He had been a detective, third grade, for all of three days, and this night was to be his first field exposure, a midnight-to-eight tour with a fourteen-year detective first grade, the coffee-buying Rizzo.
Six long years of a fine, solid career, active in felony arrests, not even one civilian complaint, medals, commendations, and a file full of glowing letters from grateful citizens, and it had gotten for him only a choice assignment to the East Side Precinct. And then one night, he swings his radio car to the curb to pee in an all-night diner, hears a commotion, takes a look down an alleyway, and just like that, third grade detective, the gold shield handed to him personally by the mayor himself just three weeks later.
If you’ve got to fall ass-backwards into an arrest, fall into the one where the lovely young college roommate of the lovely young daughter of the mayor of New York City is about to get raped by a nocturnal predator. Careerwise, it doesn’t get any better than that.
McQueen was smiling at the memory when Rizzo dropped heavily into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
“Damn it,” Rizzo said, shifting his large body in the seat. “Can they put some fucking springs in these seats, already?”
He fished a container of coffee from the bag and passed it to McQueen. They sat in silence as the B train roared by on the overhead elevated tracks running above this length of 86th Street. McQueen watched the sparks fly from the third rail contacts and then sparkle and twirl in the rainy night air before flickering and dying away. Through the parallel slots of the overhead tracks, he watched the twin red taillights of the last car vanish into the distance. The noise of the steel-on-steel wheels and a thousand rattling steel parts and I-beams reverberated in the train’s wake. It made the deserted, rain-washed streets seem even more dismal. McQueen found himself missing Manhattan.
The grocery had been the scene of a robbery the week before, and Rizzo wanted to ask the night man a few questions. McQueen wasn’t quite sure if it was the coffee or the questions that had come as an afterthought. Although he had only known Rizzo for two days, he suspected the older man to be a somewhat less than enthusiastic investigator.
“Let’s head on back to the house,” Rizzo said, referring to the 62nd Precinct station house, as he sipped his coffee and fished in his outer coat pocket for the Chesterfields he seemed to live on. “I’ll write up this here interview I just did and show you where to file it.”
McQueen eased the car out from the curb. Rizzo had insisted he drive, to get the lay of the neighborhood, and McQueen knew it made sense. But he felt disoriented and foolish: He wasn’t even sure which way the precinct was.
Rizzo seemed to sense McQueen’s discomfort. “Make a U-turn,” he said, lighting the Chesterfield. “Head back up 86th and make a left on Seventeenth Avenue.” He drew on the cigarette and looked sideways at McQueen. He smiled before he spoke again. “What’s the matter, kid? Missing the bright lights across the river already?”
McQueen shrugged. “I guess. I just need time, that’s all.’’
He drove slowly through the light rain. Once off 86th Street’s commercial strip, they entered a residential area comprised of detached and semi-detached older, brick homes. Mostly two stories, the occasional three-story. Some had small, neat gardens or lawns in front. Many had ornate, well-kept statues, some illuminated by flood lamps, of the Virgin Mary or Saint Anthony or Joseph. McQueen scanned the home fronts as he drove. The occasional window shone dimly with night lights glowing from within. They looked peaceful and warm, and he imagined the families inside, tucked into their beds, alarm clocks set and ready for the coming work day. Everyone safe, everything secure, everyone happy and well.
And that’s how it always seemed. But six years had taught him what was more likely going on in some of those houses. The drunken husbands coming home and beating their wives; the junkie sons and daughters, the sickly, lonely old, the forsaken parent found dead in an apartment after the stench of decomposition had reached a neighbor and someone had dialed 9-1-1.
The memories of an ex-patrol officer. As the radio crackled to life on the seat beside him and he listened with half an ear, he wondered what the memories of an ex-detective would someday be.
