Bronx Noir

by S. J. Rozan

  “So what happened here?” Hamilton started. He seemed impatient, like he just wanted to take Yolanda in as a suspect.

  Yolanda told the whole story, starting with the first time she met Jasmine, and Hamilton wrote some of it down. DiRaimo interjected a couple of times to ask for clarification—for instance, how did Yolanda know the girl’s name? After a short conference between themselves and a consultation with some of the crime scene technicians and a talk over the radio, the detectives came back with one last question.

  “The dispatcher says this was called in by a man. Any idea who?” Hamilton asked.

  Yolanda shook her head. “But if a man called it in, then he’s a hero. Now go and get those rich white boys I told you about.”

  The detectives kept her a while longer and got all her information before letting her go. DiRaimo walked her a few yards away from the scene.

  “You’ll be around?” he asked, even though she had already been told it would be better for her if she stayed easy to find.

  “I’ll be around. You gonna catch those guys?”

  DiRaimo wanted to say yes. With a license plate, it should be easy to find the owner of the car, but there was a long distance between finding the owner and finding whoever was in it the moment Jasmine died. And even if they found that out, the young men could just as easily say that they saw Yolanda at the scene. There were clear footprints on the body and they didn’t match Yolanda, but that wasn’t the greatest evidence. Since the dead girl had been a pro, even the blood and semen on her was going to be useless. He believed everything Yolanda had said, but the most he was hoping for was to scare the young men. A stern talking-to from an assistant district attorney. Who knew? Maybe they could be tricked into saying something stupid. Of course, with wealth came lawyers, so this was unlikely, but anything was possible.

  “We’re going to try,” he told Yolanda. She rolled her eyes, and he didn’t blame her. She went her way home and DiRaimo headed back to his partner.

  “The McElhones of Westchester,” Hamilton said. “Tim McElhone, Jr. He’s the registered driver. Dispatch just got back with the info.”

  “Are we going to talk to the McElhones?” DiRaimo aked.

  “What the hell for? Look at the address.” Hamilton passed his partner a scrap of paper. “One of the swankiest addresses in the state. I’ve been up there. You need to get through security gates. That’s going to take a warrant right there. Can’t even ring the doorbell without getting a judge out of bed.”

  “So let’s get one out of bed. It’s a murder case.” DiRaimo didn’t like dragging feet.

  “Oh, and I forgot the best bit of news. Here, take a look at this.” Hamilton passed another slip of paper.

  DiRaimo read it and felt a headache creeping up his spine.

  “Yep, you read that right. Our good Samaritan here did seven for accidentally killing her own daughter, two-year-old Rosaura Morales, way back when. Accidentally with a knife, you see. Drug-induced blah blah blah. Got off light, I’d say. Oh, and here’s the best bit.” He passed DiRaimo another slip of paper. “Yep. Known associates include Raymondo Morales, a.k.a, Ray, a.k.a, Rosaura’s father and this Yolanda’s ex, a.k.a, guy who did eighteen long in a federal pen for his part in a murder. Probably our mystery caller. So tell me, you feel like waking up a judge for this? Say the word, I’ll let you make the call yourself.”

  The headache took a firm grip on DiRaimo. He looked at the pieces of paper in his hand and then at the body of Jasmine Doe. Hamilton cut into his thoughts.

  “Look, I’m thinking this Yolanda lady and her ex are back together and they were probably pimping this poor girl out. Maybe little Timmy McElhone got a bit carried away, but there isn’t going to be any way to prove that unless we can find witnesses…witnesses that haven’t done time for serious crimes. Hell, I’d take a homeless guy. And this isn’t exactly Grand Central here.”

  “So you’re saying just forget about it?” DiRaimo asked.

  “I’m saying we probably have a much better chance of getting a conviction against the people who called it in than getting to even talk with McElhone. Look, it’s a shame what happened to this girl, but there are better ways of spending our time. We could be tracking people who kill real citizens.”

