by M. Z. Kelly
We were about to grab a bite to eat when we heard raised voices coming from the breakroom. When we got there, we found an officer named Frank “Woody” Woodson with Carmine and several other officers. It looked like Carmine had wet his pants.
“What the hell happened to you?” Max asked him, unable to suppress a grin.
Woody answered for him. “Unfortunately, Mr. O’Brien lost control of his bladder functions during one of the chemical weapons exercises.”
“He blasted me with an almost lethal dose of mace when I wasn’t looking,” Carmine whined, at the same time squirming because his pants were soaking wet. The little cop turned to Woody. “I can’t help it if your mother made stupid decisions and went bankrupt.”
Woody had previously told Max and me that Carmine’s father had sold his mother a phony annuity policy, taking her life savings. Woody believed that Carmine was in on the scam and was determined to spend his life paying him back.
Carmine went on. “I should file assault charges against you.”
Woody’s expression was stoic. “I believe the only assault that occurred this morning was to your dignity and the visual distress the rest of us were forced to endure when you wet your pants.”
The room erupted into laughter. Carmine stepped forward, took a roundhouse swing at Woody, but missed. Lieutenant Dennert happened to walk in and see what happened.
“What’s going on here?” the lieutenant demanded.
“Carmine was simply demonstrating a defensive tactic,” Woody said. “No harm was intended.”
Dennert regarded his subordinate and his wet pants. “Get to the locker room and clean up.” As Carmine sauntered off, the lieutenant told the rest of us, “We begin one-on-one takedowns after lunch. I suggest you take advantage of your lunch hour.”
Max and I invited Woody to join us at a small sandwich shop down the street because we wanted his thoughts on our murder case. Our lunch companion was in his early forties. He was tall and gaunt, with a permanent poker face.
After ordering sandwiches, Max mentioned Carmine’s antics. “The guy reminds me of a neighborhood bully when I was a kid. Nothing but mouth and attitude.”
As usual, Woody’s features were stoic. “Stay tuned. I personally intend to spend the year I’m assigned to Blue tormenting him.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask what got you sent to reform school.”
“I caught a suspect having an intimate moment with Ralph.”
“So? Why was that a problem?”
“Ralph was his cocker spaniel.”
“You’re kidding. What’d you do to him?”
“Let’s just say that every dog has his day. Ralph got a new owner, namely yours truly. And, when the suspect went to jail, I made sure he was housed with a big guy named Bubba who kept him company at night.”
I had a soft spot for animals and said, “The asshole got better than he deserved.”
Our drinks arrived, and I changed the subject, asking Woody about Funk’s Fields and the Phantom, knowing that he’d previously worked patrol out of the nearby precinct.
“I was a rookie cop in the area about a decade ago. There were rumors about the Phantom being at work and burying bodies in the cemetery.” He sipped his drink. “Don’t know if they were true.”
“Guess you heard about the girl that was murdered night before last,” Max said. “Do you think it could be the work of the Phantom?”
“I doubt it. The Phantom, if he was at work in the cemetery, was never seen or heard. What happened to Remy Powell was personal.”
“You make it sound like you knew her,” I said.
Our food was delivered, and Woody hesitated before answering. “I knew her mother. She tended bar at Millhone’s, over on Seventh Street, when I worked the area. Remy would sometimes hang out in the back room when she was a kid. What happened to her is a damn shame.”
“Any idea whatever happened to her mother?”
He scratched his head. “Marianne...yeah, that was her name. Lost track of her when I was transferred. I think Millhone’s is still there, so you might check with Dick.”
“Dick?”
“He’s the owner, or at least was. Vietnam vet, good guy, who treated Marianne and Remy like family.”
I asked Woody about the pimp Roland Davis had mentioned. “You ever hear of a guy named Darnell Howser? According to what I heard, he runs girls over on Lexington in the area Remy worked.”
“Yeah, I popped him a couple of times a few years back. He would be worth talking to.” Woody’s dark eyes held on Max and me. “You two aren’t thinking about working the case, are you?”
