A Man's Partner: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  “Done.”

  “Whatdya wanna know?”

  “We have to talk in person.”

  There was a pause. “Okay,” he said. “But you’ll hafta come to me. I ain’t goin’ out — kinda layin’ low for a while, know’m sayin’?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Alphabet City. 645 East 8th Street, right off Avenue C.”

  “645 East 8th. Got it,” Jericho said. “What apartment number?”

  “Top floor. There’s only one apartment. Buzzer’s busted. Just c’mon up.”

  “What time?”

  “How’s, um, six o’clock?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t make it earlier?”

  “No. You woke me up,” Rosie said. “Gotta go back to sleep. This comedown’s a beast. My head is fried.”

  “Gotcha. See you at six.”

  Rosie hung up without a response.

  Jericho took the Lexington Avenue subway down to Astor Place. Emerging from the subway stairs, he found himself surrounded by hordes of people; mostly back-packed NYU students, gathered in groups or moving quickly from one purple-bannered building to another.

  He walked east, passing the ornate cast-iron replica of a Beaux Arts subway kiosk, then cut over to 8th Street, which quickly became St. Marks place. Jericho remembered a TV documentary with ‘60s vintage footage of the street, which was then a hippie, Yippie, druggie enclave. Its counterculture denizens included Andy Warhol, William Burroughs, and Lenny Bruce, who hung out at places like The Velvet Underground, The Exploding Plastic Inevitable, and The Electric Circus.

  Now Jericho was walking past Pinkberry, Chipotle, and Dunkin’ Donuts. Sic transit gloria mundi.

  He continued on until he came to Tompkins Square Park.

  When Jericho was a rookie cop, the park was a squalid mess, crowded with homeless people and squatters, drug dealers and addicts, and youth gang activity.

  It was subsequently cleaned up, and now boasted a state-of-the-art children’s playground and the most spacious dog run in the city.

  He crossed the park to where St. Marks Place becomes 8th Street again.

  A few blocks further east, the neighborhood transformed into a rundown, seedy slum. Jericho started watching the address numbers on the buildings till he came to 635.

  It was a narrow, four-story Old Law tenement built of tan brick, now faded and grimy, with brownstone lintels over the windows, shaped like eyebrows.

  Next door, on an equally narrow lot, Jericho could see what was once a community garden, now overgrown with weeds and imperishable ailanthus trees. Its chain link fence was broken — probably homeless people crashed there, or it was used for drug deals. Or both.

  Before entering the building, Jericho reflexively patted the front of his jacket, feeling his Beretta in its shoulder holster.

  Hey, ya never know.

  CHAPTER 15.

  Jericho got to the fourth floor, breathing heavily. He saw Rosie's front door was wide open – not a good sign. He drew his gun, gripped it with two hands, and eased into the apartment.

  In the center of the living room was Rosie, his body duct-taped to a chair. His head, tilted slightly back, showed a gaping bullet wound in his forehead. Beneath the duct tape over Rosie’s mouth, Jericho could see his jaw gaped open, in an agonized, silent scream.

  But it was the state of Rosie’s body that really got to Jericho. The victim was shirtless, his torso pierced by small holes — too many to count. Blood had streamed down from each piercing, soaking his crotch and dripping onto his calf-length cargo shorts.

  Even as Jericho recoiled in horror, he recognized this was a murder scene he’d seen before, when he was investigating gang-related homicides in El Barrio.

  It was an execution-style killing typical of the Mexican gang — La Eme.

  Jericho knew its history: Founded in California prisons in the ‘70s, the gang had become one of the Mexican drug cartel’s main distributors in American cities. The boss of the New York operation was the notorious Edgardo Dionisio Zambada, aka El Picador. He’d been the gang’s enforcer before he was promoted to top dog, due to the unfortunate “disappearance” of his predecessor. But unlike most gang overlords, El Picador opted to keep doing the wetwork himself. He was well known for the sadistic delight he took in torturing his victims before executing them. His chosen technique he called cosquillas del hueso or “bone tickling.” It involved scraping the bone with an ice pick sunk through the flesh.