He heard Rizzo sigh. “All right, Mike. That call is ours. Straight up this way, turn left on Bay 8th Street. Straight down to the Belt Parkway. Take the Parkway east a few exits and get off at Ocean Parkway. Coney Island Hospital is a block up from the Belt. Looks like it might be a long night.”
When they entered the hospital, it took them some minutes to sort through the half-dozen patrol officers milling around the emergency room. McQueen found the right cop, a tall, skinny kid of about twenty-three. He glanced down at the man’s nametag. “How you doing, Marino? I’m McQueen, Mike McQueen. Me and Rizzo are catching tonight. What d’ya got?”
The man pulled a thick leather note binder from his rear pocket. He flipped through it and found his entry, turned it to face McQueen, and held out a Bic pen.
“Can you scratch it for me, detective? No sergeant here yet.”
McQueen took the book and pen and scribbled the date, time, and CIHOSP E/R across the bottom of the page, then put his initials and shield number. He handed the book back to Marino.
“What d’ya got?” he asked again.
Marino cleared his throat. “I’m not the guy from the scene. That was Willis. He was off at midnight, so he turned it to us and went home. I just got some notes here. Female Caucasian, Amy Taylor, twenty-six, single, lives at 1860 61st Street. Coming off the subway at 62nd Street about 11 o’clock, 23:00, the station’s got no clerk on duty after 9. She goes into one of them—what d’ya call it?—one-way exit-door turnstile things, the ones that’ll only let you out, not in. Some guy jumps out of nowhere and grabs her.”
At that point, Rizzo walked up. “Hey, Mike, you okay with this for a while? My niece is a nurse here, I’m gonna go say hello, okay?”
Mike glanced at his partner, “Yeah, sure, okay, Joe, go ahead.”
McQueen turned back to Marino. “Go on.”
Marino dropped his eyes back to his notes. “So this guy pins her in the revolving door and shoves a knife in her face. Tells her he’s gonna cut her bad if she don’t help him.”
“Help him with what?”
Marino shrugged. “Who the fuck knows? Guy’s got the knife in one hand and his johnson in the other. He’s trying to whack off on her. Never says another word to her, just presses the knife against her throat. Anyway, somehow he drops the weapon and she gets loose, starts to run away. The guy goes after her. She comes out of the station screaming, Willis is on a foot post doing a four-to-midnight, sees her running and screaming, and goes over her way. She takes a fall, faints or something, bangs up her head and swells up her knee and breaks two fingers. They got her upstairs in a room, for observation on account of the head wound.”
McQueen thought for a moment. “Did Willis see the guy?”
“No, never saw him.”
“Any description from the girl?”
“I don’t know, I never even seen her. When I got here she was upstairs.”
“Okay, stick around till your sergeant shows up and cuts you loose.”
“Can’t you, detective?”
“Can’t I what?”
“Cut me loose?”
McQueen frowned and pushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I think I can. Do me a favor, though, wait for the sarge, okay?”
Marino shook his head and turned his lips downward. “Yeah, sure, a favor. I’ll go sniff some ether or something.” He walked away, his head still shaking.
McQueen looked around the brightly lit emergency room. He saw Rizzo down a hall, leaning against a wall, talking to a bleached-blond nurse who looked to be about Rizzo’s age: fifty. McQueen walked over.
“Hey, Joe, you going to introduce me to your niece?”
Joe turned and looked at McQueen with a puzzled look, then smiled.
“Oh, no, no, turns out she’s not wo
rking tonight. I’m just making a new friend here, is all.”
“Well, we need to go talk to the victim, this Amy Taylor.”
Rizzo frowned. “She a dit-soon?”
“A what?” McQueen asked.
Rizzo shook his head. “Is she black?”
“No, cop told me Caucasian. Why?”
