Brighton Beach

by Robert I. Katz

  Kurtz smiled. “Yeah?”

  “Donna Ryan’s parents, her brother, two of her sisters plus their husbands, her cousins, Vasily and Arkady, their parents, four more cousins, six assorted kids.”

  “A party,” Kurtz said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Any particular occasion?”

  “No. Just a family get-together. They have them fairly often.”

  “Where was this party, exactly?”

  “The Ryans’ house.”

  “It’s a big house,” Kurtz said.

  Barent nodded.

  “Anybody else?” Kurtz asked.

  “Their priest, Robert Kamenov. Also, his wife.”

  “Father Bob?”

  Barent gave Kurtz a long-suffering look. “Yes. Father Bob.”

  “Quite a crowd.”

  “Donna Ryan has a close-knit family.”

  That must be nice, Kurtz thought. Comforting, even, having all those people around who cared about you. Donna had said as much. Lenore’s family was similar. Despite his occasional exasperation with his mother-in-law’s impulses toward insanity, he enjoyed their frequent get-togethers. They were entertaining, if nothing else.

  “And what did any of them have to say about Steve Ryan?”

  Barent scratched his head, stared at his computer screen. “He seemed subdued.”

  “Subdued…”

  “Not in the best of moods. He had just lost a patient.”

  “This, I know. She was my patient, too.”

  “Apparently, he had also decided on a change in careers.”

  “Okay.”

  Barent looked at him. “You’ve heard this before.”

  “I have. Steve told me.”

  “Then why are you asking us?”

  Kurtz’ mouth twitched upward. “Go on,” he said.

  “Go on, what? What more do you want to hear?”

  “He was subdued. The autopsy revealed high levels of alcohol plus diazepam, for which he had a prescription. Okay, I get it, but subdued doesn’t necessarily mean that he was planning on killing himself. From what I know of him, Steve was always the quiet type. Maybe he felt a bit out of place with his wife’s family, many of whom were presumably speaking a different language. Maybe he just had a lot on his mind. Did anybody, anybody at all, say they were worried about him?”

  “No,” Barent said. “No, they didn’t, but he left a suicide note and there was no evidence of violence. If anybody slipped diazepam into his wine glass, we have no way to prove it, and no reason to think that it happened.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  Barent shrugged. “We try not to jump to conclusions in this business. Judges and juries tend to disregard conclusions that are not warranted by the evidence.”

  “God damn juries,” Kurtz muttered.

  “You got that right,” Moran said. “You can’t trust a jury. Juries do whatever the fuck they feel like. Just look at the OJ case.”

  Moran, Kurtz knew, tended to dwell on the OJ case. To Moran, the OJ case was emblematic of everything that was wrong about the so-called justice system.

  Kurtz gave Moran a sour look. Moran smiled back.

  “Anything else on your mind?” Barent asked.

  “No,” Kurtz said. “Not at this time.”

  Chapter 19

  “Hello, Detective?”

  “Yes?” Barent said. The voice on the other end of the line was vaguely familiar.

  “This is Gerald Cox. At Adler and Bowen?”

  A slow smile spread across Barent’s face. “Yes, Mr. Cox. What can I do for you?”

  “I think I know who Mitchell Price was going out with.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “And how did you come by this revelation?”

  “My secretary told me.”

  “Your secretary…”

  “Yes. Her name is Celia Bauman.”

  “And why didn’t your secretary tell us?”

  Barent could hear Gerald Cox sigh over the phone. “When Mitchell Price was murdered, my secretary was on her honeymoon. You didn’t talk to her. She wasn’t here.”

  Most murders were solved, when they were solved, by the application of slow, tedious footwork. You went door to door. You talked to the friends, the family, the co-workers and the neighbors. You talked to a hundred people and maybe one of them remembered something that might be a clue.

