“The Manor,” as it was commonly known to residents, was named for Captain Robert Richard Randall, a wealthy seafarer who died in 1801. With its trees, ponds and parks it was an oasis of green on the North Shore of Staten Island. Banaszak turned down Kissel Avenue to the entrance for the 83-acre Snug Harbor Cultural Center. The stone-arched guardhouse was untended and he drove through, heading past a small pond where parents were watching their children feed ducks. He knew this section of the Harbor well and despite his tension the memories flooded back as he pulled up to the Music Hall, which looked much as he remembered it.
“Sailors Snug Harbor” had been established as a retirement retreat for “aged, decrepit and worn-out seamen” established in the community by the last will and testament of Captain Randall in 1831. Over the years the complex grew and by the 1960’s contained dormitories, a music hall, a chapel and other buildings noted for their Greek-Revival and Anglo-Italian architecture.
But when Staten Island’s real estate began to boom, the city fathers broke Captain Randall’s will, piously claiming that its “white only” codicil was unconstitutional, and quickly formulated plans for a series of high-rise apartment buildings on the property. The last of the retired sailors were relocated to what one of the octogenarians called a “malarial swamp” in North Carolina. But the intercession of preservationists – including Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – prevented the land from being sold to developers and Sailors Snug Harbor became a cultural center, with art galleries, botanical gardens and museums.
Banaszak had heard the story first-hand, with appropriate obscenity-laced embellishments, from the last of the residents. In high school, he and his friends snuck into the Music Hall on Thursday nights to watch movies with the old seafarers, some of whom weren’t averse to sharing a flask with the boys. He was still a fan of Miss Marple.
Banaszak continued his tour and was startled by the property’s transformation. He headed down a road that he knew led back to Henderson Avenue, passing a Botanical Garden with a huge greenhouse, a Chinese Scholar’s Garden and finally a Secret Garden, complete with a maze of tall hedges. None of them had existed in his youth. After that, the road, now flanked with huge trees, narrowed to barely one lane. He reached the 12-foot-high double wrought-iron Henderson Avenue gates. They were securely fastened with rusty but sturdy chains. Banaszak cursed his carelessness in assuming the gates were still open after all the years that had passed. He was boxed in. If Gallo called he would lose precious minutes finding his way out.
He was barely able to turn the van around on the narrow road and had a bad moment when the rear wheels became stuck in a rut. But he finally made it and drove out the front entrance of the Harbor. He checked his watch. It had been 45 minutes since he dropped Gallo off. Had something gone wrong? He headed back to the house. The pain in his stomach seemed worse. Maybe it’s an ulcer, he thought. I’m getting too old for this. He was two blocks away when he got Gallo’s call on his throwaway cell. When he reached the house, the front door opened and Gallo walked quickly to the van. His cap was askew and his shirt rumpled. He threw the tool box in the back.
“Make fuckin’ tracks!”
“What happened to your face?”
“Nothing, man,” Gallo said, but his hand automatically went to the long bloody scratch on his left cheek. “She was a fighter. Now get me to the airport. I’m gonna change.” He clambered into the back, giving off a slight but unpleasant odor as he brushed against Banaszak, who grunted in pain. “Sorry.”
The only other people visible on the block were an old woman walking briskly up the street carrying a large canvas bag and a mailman coming from the opposite direction on the other side. They waived to each other. Neither gave the van a second glance as it pulled away.
“If she scratched you, she’lll have shit under her nails. They’ll DNA you.”
“Man, I gave ‘em plenty.” Gallo laughed harshly. “And it ain’t under no fingernails.”
“What the hell did you do, Lucas? It was supposed to be a burglary gone wrong.”
“What’s the fucking difference? They’ll chalk it up as a burglary that really went south. I told you that was some fine quiff. Give me a break with the conscience shit. I’m tired of hearin’ it. What did you think I was doin’ in there man, fixin’ their mother-fuckin’ cable?” Gallo saw that his partner was steaming, so he adopted a reasonable tone. “C’mon, I ain’t in the system.” He scrunched into the passenger seat. “Besides there’s always DNA. Occupational hazard. That CSI shit on TV is bogus. They ain’t that good.”
