The Striver

by Stephen Solomita

  By comparison, today’s rain was a minor inconvenience.

  Boots and Jill decided to kill two birds with one stone. Inside the shop, they ordered slices and sodas, which they quickly downed. Then Boots flashed his shield and a reassuring smile. It was certainly possible, and perhaps even likely, that one or another of the all-Latino staff was illegal. Boots didn’t want to frighten anyone.

  ‘Something I’d like you to take a look at, if you don’t mind,’ he said, pulling out Corry’s photo. ‘You ever see this woman?’

  Two of the three Latinos working behind the counter nodded to each other. ‘Si,’ the older one said. ‘She was comin’ in here …’

  ‘Monday, it had to be, on account of I don’t work on Tuesday or Wednesday.’ The second man spoke without an accent. ‘Man, her face …’ He raised his hand to his cheek. ‘It was out to fuckin’ here.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, by any chance, know where she’s staying?’

  They didn’t, and neither did the delivery men standing under the awning outside. These men also worked in every kind of weather, but they hadn’t made a delivery to the woman in the photo.

  Boots and Jill turned away. They’d already discussed their approach to the canvas they intended to conduct. First they’d work Roosevelt Avenue, six blocks in either direction, both sides of the streets, then Elmhurst Avenue and the smaller side streets. Roosevelt Avenue, where they stood, was the borderline dividing Elmhurst and Jackson Heights. Both communities were residential and dominated by low-rise apartment buildings. If Boots and Jill struck out in the stores, they’d come back tomorrow and speak to the workers who maintained those buildings. Boots was fairly certain of one thing. Given her condition, Corry couldn’t have come very far when she met Shoona two days after the attack. She had to be less than a half-mile from where he stood, though in what direction he had no idea.

  ‘Yo.’

  Boots turned to a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. ‘Yo?’

  The boy ignored Boots’s tone. ‘Alvino has something to tell you,’ he said, ‘but he doesn’t speak English. He wants me to translate. My name’s Marty.’ Marty indicated a man forty years his senior who immediately broke into rapid-fire Spanish.

  Alvino kept his head down as he spoke, but he told his story well. On Monday, toward evening, he was returning from a delivery when he saw the woman with the broken face. She was in the company of a black woman and she naturally caught his attention when she came out of the shop. At the same time, he noticed a young man on the other side of Roosevelt Avenue. The man was just standing there, in the rain, watching the front door. When the injured woman crossed Roosevelt Avenue, he followed her.

  ‘Can you describe him?’ Boots asked.

  The man was dressed in camouflage, like a soldier, which is why Alvino first noticed him. But his hair was very long, way too long for the military. Plus, he kept shifting his weight, like he was too excited to stand still.

  ‘Now, this is important, you say that after the woman left the restaurant, she crossed Roosevelt Avenue and her brother followed on the other side of the street.’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Which street did they do down? Ninetieth Street or Elmhurst Avenue?’

  Alvino shook his head. He’d lost interest at that point. Nevertheless, Boots and Jill were elated. Alvino had nailed Corry’s brother, who slept with a sawed-off shotgun, according to Shoona. Most likely, Corry had been laying low for the past few days, but her brother lived in the community and he stood out.

  ‘You know,’ Jill said, ‘I think we’re gonna put this one down.’

  ‘I agree. We’ll probably locate Carlos’s victim. But that doesn’t mean she can identify the man who shot Carlo. Or that, if she can, she will.’

  ‘At least we can warn her off. Given enough time, Johnny will find her, just like we … almost have.’

  Boots found canvases to mostly be exercises in futility, but this time he got enough hits to keep him eager. Corry’s brother, though, not Corry. Jill was doing the talking for both of them, her effect on the men they interviewed obvious.

  The rain slowly diminished as the afternoon passed, with the temperature rising into the fifties. By the time four o’clock rolled around, Jill and Boots had both stored their coats in the trunk of the Taurus. They’d uncovered six individuals as well, each of whom recognized Jill’s description of the long-haired soldier with the jumpy attitude. The proprietor of Jackson Liquors claimed that his first thought, when the nervous soldier walked through the door, was that he was about to be robbed. Another told the detectives, ‘I don’t know, man, but he looked like he’d definitely get in my face if I said the wrong thing.’