  “Well, we got a job to do here anyways.”

  “Sure, sure, but we’re not going to get anywhere with this. Guaranteed.”

  “Well, let’s make sure that if the case doesn’t go forward, it’s not because of anything we failed to do.”

  “Whatever you say, chief.”

  The two men drove back to their precinct to start the reporting on the case. Before dawn, both had made phone calls. DiRaimo called for the warrant to speak to the McElhones and search the car, the garage, and anywhere else Tim McElhone might have disposed of the clothes and shoes he had worn that night. Hamilton had gone out of the precinct for some fresh air and during his walk had used a pay phone to make calls too private for the precinct.

  A few hours later, the detectives rolled up in their unmarked car behind Ray as he was walking down the street. He had been on his way to see Yolanda, but then thought it would be better to just walk past her building. Couldn’t think of a good reason to be on that block, but then he tried to remind himself that he didn’t need a reason to be anywhere in the entire world. He was a free man.

  “Raymundo,” Detective Hamilton called out, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “Woods?” Ray asked. Playing dumb was a strategy that often worked with detectives.

  “Here to see your wife?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We’re talking about a murder charge, you idiot. You should know all about that kind of stuff. Had plenty of time to think about it.”

  “That’s right, and I did my time. All of it.”

  “That’s right, you did. But I’m thinking you might have a fresh murder charge. Yolanda told us everything,” Hamilton said.

  Ray looked at both detectives up and down, then pursed his lips. “You guys ain’t said nothing to her.”

  “Well, if you’re so sure of that, why don’t you come down and tell us everything you know?”

  “About what?”

  “About this little girl your wife says was called Jasmine.”

  “Don’t know anything about it.”

  “So you’re cutting your wife off? Not very heroic of you. How are you ever going to win her back?”

  Ray didn’t have an answer for that.

  “Uh-huh. I thought so,” Hamilton said. “We’ll be talking to you again. Don’t disappear.”

  After letting Ray go on his way, the detectives went to Yolanda’s place, but she wasn’t in. They decided to execute the McElhone warrant.

  Everything Detective Hamilton had imagined about the McElhone home was true. There was a gate where they had to be buzzed in, and a long drive up to the front door. The house was huge and could have been featured in an architecture magazine. Tim McElhone, his parents, and his lawyers were waiting for the officers in the formal garden in the back. A servant offered them tea off a silver tray. As Hamilton had predicted, nothing came from the search of the house and garage. The car, the detectives were told, was on loan to a friend for the day. The interview with Tim was almost as fruitless. DiRaimo asked about the person who was supposed to have been with Tim when he allegedly encountered Jasmine the first time.

  “Detective,” one of the lawyers jumped in, “as we’ve said before, Tim has never driven into that part of the Bronx and we certainly don’t admit that he even met this…this girl. Your witness is mistaken or lying. There is no reason for Tim to supply you with the names of random friends just in case one might fit the vague description you have. ‘Husky, sweaty, short dark hair.’ Talk about fishing. You found nothing in your search and you’ve had ample time to interview my client. This farce is over. If you have any other questions, please direct them to me or one of my colleagues.”


  The detectives were escorted out by the same servant who had shown them in.

  “Did you see Timmy sweat?” DiRaimo asked.

  “So what?” Hamilton answered. “You’re sweating too.”

  “Yeah, but I’m twenty-five years older and a hundred pounds heavier.”

  The banter was interrupted by the servant. “Sirs, I hope I am not out of place in saying this, but I think I know the man you were describing.” He went on to give them a name and address just a quarter of a mile down the road. The detectives decided to knock on that door.

  This house was smaller and had seen better days. There were no servants answering the door, but the lady of the house was so meek that she could have easily been mistaken for one. The father of Tim’s friend was a lawyer and let the detectives know it. The friend, David Franklin, was also a lawyer, newly minted.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about…Never been in that part of the Bronx…Never been in Tim’s car…Yes, we’re friends…Don’t know any Jasmine or any other prostitutes,” were the highlights of this conversation.

