Hose Monkey (20 page)

The plan was to drive back to his apartment, shower, and try to set up a meeting with Tina. Those plans changed as he tried pushing back the front door. It stuck and then moved back, but not as easily as it should have.

Mulligan was dead. Some sick fuck had slit the cat open down the middle and turned him inside out, leaving him just inside the door so there was no chance Serpe would miss him. On the wall, in the cat’s blood, were written the words: “LEAVE IT ALONE” and a phone number,
Marla’s
phone number. Nothing else in the apartment was disturbed.

He fought back his tears, dialing Marla’s number frantically. He became almost sick at the thought of not getting through to her.

“Hello,” she said.

“It’s me.”

“What’s the matter? Your voice is—”

“Get out of your apartment. Stay with family and make sure you’re not alone at night.”

“Joe, what—”

“Do it now!” he screamed at her. “Just fucking do it and don’t argue. Keep your cell on you and call me when you settle on a place.”

He slammed the phone down. Joe got a bag and wrapped Mulligan in it. He borrowed a pick and shovel from his landlord’s shed and dug a grave. After tamping down the frozen dirt over the last remnant of his old life, he knelt by the grave and let out years of uncried tears. Just as Cain’s death had let him live again, it had taken the slaughter of an old tomcat to make him realize just how much he had lost.

It was only when he came out of the shower that he noticed the messages.

Using location, time frame, and paint color, Healy had narrowed it down to three possibilities. Two, really. Of course there was a chance that none of these vehicles were responsible for the damage to Serpe’s car or for the streaks of black paint left behind. There was a good chance that the car or truck had just taken off, never to be seen again.

The least likely candidate was the 2002 black Corvette stopped for excessive speed in bad weather conditions. The time was right: about 1:45
pm
. The location was right: between exits 72 and 71 on the westbound L.I.E., but there was no notation about damage on the car.

The other two candidates seemed far more promising. About ten minutes after he stopped the Corvette, the same cop approached a 2004 black Lincoln Navigator that was pulled to the far right shoulder of the westbound L.I.E. just east of exit 70. The officer noted severe body damage to the front driver’s side of the vehicle. When he asked the vehicle’s operator if he needed assistance, the driver refused, saying he had pulled over to make a call.

The third and, in Healy’s opinion, the most likely candidate was an old black step van that was written up for several violations including, but not limited to, operating an uninsured vehicle and the operation of a motor vehicle with a suspended license. The body of the van was badly damaged and the driver was arrested for an outstanding warrant. This guy had probably lost control in the snow, smacked into Serpe, and run.

Healy was just copying down the info when the phone rang.

Joe Serpe had never talked to anyone on his block. Christ, he barely spoke to the landlord. But he knew someone had to have seen something, so he started knocking on doors. Many of the people who recognized him as that quiet guy from across the street, invited him in for coffee. As he went from house to house, Joe realized that God was not responsible for his invisibility. Over the last four years, he had made himself disappear. Unfortunately, his new good neighbor policy wasn’t netting him much information. No one had seen anything unusual. As he walked back across the street, he saw Healy’s car parked in the driveway, Healy unloading paint cans from his car.

As Healy primed the wall to cover the writing, Serpe scrubbed Mulligan’s blood off the linoleum tiles. Both men were deep in thought: Joe trying to make sense of what Healy had told him about the Strohmeyer kid’s suicide and the possibility that his gut feeling was dead wrong, that there was no connection between Cain’s murder and those of Reyes and Toussant. Healy was straining to see what possible connection there could be between Frank Randazzo’s adultery and the three murders. Both of them were making much more headway with the physical tasks at hand. The bloody graffiti was now completely hidden and the cat’s blood had been scrubbed away, along with years of neglected grime.

Neither Serpe nor Healy had any doubts about the warning written in Mulligan’s blood. Someone, probably the blackmailer, wasn’t happy with Joe sticking his nose into Frank’s business. And now that Marla had been threatened, if indirectly, Serpe wasn’t sure it was worth his continued involvement. Frank had made his choices and was paying for them. Tina would land on her feet. Women like Tina always did. Besides, Joe had lost enough. It was time for someone else to feed the beast. Soon the time would come when both men would have to admit defeat and get back to their lives.

Healy decided he would take the first step in that direction.

“Joe,” he said, using a rubber mallet to close the primer can. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you since that Saturday you delivered oil to my house. It’s about the case we made on you and your partner.”

“It’s ancient history, Healy, I don’t wanna—”

“Okay, even if you don’t want to hear it, I need to say it.”

“I owe you that much. Go ahead.”

“The original investigation—”

There was a knock on the door.

“Hello,” Joe called out, rinsing the mop in the sink.

“Joe, Mr. Serpe,” she said, sticking only her head inside.

Joe didn’t know her name, but recognized her as someone who lived on the other side of the street.