Max answered for both of us. “We all know that would be against policy, and we gotta follow the rules.”
Woody’s lips momentarily turned up for the first time since we knew him. “Of course.”
After lunch, Max and I spent the afternoon doing officer safety drills. At one point, Max had the unfortunate luck of being teamed with Lenny Stearns. During one of the takedown scenarios, she claimed Lenny fondled her ample breasts, something that she was still complaining about as we took the train home after work.
“That mofo hopped on me like a fat rabbit on a carrot, then grabbed Mary Jane.”
“Who?”
“Mary Jane. She’s my lefty. The righty is Gwen.”
I chuckled. “You named your breasts?”
“If a guy can name his willie, I can name the girls.” She sighed. “I guess what happened was to be expected, though. When you’re carrying around this much ammunition, some guys can’t risk grabbing a handful.”
“I guess I never thought about that. I’m a little short on ammunition.”
“You wanna stop by Millhone’s Bar tonight? I’m kinda down about everything and need to drown my sorrows.”
“I promised my aunt and uncle that I’d go by and have dinner with them. Let’s check out the bar tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you tell me they took in that guy who tried to rape you?”
“Mojo. Yeah. If that pervert’s there, I got a feeling it’s going to be a short evening.”
NINE
“Ssh. It will be okay, sweetheart.” Sophia put Isabel into her crib with a bottle, as her phone rang. “I be back in a minute. No more crying.”
When she got into the living room, she answered the call, saying, “It is about time I hear from you. What’s going on?”
There was a chuckle before a woman’s voice, with an accent like hers, came on the line. “It sounds like there’s a little tension there.”
“I been worried sick. I not sure how much longer I can take it.”
“Calm down. Everything is going as planned.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Bobo is moving ahead, just as we expected. Alex doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on.”
“He not very smart, but, when it comes to money, we must be careful. He grow up poor and wants to keep every dollar.”
“That’s why the accounts are being altered. He won’t suspect a thing.” There was a hesitation, then the caller said, “What about the PI you hired?”
“What about her?”
“Is she falling for the setup?”
“Of course. She think Alex beat me and want to kill me. She get goods on him, so I take what’s left during the divorce.”
“Just be sure that she concentrates on Alex, not Bobo. By the time the divorce is finalized, there shouldn’t be much left. It’s the way Tatiana would have wanted it.”
Sophia brushed the tears off her cheeks. “I think about her a lot lately. Her birthday is coming up.”
“I know. Me, too. Everything will be over soon. Stay strong.”
Sophia ended the call and walked over to the window overlooking the street in front of her apartment. It had taken months to set everything in place and it was all finally coming to a head. Soon, they would be rich, Alex would be a broken man, and they would have revenge for Tatiana’s murder. Her little sister deserve
d nothing less.
TEN
I got to my Uncle Marvin’s and Aunt Lucy’s place, near Marine Park in Brooklyn, just after seven. I was in time to catch the last set in a dress rehearsal for Twisted Mister and Little Sister, the tribute band my surrogate parents had formed a few years back after retiring from the post office.
My uncle had on more makeup than a Vegas showgirl, along with a long blonde wig. When Uncle M wasn’t in costume, he was big, bald, and old—think an elderly Humpty Dumpty in drag.
Aunt Lucy, as Little Sister, also wore lots of makeup, and clothing that was way too revealing. Out of costume, Aunt L was a couple years younger than my uncle, with dyed brown hair and blue eyes. She was the woman who raised me after my mother had dumped me at their doorstep.
“I’m so glad you could make it tonight,” Aunt Lucy said when they’d mercifully ended a rendition of We’re Not Gonna Take It. The performance was vaguely reminiscent of a cat getting its tail caught under a rocking chair. Or someone with their hair on fire.
“How are things in the graveyard?” Uncle Marvin asked.
“Quiet, except for murder,” I said, knowing they’d probably heard all about the homicide on the news.
