Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  For the Salernos and the Ciceros, who in time might have become one family through marriage, Saturday was the day when both families would be burying their children separately.

  Ivanov showed up at Rachel’s door before eight.

  Marina did not want to give her sister the terrible news over the telephone.

  It had taken some time to calm Rachel down.

  Marina refrained from using the standard there’s nothing to worry about since she didn’t believe it herself.

  She assured her sister she would be talking with Alex as soon as possible and would work on retaining a lawyer for the Monday arraignment.

  Rachel wanted to go along to see Alex, but Ivanov finally convinced her it would be best if Marina saw him alone.

  Detective Jack Falcone called while she was still working at pacifying her sister. Falcone had arranged for Marina to visit Alex at nine.

  “The District Attorney has entered a charge,” Falcone said. “Second-degree murder.”

  “What is it?” Rachel asked after Falcone’s call.

  “I can go see Alex now.”

  “Tell him I wanted to come.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you, Marina.”

  “Try not to worry, Rachel, everything is going to turn out alright,” Ivanov said, not buying a single word of it.

  Officers Stan Landis and Rey Mendez watched the Salerno house in an unmarked car and street clothes. They had arrived at eight and they were waiting for word from Samson about whether or not they would be following Vincent and the recording to the restaurant on 18th Avenue.

  “I think my wife is going out on me,” Mendez said.

  “Is that a joke? You have three kids under six years old. You are hardly ever home with this fucking job, where would she find time to do anything but laundry? And why would you even think something like that?”

  “I don’t know it’s just a feeling. It’s hard to explain.”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me, Rey,” Landis said. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I haven’t been cheated on. But that is not a conclusion I would jump to with no more to go on than I don’t know it’s just a feeling.”

  “Something is a lot different, Stan. Salina doesn’t seem as happy to see me anymore.”

  “Try doing the laundry occasionally, if that doesn’t put a smile on her face we can talk about it again.”

  They both instinctively slouched down in their seats when a Chevy rolled past them and turned into the Salerno’s driveway. Alison Davis climbed out of the vehicle, walked to the front door and rang the buzzer. Landis and Mendez watched as Vincent let her into the house.

  “Very attractive,” Mendez said.

  “Not my type, Rey.”

  Chief of Detectives Stan Trenton, District Attorney Roger Jennings, and Henry Munro from Public Information met at the DA’s office at half past eight on Saturday morning.

  Jennings handed each of his guests a transcript of the recording.

  They quickly read through the short document, they were both seeing it for the first time.

  “That’s it?” Munro asked.

  “That’s it,” Jennings said. “The other man hung up very abruptly after Donahue’s statement about impropriety and derailment.”

  “Donahue threatened him, so he employed Lee Wasko’s skills and had Donahue watched,” Trenton said. “Wasko recruited Gallo, who probably never knew who he was actually working for. Not that it matters now with both of them out of the picture.”

  “Do we know where the call to Donahue originated?” Munro asked.

  “A public phone in lower Manhattan,” Jennings said, “and we received a printout of Wasko’s cell phone history from the Chicago police. There were four calls to Lee Wasko from the same public phone between the time this conversation was recorded in Donahue’s office and the time Wasko was killed, as well as a number of phone calls between Wasko and Gallo.”

  “So where do we go from here with the recording and the media,” Trenton asked, “beside way out on a limb?”

  “I think we should go ahead with the plan to put the recording back out there and see if anyone crawls out of the woodwork. Donahue knew what we had on him and he was considering a deal. He knew he would be facing a financial beating, but I doubt he would have considered it one worth killing for. I don’t see him as the force behind Wasko and Gallo. The other suspect, on the other hand, has not heard the recording and can’t be sure about how incriminating it may be. I believe, in his own mind, he has a lot more to lose than money. He has caused a great amount of trouble and destruction to get the tape into his hands before someone can identify him,” the DA said. “If it’s really that important to him it may draw him out.”

  “More to lose than money?” Munro asked.

  “Power perhaps,” Jennings said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Kevin Donahue will resurface and give us the goods. Meanwhile, we send Vincent Salerno and the recording back to the restaurant. In the absence of a better plan, I think it’s worth trying.”

  “I’ll let Samson know we are going ahead,” Trenton said. “So, how do we deal with the Press?”

  “We give them Wasko and Gallo as the solution to the Lake Street case,” Munro said. “They killed the young couple. Call it a robbery gone bad. Wasko killed Gallo. Wasko was tracked to Chicago and killed in a shoot-out with the police. If we can make a case against whoever was behind this down the line, we can introduce it as a new development.”

  “So, we’re all agreed,” Jennings said.

  “I suppose so,” Trenton said. “And we might also agree we could be riding straight into the center of a shit storm.”

  Samson and Senderowitz had been at the precinct since half past eight Saturday morning waiting for the go ahead from Assistant DA Caldwell.

