A little further on, I turned right before the gates of Timber Point Country Club and parked across from the expanded L-shaped ranch that I’d visited once, eleven years earlier. The Martello house looked much the same now as it had then, but things had changed. Currently, the house belonged to Raymond Martello Jr., a Suffolk County Police sergeant. The house had once belonged to his dad. The father had been a cop too, NYPD, the captain in command of the 60th Precinct: my old house in Coney Island. I was ten years off the job by the time he was posted to the Six-O. Ray Sr. and me might not have known each other as cops, but we made up for lost time and got real well acquainted back in the late ’80s.
I strolled across the street to talk to the tanned, shirtless man kneeling to adjust an in-ground sprinkler head on his front lawn.
“You Ray Jr.?” I asked.
“Why? Who wants to know?”
“No fair. You asked two questions. I only asked one.”
He stopped what he was doing, gazed up at me, and got to his feet. Whereas Ray Martello Sr. had been a small, compact man, this guy was eye to eye with me. He was square-shouldered and ripped. He did the cop thing of getting in close to me-his nose nearly touching mine-and staring through me. He was checking me out and trying to intimidate me all at once. A sly, arrogant smile worked its way onto his face. I figured him for Martello’s kid. Had to be. Had the father’s looks and the same impudent style. I was feeling guilty about trying to get a rise out of him until I saw that fucking smile.
I noticed some rather intricate and unusually colored tattoos on his forearms, biceps, and delts. There were a series of Chinese characters on his left forearm done in bright red, not the usual dull blue. Both biceps were encircled by bands of blue-green barbed wire highlighted with that same bright red, but the tat that caught my attention was on his right delt. It was the head of a Peregrine falcon done in vibrant shades of black, dark and light brown, off-white, and hints of blue. The yellow around the beak and eyes was so real, I could almost imagine pricking my finger on the tip of its hooked bill. I shifted position slightly and observed that the falcon’s body and talons continued down his back. Here the work was even more skillfully executed, as the dappling on the bird’s belly, the texture of its feathers and the blending of shades was like nothing I’d ever seen. Well… that wasn’t true. I had recently seen something very much like it.
“Cop?” he asked, confident of my answer.
“Used to be. In the city. Nice ink work. Where’d you get it done?”
“Thanks.” He pointed to his forearm, then his bicep. “These here I got in A.C.”
“How about the bird? You get that done in Atlantic City too?”
“What are you, some kinda queer or something?”
“Or something,” I said. “I knew your dad a little.”
That wiped the arrogant smirk off his face and put a dent in his smart guy attitude. A city cop my age would know about what a corrupt piece of shit his father had been. In 1972, Raymond Sr., along with Larry McDonald and another thuggish cop I knew named Kenny Burton, had tortured and murdered drug kingpin Dexter “D Rex” Mayweather. Mayweather was king of the Soul Patch, the African-American section of Coney Island. But his execution wasn’t some noble act of misguided vigilantism done to rid the Coney Island streets of drugs. Rather it was done at the behest of Anello Family capo Frankie Motta in order to cover up an ill-conceived partnership between his crew and D Rex.
“Yeah, so you knew my pops, so what?”
“I was in Frankie Motta’s house the night he got shot.”
Martello Jr. blanched, then burned hot. His face did somersaults. It was as if a colony of beetles were under his skin, pulling his face this way and that. He knew who I was without asking.
“You got some set of balls showing up here, Prager.”
“You think?”
“I do. In fact, I think if you don’t get off my property pretty soon, I’m gonna have to shoot you for trespassing.”
“Your father tried to shoot me once and look where that got him.”
May weather’s murder remained unsolved until, seventeen years later, a low level dealer named Malik Jabbar was arrested by a very young and very ambitious detective named Carmella Melendez. During his interrogation, Jabbar claimed to know who had killed D Rex. That was all it took for things to unravel. Within weeks, Larry McDonald committed suicide, Malik Jabbar and his girlfriend were executed, and Carmella’s partner and another 60th Precinct cop, a Detective Bento, were gunned down in a Brooklyn bar.