CHAPTER 3 – CHECKMATE
Neither man knew how close they had come to catastrophe. The old woman with the canvas bag was a cleaning lady. Sophia Radice worked in the girl’s house every other week for four hours, 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. That’s all the place needed. It was remarkably well kept. Sophia, who was in great demand in the neighborhood, loved this job best. Both father and daughter were very neat. The girl was so sweet, and did most of the vacuuming and laundry. Her mother had done a good job with her. What a shame, that nice lady dying. A girl needs her mother.
Sophia walked up the driveway. She picked up a small branch and threw it at a three-legged raccoon sitting boldly on a garbage can. The raccoon was a neighborhood institution, forced by its injury to scavenge during the day. The crippled little bandit ignored her, as usual. Using one of the keys the family had given her, Sophia opened the side door.
She knew something was wrong almost immediately. A television, stereo and computer were piled in the vestibule off the kitchen. She looked into the dining room; a pillowcase sat upright on the table. The drawers in the credenza were open. She looked in the pillowcase; it was loaded with silverware. Her chest constricted. Breathing was hard. She wanted to run out of the house. But the girl was always home by now.
“Betta!” The girl’s name was Elizabeth, but the old lady could barely speak English. There was no answer. She yelled louder, “Betta!” She was not leaving until she knew the girl was all right. She walked back toward the kitchen, shaking. Stairs to the basement were to her right. The door was open. As she passed it she noticed something on the landing. It was a shoe. She recognized it. She picked it up and looked down the stairs. The lights were on, and she could see another shoe at the bottom. She called the girl’s name again. Hand trembling on the wooden railing, she headed down the stairs.
***
Freddie Keller was used to raccoons – and dogs, cats and possums, not to mention ducks, geese and even the occasional reticulated python that escaped from the zoo near his route. He loved his job. After walking all over Afghanistan, the physical aspects of mail delivery were a breeze. And he liked the people he worked with. None of them looked even remotely capable of going “postal.” At 22, with a job serving the neighborhood where he grew up, Mom’s cooking and three taverns where everybody knew his name, Freddie – as he told anyone who would listen – knew he had it made in the shade.
Elizabeth’s house was his favorite stop. He always put the mail inside the side door, on the off chance that she would hear him and come out to chat. Truth be told, on most days he slowed his route to make sure she’d be home from school. He made up the time later and was always done early anyway.
A group of girls at St. Peter’s sent cards and packages to Staten Island boys in war zones. Something about Elizabeth’s letters touched him, and they became ‘pen pals.’ It was pure luck she was now on his route. The first time she opened the door, he was stunned by her beauty. Despite their age differences, they had a lot to talk about. He was going nights to the Staten Island campus of St. John’s University and, like her, was interested in journalism. He never got out of line, but he intended on keeping in touch when she went away to college. You never knew.
Funny, the side door was wide open. Keller tentatively opened the screen.
“Hey, Lizzie, you there?” She hated that name, but tolerated it from him. No answer. “Sophia, that you downstairs? Where’s Elizabeth?”
/>
Nothing, not even combat, had prepared the young mailman for Sophia Radice’s shrieks. They were even too much for the raccoon, which clambered off his garbage pail and scampered up the nearest tree as if he had all his limbs.
***
There was a backup on the Goethals Bridge to New Jersey, an infrastructure anachronism with two narrow lanes in each direction that barely let cars pass each other, let alone thousands of trucks streaming across the borough.
“Man. I can’t believe they want to build a NASCAR track our here,” Gallo said. “Are they fucking nuts? Look at this traffic. But I guess it means a shitload of money to Lacuna.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The stock car track, man. That’s the reason we just aced the kid. Her old man might have screwed up the deal. Jesus, you had me read the local rag every day and you didn’t pick that up?”
“Lacuna told you that?”
Banaszak was incensed. He was the senior man. If Lacuna was going to confide in anyone it should have been him.
