Brooklyn Justice

by J. L. Abramo

  Ninety percent of the job of investigation is legwork. Detectives are not known as gumshoes for no reason. That being said, the World Wide Web has contributed a great deal to the preservation of shoe leather.

  The other ten percent of the job is finding someone to talk with who is both qualified and willing to help, which is a rare combination.

  So if I was going to take on a case for a dead client, with little hope of financial compensation and great potential for disaster, I would need to employ two of the most powerful tools of the trade—a computer and a telephone.

  Since I couldn’t say no to Kevin Morrison, I put the dollar bill into my wallet.

  I was officially on the job.

  My trusty laptop was at the office, and my cell phone was as dead as Disco, so I drove to Coney Island.

  The debris from the sidewalk and street had been cleared, and the Fazio brothers had neatly boarded up the Beauty Shop storefront. The pizzeria was not yet open for business but, after a few raps on the door, Carmella let me in.

  “I’m prepping toppings. Come on back, I have fresh coffee,” she said.

  I followed her through the dining room. Antique tin ceiling with ninety-year-old fans, walls adorned with framed and autographed celebrity photos, rectangular wooden dining tables sporting black painted legs and red lacquered tops, vintage Brentwood bistro chairs with high backs and round wood seats that would have looked perfectly placed on a stage set for O’ Neill’s The Iceman Cometh, and a black and white checkerboard floor.

  Carmella poured me a cup of coffee and went back to slicing mushrooms while we talked.

  “What a mess,” she said.

  “I suppose it could have been worse.”

  “Sure, I could have been next door having my hair done. Thank you for waiting for the boys.”

  “No problem.”

  She talked about her grandchildren, a favorite topic, as she moved on to running pepperoni through the meat slicer and checking the Italian sausage in the oven. I finished my coffee and excused myself.

  “I’d better get to work.”

  “Nick.”

  “Yes?”

  “I heard it was a police detective who was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that is really not any of our business,” she added, her polite way of advising me to keep my nose out of it.

  Very good advice, but the dollar bill in my wallet suggested it had come too late.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said.

  “Come down for lunch, I’m making eggplant parmigiana.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, and I headed up to my office.

  Using sketchy details collected from a number of sources on the internet, at least those reported in the media, I was able to piece together the events which transpired during a police action at a Brooklyn apartment building in Williamsburg the previous week.

  Operating on intelligence and introductions provided by an unnamed paid police informant, a meeting was arranged to exchange two and a half pounds of uncut cocaine for an undisclosed amount of cash. The sellers were, in fact, a couple of undercover NYPD detectives, the narcotics borrowed from police evidence. Two additional detectives were deployed to stand watch at the front and rear exits of the building when the undercover team went in.

  Reacting to gunfire from inside the building, the detective stationed at the front entrance rushed in. The detective at the rear was about to respond when an adult male exited and ran from the scene. The detective pursued the suspect on foot. He later reported the suspect had eluded capture.

  Two men, later identified as known street dealers, were killed in a gun fight when they attempted to seize the drugs from the undercover detectives without payment. Since no cash was discovered at the scene it was concluded that the intention of the dealers, going in, was to assassinate the sellers and pinch the narcotics.

  There were a number of things I knew.

  I knew that all four of the detectives involved in the action would have been separately and thoroughly questioned by an internal affairs review board as to the circumstances leading to the shooting deaths of two civilians. An official determination would have to be made for or against justifiable homicide, regardless of the social standing of the victims.

  I knew that the transcripts of those interviews would not be made public for a long time, regardless of the ultimate determination.

  I knew that the detective stationed at the rear of the building, who had unsuccessfully pursued a suspect fleeing the building shortly after the shots were fired, was Kevin Morrison.

  And I knew that Morrison’s dollar bill in my wallet could buy me nothing but trouble.

  John Sullivan and I had been friends since grade school. John was an NYPD detective. I liked him a lot, and he cared for me in spite of the fact I had been a disappointment many times through the years.

  It is said beggars can’t be choosers, but in this case certain criteria had to be met. I needed help from someone I could trust completely and who was in a position to provide me a leg up. John Sullivan was the only candidate. Whether John would be willing to help, and would give me a little wiggle room in the bargain, remained to be seen.

  I found Sullivan at his desk in the 70th Precinct on Lawrence Avenue.

  I brought him an eggplant parmigiana hero and a Manhattan Special.

  “Still hot from Totonno’s kitchen,” I said.

  “Why does the sudden appearance of Nick Ventura bearing gifts make me suspicious?”

  “You’re thinking of the Trojan Horse, Johnny, it’s just an Italian sub and a coffee soda.”