When I figured it out, I went to confront the terminally ill Frankie Motta. While I was there, Ray Martello and Kenny Burton showed up intending to do to Motta and me what they had done to D Rex. Things didn’t work out quite the way they hoped. When the gunsmoke cleared, there were two men dead, one wounded, and one, me, still upright. Martello survived his wounds, but his heart crapped out on him on the operating table. He remained in a coma for a long time before they pulled the plug on him. The family might have better dealt with the tragedy and disgrace if, in the aftermath, the Brooklyn and Queens DAs hadn’t held a televised press conference during which they made Martello the heavy in their little dog and pony show.
“Yeah, but I won’t miss from this range,” he said. “You’d look good bleeding from the eyes.”
“Your dad thought the same thing.”
“Smart man, my pops.”
“That’s not the words that come to mind when I think about your dad. Corrupt assassin is more like it.”
The red of his face deepened and he coiled as if getting ready to strike. He didn’t. Instead he shook his head at me.
“You want me to smack you,” he said. “Well, fuck you, Prager. You’ll get yours soon enough and you won’t see it coming.”
“You willing to risk everything on that?” I goaded him.
“To get rid of you, it’d be worth it. Any price to make you feel what we went through would be worth paying.”
“Glad to hear you say it.” I smiled.
“You’re a sick fuck, Prager. Now I’m not going to warn you again. Hit the road, asshole.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going.”
I left. There was nothing more to be gained by my further antagonizing him. I had a good feeling about Martello. He was the best-looking suspect I’d stumbled across. Ray Jr. knew good tattoo work. One look at that falcon on his back told me as much and I wasn’t discouraged just because Martello didn’t fit the description of the older man who had arranged for the kid’s ink work. Whoever was doing this thing wasn’t doing it alone. Maybe Cyclops was a relative or an old cop friend of the family’s. Suffolk cops are the best paid in the country, so he had the means. Martello had just made it crystal clear he had the motive. And, as I was about to discover, Ray Jr. had something else that got my attention. I drove up the block a little ways to find a spot to turn around. Coming back past the Martello house, I looked down his driveway and saw that one of his garage doors was open. Parked in the garage was a new pewter Yukon.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I aged a few years on the ride into Brooklyn, but no one sang “Happy Birthday” to me when I called into the office. At least everyone was now up to speed and, for the first time since this whole affair began, we were working the case like a case should be worked. Carmella gave Brian Doyle the shit end of the stick. His job was, for the time being, to be Martello’s round the clock shadow. We’d get him some help as soon as we could. Not because we felt sorry for his ass, but because twenty-four hour surveillance is hard enough to do with a full team. It’s nearly impossible for one person to maintain. The need for food and bathroom breaks gives the mark too many opportunities to slip away. And doing surveillance in the ’burbs is more difficult than in the city. Blending in isn’t easy. Neighbors notice strange cars and unfamiliar faces.
Carmella said she would make calls to some friends in the Suffolk PD and the Suffolk County DA’s office to check on Martello. Devo was getting credit reports and any
other financial documents he could lay his hands on. When I walked into the office, both of them had promising news for me.
“I like him for it,” Carmella said. “A captain I know out there says Martello’s a prick.”
“Brian Doyle’s a prick too, but we hired him and he’s not haunting my wife.”
“There’s more. This captain says-”
“This captain, how do you guys know each other?”
Silence.
“The mystery captain got a name?”
“Kirsten Rafferty. Why, you want her number?”
“I don’t date women who outrank me.”
“I’m not even going there,” she said. “So you wanna hear this or what?”
“Go ahead.”
“Seems Martello got divorced ten years back and the ex started dating a guy assigned to Highway Patrol named Cruz.”
“Yeah, so…”
“A year later, Cruz was off the job and the ex was out of state.”
“There’s a punch line here, right?” I asked.
