The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  I noticed that Ronnie seemed a bit detached, not as keyed in on my side of the investigation as she usually is when we have been off on our own during a case. She didn’t ask any questions, again unusual. In fact, she made no comments at all.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  ~~~

  Ronnie felt absolutely not okay. Her paranoia was beginning to be suffocating. What was the saying about it being not paranoia if they’re really out there after you? As she had feared, DD’s thoroughness was leading him down a path that would inevitably end with her. Soon he would discover Frankie was at the Delancey Social Club that morning and find out that she was staked out there on her day off.

  The Bad Demon was in her ear whispering that her next step was simple if she wanted to save herself and Roje. She had to determine if there was any CCTV surveillance of her and Frankie outside the club that morning and if yes, delete it. Period.

  The Demon’s voice was intoxicating. Come on Ronnie, my precious. You know you can’t afford to have your part in Finacci’s death come out. If it does, then in all likelihood the truth about your gambling addiction and your losing bets with him through Louie Calzone will come out too. A detective owing the mob five figures would cause a whole shitstorm that could minimally result in your going to jail or dismissal from the NYPD. And then there’s Roje. What would happen to him as an accomplice? After all, he was actually the trigger man, or in this case, the bat man, wasn’t he? Batman! Get it? She could hear his evil laughter.

  In the other ear was the Good Conscience Fairy in white telling her it was useless to hide it any longer. The right thing to do was to come clean and spill the whole story to DD. Ronika dear, you know what is the right thing to do. You have to own up to your addiction and your actions and take responsibility for them. After all, it was self-defense. DD will support you, as will Billy and the rest of the precinct. That will protect Roje as well since he can corroborate your side of the events. Of course, you have no reasonable justification for dumping Finacci into the ocean except to confess that you did so to cover up your gambling addiction. But you can argue that the stress of being attacked by him with a gun, your own gun, and the resulting and unfortunate deadly defense by your brother had rendered you temporarily out of touch with reality such that you couldn’t act rationally.