“Who do you think murdered that poor girl?” Aunt Lucy asked, in a high-pitched voice that was reminiscent of Edith Bunker from the old TV sitcom All in the Family. “Was it some kind of serial killer?”
“I’m not sure. As far as I know, there are no suspects.”
Maybe it was a matter of bad timing, or bad luck (or a sign from Satan), but Mojo took that moment to appear from my former basement bedroom, which he now occupied. I was of the opinion that Marvin’s creepy son had slithered out from under a rock in some backwoods swamp. He was skinny, as in meth-addict skinny, with a perpetual smirk on his idiotic face.
After several glasses of wine one night, Aunt Lucy had confided in me that he was named after a sex toy. I was surprised when I saw that he was wearing clean clothes, and his hair was combed.
“What’s he doing here?” I demanded of my aunt and uncle.
“Now give the boy a chance,” Uncle Marvin said, removing his wig. “I think you’ll like the new Mojo.”
“He’s had a medical condition,” Aunt Lucy said, in her wavering voice. “He’s like a new person.”
“Hello, Madison,” Mojo said, in a subdued tone. He came over and offered me a hand.
Since I had a pretty good idea where his hand had been recently, I refused to take it. The last time I’d seen Mojo, he was hiding in my closet, wearing my underwear.
“Stay away from me,” I said.
“Tell Maddie about your surgery,” Aunt Lucy said to him. “Then she’ll understand.”
“Don’t tell me you did the world a favor and had him castrated,” I said.
“Madison!” Aunt Lucy said, in a scolding tone.
“I was recently diagnosed with a hypothalamic disorder,” Mojo offered, in a voice that was surprisingly articulate. “I’ve had a problem with headaches and vertigo my entire life. A recent brain scan revealed I had a benign tumor on the frontal lobe of my brain.
“My doctor said it was responsible for my compulsive sexuality. The tumor was recently removed, and, I’m happy to say, I’m no longer obsessed with sex.” He pushed his stringy hair off his forehead, revealing a small scar on his upper forehead that looked like the mark Lord Voldemort had put on Harry Potter. Mojo’s lips parted in an odd smile that unnerved me. “Other than me having the normal urges of any young man my age.”
I looked at my aunt and uncle. “So, instead of having him castrated, he got a lobotomy.”
“Madison!” Aunt Lucy’s tone was a replay of her earlier disapproval.
Mojo’s speech and behavior did seem changed, but I had been too traumatized by his past actions to believe what I was hearing.
“I’ll say it again,” I said to Mojo. “Stay away from me.”
“I want to apologize for that shower incident,” he said. “It was completely out of character. I’m truly sorry.”
The incident he was referring to was him slithering into my shower under the curtain and me looking down and seeing his erection. The traumatic memory only served to raise my anxiety. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Let’s have dinner,” Aunt Lucy said to me, trying to take the edge off things. “Maybe you’ll change your mind about Mojo.”
I dreaded the thought of sitting at the same table with the pervert, but saw no alternative, aside from leaving the house entirely. After some small talk over meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Aunt Lucy told me that she and my uncle were in dire financial circumstances. “Marvin and me might have to sell the place. We’re not getting any help with the rent since you moved out.”
I looked at Mojo. “I thought you were paying rent.”
“I paid the first month in advance, but I haven’t been able to find a job.”
“Things are pretty grim,” Uncle Marvin said, looking at me. “Unless you want to help us out.”
“I don’t have any money to lend you, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“We were thinking maybe you could help Mojo out with a job. That way, he could pay rent.”
“A job,” I said, my gaze moving around the table. “I don’t really have any...”
Uncle Marvin interrupted. “We were thinking your friend Amy could hire the boy.”
“He could be like her junior private eye,” Aunt Lucy said, trying to sound encouraging.
I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. The last time I checked, Amy didn’t have an opening for a pervert.”
“I have experience with electronic devices,” Mojo said. “I could help your friend with any kind of technical help she needs tracking people.”
“I’ll bet you have experience,” I said. “It probably involves placing webcams in locker rooms.”