  Over the last fifty years, the clearance rate for murder in the United States had gone from over ninety percent down to about sixty-five percent. “Clearance” did not mean that somebody was convicted or even brought to trial. It simply meant that somebody was arrested for the crime. Much of the difference between then and now was thought to be that the standards for arresting a putative suspect, whether rightly or wrongly, were a lot tighter than they were in the past. Some of it was the breakdown in relations between the community and the police. A lot of people in a lot of cities were simply not willing to talk to the police under any circumstances. The clearance rate for murder in New York City, thankfully, had gone in the other direction, thanks to Giuliani and then Bloomberg, and was now above the national average, at almost seventy percent. Still, this was the clearance rate for murders that were reported, where a body was present and accounted for, murders that were known to be murders. Nobody really knew how many murders were never discovered to be murders, were thought instead to be runaways or accidents or death by natural causes.

  But sometimes, you got lucky. Sometimes a clue just dropped into their laps. It didn’t happen often. Enjoy it when it did.

  “Officer Moran and I will be there shortly,” Barent said.

  “Her name is Stephanie Rogers,” Celia Bauman said. “I saw them together about a month ago. It was in Macy’s. They were shopping.”

  “And how do you know this Stephanie Rogers?”

  “We were in school together.” Celia Bauman compressed her lips into a thin line. She clutched a handkerchief, which she unconsciously twisted back and forth between her fingers.

  Barent glanced at Moran. “You don’t seem happy,” Barent said.

  Celia Bauman gave an abrupt nod. “I am not happy. Someone that I knew and worked with has been murdered. Someone else that I know may be responsible. It’s…unpleasant.”

  Murder often was, Barent thought. “I understand…So, you saw the two of them together in Macy’s. How did they look?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Happy? Sad? Together?”

  Celia Bauman gave a small, tight smile. “She was clinging to his arm. They were definitely together.”

  “She was clinging to his arm…and what was he doing?”

  Celia Bauman frowned, evidently giving the question careful consideration. “He seemed a little stiff,” she finally said. “He was looking away.”

  Barent pondered this. “What was she like, this Stephanie Rogers?”

  “Back in High School? Pretty, blonde.” Celia Bauman shrugged.

  “Were the two of you friendly?”

  “Sort of. We were both cheerleaders.”

  Celia Bauman looked the part. She had a heart-shaped face with auburn hair, large green eyes and an up-tilted nose.

  “Would you say that you knew her pretty well?”

  She sniffed. “Well enough.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Self-centered,” Celia Bauman said. She stopped and looked down at the floor.

  “Go on.”

  “She didn’t spend a lot of time studying, I can tell you that. Her grades were mediocre. I don’t think she was stupid. It’s just that she didn’t care about learning anything. She cared about looking good, ruling the social roost and having the hottest boyfriend.”

  “Captain of the football team?”

  Celia Bauman barely grinned. “As a matter of fact, yeah.”

  “Homecoming queen?”

  Celia Bauman grinned a little wider. “Actually, that would be me. Stephanie never for
gave me.”

  “I’m sure that her disapproval upset you no end.”

  Celia Bauman shrugged. “I managed to get over it.”

  “Okay,” Barent said. “Have you any idea where Stephanie Rogers lives? Or where she works?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Barent glanced at Moran. “Google will know.”

  Stephanie Rogers was not hard to find. She lived in a small apartment in Soho and worked at a lady’s boutique. According to what was available online, she was thirty-one years old, twice married and twice divorced. No kids.

  Barent and Moran knocked on Stephanie Roger’s door at seven o’clock at night.

  The door didn’t open. “Who is it?” a voice said.

  “Miss Rogers?” Barent said. “We’re the police. We need to talk to you.”

  There was a momentary silence. “What do you want?”

  “Please open the door,” Barent said.

  “You have some ID? You’re not getting in here without some ID.”

  Barent held his badge up to the peep hole. After a moment, the door opened. Stephanie Rogers peered out at them, her face pale.

  “May we come in?” Barent asked.