“Kid, I know you’re new here to Bensonhurst, so I’m gonna be patient. Anybody in this neighborhood named Amy Taylor is either a dit-soon or a yuppie pain-in-the-ass moved here from Boston to be an artist or a dancer or a Broadway star, and she can’t afford to live in Park Slope or Brooklyn Heights or across the river. This here neighborhood is all Italian, kid, everybody—cops, crooks, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. Except for you, of course. You’re the exception. By the way, did I introduce you two? This here is the morning shift head nurse, Rosalie Mazzarino. Rosalie, say hello to my boy wonder partner, Mike Mick-fucking-Queen.”
The woman smiled and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike. And don’t believe a thing this guy tells you. Making new friends! I’ve known him since he was your age and chasing every nurse in the place.” She squinted at McQueen then and slipped a pair of glasses out of her hair and over her eyes. “How old are you—twelve?”
Mike laughed. “I’m twenty-eight.”
She twisted her mouth up and nodded her head in an approving manner. “And a third grade detective already? I’m impressed.”
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, so was the mayor. This boy’s a genuine hero with the alma mater gals.”
“Okay, Joe, very good. Now, can we go see the victim?”
“You know, kid, I got a problem with that. I can tell you her whole story from right here. She’s from Boston, wants to be a star, and as soon as you lock up the guy raped her, she’s gonna bring a complaint against you ’cause you showed no respect for the poor shit, a victim of society and all. Why don’t you talk to her, I’ll go see the doctor and get the rape kit and the panties, and we’ll get out of here.”
McQueen shook his head. “Wrong crime, partner. No rape, some kind of sexual assault or abuse or whatever.”
“Go ahead, kid, talk to her. It’ll be good experience for you. Me and Rosalie’ll be in one of these linen closets when you get back. I did tell you she was the head nurse, right?”
McQueen walked away with her laughter in his ear. It was going to be a long night. Just like Joe had figured.
* * *
He checked the room number twice before entering. It was a small room with barely enough space for the two hospital beds it held. They were separated by a seriously despondent looking curtain. The one nearest the door was empty, the mattress exposed. In the dim lighting, McQueen could see the foot of the second bed. The outline of someone’s feet showed through the bedding. A faint and sterile yet vaguely unpleasant odor touched his nostrils. He waited a moment longer for his eyes to adjust to the low light, so soft after the harsh fluorescent glare of the hall. He glanced around for something to knock on to announce his presence. He settled on the footboard of the near bed and rapped gently on the cold metal.
“Hello?” he said softly. “Hello, Ms. Taylor?”
The covered feet stirred. He heard the low rustle of linens. He raised his voice a bit when he spoke again.
“Ms. Taylor? I’m Detective McQueen, police. May I see you for a moment?”
A light switched on, hidden by the curtain but near the head of the bed. McQueen stood and waited.
“Ms. Taylor? Hello?”
The voice was sleepy, possibly sedated. It was a gentle and clear voice, yet it held a tension, an edginess. McQueen imagined he had awoken her and now the memories were flooding through her, the reality of it: yes, it had actually happened, no, it hadn’t been a dream. He had seen it a thousand times: the burglarized, the beaten, the raped, robbed, shot, stabbed, pissed on whole lot of them. He had seen it.
“Detective? Did you say ‘detective’? Hello? I can’t see you.”
He stepped further into the room, slowly venturing past the curtain. Slow and steady, don’t move fast and remember to speak softly. Get her to relax, don’t freak her out.
Her beauty struck him immediately. She was sitting, propped on two pillows, the sheet raised and folded over her breasts. Her arms lay beside her on the bed, palms down, straight out. She appeared to be clinging to the bed, steadying herself against some unseen, not possible force. Her skin was almost translucent, a soft glow emanating from it. Her wide set eyes were like liquid sapphire, and they met and held his own. Her lips were full and rounded and sat perfectly under her straight, narrow nose, her face framed with shoulder-length black hair. She wore no makeup, and an ugly purple-yellow bruise marked her left temple and part of her cheekbone. Yet she was the most beautiful woman McQueen had ever seen.
