Bodies in Winter hc-1

by Robert Knightly

  I finally turned to an open door leading into a deserted office. The office was as starkly functional as the rest of the warehouse: three battered wooden desks topped by gray blotters, dusty computers and telephones so grimy I couldn’t name their color. Along the back wall, a row of three-drawer filing cabinets caught my attention and I walked over to them, trying the first drawer I could reach. It was locked.

  ‘Whatta ya think you’re doin’?’

  Though startled, I straightened up slowly before turning to face the man who’d addressed me.

  ‘I’m looking for Justin Whitlock.’

  ‘Well, you found him. And my question still stands. What the fuck you think you’re doing in my file cabinets?’

  Whitlock had that ex-cop look about him. In his mid-fifties, he was thirty pounds overweight, with a crepey neck that hung in soft folds and a red nose coarsened by one too many visits to the bottom of a bottle.

  ‘You gonna play the outraged citizen, lieutenant?’ I pushed a stack of invoices to one side, flashed my shield and sat on the edge of the desk. Though I was on Whitlock’s turf, I was determined to dominate the space.

  ‘I want you out of here.’

  ‘Without even knowing why I came?’

  Whitlock folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight from one foot to another before cocking his head to the side. As this was a posture commonly assumed by superior officers annoyed by their subordinates, I failed to react appropriately.

  ‘Of course,’ I told him, ‘if you already know what I’m doing in your office at nine-thirty in the morning, your demand is entirely reasonable.’

  ‘Cut the bullshit, detective. You got no right to come in here without my permission.’

  ‘If you wanna call the cops, Justin, I got the phone number of a good one. His name is Dante Russo and he works out of the Eight-Three. What I hear, he’s got serious juice with the PBA.’

  Again, Whitlock shifted his weight back and forth as he attempted to deal with the situation. I had a badge and a gun and I wasn’t leaving. What, if anything, could he do about it?

  ‘I’m gonna call my lawyer,’ he finally said.

  ‘That wouldn’t be Ted Savio, would it?’ The question produced an unmistakable flinch. I’d tossed the dart blindfolded and hit the bull’s-eye. For a moment, as his narrow eyes bulged and his ears turned bright red, I thought Whitlock was going to attack me. But then he calmed enough to ask the question he should have asked in the beginning.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know who got the Broom’s piece.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tony Szarek’s shares in Greenpoint Carton reverted to the company when he died. That has to be good news for somebody.’

  ‘Well, it’s not good news for me. All I do is work here. I’m a manager, not an owner.’

  I covered my surprise with another question. ‘And who manages you, Justin? Now that Tony Szarek’s dead.’

  Whitlock’s face tightened down. ‘You’re fishing,’ he declared, ‘but I’m through biting.’

  ‘You won’t tell me who your bosses are? Why not, Justin? What have you got to hide?’

  When he failed to reply, I decided to get moving. There was a lot to do and not much time to get it done. I straightened abruptly, then sauntered through the door onto the balcony before turning for a goodbye salute.

  ‘Oh, yeah, before I forget. Pete Jarazelsky told me to make sure I gave you his regards.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I’d tossed in the last bit for two reasons: to sow confusion and to protect Ewa Gierek. Jarazelsky was another of those wild cards, his prison also his protection. Was he being a good boy, keeping his mouth shut? Or was he cooperating? Lodge’s murderers couldn’t answer either question with certainty. Maybe Pete had taken the heat for the warehouse burglary, but he was a rat in his heart, a rat who knew far too much.

  The sequence, as I read it, went like this: Lodge recovers a memory implicating Jarazelsky and persuades Jarazelsky to confess, after which Jarazelsky warns his co-conspirators. As this takes place months before Lodge’s release, there’s plenty of time to prepare a welcome-home party for good old Davy.

  So much the better, then, if those party-givers now suspected that the untouchable Pete Jarazelsky provided the details that led me to Greenpoint Carton Supply. As for Ewa Gierek, the boys would have to be wondering what sort of alcohol-driven pillow talk might have transpired between her and Tony. My fear was that they’d decide to limit their exposure as I drew near. What is it they say about killing? That it gets easier as you go along? First there was Clarence Spott, then Tony Szarek, then David Lodge, then DuWayne Spott. If the state managed to accumulate evidence of a conspiracy, Dante Russo and his pals would be looking at a first-degree murder indictment and a potential sentence of life without the possibility of parole.

