The Battle of Jericho

by Walter Marks

  — PD

  It was a long shot, but Jericho had to check out Datuk Sidek. If Sidek’s hair was found in Ann Richman’s sock, that would indicate he was involved in her death, probably that he killed her.

  Jericho had just grabbed his overcoat when his desk phone rang. It was his ex-wife, Sarah.

  “Neil,” she said, “it’s only three days till Thanksgiving, which means it’s two days till Katie’s flight to New York. Do you want her to come or not?”

  Jericho wished he hadn’t answered the phone. He knew Katie’s trip was not a realistic possibility. But he couldn’t face telling her. “I’m not sure yet. This case is complicated…”

  “Life is complicated,” Sarah cut in. “Your life, my life, now Katie’s life. The poor child doesn’t know if she coming or going, whether she has a father or not.”

  “She has a father!” Jericho said sharply. “I just…I just don’t know about this trip yet. Sarah, please, please try to explain it to her.”

  “That’s your job.”

  “Look, I’ll let you know tomorrow. I’ll have a clearer picture then. Okay?”

  “If she can’t come, you’ll have to Skype her and tell her.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  “Neil,” Sarah said, “Katie says she doesn’t care about this trip anymore. Which means exactly the opposite.”

  “I know. Look, I have to go to work now. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  Jericho was in turmoil. He was heading for the door when Maria entered his office.

  “Jericho,” she said, “I have so much to tell you. I…”

  “Not now,” he said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. And I’ve gotta go to Hampton Bays.”

  “This is important.”

  “Let’s meet for dinner tonight,” Jericho said. “Mexican Grill in Bridgehampton, okay?”

  He brushed past her and was out the door before she said okay.

  Mexican food? Maria thought. Really?

  She was not pleased.

  Hampton Bays is about twenty miles west of East Hampton. Despite its name, it’s not really part of “the Hamptons” — the rich and famous have simply ignored it, preferring the hamlets of Westhampton, Southampton, East Hampton, Bridgehampton, and surrounding towns with Indian names like Quogue, Sagaponack, Amagansett.

  Its main industry is fishing, and blue-collar/middle-class tourism. It lies along the Shinnecock Canal, a man-made waterway that connects Peconic Bay to the north with Shinnecock Bay and the Atlantic Ocean to the south.

  Jericho drove to Hampton Bays and parked in front of the World Gym on Main Street. When he entered the drab storefront building, his ears were assaulted by high-decibel hip-hop music, meant to energize the members. This being off-season, there were only a few participants using the requisite treadmills, stair masters, ellipticals, and exercise bikes. No one looked energized.

  In a separate section was the weight room, where two guys were grunting and hissing as they performed biceps curls, clean-and-jerks, and bench presses. Jericho saw a wall-size sign: “ACHIEVE GREATNESS. THERE ARE NO WOUNDS THE IRON CAN’T HEAL.” The men had enough Spandex leg, back, and knee braces on them to give the lie to this notion.

  Jericho went to the reception desk, flashed his gold shield, and said he was looking for Datuk Sidek. The young female receptionist looked puzzled for a moment, then replied, “Oh, you must mean Danny. That’s what we call him. No, he’s not here today.”

  “Does he work here?”

  “Yes. He’s a personal trainer. He teaches aerobics, Zumba, flexibility, spinning, but his thing is really heavy-duty weight training.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Um, yes. He lives on a boat at the Shinnecock Marina. He loves that boat. It’s named…uh, Nirvana.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Pardon me for asking,” she said, “is Danny in some kind of trouble?”

  “I just need to ask him some questions.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Danny…he’s a very nice person. Just so ya know.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Jericho crossed the marina boatyard as he made his way down to the docks. There were dozens of vessels up on racks, various shapes and sizes, stored for the winter. Each was sealed tightly by a white polymer shrink-wrapped cover.

  November was definitely not boating weather, although in the canal, Jericho could see an occasional commercial fishing vessel passing through. He noticed a sign reading NO WAKE, and a Coast Guard patrol boat hidden behind a buoy, like a cop car lurking in a speed trap.

  There were very few boats in the slips. Jericho easily found the Nirvana, tied up in a sheltered part of the docks. In front of it was a sign: “FOR CHARTER call Danny Sidek — 631-854-3372.” On the foredeck of the old thirty-foot wooden cabin cruiser, a big, bulky man in a leather bomber jacket was laboriously polishing the teak brightwork. His skin was the color of milk chocolate and he looked about thirty years old.

  Jericho approached him and called out, “Mr. Sidek?”

  “Hello, there,” the man said. “Interested in fishing, a charter? This boat is very seaworthy. And off-season prices are quite reasonable.”

  Jericho could detect a crisp, British-inflected accent, with broad a’s and “very” pronounced almost like “beddy.”

  “Not at the moment,” Jericho said. “But this sure is a nice boat. What kind is it?”

  “Chris-Craft — Crowne 30. They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

  Jericho showed his detective shield. “I’m from East Hampton Police.”

  “Oh, a golden badge,” Sidek said. “That means detective, does it not?”

  “Yes. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure.”