  Nevertheless, despite the hits, they were no closer to locating Corry or her brother when they walked into a Dunkin’ Donuts near 86th Street. Desperately in need of caffeine and sugar by that time, they ordered a half-dozen assorted donuts and extra-large coffees.

  Boots carried their tray to a counter by the window overlooking Roosevelt Avenue. He bit into a cinnamon doughnut and said, ‘Don’t look up, but I want you to check out the car approaching from behind me.’ He waited a few seconds, until the car passed out of sight. ‘This is the fourth time I’ve seen that car,’ he said, ‘and the first two times were back in the Bronx.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you what model that is, right?’

  ‘It’s a Crown Vic.’

  ‘Right, a Ford Crown Victoria. You recognize it because Ford sold hundreds of thousands of them to police departments and taxi fleets over the years.’ Boots waited for Jill to nod. ‘Now, that particular vehicle is a first generation Crown Victoria, a line Ford stopped manufacturing in 1997. Meanwhile, when it passed me on Fox Street, goin’ slow, I saw that the body was perfect and the paint job looked brand new. Plus, Ford put the biggest engines they had into the Crown Vics they sold to the State Police.’

  ‘And one of those engines was under the hood of the car that just passed us?’ Jill smiled. Boots looked like a clod, the sort of cop you assign to knocking down doors. But it was all a disguise, which was another thing she liked about him. ‘How do you know, Boots? I mean what size engine he had in the car.’

  ‘I saw him coming the second time and I listened as he went by. But I wasn’t suspicious because I just assumed he was looking for a parking space, like I assumed he was a car nut and the Crown Vic had been lovingly restored. Now that he’s here, though, in Queens …’

  Boots let the obvious go unsaid. They were being followed, and from a distance, which meant the Taurus was bugged.

  ‘Johnny Pianetta sent you a message this morning,’ Jill said. ‘Through Frankie Drago. He said he was backing off. He didn’t want a confrontation.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You think he was lyin’? You think he sent this guy to follow you?’

  ‘Nope and nope.’

  ‘So, who do you think he is?’

  Boots stuffed the last of his doughnut into his mouth, then wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘That, Jill, we won’t know until we ask him.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Teddy Winuk was familiar with the concept of denial, had even written a paper on the subject for his Psych 101 course. He’d used debtors to illustrate his various points, though he failed to disclose that his knowledge of debtor psychology stemmed from his experience on the street. Deadbeats like Ben Loriano simply didn’t – or, better yet, couldn’t – admit that the day of reckoning would eventually and inevitably arrive.

  The essay, which earned him an A-, had been pronounced insightful by Morris Chernowitz, his instructor. But not insightful enough, apparently, to protect Teddy from the same defect.

  Funny, Teddy thought as he sat behind the wheel of his Crown Victoria, how it’s possible to be in denial about denial. He’d been following the two cops around all day – to Manhattan, to the Bronx, and finally to Queens – without ever asking himself what they were doing. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. T
he first two stops had been about dumping the old lady in a nursing home. But then Littlewood had made a beeline to the intersection of Elmhurst and Roosevelt Avenues, where both cops got out. That was the first difference. The second was the placard that Littlewood stuck behind the Ford’s windshield: ON OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS.

  Teddy’s thoughts were interrupted by the tap of a horn. To his left, a smiling, middle-aged woman mouthed the words, ‘Are you leaving?’ She wanted his parking space, but she wasn’t going to get it. He shook his head and returned to his thoughts, staring out through the windshield. The rain had stopped, but the gloom, if anything, had deepened.

  The two cops had begun at a pizza parlor near the subway stop at Elmhurst Avenue. He’d watched them from across the street, watched them display what must have been a photograph to the employees inside, watched two of those employees nod their heads, watched the cops begin a meticulous canvas of the stores on Roosevelt Avenue.