  I passed the afternoon working my various informants, finishing up at the apartment of Mejorana Delgado who supplemented her welfare and food stamps by snitching on her neighbors. Like my other informants, Mejorana repeated the crooked cop mantra. Everyone knew, or so she said, that Bushwick’s most notorious drug dealer, Paco Luna, was being protected by crooked cops who routinely closed down every independent operation. Though I listened patiently, I didn’t place all that much store in the information. Like Paul Rakowitz, Mejorana named no names. The important thing was that she knew the man called Bucky, whose real name was Maximo Chavez. Bucky was married to a woman named Nina Francisco who lived only a few blocks away.

  ‘But if you talk to her, you gotta be careful, detective. Nina, she got a temper that could scare off a pit bull.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  T he sun had broken through the clouds and the snow was gone by the time I stepped onto the sidewalk fronting Mejorana’s Woodward Avenue apartment. I stood where I was for a moment, my eyes adjusting to the glare as I considered my next move. Mejorana had not only confirmed the existence of Bucky Chavez, she’d supplied his address. All to the good and I was encouraged. But Paul Rakowitz had insisted that Bucky could identify a cop he’d observed walking into Paco Luna’s headquarters. Mejorana, who knew him well, hadn’t mentioned anything of the kind.

  My choices were simple. I had a second informant in Ridgewood, an Italian kid named Greg Ianuzzi. I could look him up or I could pay a visit to Bucky’s wife, Nina Francisco. The problem with Ianuzzi, a small-time marijuana dealer, was that he could be difficult to locate. His only known address was the home of his parents, the place I’d be least likely to find him. Nina Francisco, on the other hand, had a fixed address and three children to hold her down. Plus, if Bucky had blabbed to Rakowitz, he would certainly have blabbed to his pillow mate. But there was a definite problem. Nina Francisco had a belligerent attitude and no reason to cooperate, while Ianuzzi was a professional snitch who sold information as readily as sidewalk vendors sell pretzels.

  I went back and forth in my head as I walked the fifty feet to where I’d parked my car, as I unlocked, then opened the door. For all the care I took, I might have been in my own apartment. That changed in a hurry when a rat flew from the Nissan’s interior, its naked tail whipping across my legs as it dropped to the pavement and skittered up the block.

  My heart stopped in my chest at that moment, skipping several beats before reawakening with a thud against my rib cage hard enough to produce a groan. My knees wobbled and I reached out to the Nissan’s roof for support while I watched the rat disappear into a storm drain fifty feet away.

  My first real thought — when I’d recovered enough to actually have a thought — was that I’d have to set the now-defiled Nissan afire and hoof it to the nearest subway. I didn’t see any way I could be in that car, with all the doors closed, and not hear the scrabble of rats’ feet every time one of the tires rolled over a pebble. In fact, how could I be sure there wasn’t a second animal inside right this minute?

  ‘Yo, detective, you OK?’

  I turned to find Mejorana leaning
out the window of her ground-floor apartment. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m glad to be hearin’ that, ’cause you was always pretty white, even for a blanco. Now you’re pale as a fuckin’ ghost.’

  Inspired, I finally dredged up the courage to stick my head inside the Nissan, to bang on the roof liner, then listen for the scrabble of tiny claws. I heard nothing, but still wasn’t satisfied until I’d opened all four doors, checked under the seat and popped the door on the glove compartment.

  The Nissan started on the first twist of the key, as though relieved to have escaped immolation, and I pulled away from the curb, my eyes still roaming the urban landscape. Inevitably, I turned to the questions of who and how, a pure waste of time. Any street cop — inspired, perhaps, by word of my encounter with Chris Tucker — might have gotten into the un-alarmed Nissan. As for the rat, the industrial neighborhood on the far side of Flushing Avenue was rat heaven. On the way over, I’d passed a cruiser from my precinct on Metropolitan Avenue. I’d recognized the driver, a kid named Bruce Lott, and even tossed a casual wave. Lott hadn’t returned the greeting. Instead, his eyes had jumped to mine, held steady for a count of five, then casually turned away.