  It came by way of Chief Trenton instead, just before nine.

  Bernie called Vincent. Samson called Landis.

  Then Samson assigned duties.

  He, Senderowitz and Ripley would man the office phones. Ripley said he would be in by noon.

  Murphy, Rosen and Richards would be off for the day but on call.

  Ivanov phoned in after nine.

  “Do you need me at the precinct?” she asked Samson.

  “Not just now. Can you be available?”

  “Sure. Captain, do you know a good criminal defense attorney?”

  “I know a very good one, Lorraine DiMarco, a friend to the Six-one,” Samson said. “I can’t promise she will have the time or the inclination to help you out but she will certainly hear you out. DiMarco and McWayne on Remson Street in the Heights.”

  Landis and Mendez followed Alison’s car out to the restaurant. Vincent was in and out in less than fifteen minutes. He and his girlfriend returned to the Salerno house where another pair of officers would be on watch.

  Mendez and Landis would remain to stake out Il Colosseo.

  Vincent reported to Senderowitz. He had successfully managed to place the tape recorder into Atanasio’s hands, claiming he had found it and forgot it in his apron. He went to where his apron hung and brought the recorder back up to his manager. Atanasio, perhaps sensitive to the death of the boy’s sister, told Vincent he could come back to work when he was ready.

  Now all they could do was wait and watch.

  He had not been able to reach Smith all evening Friday and by Saturday morning he knew he had to do something or he would lose his composure.

  All he had to go on was Smith was following the bus boy to Chicago.

  He needed to know where in Chicago and who the boy saw there.

  He found the information with two short phone calls from a public phone on Columbus and West 77th, across from the Museum of Natural History.

  The first call was to the home of Vincent Salerno’s parents and if he was counting on luck he got it in spades.

  Vincent’s mother took the call. He identified himself as Detective Heller and expressed both his condolences and his apologi
es for bothering the family again. He claimed he needed the name of Vincent’s friend in Chicago.

  Vinnie’s mom, in a rush to get to the funeral home, gave him the name with no questions. Had Marie Salerno been in a different frame of mind she might have asked why he was calling them when the police already had that information and why it mattered since according to her son he never went to Chicago.

  The second call was to Chicago directory assistance, to find Carmine Brigati’s phone number.

  Now he would have to count on human nature, the natural instinct to protect friends and family and the blind willingness to accept easy money.

  He called Chicago.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Brigati?” he said, rolling the dice again.

  “Who is this?”

  “Someone who can offer you a lot for very little. I need some information I think you may be able to help me with. In return for your help, I will pay you ten thousand dollars. And I can assure you your friend Vincent will no longer be in any danger.”

  “Let’s assume I know what you are talking about,” Carmine suggested.

  “If Vincent had a tape recording when he visited you, and if you heard that recording, I need to know without doubt if any of the voices on the tape could be identified. Think carefully before you respond, I demand complete honesty and total discretion.”

  Carmine Brigati decided to take the plunge.

  “There were two men on the recording. One was a big time contractor from New York named Donahue. There was nothing on the tape that would identify the second man unless they could do a voice print or something, he was never named. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “And that is the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never received this call.”

  “What call?”

  “I will send you the money, in cash. I will mail it today. Vincent will have no problems from me from here on.”

  “Do you need my address?” Carmine asked.

  “I have your address. I know where you live, Carmine. Please do not forget that.”

  After making the deal he learned from official sources available to him that Smith, identified as Lee Wasko, would not be returning from Chicago.

  He resolved he would hold up his end of the bargain and send the payment to Carmine.

  He decided to trust Brigati had been honest about what was on the tape recording.

  He determined the recording could not hurt him and he would simply ignore it.

  He had been extremely careful in his dealings with Mr. Smith. There was no way he could be connected to Smith or Gallo.

  And as far as feeling responsible for the deaths resulting from the search for the recording, he had learned how to quiet a guilty conscience long ago.

  He picked up two coffees, bagels, and a fresh-squeezed orange juice at a market on Amsterdam and walked back to his apartment to have breakfast with his wife.

  He believed the nightmare was finally over.

  Ripley and Senderowitz caught the call early Saturday afternoon.

  A building superintendent at Marlboro House 2 in Gravesend had gone into one of the two basement apartments.

  The apartment on the north end of a long hallway had been vacant since the previous weekend. Separating the unit from the one at the south end were a large laundry facility, a trash collection room with dumpsters which were fed by chutes on each of the floors above, an electrical room, and the heating and cooling works.

  The empty unit was as isolated as any corner of a large busy apartment building could possibly be.

  It had been the Superintendent’s first opportunity to check out the unit since it was vacated.

  The super needed to make note of all that had to be done to get the place in shape for showings to prospective renters.