  What the Conscience Fairy was thinking, but didn’t whisper, was something like Realistically dear, you’ll probably be suspended for actions unbecoming a police officer and be forced into some gambling addiction rehab, which could be very dreadful for you. If you insist that you were the one who hit Finacci, then your brother would be charged as an accomplice at a minimum. Ho-hum, take the good with the bad, as they say. At least you’ll retain DD’s friendship and respect—probably—well, maybe. I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  For a brief moment Ronnie thought she was going to ralph up her Number Three breakfast but fought the urge back down.

  ~~~

  “What? Oh, yeah, DD. I’m fine. Just a touch of reflux. I think I may have scarfed down that breakfast a bit too quickly. Sit tight while I visit the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yeah, no problem. Take your time. You sure you’re okay?”

  I didn’t get an answer as she hurriedly left the booth for the bathroom. Scarfed down her breakfast too quickly? I looked at her plate and she had barely finished half of it. Something was up with her. I’d known her a long time and this was very unusual. I knew she had taken a personal interest in Finacci since we were certain that he was the one who had killed Louie Calzone two years ago. But her behavior seemed a bit extreme, even for that frame of mind.

  Chapter 31: … over 8,000 CCTV cameras

  As I said earlier, I had no idea that Ronnie had a gambling addiction and I still didn’t have a clue as to what was going on with her as we left the EATS 24-7 Diner.

  I have to admit that her behavior after the beach corpse was identified as Fast Frankie Finacci was so uncharacteristic for her that I couldn’t just pass it off as a temporary aberration. Initially, I thought that Frankie “resurfacing” (I crack myself up sometimes) had brought back to her the memories of Louie Calzone and our inability to pin his murder on Finacci. But I was beginning to think there was more behind her quirkiness than just that.

  When she returned from the bathroom she just threw down some bills on the table and started walking toward the door.

  “Let’s get going.”

  I hastily got up and followed her out. On my way out I smiled at Flo, cigarette once again in its rightful place on her lower lip.

  “Good luck kicking the smoking habit.”

  She squinted at me through the smoke and said something unintelligible in a voice that sounded like car tires on a gravel road. I believed it was two words, one syllable each. Nice way to treat your regular customers.

  Ronnie had the engine of the Crown Vic running when I got in. She pulled away quickly, just missing an oncoming sideswipe by a red Porsche Carrera which had taken the corner a bit too fast.

  Looking over my shoulder at the retreating Porsche I muttered, “Wow, that was close. I think I got a look at his plate … BUX maybe? I’ve seen him around here before. I think I’ll check that one out later.” No response.

  “By the way, thanks for picking up the breakfast tab but I guess that comes out of respect for my being the Lead Consultant on the case.” Still no response. Normally that would evoke some sort of snappy rejoinder but I guess levity was out as an antidote for whatever was ailing her.

  “What’s the hurry? Where are we going?”

  “I’m not feeling well. In fact, I’m feeling quite shitty. I’ll drop you at the precinct and I’m going to take the rest of the day off.”

  I just stared at her and racked my brain trying (and failing) to come up with any memory of Ronnie ever calling in sick. “Yeah, okay. You don’t look so good.”

  That got a slight rise out of her. She snapped, “Thanks! You’re no George Clooney yourself.”

  Okay, I may not be quick (but I am slow) but I know when to shut up, especially when a woman isn’t feeling well, we were heading for the WB again, and she was packing a loaded Glock. I vividly remembered her making a thinly veiled threat to toss me over the edge into the East River earlier in the morning if I didn’t behave. I had no idea what was bothering her but I wasn’t about to poke the bear anymore. I made the age-old zipping-my-lips-shut gesture and looked straight ahead.

  We drove the rest of the way to the precinct in silence. She pulled to the curb instead of into the garage. As I got out I leaned in and said sincerely, “I hope you feel better.”

  She said, “Thanks. I’ll call you later,” and she was on her way. I barely had time to close the door. I watched her drive down the block and turn left in the direction of her apartment. Bewildered at this most unusual behavior, I just turned and walked up the steps.

  As I got to the door, Billy Smart was on his way out. “Hey Dan, how’s it goin’?” He looked over my shoulder and up and down the street. “Where’s Ronnie?”

  “She’s—” Before I could finish, Billy’s cell rang. His ringtone was the theme song to the old TV show Dragnet. Very cool. I half expected Joe Friday to appear. He looked at the caller ID, held up a finger indicating for me to wait, and connected the call.

  “Ronnie. What can I do for you? … Okay, sure, no problem. Take whatever amount of time you need. Anything I can do for you? … Right. He’s right here. I’ll tell him. Hope you feel better. … Sure, bye.”

  “That was Ronnie calling in sick for the rest of the day. I don’t think I can remember her ever missing a day for illness. I remember her being cranky a few times and saying she just felt sick but she never would take any time even if I insisted.”

  “I know. I was just with her for breakfast and a review of the Finacci case. I was thinking the same thing. She must really feel lousy.” I wasn’t about to share my concerns about her recent behavior with him until I had a handle on it, which I was pretty sure
was not far off. Ronnie and I were just too close for either of us to keep something significant from the other and I believed whatever it was had to be significant for her to be acting the way she was.

  “She said to tell you she’s sorry she was such shitty company this morning and that you should work the Finacci case from the angle of Papalini possibly being involved in his death. What’s your take? Is there anything to that?”

  That blindsided me. While I had considered the notion, Ronnie and I had not discussed the idea of Paulo Papalini whacking Finacci. True, it was a possible thread to pull but I had mostly dismissed it.

  “Could be, Billy. Papalini was Finacci’s sponsor into the Mariucci Family and his mentor. If Frankie had somehow screwed up big time, it would be put upon Papalini to make it right or risk the same fate from higher up.”

  “Okay. Keep me posted and let me know if you speak with Ronnie again today. I know you two keep pretty close contact.”

  “Right, I will.” I knew Ronnie had said she’d call me later and usually I could take that to the bank. But this time I wasn’t so sure. I decided I’d wait for her call and resist the temptation to call her to see how she was doing. I got the distinct impression she just needed some space. Master of the obvious, that’s me.

  I went upstairs to my desk with a cup of the mud the precinct calls coffee to sit and map out my next steps to pursue the idea of Paulo Papalini being responsible for Frankie Finacci’s death. Normally if either one of us had proposed taking a direction on a case that the other deemed implausible we’d have an open and frank discussion with each of us presenting our particular side. Eventually we’d agree on a course of action one way or the other or maybe somewhere in between. I’d estimate that over the years we were close to fifty-fifty in having our own idea prevail.

  However, in this case, there was no such discussion. She just shot it my way via a call with Captain Smart. By doing that she had inserted him into our investigation in a way that put me on the spot. No negotiations. Just do it. I felt very uncomfortable with Papalini’s involvement in, or even being directly responsible for, Frankie’s death. It wasn’t so far-fetched in general, but it just didn’t seem logical or logistically plausible that he would go through the trouble of disposing of the body out in the ocean. That just wasn’t how the mob operated, not their modus operandi. I couldn’t imagine Papalini inviting Finacci out on a boat for some fishing and drinking and then bashing him on the back of the head and tossing the body overboard.

  A shot to the back of Frankie’s head in the back room or the cellar of the Delancey Social Club followed by a midnight deposit into the East River with a fifty-pound barbell strapped to his waist was more the mob’s style.

  But I was a good soldier (and a paid consultant) so I started to figure out my approach.

  ~~~

  Ronnie was a bit ashamed at how she had indirectly told DD to start pursuing Paulo Papalini for Finacci’s murder. She felt certain that DD was currently confused and maybe a bit dismayed as well. But she had to divert his attention while she checked out the CCTV situation and how exposed she may be with her Delancey Social Club stakeout and aftermath. Somehow she knew she would have to make it up to DD. She just didn’t know when or how. He deserved better than this.