  “What do you need?” John asked, as he was unwrapping the sandwich. “Take half of this. It will make me feel less indebted.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I can’t drink this thing, its ninety percent sugar. This shit is worse for my blood pressure than you are.”

  We were not getting off to a great start, but at least he was conversing.

  I watched him take a good bite of the sandwich before I handed him the sticky note.

  “Does this mean anything to you?”

  “Where did you get this?” he asked. He didn’t sound happy.

  “Can I take that as a yes?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Nick,” he said, pushing the eggplant aside. “What the fuck is this about?”

  “Tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you what it’s about.”

  “I have a lot of funny things to do today, and playing Let’s Make a Deal with you is not one of them.”

  “It has to do with the murder of Detective Kevin Morrison and possible police involvement.”

  “Jesus Christ, are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  Sullivan looked at the note for a moment and then back at me.

  “I think this may be the ID number of an NYPD paid informant.”

  “Can you get me a name and a location?”

  “And then what?”

  “I try to learn why Morrison left me the lead.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I’m asking for help, John.”

  “You’re asking for a world of grief.”

  “I’m committed.”

  “I’ll see what I can do without raising a fucking crap load of red flags. And, Ventura.”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t do anything with this before running it by me first.”

  “Agreed.”

  I scooped up half the sandwich and the soda and left him, as I often did, in a totally undesirable predicament.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to drum up some work that might actually pay the bills, returning a few calls and reaching out to fellow PIs who possibly had too much on their plates and would consider throwing me a bone.

  I came up empty.

  Tony and Richie had wasted no time initiating repairs on the storefront below, and the racket chased me out of the office and out to my crib in Bay Ridge. After parkin
g the Monte Carlo on Marine Avenue I strolled over to the Chinese joint on 4th Avenue and ordered takeout of some obscure general’s chicken and cold sesame noodles. I dined at my kitchen table hoping I would hear back from John Sullivan and look forward to plans for the evening beyond scotch and Netflix streaming.

  John called at seven.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Home.”

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Are you going to blindfold me on the way?”

  “I’ll buzz you when I get to your place,” he said, and hung up.

  I have never given the warning be careful what you wish for the attention it deserves, so an hour later I found myself in John Sullivan’s car on the way to Greenpoint.

  “His name is Peter Chekhov. Morrison nabbed him on a parole violation a year ago and kept him out of the joint in exchange for information.”

  “The snitch who set up the drug buy in Williamsburg?”

  “That would be my guess,” John said, “and likely the suspect Morrison pursued fleeing the scene that night.”

  “Maybe, in spite of what Morrison reported, Chekhov didn’t exactly elude capture and told Morrison something he was better off not knowing.”

  “Could be something we’re better off not knowing,” Sullivan said, pulling up in front of a house on Monitor Street. “Here we are, let’s go in before I wise up.”

  “I think I should go in alone,” I said.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Considering recent events, he may be reluctant to open up to a police detective.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not crazy about it either, but it sounds right. And you’ll be out here to back me up in case I fuck up.”

  “Watch yourself. Morrison might have tamed him some, but Chekhov is more like a pet snake than a pet puppy.”

  “Understood.”

  “Are you carrying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try to keep it in your pants,” Sullivan said. “And yell real loud if you need me.”

  I climbed out of the car and approached the house, my hand on the .357 in my jacket pocket.

  “Who?” Chekhov asked from behind the front door.

  “I’m a friend of Kevin Morrison, he asked me to look you up.”

  “Morrison is dead.”

  “It was a last request.”

  “Why would I believe you?”

  I slipped the sticky note under the door.

  “Are you police?”

  “If I was, we wouldn’t be having a casual chat. Morrison wanted to keep the NYPD out of it.”

  Chekhov opened the door and closed it quickly when I entered.

  When he turned to me I had the .357 pointed at his chest.

  “Fuck.”

  “Stay cool. I just want to know if you have any theories about who might have wanted Morrison dead and why.”

  “Whoever killed Morrison will kill me if I talk to you.”

  “Or, I could simply save them the trouble,” I said, leveling the weapon at his head.

  “There was seventy thousand dollars cash in the apartment that none of the other detectives bothered mentioning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was at the place. I saw it with my own eyes before I blew the pop stand and nearly ran into the undercover cops coming up the stairs. I beat it out to the back alley.”

  “And Morrison ran you down and you told him about the cash.”

  “Yes,” he said, just before a bullet caught him square in the temple and another missed me by a hair. The shots came from a side window facing the driveway. I fired two shots in the general direction of the attack and I hit the deck.

  Almost immediately, John Sullivan kicked in the front door and he entered waving a .44.