  As was common in gang executions, the killing ritual was purposely recognizable, sending a message to enemies, turncoats, and snitches that such behavior would not be tolerated. Victims were often displayed where they could easily be found. And it was common for the gang to call the police and sometimes even the press to tell them where to find the bodies.

  Jericho looked around the apartment — a dingy railroad flat. It was a mess. The living room was strewn with empty beer cans and wine bottles. An open cardboard box with some unrecognizable food lay on a coffee table. Next to it were various items of drug paraphernalia — a cocaine freebase kit, syringes, roach clips, empty glassine envelopes.

  The kitchen had a pile of plates and utensils in the sink. The garbage pail was full to overflowing.

  In the rear was the bedroom. A bedside lamp dimly illuminated the room. The bed was unmade and a black sleep-mask on the pillow looked like a pair of eyes wearing dark sunglasses.

  As he was checking out the apartment, Jericho looked for Rosie’s cell phone, but he didn’t find it.

  On a nightstand next to the bed, he saw a Dell 11” laptop, already booted up. Using the touchpad he went to Rosie’s History, which showed a long list of Internet gaming sites, porn sites, and newspaper sports pages.

  Then he brought up Rosie’s AOL e-mail and in the search box he entered Mouse’s e-mail address — MouseHouse@gmail.com. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

  One e-mail did come up. The subject line read: Urban Architecture Magazine. Puzzled, Jericho looked at the body of the e-mail. It simply said: See attachment.

  He was about to click on the attachment icon when he heard the wail of a fast-approaching police car siren. Man, I gotta get outta here. Now!

  Outside the rear window, he could see a fire escape. My prints are all over this computer. Best to just grab it and go. The screen icon told him the laptop was fully charged, so he yanked it out of the power cord and headed for the back window.

  It was awkward with one hand, but he raised the window and climbed out on the fire escape. For a moment he worried about leaving prints on it, but decided the rusty metal would yield only fragmentary, worthless latents.

  He descended as rapidly as he could, holding the laptop in his left hand. An additional problem was — some of the iron treads were bent or broken away and the handrails were so roughened with rust they were too dangerous to grip.

  Each step he took reverberated with a metallic clank.

  When he reached the second floor, he had to stop and search for the release lever that lowered the ladder to the pavement. He finally found it, but when he yanked it, it wouldn’t budge.

  The ladder hung down to around ten feet above the pavement. Jericho knew he’d need both hands. He unbuttoned his shirt, stuffed the laptop against his belly, then buttoned it up again and tightened his belt. He descended the ladder, grabbed the bottom rung, and lowered himself till he was hanging by his arms. He looked down and saw there was a four-foot drop between him and the ground.

  The sound of the police car siren told him the cops were almost there. He took a deep breath, released his hands, and dropped to the pavement. He landed with bent knees, lost his balance momentarily, then straightened up. I fuckin’ made it!

  He was in a narrow back alley. He walked swiftly to the community garden next door and made his way through the tangled jungle of weeds and trees. The smell of human feces nauseated him as he approached the busted chain-link fence.

  He kept out of sight as
the squad car pulled up. He watched the two 11th Precinct cops get out and draw their guns. They ran into the building.

  When he knew they’d be climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, he stuck his head out from the garden and checked the street both ways. Nobody was around.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and took out the laptop.

  Then he stepped out and walked west on 8th Street, heading back to the hotel.

  CHAPTER 16.

  When he got to his room, Jericho opened Rosie’s laptop and found the e-mail message Rosie had sent to Mouse. He clicked on the attachment. What he saw was astonishing:

  THE ABANDONED 76TH STREET SUBWAY STATION

  URBAN MYTH OR HIDDEN REALITY?

  Archives of Urban Architecture Magazine

  Subway buffs have argued for years about the existence of the 76th Street subway station. Reputed to be in Ozone Park, Queens, its exact location is said to be underneath the junctions of 76th street and several cross-streets — either Pitkin Ave., Glenmore Ave., Liberty Ave., or 101st Avenue.