  Back in their car and headed for the house of the friend who had borrowed Tim’s vehicle, DiRaimo made another observation.

  “Did you see that boy’s hands shaking?”

  “Yeah, that was a little strange,” Hamilton agreed.

  “You like him for this?”

  “I’d like anyone if we could find the smallest piece of evidence,” Hamilton answered.

  Tim’s car proved elusive. The girl it had been loaned to had gathered a couple of friends and taken it to an upstate lake for the day. It was nearing night when the detectives and the local police were able to find the car and lift fingerprints from both the outside and inside.

  “But you see how useless this is,” Hamilton pointed out. “Even if we find the girl’s prints on this car, all that tells us is that she touched it. Hell, we’d basically have to find her body in here for anything to stick on anybody, and then this car’s been through a lot of hands.”

  Nearly a hundred prints were lifted from the car, but Jasmine’s hands were very small and many of the prints could be discounted without even a close examination. The rest would be left for technicians to sort out.

  “Progress?” the squad captain asked when the detectives finally returned.

  “Started out cold and is getting colder by the minute,” Hamilton answered. “Right now we’re thinking it was either the lady who says she found the body and who happens to have spent time in the pokey for killing her own daughter and who was married to a guy who did serious time for a robbery that wound up with three bodies in the ground. Or maybe we’re looking at a squeaky clean millionaire’s son and his lawyer friend who also has no record. Who, by the way, are placed at the scene only by the aforementioned daughter-killer.”

  “Physical evidence?”

  “Sure,” DiRaimo said. “We have a body with a bunch of indistinct stomp and fist marks all over. Other than that, we’re waiting for forensics or the prints. Maybe some miracle…” He left it at that.

  There was no miracle. No prints from Jasmine showed up on the car, forensics found nothing at the scene that might tie Tim or David or anybody else to the murder. What did show up, after announcements in the news, were distraught parents of Antonia Flores. She had run away from a loving home, they said. Just two miles from where she died.

  They were saddened by the death of their daughter, but then it was explained to them that she had been drug-addicted and a prostitute.

  “Can the city bury her?” the father asked. “It’s such a waste of money…she had become such a terrible person.”

  “But she was only thirteen,” they were told.

  “Yeah, but imagine if she had lived longer,” her father said. “She could have been a murderer.”

  Almost a week later, Detective DiRaimo took a couple of hours of leave to place a bouquet of flowers on the newly carved grave in St. Raymond’s Cemetery. There was a potted Jasmine plant sitting there already. He had a good idea who it was from. He called on Yolanda.

  “You put the flowers?” he asked from the doorway of her apartment.

  “Wait,” Yolanda said. “Let me see. You find the killers?”

  “For all I know, I could be looking at the killer right now.”

  “Then you don’t know jack. But I know you playing me, because if you thought I could be a killer, I don’t think you’d be standing outside my doorway without backup. Listen, I like you…Can’t stand your partner, but I like you. Let me tell you something: I’m getting witnesses, I’m getting information. I know about your two Westchester County boys, Tim and Dave. I know where they live, I know what they do. I know how they like their sex, and I know where and when they get their action.”

  “And why are you collecting all this information?” DiRaimo asked. He didn’t like the sound of an amateur sleuth working his case. Good way for people to get hurt.

  “Don’t you worry. I’m not going to kill anyone or do anything like that. But y’all will know the next time these boys take their pants down. I’ll get you pictures, I’ll get you tape recordings, I’ll get the ho’s who work them. You want proof they lying? I’ll get you all the proof you want. These boys been to the Bronx, they been in that neighborhood, they been with the working girls there, and they like it rough. I already got a couple of girls who’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that these guys been beating on them.”