“Come on in.”

Joe wiped his hands on a towel and rushed to greet his neighbor. He held out his hand and introduced himself.

“My name’s Pat,” she said, taking his hand, “Pat Dahl. I live at number eighty-two, the brown ranch across the way there.”

“Nice to meet you, Pat. This is my friend, Bob Healy. He’s helping paint the place.”

Healy nodded, smiled.

“So, what is it I can do for you, Pat?”

“My husband, Carl—you spoke to him today. The bald man with the—”

“Oh, yeah. Nice guy. Used to work sanitation in the city, right?”

“That’s my Carl. Anyway, he says you told him someone was coming here to show you a car, but that you couldn’t be home and you’d lost the man’s number.”

“I know it was dumb of me, but I really need a newer car.”

“Oh, Joe,” she said as if they’d been friends for years, “believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted that thing. It was creased and dented all along one side.”

“Really?”

“Trust me, I saw him pulling out of your driveway at about nine o’clock. That’s when I go to the gym.”

“Just so we can be sure it was the car I was thinking of, can you describe it to me?”

“I’m sorry, Joe, I wouldn’t know one car from another. It was big and black. I guess it kind of looked like Jack Cantor’s car. He lives at number ninety-six.”

“Thank you very much for the heads-up, Pat. I don’t need someone else’s lemon. It was a pleasure meeting you. And say hello to Carl for me.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

Neither Healy nor Serpe needed to say it. They gave Pat thirty seconds to get back across the street before they took a walk down to number ninety-six.

Jack Cantor’s car was a dark blue Lincoln SUV, but a smaller model—the Aviator, not a Navigator. If Healy was hoping the sight of it would somehow spark Joe’s memory, he was wrong. The events of that Tuesday afternoon would be lost to Serpe forever. Healy, on the other hand, hadn’t suffered a concussion. He didn’t actually need Joe’s memory, because he had the benefit of someone else’s.

“Let’s get back to your apartment, Joe. There’s a police report I need to show you.”

Friday
March 5th, 2004

 

BRIGHTON BEACH AVENUE

 

J
oe met Tina in the waiting room.

The firm of Bayles, Cohen & Mann was located on Main Street in Babylon Village. They were a fairly diverse and successful firm for one located in such a lovely section of nowhere. Long Island is full of quaint little south shore towns with narrow streets, marinas and big brass clocks. But not many law school students daydream about passing the bar to set up practice in Babylon Village.

Bayles, Cohen & Mann did their share of ambulance chasing, real estate closings, divorce work, and criminal defense. They did, however, have one particular specialty. They were known as the lawyers to the home heating oil industry. So it was no surprise that Frank sought their services when he established Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. It didn’t hurt that Tina’s father, a local insurance broker, had played golf with Steven Mann every Saturday for twelve years before moving to the Carolinas.

“How is Frank?” Joe asked.

“Better,” she said. “He’s breathing on his own now and the doctors think there’s a chance he won’t come out of it too badly damaged. They just don’t know how long the oxygen was cut off from his brain. If he’s going to spend the rest of his life in jail, what does it matter if he gets better?”

“That’s what we’re doing here, Tina, to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“You watched the DVD?”

“I did.”

Tina faced the floor, her face red with embarrassment, her hands once again squeezing the top of her bag.

“Men do stupid things sometimes. Things that don’t make any sense to anyone but them. Then when they think about it, it doesn’t even make sense to them.”

Tina didn’t want to go there. “How’s
your
head, Joe?”

“It’s much better. I’m still having headaches, but less and less severe all the time. So, did you check your bank accounts?”

“All the ones I know about.”

“And?”

“Nothing. There haven’t been any sizeable withdrawals for months. It’s just the same boring stuff—the mortgage, utilities, food shopping, small ATM withdrawals, the kids’ karate classes. Just stuff like that.”

“How about deposits? Were the deposits smaller than usual?”

“No. Are you sure he was being blackmailed?”

“Yeah, Tina, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know if this will make you feel any better, but Frank didn’t know he was being videotaped and the women with him did.”

“Do you know the expression cold comfort?”

“Mrs. Randazzo, Mr. Serpe.” The secretary got their attention. “Mr. Mann will see you now.”

Bob Healy pinched the phone between his ear and neck, waiting for Rodriguez to get back on the line. Skip Rodriguez, basically a sweet guy with a mean streak, had been Healy’s last partner at I.A.B. He and Bob worked well enough together, but as the years passed, Skip’s sweetness soured and the mean streak grew. He was good at his job, only just a little too cold-hearted for Healy’s taste. Healy had thought about calling George and decided against it. He wasn’t up for his little brother’s lecture on the joys of retirement. And though he could’ve bullshitted George about why he needed to have him run a plate, there was some info Skip could give him that George could not.