After almost three years working the richest, most sophisticated square mile in the world, here, now, in this godforsaken corner of Brooklyn, he sees this woman. For a moment, he forgot why he had come.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked as he stood in her sight.
He blinked himself back and cleared his throat. He glanced down to the blank page of the notepad in his hand, just to steal an instant more before he had to speak.
“Yes, yes, Ms. Taylor. I’m Detective McQueen, six-two detective squad. I need to see you for a few minutes. If you don’t mind.”
She frowned, and he saw pain in her eyes. For an instant he thought his heart would break. He shook his head slightly What the hell? What the hell was this?
“I’ve already spoken to two or three police officers. I’ve already told them what happened.” Her eyes closed. “I’m very tired. My head hurts.” She opened her eyes and they were welled with tears. McQueen used all his willpower not to move to her, to cradle her head, to tell her it was okay, it was all over, he was here now.
“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” he said instead. “But my partner and I caught the case. We’ll be handling it. I need some information. Just a few minutes. The sooner we get started, the better chance we have of catching this guy.”
She seemed to think it over as she held his gaze. When she tried to blink the tears away, they spilled down onto her cheeks. She made no effort to brush them away. “All right,” was all she said.
McQueen felt his body relax, and he realized he had been holding himself so tightly that his back and shoulders ached. “May I sit down?” he asked softly.
“Yes, of course.”
He slid the too-large-for-the-room chair to the far side of the bed and sat with his back to the windows. He heard rain rattle against the panes and the sound chilled him and made him shiver. He found himself hoping she hadn’t noticed.
“I already know pretty much what happened. There’s no need to go over it all, really. I just have a few questions. Most of them are formalities, please don’t read anything into it. I just need to know certain things. For the reports. And to help us find this guy. Okay?”
She squeezed her eyes closed again and more tears escaped. She nodded yes to him and reopened her eyes. He couldn’t look away from them.
“This happened about 11, 11:10?”
“Yes, about.”
“You had gotten off the train at the 62nd Street subway station?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What train is that?”
“The N.”
“Where were you going?”
“Home.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“My art class in Manhattan.”
McQueen looked up from his notes. Art class? Rizzo’s inane preamble resounded in his mind. He squinted at her and said, “You’re not originally from Boston, are you?”
For the first time she smiled slightly, and McQueen found it disproportionately endearing. “No, Connecticut. Do you think I sound like a Bostonian?”
He laughed. “No, no, not at all. Just something somebody said to me. Long story, pay no attention.�
��
She smiled again, and he could see it in her eyes that the facial movement had caused her some pain. “A lot of you Brooklynites think anyone from out of town sounds like they come from Boston.”
McQueen sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. “‘Brooklynite?’ You think I sound like a Brooklynite?”
“Sure do.”
“Well, Ms. Taylor, just so you know, I live in the city. Not Brooklyn.” He kept his voice light, singsong.
“Isn’t Brooklyn in the city?”
“Well, yeah, geographically. But the city is Manhattan. I was born on Long Island but I’ve lived in the city for fifteen years.”
“All right, then,” she said, with a pitched nod of her head.
McQueen tapped his pen on his notepad and looked at the ugly bruise on her temple. He dropped his gaze to the splinted, bandaged broken fingers of her right hand.
“How are you doing? I know you took a bad fall and had a real bad scare. But how are you doing?”
She seemed to tremble briefly, and he regretted having asked. But she met his gaze with her answer.
“I’ll be fine. Everything is superficial, except for the fingers, and they’ll heal. I’ll be fine.”
He nodded to show he believed her and that yes, of course, she was right, she would be fine. He wondered, though, if she really would be.
“Can you describe the man to me?”
“It happened very fast. I mean, it seemed to last for hours, but … but …”
McQueen leaned forward and spoke more softly so she would have to focus on the sound of his voice in order to hear, focus on hearing the words and not the memory at hand.
New York City Noir Page 18