“The story goes that Ray Martello was like out of his mind over his ex dating another cop… Men and their macho bullshit. Any ways, he didn’t confront either Cruz or the ex-wife. Instead, he hooks up with Cruz’s barely legal little sister. Martello asks the sister to keep their romance quiet because he doesn’t want to cause trouble with her big brother and she’s only too happy to oblige. Problem is, she’s also happy to oblige when Martello suggests they start videotaping themselves… You know what I’m saying? Do I have to draw fucking pictures for you, Moe?”
“So Martello lets Cruz know not only that he’s been boning his sister, but that he’s got the tapes to prove it. Cruz goes ballistic and assaults Martello, in front of several witnesses, no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
“Cruz gets kicked to the curb, the wife figures she needs to get far away from her crazy ex if she’s ever going to date again, and Martello has his revenge.”
“Gets better,” Carmella said. “Because the story of why Cruz assaulted Martello gets leaked, the brass don’t really want to bring criminal or disciplinary charges against Cruz. Cop vs. cop shit doesn’t look good in the press, especially with what those guys get paid. Problem is, they need Martello’s cooperation to keep it quiet.”
“Nice way to make sergeant, huh? He gets everything he wanted and more, the vengeful dick.”
“Vengeful is right. You gotta be a twisted fuck to go after a man’s family like that. Sound familiar?”
“Unfortunately, it does,” I said.
“Listen to this. Martello’s movements over the past year fit the time frame we’ve established. He went out with a bad hip about eleven months ago and didn’t return to active duty till June. That gave him all the time he needed to set this thing up. Devo’s got more coincidences for you.”
“Listen, Carmella, after I talk to Devo, let’s get outta here for an hour, okay?”
“Sure. I could use a break.”
I rapped my knuckles on Devo’s door and walked in without waiting.
“What’s that?” Devo asked, pointing at my left hand.
“Huh? Oh, this. Another videotape.”
“I can see that, Moe.”
“Right. It’s from the gas station. It’s got the kid and the guy who was driving him around on it, but you can’t make much out. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to let you have a try at it. Now I guess it’s sort of beside the point.”
“Maybe.”
“Carmella tells me you-”
“Yes. Here, look at these.” He slid some papers across the desk to me. “As you can see, Sergeant Martello was twice in cities-Los Angeles and Las Vegas-during the same time as the auditions were held in those cities. If we count New York, that is three cities. Of course, he may have been in many more of the cities, but Los Angeles and Las Vegas are the only two for which I have been so far able to obtain proof.”
“Good work, Devo.” I patted his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Moe…”
“Yeah.”
“It had nearly slipped my mind, but I did some analysis of the tapes you left with me previously. There is nothing much to be done, I am afraid, with the first security videotape. As you saw for yourself, it was terribly degraded and recorded over many many times. However, the phone machine tape did reveal something of interest. While I cannot say whether the voice is authentic or not, I can say it displays no obvious splices or edits, no abrupt clicks on or off. On the other hand, there is some very faint background noise.”
“You mean like scratches and pops from a vinyl record, that kinda thing?”
“Nothing so obvious as that, no. I believe what I hear is the rumble of a cassette motor.”
“Are you sure it isn’t from the phone machine?”
Devo smiled at me like a proud father with his Little Leaguer. “A very astute question. I cannot be certain, but if that is in fact Patrick’s voice, I would venture to say it was dubbed off a cassette tape and then filtered to suppress the other noise you would expect to find on an old tape. Find the person in possession of the original tape and you will be very close to having your answer.”
The Sidebar Grille was near empty when Carmella and I walked in. During ten months of the year, the bar would be four deep with ADAs, defense lawyers, judges, cops, court officers, and even the occasional investigator, but July and August were quieter times around the courts as judges and lawyers heeded the call of the Hamptons. Only cops and skells don’t do summer hours. The Sidebar Grille was famous for its food and convivial atmosphere. More plea bargains and monetary settlements had been sealed in here with steaks and handshakes than in any number of courthouses.