“Nah. But I heard some of his boys talking about how much money they were going to make when the track was finally built. I told you these wops can’t keep their mouths shut. It’s why most of them are in jail. It’s just so damn obvious. Like chess. You’ve got to kill the queen to topple the king. Or, in this case the princess, I guess. Great game. You should play more.”
Fucking chess, again, Banaszak fumed. But he admitted to himself that the NASCAR connection made sense. The thought unsettled him. Reasons were dangerous. Knowledge was dangerous. All one needs to know is the target.
“Maybe they’re checking the bridges,” Gallo said nervously as they slowed to a crawl.
“You mean roadblocks? You’ve been watching too much cable. It’s like this all the time.”
“I’m gonna miss my plane.”
“Don’t worry,” Banaszak said easily. “It will open up on the other side.”
It did, and a few minutes later they passed Exit 14 on the New Jersey Turnpike.
“Hey, wasn’t that the exit for the airport?”
“Shit! The pain is killing me. I can’t think straight. What time is your flight again?”
“I got about an hour and 15, man. But the security lines at Newark are a bitch.”
“No sweat. I’ll get off at the next exit and take a back road I know.”
The next westbound exit was six miles up the turnpike, and Gallo kept looking at his watch and complained the entire way. After exiting, Banaszak found a local road. Soon a heavily industrialized area gave way to a vast stretch of vacant land crisscrossed by small toxic-looking dull grey streams and yellowish marshes. An occasional smokestack could be seen in the distance and passenger jets roared overhead with lowered landing gear.
“Well, we’re headed in the right direction,” Gallo groused. “Just follow those planes.”
“Maybe they’re going to JFK,” Banaszak said.
“Don’t even fuck around.”
Suddenly Banaszak pulled over along a deserted stretch flanked by high weeds and rushes. An abandoned car was just barely visible in the bushes. He grabbed his stomach and moaned.
“I think I’m gonna puke. Can you drive?”
“Oh, shit. Sure, anything to get there. And you better get checked out. This could have happened an hour ago and we’d be fucked.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Listen, grab my cigs in my jacket in the back. I’m just gonna slide over.”
Gallo climbed into the back and started going through pockets.
“Where the hell are they? They’re probably what’s fuckin’ you up. OK. Got ‘em.”
He turned. Banaszak was holding an automatic pistol.
“What the ….?
Banaszak pulled the trigger. The explosion in the confined space of the van reverberated off the corrugated siding.
“Shit,” Banaszak said, his ears ringing. But he wasn’t worried about anyone else hearing the blast. Most of it would be contained inside the van, and muffled shots among the reeds were not rare in this part of New Jersey.
Gallo, for his part, never heard a thing. The bullet, traveling faster than sound, entered his forehead. There was no Hollywood splatter. The dum-dum mushroomed to a stop mid-brain and effectively turned Gallo’s skull into a blender. With a brain suddenly the consistency of a smoothie, his eyes crossed comically and his mouth popped open and stayed that way. He squatted onto his haunches and farted, long, loud and posthumously, then toppled backwards.
“Great,” Banaszak muttered, opening a window as the interior of the van turned a noxious mix of cordite and intestinal methane. He immediately regretted having talked his ex-partner into kielbasa and sauerkraut dinner the night before. “She was a nice kid, you stupid prick. Not worried about DNA, were you? This ain’t Memphis.”
Banaszak pried the cigarette pack from Gallo’s fingers and lit up. He took a deep drag and exhaled in a long, satisfying cloud over the corpse, waving his hand to spread the smoke and cut the odor. After a few more puffs, he leaned over and casually dropped the cigarette into Glover’s gaping mouth. It hissed and a small stream of smoke eked out.
“Checkmate,” he said aloud. “Now let me show you how we deal with DNA in New York.”
Climbing back into his seat, he pulled out his own cell phone and hit a speed dial. After a brief conversation, he headed north, spending another uncomfortable hour in traffic listening to Gallo’s body settling and gurgling obscenely before crossing the George Washington Bridge. Twenty minutes later he pulled into a combination junk yard and chop shop in the Bronx. A trio of snarling dogs, a Doberman and two shepherds, hurled themselves maniacally at a fence as he walked toward a construction trailer. A man came out of the trailer and they shook hands.