As he listened for Skip to pick up, Healy thumbed through
Newsday.
Maybe, he thought, Serpe was right not to pay too much attention to the papers. There was very little new in the news, just a chronicle of old sins committed by a different cast of characters. The headline on a story on page 8 caught his attention, but Rodriguez got back on the line.

“I ran the tag like you asked,” the detective said. “2004, Black Lincoln Navigator registered to Black Sea Energy, Inc., 2243 Brighton Beach Avenue, Brooklyn.”

“That’s the Six-One Precinct, right?”

“Right. What’s this all about, partner?”

“You got anyone in the Six-One owes you a favor?”

“Are you kidding me? With all that Russian mob money floating around boardwalk, there’s always someone jammed up at the Six-One or the Six-O in Coney Island. Why?”

“Because maybe I’d like to have a private conversation with somebody.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Healy could hear Rodriguez’s wheels turning. Skip would want to know what was in it for him and was figuring out how to ask the question without offending his old partner. Bob saved him the trouble.

“If there’s a case in it, Skip,” Healy said, “it’s all yours, but you’ve gotta throw me a bone here.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

When Healy resumed his reading, he nearly turned the page before remembering the headline.

WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN JFK LOT

There was nothing extraordinary about the story. Bodies had been dumped in the marshes and vacant lots surrounding Kennedy airport since before it was called Kennedy. What got Healy’s attention was the police theory about the murdered woman having been a prostitute. The police also speculated that the unidentified woman might have been Russian or from some area of the former Soviet Union. When he saw the police artist’s rendering of a tattoo found on an unspecified area of the woman’s body, Healy was no longer just interested. He was downright fascinated.

Marla scribbled away, catching up on paperwork that had gone neglected even before she’d blown off the last two days. She’d always found that throwing herself into her work was a good coping mechanism. Joe had frightened her. It seemed to her that was his intent, yet he refused to discuss it with her even after she called to tell him she had done what he asked. He made her promise over and over again that she would go straight to her folks’ house after work and would not go out alone at night.

Ken Bergman, the home manager, knocked and walked in without waiting to be invited. Marla didn’t have the energy to lecture him about proper etiquette. And truth be told, she was kind of glad to see Kenny. She knew what he wanted, what he always wanted from her. It was the subtext of all their interactions. He had never made a secret of his crush on Marla. They had even dated a few times early on, but it hadn’t turned out well. For Ken it had been magic; not so for Marla. He’d tried everything to win her affection.

Marla subscribed to the notion of immediate attraction. She needed no more proof than that first few seconds she had stood in Ken’s office next to Joe Serpe. And if she hadn’t surrendered to Kenny’s charms before Joe, she wasn’t going to succumb now. Lately, Ken had sort of settled into following Marla around the home like a lovesick puppy. Oddly enough, he was just the type of man she had always envisioned herself marrying someday, even if she had never been enthusiastic about it.

“How are you feeling?”

She was puzzled. “What?”

“You’ve never missed two days in a—”

“That. Oh, much better. Thanks for asking.”

“You know I would have been happy to nurse you back to health,” he said.

“Very cute, Kenny. Give it a rest, okay?”

“Seriously, Marla, I would do anything for you.”

Now she was losing patience. “Ken! If you came into my office to–”

“Okay, okay, I surrender … for now. There really is something we need to discuss. Everyone’s handled Cain’s murder pretty well except Donna. She’s been acting out and making herself a real problem for everyone, including the other residents. She’s been reprimanded at her job several times. I think it’s time for you to intervene.”

“Of course, but why didn’t you come to me sooner about this?”

“Well, I knew how close she and Cain were and I suspected it would be harder for her to come to terms with his death. But now we’ve reached the point where her behavior is too detrimental to ignore. And frankly, Marla, you’ve seemed a bit preoccupied lately.”

There was no arguing that. “Is she in-house today, Ken?”

“That she is.”

“I’ll set something up with her as soon as I wade through some of this paperwork. That work for you?”

“You’re the shrink. I’m just the juggler. Let me know how it turns out.”

Steven Mann was what Joe expected—affable but guarded, well-groomed and sharp. His office too held few surprises for Joe. There was the college degree from NYU, the law degree from Michigan, the framed letters from clients, the photos with politcos and sports figures, golf trophies, and model yachts. Mann took control of the conversation. He was used to it, comfortable with control. If you stripped away the niceties and the careful language, this is what he wanted to know of Tina:

1. How the fuck is your dad’s golf game?

2. Is your husband, the fucking murderer, going to survive?

3. Who the fuck is this clown with you?

4. What the fuck are you doing here wasting my time?

5. You’re still pretty hot. If your husband dies, how would you like to fuck?

Joe was no fool. Although he had been shown the door in disgrace, Serpe still had a nose for trouble, an ear for bullshit, and could read between the lines. He also knew when to talk and when to keep his mouth shut. During the preliminaries, he kept quiet and watched.