  Wordlessly, she stepped to the side. The apartment was small, Barent noticed. One bedroom, almost shabby. The furniture was clean but not new and there wasn’t a lot of it. They trooped inside. Barent sat on a chair. Moran took the couch. Stephanie Rogers hesitated for a moment, then sat on another chair and stared at Moran, who grinned mirthlessly back. “What’s this all about?” she said.

  “Mitchell Price,” Barent said.

  She blinked. “Who?”

  “Mitchell Price,” Barent repeated.

  “I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “No?” Barent frowned and looked at Moran. “We’ve been told that you knew him very well.” Barent barely grinned. “Mitchell Price is dead.”

  She blinked again and stared at Barent’s face.

  “His throat was slit,” Barent said. “Also, he had been drugged. He didn’t struggle at all, because of the drugs. Makes it easier to slit somebody’s throat when they don’t struggle.” Barent smiled.

  Her breath came faster.

  “Nothing to say?” Barent sighed. “You won’t mind if we search this place, will you?”

  “No,” she said. “Look all you like.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Moran said. “She’s an idiot.”

  “Good for us,” Barent said. “Bad for her. Not so good for Mitchell Price.”

  A small bag of white powder had been discovered in a supposedly hidden compartment in a jewelry box in Stephanie Rogers’ bedroom. A large, very sharp chef’s knife that matched the set in Mitchell Price’s apartment sat in a drawer in her kitchen.

  Stephanie Rogers was indeed a very good-looking woman, but there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes and she was about ten pounds above her optimal weight. Stephanie Rogers’ cheerleading days were far behind her.

  She was allowed her one phone call and a lawyer showed up within the hour. His name was James Reilly, a middle-aged, bald guy in a neat blue suit.

  “We’re not even going to question her until the forensics come back,” Barent said. “Until then, there’s nothing to say. We’re holding her on suspicion of murder in the first degree.”

  James Reilly nodded, his face impassive. “Let me talk to my client,” he said.

  They talked in a private room. Reilly departed and Stephanie Rogers went back to her cell. The next afternoon, at 2:00 PM, Barent, Moran, Stephanie Rogers and Reilly sat down for the interview.

  “So,” Barent said, “what was the nature of your relationship with the deceased.”

  Stephanie Rogers stared at him. James Reilly frowned.

  “Nothing to say?” Barent sadly shook his head. “We have one witness, a woman who’s known you since High School, who says that she saw you together with Mitchell Price. You were clinging to his arm.” Barent smiled a shark-like smile. “He, apparently, was ignoring you.”

  Stephanie Rogers continued to stare and continued to say nothing at all.

  Barent peered down at a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. “The white powder is heroin mixed with alpha-methylfentanyl, commonly referred to on the street as ‘China White.’ The knife that we found in your drawer matches the set of knives from Mitchell Price’s kitchen. It’s been cleaned but in the spaces between the blade and the handle, traces of Mitchell Price’s blood were found.” Barent shook his head. “You can hardly ever remove all the blood traces from a knife. This is why people who make a habit of murder and know what they’re doing throw away the weapon. Trying to clean it is just asking for a conviction.”

  Stephanie Rogers was the stubborn sort. She sat there with a mulish expression on her face, arms folded across her chest and glowered at Barent.

  Moran gave a small, satisfied smile. Stephanie Rogers’ eyes shot to his face, then back to Barent’s.

  “Mitchell Price had ingested a mixture of heroin plus alpha-methylfentanyl shortly before his death and as I’ve already said, the knife has his blood on it.” Barent leaned forward and pasted a sincere expression on his face. “We don’t need your confession to convict you. The physical evidence will be more than enough.” Barent glanced at James Reilly. “What do you have to say, councilor?”

  James Reilly sighed. “Let me talk to my client.” He frowned. “Again.”

  Wordlessly, Barent and Moran rose to their feet and trooped from the room. Ten minutes later, armed with fresh cups of coffee, they returned. Barent knocked on the door, waited five seconds, then opened it. James Reilly looked grim. Stephanie Rogers had clearly been crying. Barent and Moran sat. “So, let me ask you again: what was the nature of your relationship with Mitchell Price?”