Maybe it was the emptiness of the place or the humidity. Whatever the cause, it didn’t seem that the Sidebar’s renowned aura was having much of an effect on Carmella. While she may not have been exhibiting any obvious physical signs of the pregnancy, my partner was showing nonetheless. She sat across from me, squirming in her chair, unable to look me in the eye. Carmella was uncomfortable in her own skin and that just wasn’t her. She was learning the hard lesson, that children change your life whether you carry them to term or not. Soon she would learn that it was a change from which there is no retreat.
Marco the maitre d’ was about a hundred years old, but never forgot a face or a name or how to put one to the other. He took Carmella’s hand in his, placing his other hand atop hers.
“ La bella Carmella, what may I get for you this evening?”
“A Virgin Mary.”
Marco screwed up his face like he’d been stabbed in the heart.
“She’s been under the weather,” I said, hoping to head off Marco’s interrogation.
“So sorry, bella. You get better, soon, you understand?”
“And for you, Moses… Dewar’s rocks?”
“How’d you guess?”
Marco winked, disappeared.
“You’re still not drinking,” I said. “Good.”
“Good! Why good?”
“Because you’re thinking of keeping the baby.”
“I’m also thinking of not keeping it.” She placed her right hand on her lower abdomen. She tilted her head down. “You hear me, you inconvenient little brat?”
“They’re all inconvenient, Carmella. Every single one, always.”
“I guess.”
Marco brought our drinks over and chatted with me a bit, but I couldn’t help but peer at Carmella out of the corner of my eye. She was in love and, inconvenient or not, that baby was to be born. Now the trick was getting her to know it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brian Doyle got relief, all right… me.
I was certain Martello had taken notice of my car after our confrontation in front of his house the previous day. With the man’s attention to detail and lust for revenge, he no doubt already knew my car and tag numbers. He probably knew my total mileage and how much longer I had before my next oil change. To guard against being ea
sily spotted, I switched cars with Carmella Melendez. While she may have been a great detective and meticulous about her looks, the woman’s car was a disaster area. There were enough old newspapers, gas receipts, and food wrappers in there to start a toasty bonfire and enough half full coffee cups to put the fire out. Still, the car smelled of her grassy perfume and that more than compensated for the mess.
I parked across Great River Road from the turn onto Martello’s block. I nestled the car into a dark, cozy corner on the lot of a half-completed neo-Victorian just down the street from the theme park house, Night had long since settled in and the construction crews were well gone. My position afforded me a clear view of Martello’s house, but it would be impossible for him to spot me without night vision equipment. I could also see the nose of Brian Doyle’s Sentra. He was parked on Martello’s block in amongst several cars that lined both sides of the street. Apparently, one of the neighborhood kids was having a pool party. I punched up Brian’s number.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, Brian, I’m in position. You can get going.”
“You sure you don’t wanna wait till my fuckin’ bladder explodes?”
“Piss in a coffee cup, shithead. That’s like on page one of your guide to surviving surveillance.”
“Whaddayu, nuts? I got like ten people on the porch over here. I’m not gonna provide entertainment for the evening.”
“Anything happening?”
“Nah. He got home from his shift around four forty-five and he’s been in there jerkin’ off ever since.”
“Okay, go home and get some rest. I got him now.”
It didn’t take Brian long to split. He must not have been kidding about his bladder.
About three hours later, the pool party was breaking up. As the departing cars took turns passing me by, the blast and thump of hip hop fractured the silence of the suburban night before fading away in the distance. I was sort of glad for the action. My wrists were aching from holding up the binoculars. And when I checked the sun visor mirror, I noticed funky circles on my face from the binocular eyepieces. I looked like the oculist’s billboard in The Great Gatsby. T. J. Eckleburg, I think that was the guy’s name. It’s weird what you remember sometimes, but stakeouts’ll do that to you. The boredom fucks with your head.
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