  “I think it was unlocked,” I said.

  “Did you see the shooter?”

  “No, but I hope he saw me.”

  “Why?”

  “Might keep whoever killed Peter here, and Morrison, from crawling back under a rock.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I’ve never been good at it. And don’t say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That this is another fine mess I’ve gotten us into.”

  “It goes without saying,” Sullivan said, as he helped me up to my feet.

  I told John about the missing seventy grand.

  “And Morrison suspected one of his colleagues palmed the cash.”

  “One or more.”

  “Morrison should have turned his back on it.”

  “Are you going to turn your back on it?” I asked.

  “I’ve never been good at it. How will I explain being here?”

  “You were never here. I’ll deal with it and call you.”

  He nodded and headed out the back door.

  I peeked out of the window. Neighbors had already started gathering out front. I figured calling it in would be frivolous. I gave John a five minute head start and followed out the back door, up the alley to Norman Avenue, and over to the Nassau Street station for the subway ride back to Bay Ridge.

  Two men had been killed, and seventy thousand bucks was the apparent motive. There was no proof that there was ever any cash, aside from the word of an ex-convict—and with Chekhov’s death it was now secondhand news. I believed Chekhov, he and Morrison were not killed by accident. But whoever was responsible could slide if he or they kept their heads down.

  The only course of action was to shake the bushes. Convince the guilty I knew more than I did, and hope it was enough to let loose a can of worms. Playing the role of the lamb at the stake was not a happy prospect considering I didn’t know who the wolf was, how the wolf would come at me, and the wolf could be carrying a badge.

  And then there was the question of how to deliver the message, short of confronting the predator face to face.

  Sleeping on it didn’t produce any revelation, so late the next morning I moved my indecision over to the office.

  Richie and Tony were making progress repairing the storefront. It would be some time before it could reopen for business but it would at least be secure enough to stop anyone coming in without an appointment.

  I found three messages on the office answering machine inquiring about my services. I returned the calls.

  A coffee shop owner wanting to learn which of his employees was dipping into the till. I told him it was probably all of them.

  A husband who suspected his wife was fooling around. I suggested he come up with better incentives for her to stay at home.

  A mother who was worried her thirteen-year-old daughter was smoking marijuana.

  “What led you to that suspicion,” I asked.

  “I thought I smelled it on her clothing.”

  “Did you ask her about the incriminating aroma?”

  “She denied using the drug.”

  “Do you trust your daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  Not a great way to commission business.

  Around noon I went down to the street, exchanged a few words with the Fazio brothers, and grabbed a few slices and a cream soda next door. When I returned to the office I found him waiting at the door. I had seen him before.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You allow me to make a phone call.”

  “Sure.”

  I took out my cell and called John Sullivan.

  “I just wanted to let you know I am about to sit down for pow-wow with Detective Gibson of the Ninetieth Precinct,” was all I said.

  “Who was that?”

  “Someone who will want to speak with you if I don’t get out of this meeting intact.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me, Mr. Ventura.”

&nbs
p; “Great news. Come in and make yourself at home, and you can call me Nick,” I said, leading him in and over to the client chair. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “A taste of that scotch would work.”

  I poured two glasses and leaned back in my seat.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I need help finding out who murdered my partner.”

  “Why come to me for help?”

  “Peter Chekhov was a police informant who set up an undercover drug transaction in Williamsburg last week. Chekhov was killed last night.”

  “You lost me.”

  “It strengthened my earlier suspicion that Kevin’s death was somehow connected to the incident in Williamsburg.”

  “And the initial suspicion?”

  “Something Kevin said. I knew something was eating him, when I asked about it he said he couldn’t tell me. He said he needed to reach out beyond the department.”

  “Did you lack his trust?”

  “No. Kevin and I backed each other for a long time. I believe he wanted to keep me out of it for my own protection.”

  “I hate repeating myself, but why come to me for help?”

  “I think you know something about it.”

  “Why so?”

  “I believe the fact he was found two floors below your office and you were first on the scene of his murder was no coincidence. I believe he was coming to see you.”

  “I never saw him alive,” I said.

  “But?”

  Trust is always a gamble, but I’ve always been a high roller.

  I topped off our drinks and I spilled the beans.

  “Who were the two undercover detectives?” I asked, after telling him most of what I knew.

  “Victor Chapman and Robert Sanders.”

  “Do you have a most likely suspect?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then I guess I’ll need to capture the attention of both.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” Gibson asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you certain you want to put yourself out there as bait?” he asked when he returned.

  “Can I count on you to back me up?”

  “Absolutely,” Gibson said. “What’s your plan?”