  Stephanie Rogers cleared her throat. “I met him at a bar. I was out with some friends.” She shrugged. “He seemed nice. We started dating. After a couple of months, we discussed moving in together.” Her voice ground to a halt.

  Barent waited. After a moment, Stephanie Rogers went on. “I took a look at his cell phone.” Her lips thinned, more of a snarl than a smile. “It turned out that I wasn’t the only one he was spending time with. Not at all. Mitchell liked to play the field, you see. I might have been okay with that if he hadn’t lied to me.” She raised an eyebrow and for some reason, looked at Moran. “Hey, I’ve had a few casual relationships. Go out, have a little fun, enjoy the evening, fuck. No strings.” She shrugged. “More than a few, actually. That’s okay, so long as the ground rules are made clear. I won’t tolerate being lied to. It’s…disrespectful.”

  “I see,” Barent said.

  Moran leaned forward. “So, when did you decide to kill him?”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” James Reilly said. “I advise that you don’t.”

  Stephanie Rogers shrugged. “Help me out, here,” she said to James Reilly.

  “Certainly,” the lawyer said. He smiled at Barent. “Let’s deal.”

  Stephanie Rogers was returned to her cell. Abby Blake and James Reilly had a nice little chat over a cup of coffee. Barent, Moran, Stephanie Rogers, Abby Blake and James Reilly re-convened an hour later.

  “First of all,” James Reilly said. “I’ve asked Ms. Blake to be present so that there will be no misunderstandings, now or later. Ms. Blake, would you please tell my client what we’ve agreed to?”

  Abby Blake smiled. “Certainly. In order to spare the City of New York the time and expense of a trial, and considering that the evidence in this case is iron-clad,”—Abby Blake paused for an instance and looked at James Reilly, who shrugged—“you will plead guilty to the charge of Manslaughter in the First Degree. We’ve cleared this with the DA. He agrees.”

  “What does that mean?” Stephanie Rogers asked.

  “In New York, Manslaughter in the First Degree means that the guilty party has acted with deliberation but without prior intent. Basically, it was a crime of passion.” Reilly puffed
his cheeks up and glanced at Abby Blake. “You could almost claim temporary insanity.”

  Abby Blake grinned. “Temporary insanity is not part of the deal.”

  Stephanie Rogers looked at James Reilly. “Why not?”

  “Because,” Abby Blake said, “you waited until he was drugged out of his mind before slitting his throat, thus indicating the ability to both reason and control yourself. Pretty cold-blooded, if you ask me.”

  Stephanie Rogers sighed. “Go on,” she said.

  “You will be sentenced to seven years in prison,” Abby Blake said.

  “I don’t want to go to prison.” Stephanie Rogers glowered at James Reilly, who shrugged.

  “Tough,” Abby Blake said.

  “You had been betrayed by a cold-hearted man with a history of lying to women,” James Reilly said. “If you prefer to take your chances with a jury, I can work with that.”

  Abby Blake looked at him like she thought he was an idiot. “Good luck,” she said.

  James Reilly shrugged again. “I recommend that you take the deal. With time off for good behavior, you’ll probably be out in less than five years.”

  Stephanie Rogers stared at him, then she seemed to slump. “Okay, I plead guilty and get seven years in jail. What do you get out of it?”

  “That’s simple,” Barent said. “You tell us everything you know.”

  Chapter 20

  “The problem is,” Kurtz said, “that she doesn’t know anything.”

  Lenore paused, a dumpling covered in sesame sauce held in her chopsticks. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing useful. Nothing pertaining to any other crime.”

  “Except illicit possession of narcotics.”

  “Yeah. Except that.”

  Lenore nibbled on one end of the dumpling, smiled widely, took another bite and then swallowed. “Spicy,” she said.

  “The drugs,” Kurtz said, “belonged to Mitchell Price. She has no idea where they came from, or so she claims.”

  “Arnie Figueroa? The Haywards?”

  “She knows nothing about anything. Nothing at all.”

  “Or so she claims.”