  All without asking himself whose picture they were showing.

  Teddy was standing in front of a urinal at Casa Colombiana when it finally hit him. This was all about Carlo Pianetta, about his murder, about finding the woman Carlo was raping when Teddy put a bullet through his head. Otherwise, there was no reason for what the cop did to Johnny Piano or Stevie Eagle.

  This was something Teddy should have figured out a lot sooner. Still, the news wasn’t all bad. If the two cops had gotten a hit, they would have abandoned the canvas. But they were still searching. Or they were the last time he’d driven past them. No more. Teddy glanced into the side mirror and saw the big cop turn onto 85th Street. In no obvious hurry, he was strolling along the sidewalk toward the Crown Vic.

  Teddy reached for the keys in the ignition, the urge to flee instinctive. A waste of time, as it turned out. The woman cop with the laser-beam stare was coming toward him from the other end of the block. And she wasn’t strolling along the sidewalk, like her partner. She was out in the street with her badge clipped to the lapel of her navy-blue jacket, blocking his escape.

  Panic had never been part of Teddy’s lifestyle and he instantly calmed once he understood there was no running away. Even if the odds were stacked against you, there were still better and worse strategies to pursue. Like shutting down Shurie’s laptop, pulling the keys, jumping out of the Crown Vic, locking the door and crossing the street.

  ‘Police, hold it right there.’

  The woman’s voice was as sharp as her stare. Plus, Teddy didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to be sure the big cop was coming up behind him. He turned to face the woman.

  ‘Officer, what can I do for you?’ he said.

  One thing for sure, he couldn’t let himself be provoked, couldn’t give them an excuse to search his Crown Vic. The gun, if they found it, would earn him three years in prison. And there was another, very pressing problem he needed to handle: a witness to the crime of murder. Could she identify him? He hadn’t thought so at the time, but he wasn’t all that eager to bet the next twenty-five years of his life on a fleeting judgment.

  ‘I want you to step over to that building and put your hands on the wall.’

  Teddy complied, but it wasn’t the woman who frisked him. No, it was Detective Littlewood who tossed him, the same Detective Littlewood who’d wrapped his fingers around Johnny Piano’s nuts.

  Take it, Teddy told himself. No matter what they do to you. Just take it.

  But there was nothing to take, except his wallet, which the big cop held in his hand as he backed away.

  ‘I’m Detective Littlewood,’ he announced. ‘And this is Detective Kelly. Who are you?’

  ‘You want my name?’

  Littlewood smiled a thin smile that instantly vanished. ‘That would be a good start.’

  ‘Theodore Winuk.’

  ‘Winuk? Where have I heard that name before?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re not from Greenpoint?’

  Teddy knew where this was going. If he kept answering questions, the cop would have talking about his sex life in a few minutes. ‘I’m sorry, Officer—’

  ‘Detective,’ Boots corrected.

  ‘Detective. And I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’d like to know why you searched me. Have I broken some law?’

  ‘You never heard of stop and frisk? We can search anyone, anytime, for any reason. And by the way, that bullshit about disrespect? An honest citizen would have been much more indignant. You gave yourself away.’

  The cop pulled out Teddy’s credit cards, his Social Security card, his driver’s license and his registration before tossing the wallet back. Without explanation, he took a small notebook and a pen from the inner pocket of his jacket and began to copy the information on the documents, including the account numbers of the credit cards.

  ‘This your address?’ he asked. ‘New Utrecht Avenue in Bensonhurst?’

  It wasn’t, but Teddy nodded. He had no fixed address at the moment. His bills went to a mail drop on Greenpoint Avenue.

  ‘Tell me why you’ve been following us,’ the second cop, Detective Kelly said, her tone relatively neutral. ‘Please, I’m curious.’

  Littlewood added his own two cents before Teddy could reply. ‘Yeah, and also, while you’re at it, explain how you made yourself believe that you’d get away with it. Because it’s obvious that you’re a deluded asshole who doesn’t know the first thing about conducting a surveillance.’