  In my career, I’d known a female officer who’d opened her locker to find a sperm-filled condom nestled in the cup of a spare brassiere, and a black cop who’d found a stuffed monkey sitting on the front seat of his car. A rat was no less a symbol because it was alive, and no more of a threat.

  Threat or not, when I finally slowed for a light and my brakes emitted a tiny squeal, I shivered like a wet puppy.

  Nina Francisco was a loud woman — in her speech, in her general appearance, in her dress. She wore a flaming-red halter with a scoop neck that accentuated her cleavage, and purple jeans tight enough to constrict the circulation of her blood. Dyed to match her jeans, her short hair was heavily moussed into spikes the approximate thickness of drumsticks. Her voice was brassy enough to carry a salsa band.

  ‘Wha’ the fuck you want?’ she demanded once I’d forced my way inside. She was standing with her fists pressed to her hips and her head cocked to the right. All five feet and ninety pounds of her.

  I closed the door behind me and walked into the living room. ‘Who else is in the apartment?’

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the bedroom. Asleep.’

  ‘What about the other kids?’

  ‘What the fuck do you care?’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Nina sneered, then smiled. ‘They’re on a play date, OK? Now why don’ you tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ here.’

  ‘I’m looking for Bucky.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  I took a couple of steps to the right and picked up a photograph clearly taken at a wedding. Nina was wearing a cobalt gown that swept to her feet, while the man who held her arm, the man with the pronounced overbite, wore a white tuxedo.

  ‘Listen here, Nina,’ I said, holding out the photo for her inspection. ‘I want Maximo Chavez and I want him right now. And don’t lie to me any more. It’s disrespectful.’

  ‘I don’t see why you wan’ him so bad when you mos’ likely the one who capped him.’ Nina’s lips pursed and her green eyes flashed defiance. There, now she’d shown me. I could have kissed her.

  ‘Bucky’s dead?’

  When she didn’t respond, I sat on one end of a long couch and leaned forward, laying my elbows on my knees so that I was looking up at her. Time for a curve ball.

  ‘Nina, if I was a little rough before, well, I apologize. It seems like I woke up with a headache and it’s been downhill from there.’ I flashed my shield and ID for a second time, flipping the billfold open, snapping it shut. ‘I’m not from the local precinct. I’m from internal affairs.’

  The submissive posture and soothing tones caught Nina Francisco unprepared. I watched her eyes dart to the side and her weight shift from one leg to another as she processed the change of pace.

  ‘We have good reason to believe,’ I continued, ‘that crooked cops are operating in Bushwick. Our goal is to get them off the street before they do any more damage. I’m not asking you to make a sworn statement, but… Let’s face it, Nina, cops don’t testify against other cops. The only way to build a case is to go to the community.’

  ‘Funny,’ Nina finally replied, ‘you ain’t been here before now. Cause this shit’s been goin’ down, like, forever.’

  I ignored the challenge in her voice and attempted to put her back on message. ‘Tell me why you thought I might have killed Bucky,’ I asked. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘You already said it. The cops in Bushwick are dirty and everybody knows they’re dirty.’

  ‘Alright, we’re agreed on that. Cops in Bushwick are dirty. But you haven’t told me why you thought I might have killed Bucky.’

  Forced, now, to make a direct response, Nina’s facade cracked just enough to reveal the worry that lay beneath. Sure, Bucky was a scumbag, but he was Nina Francisco’s scumbag. Family first, right?

  ‘Bucky ain’t been around,’ she said, her tone considerably more subdued. ‘He disappeared.’

  ‘Has he ever disappeared before?’

  ‘Not for no three weeks. He ain’ even callin’ his moms.’

  I nodded and spread my hands, trying to reassure her. ‘OK, so we’re agreed on this, too. Bucky’s nowhere to be found and you believe he might have been killed by cops. Now I need to know why the crooked cops wanted to kill Bucky Chavez. What was their motive?’