“Madison!” Aunt Lucy said, scoring a scolding trifecta. “Mojo has skills that he learned at community college. We just thought him working with Amy might help out everyone, and Marvin and I wouldn’t have to move.”
I glanced over at Mojo, who had a serious expression on his face. I wasn’t sure if his supposed brain surgery was real or just an idiotic ruse he’d dreamt up. Despite that, I did feel sorry for my aunt and uncle.
I sighed. “I’m probably out of my mind. I’ll talk to Amy, but I can’t make any promises.”
After my aunt and uncle thanked me, Mojo said, “I think me and your friend will make a great team. She’s also ho...” He coughed. “...I mean, she seems like a very honorable woman.”
I glared at him. “I’ve got one piece of advice for you: If my honorable friend is crazy enough to hire you, keep your hands off her. She’s from Jersey, and, if you get out of line, she’ll step on you and leave a trail of bug juice on the pavement.”
ELEVEN
I got home around nine and learned that Amy was out working a case. I saw there was some paperwork stacked on the kitchen table and asked Max about it.
“I been looking through the records the department had on Remy Powell and her mother. There’s also some stuff there on Alex Puig and his manager, if you wanna take a look.” She yawned. “I’m a little wiped out, so I think...” She paused, turning her head slightly, her forehead scrunching up. “You hear that?”
The sound was coming from outside our living quarters, somewhere down the hallway.
“It’s that scraping sound again,” I said. “Thorndike must be at work. You want to take a look?”
“Nah, let the little mole dig all he wants. I’m calling it a day.”
After Max left, I brewed myself a cup of tea and took a seat at the kitchen table. I decided to look through the paperwork on Remy Powell first.
I learned that our victim was twenty-four and had never married. She’d graduated from Newton High in Queens, before attending a few classes at LaGuardia College. The information I’d gotten from Officer Davis about her working the Lexington Street area was borne out by a
couple prostitution arrests.
Max had obtained copies of the booking mug shots from her arrests. I knew, from past experience, that it was difficult, if not impossible, to draw valid conclusions from mug shots, but the subject who stared back at me in the photos looked more like a child than a woman.
Remy Powell had a vulnerable, wounded expression, like she’d given up on life. I sighed, remembering the horrific images of her in the cemetery. How could someone’s life go so far off track in just a few short years?
I then turned my attention to some paperwork Max had obtained on Remy’s mother. Marianne Powell was forty-nine. Her last known address was on Baker Street, a few blocks from where her daughter was murdered. She had divorced Remy’s father when her daughter was five. She had no criminal record, and, from what I could tell, she’d worked at Millhone’s Bar for several years. There was nothing in the file about Remy’s father or his current whereabouts.
As I set the paperwork on Remy and her mother aside, I remembered Officer Davis telling me that Remy’s case would likely end up in Open Unsolved, along with hundreds of other cases. I then thought about Darnell Howser, the pimp who worked the area where Remy sold her body. I made a mental note to follow up on him with Max.
Next, I looked at the paperwork Max had gathered on Alex Puig and his manager, Charles “Bobo” Calderon. Puig, who was twenty-seven, had three prior arrests for assault, but there was no record over the past three years. There were a couple incident reports where the police had been called to his house because of domestic violence complaints. Both those incidents had ended up with no further action, meaning that Sophia Puig had withdrawn her complaint and recanted her claims of violence, no doubt under duress.
There were also several press clippings in the file about Puig working with inner city kids and donating money to organizations that helped them. It was all good PR, but I knew it was a cover, using the press to conceal his abusive and violent personality.
I then scanned the paperwork on Alex Puig’s manager. Bobo Calderon was thirty-eight and had served six years in Attica after stabbing a man to death in a bar fight when he was in his twenties. He had no record since his parole and had been employed as Puig’s manager for the past three years. I learned that he owned several businesses, including something called Gonzo’s in the Bronx. I used my iPhone and learned the place was a titty bar, offering nude dancers.