  He made his way back along the side of the cabin and eased himself down on the dock. Despite wearing a bulky jacket, Jericho could see the man’s wedge-shaped weightlifter’s body, his bulging trapezius muscles rising up to thicken his neck. He wore his long black hair in a ponytail.

  “What’s this about?” Sidek asked.

  “Some events in East Hampton,” Jericho said, noncommittally. “Have you read The Star recently? Or the Patch?”

  “Star? Patch? What’s that?”

  “Newspapers.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t read the paper much these days. Too depressing.”

  Jericho nodded.

  “Detective,” Sidek said politely, “perhaps you’d like to join me in the cabin. I can offer you some tea.”

  “I’ll pass on the tea, but let’s go below so we can talk.”

  Sidek offered his hand to Jericho and pulled him up onto the deck.

  They descended into the cabin. It was neat and spotless. The scent of patchouli incense filled the air. Above the entrance to the forward sleeping quarters was a small wooden statue of Buddha.

  “That’s my blessed Tathāgata,” said Sidek. “His hands are in the teaching mudra, so it suits me.”

  “Where’s it from?”

  “Malaysia, my country. Those elongated hands and legs are typical of the Malaysian style.”

  Jericho noticed a framed newspaper picture of Sidek in a bodybuilder’s pose.

  “Oh,” Sidek said. “That’s me several years ago in Kuala Lumpur, when I was competing. I was runner-up in the Mr. Panang contest.”

  “Your hair was short then.”

  “That’s de rigueur in competition. Now I can look the way I please.”

  Sidek took off his jacket, invited Jericho to sit, and took a seat opposite him.

  “You still look good,” Jericho said.

  “I keep in shape.”

  “What do you deadlift?” Jericho asked.

  “Four hundred. Back in the day I did over six hundred in competition.”

  Jericho was quickly evaluating the man. Sidek was capable of lifting a car engine by himself. That made him a possible suspect in Teresa Ramírez’s murder. My God, he thought, the
location of this marina gives Sidek two possibilities: One — he could’ve sailed up the north coast to Block Island Sound where Teresa Ramírez’s body was found. And two — he could’ve sailed up the south coast on the Atlantic side, to where Ann Richman’s foot was found. He could’ve killed either woman…or both. Am I back to looking for a serial killer? Shit!

  “Do you own a gun?” Jericho asked.

  Sidek looked aghast. “A gun? I hate guns. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you — in this country over thirty thousand people are killed by firearms every year.”

  Overkill on the answer? Jericho wondered.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” Sidek asked. “Surely not about me having a gun.”

  Jericho wanted to avoid revealing the true purpose of his visit, so he had to prevaricate. “No, no,” he said. “We’re looking for a missing woman who may have had a Malaysian boyfriend. Our records show you’re the only man of Malaysian descent in this area. I thought you might be able to help.”

  “She has a Malaysian boyfriend?”

  “We believe so.”

  Sidek laughed. “Well, it couldn’t be me. I’m gay.”

  That was definitely a conversation stopper.

  Jericho paused before speaking again. “Do you have any friends or relatives from Malaysia around here?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of any other Malaysians in this area?”

  “I wondered about that when I got here,” Sidek said. “So I called the NYMA — the New York Malaysian Association — a group that connects people of Malaysian descent for social and business purposes. They said there were many of my countrymen in the city, but none around here. I was going to reach out to them, but then I got my job in Hampton Bays, and now I’m content just being part of this community.”

  Again, possibly too much information.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Sidek.” It was time for Jericho to make his move. “Mind if I use the restroom before I leave?”

  “Not at all. The head is just next to the galley.”

  Jericho entered and quickly saw what he wanted. There was a hairbrush on the sink, with a number of black hairs caught in its bristles. He pulled a few squares of toilet paper out of the roll, took some hairs from the brush and wrapped them in a neat Charmin package. He put it in his pocket and made noise by flushing the toilet and washing his hands in the sink.

  When Jericho came out, Sidek smiled and put his hands together in the prayer-like mudra of respect. Jericho reciprocated, thinking — Let’s see what this hair sample tells us, Mister Runner-up in the Mister Panang contest.

  It was an hour’s drive further west to the forensics lab in Hauppauge, but Jericho was in a hurry to have Sidek’s hair compared with the sample in Ann Richman’s sock.

  At the ME’s office Jericho was told that Alvarez was out on a case, so he put Sidek’s hair in an evidence bag and left it for the ME. He also wrote a note requesting a comparison with the hair sample found in Ann Richman’s sock, ASAP. He kept some of the sample himself, just to be on the safe side.

  CHAPTER 44

  Jericho and Maria met for dinner at Mercado Mexican Grill in Bridgehampton.

  The place had bright orange walls, hung with framed movie posters featuring Spanish language versions of American films — La Reina Africana (The African Queen), Cara Cortada (Scarface), and Lo Que El Viento Se Llevo (Gone With the Wind). The cuisine was traditional Mexican fare; carnitas, carne asada, chile rellenos.

  They sat in a booth and ordered.

  “I had a rough experience last night,” Maria said. “But I found out some very interesting things…”

  “Hold that thought,” Jericho said. He began to describe tracking down Datuk Sidek and his acquisition of the Malaysian’s hair sample.