  One of Teddy’s first mentors had drummed a maxim into his head, repeating the message dozens of times. Don’t talk to the cops. You’ll never convince them not to arrest you if they have probable cause. And if they don’t, they’ll eventually let you go.

  ‘Like I already said, Detective, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m not answering any more questions. I’ve already identified myself.’

  ‘Is this the point where I smack you?’ the big cop asked. ‘Is this the point where I punch you right in the face?’

  Teddy drew a breath. He didn’t particularly feel like being punched in the face, but if that was the price he had to pay, then so be it. ‘You do what you have to do, but I’m through answering questions. If you want to speak to my lawyer, his card’s in my wallet.’

  ‘I know. I’ve already seen it. Mel Abzug, works out of a second-story office in Williamsburg. That’s a long way from Bensonhurst, but I’m gonna let that go. Now, give me your keys so I can search your car. And I don’t wanna hear word one about your rights. You’ve been following me around all day, interfering in my investigation. I really can’t have that.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was pushing eight o’clock by the time Boots and Jill finished booking Teddy Winuk for the crimes of interfering in a police investigation and unlawful surveillance. This was an exercise in futility and Boots knew it. Yes, they had Winuk’s laptop and the tracking device planted in the Taurus. Yes, they’d established the connection between the two. But the search of Winuk’s Crown Vic was patently unconstitutional, as Assistant District Attorney Thelma Blount had been quick to point out.

  ‘It’ll never get past a Mapp hearing,’ she’d explained. ‘The judge will throw out the laptop, without which you have exactly nada.’

  Boots had nodded agreeably. He hadn’t been thinking long-term, his only objective to confine Winuk until Carlo’s victim was located. Unfortunately, he wasn’t likely to accomplish even that modest goal.

  On another day, Boots might have arranged to hold his suspect at the precinct for twenty-four hours before shipping him off to Central Booking. That couldn’t happen now because Winuk’s lawyer, Mel Abzug, was already present. Mel would have his client bailed out before midnight, or so he loudly proclaimed.

  Boots and Jill decided to console themselves with dinner at The Brooklyn Star, one of gentrifying Williamsburg’s many hip restaurants. They invited Joaquin along, but he was expecting a call from his estranged girlfriend, Polly Boll, and begged off.

  At the restaurant, after a round of drinks, Jill o
rdered roast chicken, and Boots a grilled pork chop that despite having marinated for hours, turned out to be tough.

  ‘I could’ve beaten Winuk’s ass from morning to night without him opening up,’ Boots said. ‘A genuine tough guy, Jill. A striver.’

  ‘A striver and a killer.’

  ‘Are you that sure?’

  Jill ignored the amused tone. ‘I’m sure this is the man I saw on the Alltel video. Not that it really matters. We’re not gonna pin it on him.’

  ‘Not tonight, anyway. And not tomorrow, either. But I’ve already located two snitches who know him. Down the line, we might get lucky.’

  ‘Are you going to make him a project?’

  ‘That I am, Jill. I don’t want him on my streets and I intend to remove him, if not for killing Carlo, then for something else.’ Boots sawed at his pork chop, the blade of the knife compressing, rather than cutting, the meat. ‘What’s critical now is what you tell Karkanian.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re Karkanian’s spy. Did you forget?’

  That part was true enough. Karkanian would expect Jill to reveal Teddy Winuk’s existence. Jill smiled to herself.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ Boots asked.

  ‘I’m trying to imagine myself telling Karkanian that Winuk can’t be working for Johnny Pianetta because he murdered Pianetta’s oldest son. How do I know? Call it feminine intuition. The man walks like a killer.’

  Jill gestured to their waiter. The bread pudding at the Brooklyn Star was also a killer. She ordered for both of them – to her knowledge, Boots had never refused dessert.

  ‘So, what’s next?’ she asked.

  ‘The first item on our list is Corry. That’s because, if you’re right about Winuk, finding Corry will be first on his list.’