“So, Tina, what is it that I can do for you?” Mann asked.

“I think maybe Joe would be better qualified to explain all that. I’m going to step outside for a few minutes. There are some aspects of this I’d rather not witness.” She stood, smoothed her skirt and placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Come get me when …” She let it hang.

Joe waited for the office door to click shut before tossing the DVD on the lawyer’s desk.

“What’s this?”

“Blackmail. That a DVD player under the TV?”

“Yes.”

“Put it in.”

They watched only about five minutes worth, just enough for the lawyer to get the gist of it. Joe explained about the DVD being sent to Tina, about how he had checked out the motel, about his visit to Frank in jail and about how someone had apparently tried to run him off the road. Then he described the message written on his apartment wall in Mulligan’s blood.

“It’s deplorable, all of it, but I don’t see what I can do to help,” Mann said.

Joe went and got Tina.

“Well, it all adds up to blackmail, but so far Tina can’t find any unusual bank activity in any of their accounts. That leaves the business.”

“Not necessarily,” the lawyer countered. “Frank could have some accounts you don’t know exist.”

Tina spoke up. “No. Frank and I don’t have the greatest marriage, but I know in my heart that he wouldn’t keep money away from his family. It’s just not something he would do.”

“Tina … Need I remind you what is currently in my office DVD player? I’m certain there are many things you believed Frank incapable of, but.”

Joe didn’t like the way this was going. Mann was trying to turn the conversation away from where they needed it to go.

“Okay, maybe you’re right, Mr. Mann. Maybe Frank kept a slush fund or something. But you could help us eliminate the business as a possible source of money for the blackmailers. If he—”

“I don’t mean to cut you off, Joe,” Mann said, cutting Joe off, “but why come to me? Why not go to Frank’s accountant? I’m sure he would—”

“Not to cut you off, Mr. Mann, but the accountant won’t talk to Tina about the business.”

“That’s right,” Tina said. “I called him yesterday and he said he wouldn’t discuss any aspect of the business with me.”

“Tina, it hurts me to have to say this to you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you the same answer. You have no legal standing when it comes to Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. Now, if Frank should, god forbid, be convicted or if he should not recover from his injuries, then—”

Joe was out of his seat. “Are you nuts? This woman’s husband is facing second degree murder charges, he’s tried to hang himself in jail, it’s pretty clear he was being blackmailed, and you’re gonna stand on some legal technicality?”

“I don’t think I like your tone, Mr. Serpe.”

“You don’t?” Joe asked, grabbing one of the intricate model yachts that decorated the office. “Well, I don’t like a lot more than your tone.”

Snap!
Joe cracked off the mizzen mast of the model ship. “What are you—”

Snap!
Another mast fell prey to Joe’s strong hands.

“Listen, asshole, let’s forget about Frank for a second here. Apparently, someone tried to kill me, my cat’s been slaughtered and my girlfriend’s been threatened. So, I’m not in the mood for legalese and bullshit,” Joe said, sending the model crashing to the floor and grabbing a big golf trophy. “Club championship, I’m very impressed.”

“Tina … Please!” the lawyer implored.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steven. I wonder if the state bar would be interested in the story of a lawyer who promised to get a minor her big start in modeling if she would only suck his–”

“That was once, almost twenty years ago, and I was very drunk,” Mann argued half-heartedly. “How many times do you want me to apologize for that? And I did make calls on your behalf.”

Tina was a bulldog. “What about the business, Steven?”

“All right,” the lawyer surrendered. “All right, but if you had just waited a few days this would have all been moot.”

The lawyer buzzed his secretary and asked her to bring in the Mayday file. Joe put the golf trophy back in its niche and took his seat. As the secretary entered the office, she gazed at the smashed model in the middle floor to which no one seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention.

“Leave it, Lois. We’ll see to it later. The file, please.”

She laid it on his desk and left, shaking her head as she went. Mann opened the file, grouped certain papers together, skipped others. When he was satisfied that he had things just so, he spoke.

“Frankly, Tina, I can see how it might appear to you that Frank was being blackmailed. For all I know, he was. However, the business would not appear to be the source of funds for extortion payoffs.”

“Why’s that?” Joe asked.

Mann turned the document of sale so that Tina could clearly see it. “Because the business no longer exists.”

Marla remembered being in therapy herself and how her therapist would sometimes ask her to give voice to her tapping fingers or toes. “What we do,” her therapist would say, “is often more revealing than what we say.” Marla never forgot those words, always making a point to note not only what the residents said, but what they did, how they moved. There is nothing less valid about physical expression than verbal expression. This was especially true of the population she treated, which could sometimes be almost completely non-verbal.