  She had bought herself most of a day with the sick call ruse. Like most higher-level detectives, she had access to the NYPD databases via her laptop. Her high-speed wireless connection in her apartment was almost like she was sitting at her desk.

  There are over 8,000 CCTV cameras on the streets of New York City. She knew that the chances that a convenient blind spot would be where she needed one were remote. She logged on to the NYPD’s CCTV network and input the intersection of Delancey and Orchard Streets, which was the closest crossing to the Delancey Social Club.

  Her shoulders sank. As she expected, there was a camera on the intersection corner and it could be positioned to view the front of the club and the spot where she had parked during her stakeout. It was no more than about fifty yards away. By zooming in on the recording for the day in question she was sure her car would be discernible, along with any individuals nearby. What she had to find out was if those images were still on file. If so, she needed to access them and decide if she had to somehow delete them. Her palms were beginning to perspire.

  Of course she knew that it was also possible to actually “follow” her car via accessing CCTV footage in the immediate area of the Delancey Social Club and piece together a montage of video from various sequential cameras tracing her route all the way to the meeting with Roje and the Sea Nymph. That would be time consuming and time was her enemy. Shit!

  She knew from previous cases that CCTV recordings were kept active for two weeks for immediate review by any department personnel investigating a case. Thereafter the recordings were archived on offline disc drives for a certain period, she wasn’t sure exactly how long. They could be brought up for access within twelve hours of a request from any authorized detectives, of which she was one. Since her activities at the club were only twelve days prior she would have to act quickly. She had less than seventy-two hours.

  Online inquiries into CCTV records were automatically logged but she didn’t think that the accesses were reviewed or those doing the accessing identified unless there was a good reason to do so. If she played it right and didn’t raise any red flags she should be able to at least access the recordings and see what was out there. The tricky part would come if she had to consider deleting incriminating footage. The thought made her shudder. Such an action would go against the grain of her being.

  What made her shudder even deeper was the awareness of her growing inability to ignore the urge to come clean to DD and Captain Smart. It was getting more difficult to push that damned Good Fairy aside to stay hidden deep within her psyche. She knew that very soon there was going to be a showdown between the Bad Demon and the Good Fairy deep down in her soul. She also believed she had little or no control over how the epic battle would turn out or which one she would be rooting for. She only knew that one of them would win and she would have to abide by the result. It was a very helpless feeling.

  Ronnie was not usually a solitary drinker but she felt compelled to get herself a glass of red wine. She sat at the keyboard sipping the wine for a good fifteen minutes before surrendering to the inevitable.

  Bewildered, she forced her fingers to enter the keystrokes necessary to access the CCTV recordings for the camera outside the Delancey Social Club. The access required her to input the case number associated with the inquiry along with the date and time range to be accessed.

  In less than five seconds an image appeared on her laptop screen. While it was black and white, it was surprisingly clear. Some of the CCTV images she had accessed in the past had been rather grainy, which was her hope in this case. But she could easily make out the details in front of her. This camera must be a newer model. It was positioned on a light pole pointing down Delancey Street toward the club. The sign hanging over the door perpendicular to the street could be seen. She zoomed in on it and read:

  THE DELANCEY

  SOCIAL CLUB

  Members Only

  The detail was alarming. But what was even more distressing was the image of her car opposite and slightly down the street from the club. There was no question it was her car but just to be sure, she zoomed in on the license plate. The magnified image was a bit fuzzy but she could make out the letters and numbers with a fair degree of certainty.

  The good news was that Ronnie herself in the car could not be seen and the viewer would have to be looking specifically for that car to draw their attention to it. The bad news was that her car was one of only three on the street, the others being the black Town Car and Finacci’s Lexus. The worse news was that Finacci would eventually emerge from the club after Lucci and Papalini had left. It would then be clear that a connection would be made between Ronnie and Finacci due to the fact that he entered her car and it drove off.

/>   SHIT!

  Then the whispers were in her ears …

  Bad Demon: Decision time, my precious.

  Good Fairy: Decision time, dear.

  Chapter 32: “Lawyer.”

  While I didn’t think Paulo Papalini had whacked Fast Frankie Finacci and somehow had transported his body out to the Atlantic for disposal, I had instructions from my employer to look into that angle. It was difficult because we did not have an exact date of death beyond the forensic estimate of four to five days prior to his washing ashore at my feet.

  My interview with Mistress Tina suggested a specific date that Frankie may have started down the path to his demise. But I considered her a semi-reliable witness at best. Hell, for all I knew, he may have come back to her that night and been met with the business end of a baseball bat. She certainly was pissed enough at him and may have had something going with someone who had the means to dispose of the body at sea. Something in my gut told me it wasn’t Mistress Tina, but who knew for sure? Over the years I’ve seen real-life things that would never make it into a crime novel because they were too bizarre.