  Again, I’d forced Nina to reply directly to a question and this time her response was more direct. Bucky had told her, as he’d told Paul Rakowitz, that he’d seen a cop walking into Paco Luna’s headquarters unchallenged. What’s more, he’d recognized the cop. The bad news was that he didn’t know the cop’s name and had made no effort to find out in the intervening months. Instead, Bucky had developed the story into an anecdote: ‘Hey, bro, I ever tell you about the night I saw the cop go into Paco’s house?’

  By the time I asked Nina Francisco to name one dirty cop, I was berating myself for not choosing Greg Ianuzzi. Predictably, Nina was unable to name names, much less supply times and places. Though I hadn’t been nursing unrealistic expectations, I’d hoped to come away with some tidbit I could use later on, maybe another Greenpoint Carton. The way it looked, I’d wasted the past two hours.

  ‘So, whatta ya think?’ Nina finally said.

  ‘I think I’m gonna get outta here.’

  ‘You don’ wanna hear no more?’

  ‘Is there any more to hear?’

  Luck may be the residue of design, but dumb luck is just dumb. I was standing by the door when Nina finally got down to business. She smiled before she began to speak, a sly little-girl smile that I wouldn’t have expected. ‘Like, if I know a cop who, like, you know.. takes care of a girl, like a mistress… does that count for dirty?’

  ‘It could.’

  ‘OK, I got this second cousin, Marissa. We went to school together and she was like my bes’ girlfriend and shit, until she went behind my back. Marissa’s got this cop pays her rent.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  She shook her head, but her tone remained sincere. ‘Mira, what I’m tellin’ you is the truth. Marissa has this cop, he comes over maybe three nights a week. I seen them together. It’s true.’

  ‘Fine, it’s true. But so what? Do you even know if he’s married?’

  ‘Marissa said he wasn’t.’

  ‘Then you see my problem, sex between consenting adults not being a crime and all.’

  ‘What about the money he gives her?’

  Nina was becoming less sympathetic by the minute. ‘If you’re implying that your cousin is a whore, then you’re way off-base. Prostitution involves the exchange of money in return for a specific sexual act. That’s not what’s happening here.’

  ‘What if they had a baby together?’

  ‘Then the money he gives her is c
alled child support.’

  I was halfway out the door when I remembered Dante Russo’s photograph, tucked away in my jacket’s inner pocket. Dutifully, I fished it out, unfolded it, then held it up for Nina’s inspection.

  ‘You know this-?’

  ‘That’s him. That’s Marissa’s boyfriend.’ Suddenly, Nina’s hands were back on her hips, her shoulders squared, her eyes defiant. We’d closed the circle. ‘Yo, maricon, wha’ the fuck you think you’re doin’ here? Askin’ me shit when you know the answers.’ She touched the tips of her fingers to her chest, daring me to make the first move. ‘You disrespectin’ me? You makin’ fun of me? Cause I will kick your gringo ass. I don’ care if you’re ten fuckin’ cops.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Short, plump and submissive, Melissa Aubregon was her cousin’s polar opposite. She let me into her apartment and answered the few questions I asked without hesitation, and without raising her voice. Only once did she demur, when I spotted a photo of Dante Russo on an end table. Even there, she compromised. Melissa was sitting on Dante’s lap in the photo, staring up at him, her left arm draped around his neck.

  ‘I need that photograph,’ I told her. ‘I want you to give it to me.’

  ‘Dante will kill me.’

  ‘Don’t tell him.’

  ‘He’ll notice.’

  ‘Say it got knocked over and the glass broke.’

  Melissa shifted the baby she was cradling, from her right to her left arm, as she tried to come to a decision. Finally, she said, ‘Would smaller be alright?’

  The photo was an enlargement and Melissa still had the original snapshot. That was the compromise, a way to please me and please Dante at the same time. Melissa liked to please. When the baby began to fuss as she showed me to the door, she lifted him until his face was a few inches from hers and whispered, ‘No, no, no, no, no. It’s gonna be alright. Don’t worry.’