  “Sidek’s a double suspect. If his hair matches the sample found on Mrs. Richman’s foot, it’s likely he killed her. And he also could have sailed his boat up to Block Island Sound and killed Teresa Ramírez. He has the physical strength to lift the engine block that weighed her down.”

  Maria was strangely quiet and unfocused.

  “So he could have killed both women,” Jericho said. “I hate to say it, but we may have to revise our thinking. We might be back to a serial murderer — Datuk Sidek.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You okay?” Jericho asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, you seem almost…disinterested.”

  “I’m interested. Are you?”

  “In what?”

  “In what I went through last night.”

  “Of course. I just…”

  Maria interrupted him. “‘Hold that thought,’ you said, assuming what you did was more important. You’d get to me later, after I was sufficiently impressed by your brilliance as a detective.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jericho felt the fury and resentment bristling in her. He’d never seen this side of her.

  “And this morning,” Maria went on. “You blew me off when I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Look,” he said. “This morning I was dealing with…a lot of stuff. And I didn’t mean to interrupt you before. I was just excited about my progress and I wanted to share it.”

  She glared at him, unmoved.

  “Maybe…” he said. “I dunno, it’s been a while…maybe I’m not used to sharing.”

  “That’s a very smooth line.”

  “Smooth?” Jericho said edgily.

  “What word would you use?”

  “Honest.”

  Maria looked at him stony-faced. He glared back. The tense standoff became a long, painful silence.

  Jericho finally broke it. “Our first fight.”

  Her expression softened into a bit of a smile.

  He smiled back.

  The storm had passed, or at least died down. But there was a residue. Jericho wondered — Where is her anger coming from? Is it about me, or about the work, or something much deeper?

  Maria realized Jericho had never actually apologized. Does he really understand how insensitive he’s been?

  The food came and neither of them felt hungry. Maria sipped a Dos Equis. Jericho had water. They picked at their food as they spoke.

  “So,” Jericho said lightly. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Funny you should ask.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Last night I had to tell Teresa’s mother her daughter was dead.”

  She looked in Jericho’s eyes. Clearly he’d forgotten.

  “…I know,” he said. “How did it go?”

  She took a few moments before she spoke. “I met with her at her house in Springs, y’know, one of those mattress houses.”

  “Yes.”

  “I struggled with telling her her daughter was gone. Finally I just…well, she guessed it from the look on my face.”

  “That must’ve been awful.”

  “It was,” Maria said.

  Maria paused before she went on. “Then a lot more came out,” she said. “Mrs. Ramírez told me she had the feeling her daughter had been manipulated by her boyfriend, then forced into prostitution. But as I questioned her, it came out that her daughter was probably in the hands of a sex trafficking gang.”

  “You think that’s true?”

  Maria nodded. “Teresa was killed with a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. That’s a gang-style execution, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And dumping a body in the ocean, that’s also gangland style.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s more,” Maria said. “Soledad Ramírez told me Rosario Santiago, a girl I used to babysit, also disappeared and was never heard from again. Her mom believed Rosario was kidnapped, snatched off the street on her way home from school.”

  “Jesus!” Jericho said. “And neither of these women reported their daughters missing.”

  “They both got phone calls from the gang, threate
ning to kill their daughters if they went to the police.”

  Maria reached in her bag and took out some printouts. “Let me show you something,” she said. “When I got home last night, I did some research — these are articles from Newsday and Noticia. I found out last year there was a prostitution bust at two massage parlors up island in Smithtown — run by the Russian Mafia.”

  “Yes, we were notified.”

  Maria went on. “The girls were all Asian illegals, brought here believing they would be doing modeling work. They became sex slaves because their Russian bosses beat them and threatened to kill them if they tried to get away. It’s the same threat they used on the phone calls to Mrs. Ramírez and Mrs. Santiago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Teresa’s mother told me her daughter’s boyfriend might’ve been Russian. His name was Oleg.”

  “Any last name?”

  “No.”

  “Oleg,” Jericho said. Then a flash of memory jolted him. “Shit! If the Russian mob is involved, that could be Oleg Plashik — we had a BOLO on him in New York a few years ago. He’s a slick hard-ass thug; part of the Brighton Beach syndicate. Of course, we can’t be sure…”

  “Jericho, we’ve got to do something,” Maria said loudly. “We’ve gotta take these bastards down.”

  Jericho nodded grimly.

  They looked at each other in silence. The emotional toll of their recent quarrel had drained them.

  “I think I’ll get going,” Maria said abruptly.

  “No dessert? Flan?”

  “Nah.”

  She got up, reached in her purse, and put down a twenty-dollar bill and a ten.

  “Please,” Jericho said. “Let me.”

  “My turn. We’re partners.” she replied curtly. She turned and walked away.

  Yes, we’re partners, Jericho thought. But I felt we were moving toward…something more. Am I wrong? We both know it’s inappropriate, so maybe she’s being more mature than I. Or maybe she just doesn’t see me as…something more.

  So what? I’ve been doing just fine on my own. I don’t need…