  “Why don’t you let me talk to these women?” DiRaimo asked.

  “Nah-ah. Wait. In fact, tomorrow morning I will bring you all the evidence. If they stick to their routine, I know exactly where they gonna be tonight, and I’ll be waiting.”

  “But if they’re killers—”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Mister Man. I been taking care of myself for plenty long time. And you know what? I don’t even care. I’m on a mission from God. I been waiting almost twenty years to pay Him back for what I done to my baby girl. Now I finally get to square that up…Do me some good in this world.”

  Back at the precinct, DiRaimo sat quietly at his desk. He was weighing up what Yolanda had told him about getting tapes and photos and testimony from a flock of prostitutes. He wondered if all of it stacked high could amount to a murder charge. He didn’t see how it could.

  “What you thinking about, partner?” Hamilton asked him.

  “Oh, I just talked with that Yolanda Morales lady. You know, from the Antonia Flores case.”

  “And what? Did she confess?”

  “Nope. She says she’s going out tonight to get some evidence on Tim McElhone and David Franklin. Pictures, recordings, testimony…”

  “You told her about them?”

  “Of course not. She’s been snooping on her own.”

  “That’s dangerous,” Hamilton said.

  “Yeah.”

  Hours later that night—too late—Yolanda Morales found out that while she had been hunting the two young men, they, in turn, had been stalking her. And they had a guide. As she opened her apartment door, a badge was put before her eyes. She took a stutter-step back to get the badge in focus—the badge and the gun that was aimed at her. She went quietly out to the unmarked car. Behind them was a Porsche, black.

  When they got to deserted Farragut Street, Yolanda was praying for strength for the test to come. Detective Hamilton ordered her out of the car.

  “You see these two nice gentlemen here?” he asked. He pointed to Tim and David getting out of the Porsche.

  “You’ve been very naughty. You’ve been harassing these men, and it is time for you to learn a lesson. These men are going to teach it to you.”

  Hamilton stepped back and let the two do their worst. There were parts that Detective Hamilton did not have the stomach to watch. He sat in his car until the men got tired of their frenzy. Then he got out with a throwaway handgun. He raised it and aimed at Yolanda.

  “Let me,” David Franklin said. He reached out for the weapon.

  “But you paid
me to—”

  “I want to.”

  Hamilton handed over the gun, and Franklin pressed the barrel up to Yolanda’s forehead.

  “What you got to say now, bitch?” There was blood dripping from his chin. Her blood.

  “My name,” she rasped out. “My name is Yolanda Rivera Morales.” She almost laughed at what she had thought of to say after all this time, as her life was ebbing out, pooling inside of her.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Franklin said. He tried to put some special emphasis into the words, but there is no emphasis to be put on those words. He pressed the gun to her head with more force.

  “Listen, Mister Man. You do what you gotta do. I done my duty, and I’m ready to meet the Lord.”

  She pressed back against the gun.

  Franklin pulled the trigger and put a hole in her head. She flopped onto the sidewalk, and he put another two bullets into her chest as though she needed them. Then he stepped back and turned to Hamilton. He was breathing hard.

  “If we pay the same amount next week,” he asked, “can we get this same service?”

  Hamilton widened his eyes, then shook his head. “You guys want to do this again, you find another way. I’m a cop. I can’t do this every week.”

  “Every month?”

  Hamilton shrugged. He took the gun back from the young lawyer.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  HOTHOUSE

  BY S.J. ROZAN

  Botanical Garden

  A week on the lam.

  The beginning, not so bad. In the first day’s chilly dusk, a mark handed up his wallet at the flash of cold steel. Blubbering, “Please don’t hurt me,” he tried to pull off his wedding ring too; for that Kelly punched him, broke his nose. But didn’t knife him. Kelly didn’t need it, a body. He’d jumped the prisoner transport at the courthouse. A perforated citizen a mile away might announce he hadn’t left the Bronx.