony". Anyway, Tough Tony died in '63, and 1814 was taken over by a guy called Anthony Scotto, and he was a big deal. He was a great success in the ILA, and he was also a capo in the Gambino crime family. He had some of the most powerful political connections in New York's history.
'Now, the business coming through the ports and Idlewild itself had been big, don't get me wrong, but in 1963 when Idlewild became JFK, these guys realized that JFK's traffic would make everything they'd done before seem like pocket change. They saw the possibilities there, not only because of all the merchandise that they could steal from the airport, but also the way in which the freight forwarding could be managed.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, this goes back to the Fifties. The Teamsters. You've heard of the Teamsters, right?'
'Sure. Jimmy Hoffa and all that.'
'Yeah, Jimmy Hoffa. Well, Teamsters Local 295 was established back in '56 to represent the clerical guys, the dispatchers, and also the truck drivers and the warehousemen employed by the freight- forwarding and trucking companies that served the airport. The Lucchese family controlled 295, and the two guys that ran that show were Johnny Dio - John Dioguardi to give you his full name - and a guy called John McNamara who was the nominal president of 295. So McNamara and Johnny Dio get busted for conspiracy and extortion in '58, and there's this thing called the McClellan Commission set up to investigate all the corruption in this end of the business. Well, they dig deep, and they find out that Jimmy Hoffa created Local 295 and a couple of other paper locals—'
'Paper locals?'
'Sure, locals that just exist on paper, but they don't really exist. Anyway, they find that Hoffa created these outfits to milk as much money out of the freight-forwarders as possible, and that money was going directly to the Lucchese family, and they were supporting Hoffa's candidacy for President of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. Anyway, there's so much corruption and so much money in all of this. It's a mess. No-one knows who to believe or who to trust. The New York State Investigation Committee gets involved, there's public hearings into racketeering at the airport, but it isn't for ten years that anyone is really charged with anything. That tells you how much they were all Involved. Politicians, police, representatives of the Mayor's Office, the FBI, the SIC . . . they were all getting paid off. Finally, in '69, John Gotti takes a fall for three years for hijacking trucks.
That was noth
ing more than a publicity stunt to give everyone the idea that they were really changing things down there.'
'And your father knew about this?'
'I'm getting there. Let me finish with the history. So, 1970, the Luccheses support the creation of Teamsters Local 851, and this outfit represents over two thousand truckers and warehousemen and fourteen hundred clerical people, all of whom were former members of Local 295. New name, old face, right? Anyway, this same old crap goes on. They are pulling merchandise and money out of the airport like there's no tomorrow. Finally, the US Attorney General, John Mitchell, has had enough. It's 1971, and he announces two antitrust indictments against a whole bunch of trucking companies and the entirety of the National Air Freight Association. The shit hits the fan. Everyone pleads no contest, the NAFA is dissolved, and they set up this commission to ensure that air freight price-fixing is prevented.'
'But I guess that doesn't happen, right?'
'The airport is fifteen miles from the center of Manhattan, it accounts for thirty percent of air cargo coming in and going out of the mainland United States. It covers five thousand acres, and there's endless runways, terminal buildings, cargo hangars, warehouses, high-security storage vaults, container stations and truck depots. It has forty thousand people working there. For God's sake, there's the same number of people working there as the whole of the New York Police Department. The thing is managed and run by the Port Authority for New York and New Jersey. The Port Authority, right? For New York and New Jersey. All the way back to the Fifties, when planes instead of ships started carrying America to the rest of the world, organized crime has been in charge of this stuff. The Luccheses already owned many of the port trucking firms, and they were the backbone of the Metropolitan Importer Truckmen's Association. It was just a matter of switching from one area of business to another. You think that something so insignificant as the US Attorney General and a few court cases are going to stop this shunt they had into the financial arteries of the airport?'
'And that was what your father was involved in?'