  Old city documents reveal a proposed A line subway extension to 229th Street in Cambria Heights. No evidence exists that this line was ever built, but this station could have been somewhere along that proposed route.

  This picture purports to show the middle of the station, photographed from the west. Its authenticity has never been confirmed.

  Jericho scrutinized the picture of the station and re-read the text under it. When he read the words Ozone Park, it hit him; That was what the BBS truck driver was saying — Ah-zon Par-que. They would have “problemas” if they didn’t get back to Ozone Park.

  So those Spanish speaking guys were Mexican. And since Rosie was killed by El Picador, that means I’m dealing with “La Eme,” the Mexican Mafia.

  The Urban Architecture article says the existence of this abandoned subway station is questionable. But it must exist. Why else would Rosie have sent this material to Mouse? It must be the site of some illegal activity — most likely a storehouse for narcotics.

  Were the Mexicans delivering narcotics to the Happy Day salon in the Bella Beauty Supply truck? Is the manicure salon a drug distribution site for the Barrio? That now seems likely, but I still can’t be sure.

  Rosie must’ve been worried that his reputation as a snitch was catching up with him. That’s why he was laying low in his apartment. He’d sold Mouse some information about what was going on in the manicure salon. But the Mexicans didn’t know that, or they’d have killed Rosie long ago.

  But they killed him today, which means they didn’t connect Rosie to Mouse, they connected him to me.

  Of course! I was asking for Rosie yesterday at the Happy Day Nail Spa. And that manicure salon boss probably called the Mexicans and told them some guy was nosing around, looking for Rosie.

  El Picador — knowing Rosie’s rep as an informant — figured Rosie had some dealings with me. Whatever those dealings were, it made Rosie a threat, so he had to be whacked.

  Jesus! I could be next!

  But they don’t know my name, or that I’m a cop, or where I’m staying.

  Or do they?

  This investigation had taken a dangerous new turn for Jericho. From now on, he’d have to be on his guard at all times.

  He took out his gun. He went through the complete Beretta M9 clearing procedure — releasing the 15 round magazine, removing the bullets, inserting the empty magazine, checking the trigger action, then finally reassembling the pistol.

  This wasn’t really necessary, but it was somehow reassuring and released some of his tension.

  How did Rosie know about the abandoned 76th Street subway station? As a CI, Rosie had his contacts and his ways of getting inside information. And as the saying goes — “dead men tell no tales.”

  Jericho’s phone rang and it was Keisha. She said she’d received her husband’s ashes, and tomorrow she was planning the little ceremony they’d talked about. She’d discussed it with her sons and they decided to bury Mouse’s ashes in their small backyard garden.

  “What time?” Jericho asked.

  “Around 7:30,” she said. “The sun’ll be going down then. Should be lovely.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Will you be driving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, could you do me a favor?” she said. “There’s a garden center on Woodhaven Boulevard and Jamaica Avenue.”

  “Yes. I know the place.”

  “Could you pick up a little tree, a pine? We’d like to plant it over Michael’s ashes. Then maybe someday it’ll grow into a Christmas tree.”

  “What a beautiful idea.”

  “Thanks, Jericho. See you tomorrow.”

  After he hung up, the grief and loss swept over him again. Taking action was the only way he could cope with it.

  He went back to his computer, clicked on Google Maps, and entered Ozone Park, Queens. He knew the area, a mixed commercial and working class neighborhood just a few miles away from Mouse’s home.

  The map showed 76th Street intersecting with the streets that could’ve comprised the route of the putative A line subway. Jericho forwarded the map to his phone, and sent himself an iMessage noting the sites of the four possible abandoned subway stations — Pitkin Avenue, Glenmore Avenue, Liberty Avenue, and 101st Avenue.

  Then he also sent the Urban Architecture photograph of the subway station to his phone.

  I’ll drive out to Ozone Park tomorrow afternoon and check out those intersections. Maybe I’ll find some indication of a hidden underground subway station. What kind of indication? Who the hell knows?