  He saw the victim the moment he stepped into the front room. He moved back into the hallway, closed the door after him, and immediately called 9-1-1.

  When Ripley and Senderowitz arrived at the scene the medical examiner was already present. The body of the victim was lying face up on the floor and Dr. Wayne was ready to talk.

  “The victim was tied into that chair,” Batman said, pointing it out. “His mouth was taped shut, duct tape. There was a cloth bag pulled over his head, tied tightly at the neck. I would say he died of asphyxiation or dehydration or a combination of both if asked to speculate before I do the lab work. It would have taken days to die. It looks as if someone left him sitting here, tied and gagged, and forgot to come back to see how he was doing.”

  Senderowitz looked down at the body.

  The victim had clearly been struck in the face repeatedly.

  “Do we have an ID?” Ripley asked.

  “It’s Kevin Donahue,” Senderowitz said.

  ELEVEN

  Chief of Detectives Stanley Trenton picked up the New York Post and the Sunday New York Times from outside his front door.

  The front page of the Times featured no less than six-headlined stories of national and international concern ranging from politics to warfare to the regulation of the food industry to mental health in Argentina to robot labor.

  The Post had one headline dominating the front page.

  CONTRACTOR KEVIN DONAHUE

  ABDUCTED AND LEFT TO DIE

  The copy that followed reported that the Brooklyn building magnate had died from lack of air and water in a vacant apartment in Gravesend’s Marlboro Houses where he had apparently been held hostage for several days.

  The NYPD was withholding further comment until investigators from the 61st Precinct Detectives’ Squad, CSU and the Medical Examiner’s Office had more solid information.

  A short biography of Donahue and an unflattering photograph completed the fact-deficient story.

  A statement of some kind, probably in the form of a press conference, would be demanded by the media and the public no later than Monday.

  The Office of the Deputy Commissioner had gone ahead and fed the print and broadcast media the little white lie that Lee Wasko and Paul Gallo were solely responsible for the Lake Street homicides.

  The news of Donahue’s death had effectively buried the Lake Street story deeper into the newspapers and the disguised resolution of that case was little mentioned in broadcast news except on local cable news programs.

  That would all change drastically once the two events were connected.

  And how to handle giving the media information about an unidentified co-conspirator lurking within the city or state government had never been effectively settled by Trenton, Munro and Jennings.

  If they were not careful they could look a lot like The Three Stooges.

  The message from the Commissioner of Police late Saturday night was unambiguous. The Mayor was expecting a prepared statement no later than nine on Monday morning, and it had better be convincing. The sharks would be circling and “His Honor” was not about to jump into the water alone.

  The call to Trenton from Captain Samson later Sunday morning only served to muddy the waters.

  Evidence collected by CSU and the medical examiner indicated District Attorney Investigator William Heller had definitely been held and probably murdered in the same basement apartment where Kevin Donahue’s body had been found.

  Trenton could feel a killer headache coming on.

  Sixty-third Precinct detectives Aidan Reilly and Josh Altman sat in an unmarked vehicle on the corner of Avenue I and East 39th Street staking-out Amersfort Park.

  There had been rumors of drug activity in the area.

  The three-and-a-half acre park was fairly empty late Sunday morning.

  Several parents looked on as their children leaned over the short wall of the fountain, reaching up for a cool spray of water on an August day that was already turning brutally hot and humid.

  An old man, sleeping in the grass under a tree, was considered not worth a bother to the detectives.

  “My wife is killing me,” Reilly said.

&nb
sp; “You’ve been singing that tune for so long I can’t imagine how you are still alive. What is it this time?”

  “She wants to have another kid. I need another kid like I need another gallstone.”

  “You have gallstones?”

  “It’s an analogy, sounds better than hemorrhoids.”

  “Have you tried either analogy on her?”

  “No. With Megan I use a less effective method. I try reasoning with her.”

  “Unfortunately I’m not in a position to give marital advice,” Altman said.

  “Because you’re not married?”

  “Exactly.”

  “There is nothing unfortunate about that. Speaking of which,” Reilly asked, “is there any truth in the talk you’re seeing Sandra Rosen again?”

  “We’ve been speaking, considering the possibility. She says she wants to take it very slowly.”

  “The only thing my wife takes very slowly is killing me,” Reilly said.

  “Look at that,” Altman said. “Two teens looking guilty as hell just landed at a picnic table. They may be setting up shop.”

  “What ever happened to going to church with the family on Sunday mornings?”

  Officers Landis and Mendez were on their second day of surveillance across from Il Colosseo on 18th Avenue.

  They had been sitting in exactly the same spot for nearly twelve hours the day before.

  “Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money,” Mendez said. “A few more days of this and we’ll have to start getting our mail delivered here.”

  “Is there somewhere you would rather be?”

  “I could be at Sunday mass.”