“Nice dogs,” Banaszak said. “Can I pet one?”
The man laughed, and said, “Michael Vick rejects.” He pointed at the van. “The full treatment?”
“Yeah. The compactor and acetylene torches.”
“Too bad. The boys were proud of their artwork.”
“Tell them it will be messy. It may squirt. They shouldn’t wear their Sunday best.”
“What about the tires. They look pretty good.”
Banaszak thought about it. He knew what the man was getting at. Probably could make a couple of bills selling the tires.
“Van was heisted anyway,” the man said encouragingly.
“The tires are yours,” Banaszak said. “How about a ride back to the city?”
“No problem. Take you myself. You can wait in the shack while I get this started. Coffee is fresh.”
In an hour, the van, gun, toolbox, uniforms and 225 pounds of stiffening DNA were compressed into a two-ton cube, then cut into shards dripping a gruel of gasoline, oil and blood that would be shipped to various landfills outside the state.
Lucas Gallo would be spread over a dozen zip codes.
CHAPTER 4 – BULLETPROOF
Everett Harvey put his coffee in the cup holder. It was mid-afternoon and his was the only car parked in the Dunkin’ Donuts lot in a strip center on Bay Street. He pulled down the visor and opened the mirror. There were white crumbs in his moustache. Harvey took a napkin and brushed them off. He looked down and swiped his tie and pants legs. He ignored his jacket, which could camouflage anything. Harvey looked around the front seat and did a hasty cleanup. But he knew he would miss some. Nancy would notice and pitch a fit. But nobody can go into a Dunkin’ for just coffee, for Christ sake!
Harvey was a triple dipper. Having done 20 and out in the N.Y.P.D., he was nearing the end of a concurrent 25-year stint in the Army Reserve, with a cushy staff sergeant billet right on Staten Island in Fort Wadsworth. An overachiever – working on a Masters in Education at the College of Staten Island – Harvey was cognizant of the blessings of multiple pensions and thus also covered the police beat for the Richmond Register.
The transition from cop to reporter was jarring at first – he had been programmed to hate th
e media – but now loved the job. He reported to an editor, Bob Pearsall, who had balls, and his own background cut him plenty of slack with the local cops. They assumed, rightly, that Harvey wasn’t out to screw them. As a result, he crossed more crime scene tapes than any other reporter. A penchant for colorful checkered sports coats made him easy to spot; most cops now knew him by sight. He was patient with the rookies who gave him a hard time, politely asking them to check with a superior. If that didn’t work, he put his 240 pounds in their face and told them he was arresting kids their age when they spilled out of their fathers’ condoms.
Harvey was already vested in the paper’s pension plan and planned to call it quits soon. He felt bad about leaving Pearsall in the lurch – the man knew a good crime story – but with three pensions (the triple dip) and a teacher wife nearing retirement (another dip at the entitlement trough), not to mention Social Security (a quintuple dip?) warmer climes beckoned. In fact, he was reading a brochure about the new Gary Player golf community in the Smoky Mountains when his police scanner crackled. Then three squad cars, sirens blazing, shot past.
Five minutes later, Harvey pulled up to an obvious crime scene, bracketed with police cars, ambulances and anxious neighbors. He felt sick. It had nothing to do with the sinkers he’d downed. He knew the house.
A grim-faced cop lifted the yellow tape for him.
“It sucks, Ev. Big time. I’m sorry.”
Harvey heard his name being called. He looked up to the front door, where District Attorney Daniel O’Connor was waving him up. Harvey bent under the tape and headed up the walk with a growing sense of foreboding. What was the D.A. doing here? O’Connor was pale as a ghost. This was bad.
***
Robert Pearsall was tired. The Richmond Register was a “p.m.” paper. It hit the newsstands just before noon and was on stoops or in doorways all across the borough by the time most people got home from work in “the city,” as Staten Islanders universally referred to Manhattan. That meant his day usually started before dawn.
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