  But if I can get down there, maybe I’ll find the answer to how and why Mouse died.

  And also — maybe I can finish the work he started.

  CHAPTER 17.

  The late afternoon traffic was snarled, clogging the narrow entrance ramp that led onto the 59th Street Bridge. Jericho sat in his car, steaming, and tried to remember the mantra Rainbow taught him to chant when he was stressed. It was “Om something or other.” After giving up, he decided to make up his own mantra. He chose “fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!”

  When he finally crossed the East River into Queens, he decided to avoid the traffic-jammed LIE and Grand Central Parkway, choosing Queens Boulevard instead. It had stoplights, but at least the traffic kept moving.

  After about half an hour, Jericho took the Woodhaven Boulevard exit and followed Woodhaven south, passing the very garden center where he’d later buy a little pine tree for Mouse’s family funeral. When he reached Pitkin Avenue, he turned right and drove till he reached 76th Street.

  This was the first intersection where, below ground, the abandoned subway station could possibly exist. Jericho parked and methodically walked around all four corners.

  This was a task well known to every detective — searching for a clue without the slightest idea of what exactly that clue would be.

  Unsurprisingly, Jericho found nothing.

  He got back in his car and drove to the next intersection, 76th Street and Glenmore Avenue.

  The neighborhood he drove through was mostly residential, with groupings of two-story cookie cutter homes, each the same except for different color trims, details, and awnings. Scattered randomly along the streets were commercial buildings, housing neighborhood businesses — a dentist’s office, a bodega, a pizza place.

  Glenmore Avenue revealed the same thing as Pitkin — nothing.

  At Liberty Avenue there was some road repair going on. The workmen were gone now. A trench had been cut into the asphalt black-top, which was now filled with pebbles and sand, awaiting resurfacing the next day.

  When no pedestrians were around, Jericho took the tire iron out of his trunk and poked it into the trench. The three-foot tire iron sunk in about two feet and then hit something solid, probably a pipe or bedrock. Without X-ray vision, there was no way he could know if there was a subway station under the pavement.

  This is an exercise in futility.

  He
got back in his car and drove to the last intersection — 101st Avenue. On the near corner to his left, Jericho saw a nondescript one-story red brick building.

  In a small parking lot abutting the building were six small trucks. Jericho slowed down and what he saw made him hit the brakes hard.

  He pulled over to get a closer look. All the vehicles were the same — white panel trucks, each one with a logo on its side — BBS Bella Beauty Supplies.

  They were identical to the panel truck he saw being unloaded at the Happy Day Nail Spa.

  Excitedly, he drove forward, turned left onto 101st Avenue and parked across the street from the BBS building. He looked at it carefully.

  This place is too small to be a warehouse for beauty supplies. It has no signage on the front that says BBS. It could be an office, but then what are the panel trucks doing there?

  Obviously this is the place in Ozone Park the truck driver was referring to.

  Then it hit him. Here is where the abandoned subway station must be located — down below this building!

  He got out of his car and surveyed the area. 101st Avenue was a one-way westbound street. On the corner opposite the BBS building was a church and rectory. Next to the BBS building was an alley, and then a grouping of local businesses — a flower shop, a law office, a hardware store, and a shoe repair shop.

  He crossed the street and began walking west

  After nearly a block, he noticed a manhole cover set into the asphalt pavement. It wasn’t in the center of the street; it was close to the parked cars on his side. He stepped between the cars and looked down at the manhole cover.

  The round cast iron plate was mottled and obscured with dirt, its embossed patterns worn down by time and traffic.

  The embossment was in a wagon-wheel pattern. Circling the outer rim, he could make out the words E. Atwater Foundry Orchard St. NYC. At the center, where the wheel spokes came together, he could see some indistinct letters. Remembering he’d stashed Cristóbal’s switchblade in his back jeans pocket, he pulled out the knife and knelt down. Using the dull edge of the blade, he scraped away at the grime.