Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (11 page)

18

>MANHATTAN SOUTH HOMICIDE SQUAD

230 East 21st Street

Manhattan

Tuesday, November 5, 1996

After making her way up to C Deck, Vail walked into the Manhattan South homicide squad and found Timothy Thorne standing on the other side of the large rectangular office space. He looked up, their eyes met, and he did not look pleased. He motioned for her to follow him down the hall.

Vail pushed through a door and found herself in an interrogation room: small, containing a proportionately sized table and two chairs. A few seconds after she entered, Thorne stepped in behind her.

“Sir, about last night.”

“I don’t want to discuss it.”

Vail jutted her chin back. “I just want to say that I’m—”

“We’re not discussing it. Unless it pertains to the case.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Look, Officer Vail. First, I’m an alcoholic, okay? I’ve got a problem. I don’t let it affect my job. I’m going to meetings, I keep in regular contact with my sponsor. I’m doing good. That’s all I’m ever gonna say on it from this point forward.”

“If you’re doing so good, why’d you stink of alcohol last night?”

His right eye narrowed. “Let’s get something straight. You’re a patrol officer. You’re here because—I’m not sure why you’re here. I’d guess Russo’s boning you, but it’s probably because he owes you for saving his life.”

Vail thought back to the incident in the South Bronx last year.
Is that what this is about? He’s paying me back for saving his life?

Thorne pulled open the door and headed out. Vail followed, trying to hear him as he walked.

“No matter what your deal is with Russo, you’re working under me. You’re a cop and I’m a detective. You won’t treat me as an equal because we’re not. Clear?”

“Clear.”

He reentered the detective bureau and sat down at his desk. “Sergeant Russo thinks the vic, Crinelli, was offed by the same guy who did this woman, Carole Manos, a year ago. So that means we gotta look for anything that might connect these two people. Crinelli’s mobbed up, you know that, I think, right?” Vail indicated he was correct. “Jerkoff was arrested three times the past twenty years. So he’s been in the system and we’ve got a sheet on him. Known hangouts and associates, shit like that.”

“Okay.”

“And I want you to meet with the detective who handled the Manos case, since there’s gonna be some overlap. Maybe we can help each other. Maybe the killer left something, a hair or fiber, that’ll help us tie him to this murder with certainty, that type of thing.”

“We also can’t ignore the mob angle,” Vail said.

“What are you talking about? Of course we ain’t gonna ignore it.”

“No, I mean, maybe we’re looking at it ass-backwards. It’s possible that Carole Manos has mob ties, and she was killed by one of Crinelli’s associates. Or a rival family.”

Thorne chuckled. “Yeah. I don’t think so.”

“Why is that funny?”

“Because the mafia has an MO, and when they want to off someone, they don’t cut their vics’ eyes with a jagged piece of glass and then stab them in the neck. The hit’s done with a .22 to the back of the skull. Quiet, efficient, quick. And clean. So, nice theory, missy, but—no offense—you don’t know shit.” He laughed as he sorted through files on his desk.

“Name’s Karen. Or Vail. I don’t answer to ‘missy.’”

“Yeah, missy. Whatever.”

Vail leaned across the cluttered desk, bringing herself to eye level with Thorne. “Let’s get something straight. You’re my boss? I get that. But I’m still a cop. No, check that. I’m a human being. And you will treat me with respect as a person. You don’t like women, fine. You don’t like working with women, fine. I don’t care what your hang-ups are. Those are your problems. But if you can’t give me some common courtesy, then we’re not gonna be able to work together.”

He leaned forward, challenging her. “Now you’re talking.”

“See, here’s the thing, though. You’ve got a boss too. And I bet he cares when you show up at a crime scene reeking of whiskey. Am I right? Because I’d feel compelled to tell him why I’m begging off the assignment of a lifetime when he says, ‘Are you crazy?’”

Thorne looked away, his hand balling into a fist. Vail knew she was in uncharted territory here: she was playing hardball in a game where she did not know the rules; in fact, she was clueless. The opposite could be true; maybe his superior did not want to know of Thorne’s problem—even worse, he might already be fully versed in Thorne’s baggage and not care because he was a buddy of his. In which case not only would Vail’s threat be hollow, but it could backfire. She could be blackballed. Her career would be derailed before it even got on track.

I should’ve thought this through a bit more before running my mouth off. But Russo told me to stand up for myself.

Thorne rose from his chair. “I’ve got an appointment. Meantime, there’s a typewriter.” He motioned to the right side of his desk as he gathered up a manila folder. “Write up a sixty-one on the Crinelli crime scene. Form’s in here.” He shoved the file in her hands. “When you finish, you know what needs to be looked into. Check in with me at two o’clock.” He grabbed the suit jacket off the back of his chair and left.

Vail exhaled and wiped her brow of the flop sweat that had broken out across her forehead.

TWO HOURS LATER, having typed the last sentence of her report, she reviewed the Carole Manos case file that Russo had sent over for her and Thorne. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could use.

She set the folder aside and, with the assistance of a nearby detective, started accumulating information on Dominic Crinelli. One item immediately stood out: two of Crinelli’s busts were at the hands of someone she was familiar with—one of her instructors at the academy, the man she suspected of putting her career on the fast track: Isidore Proschetta. Protch.

She phoned him and asked if he could meet her to discuss his experience with Crinelli. Proschetta had a better suggestion: he would take her to lunch at an iconic New York eatery.

But when Vail arrived, it wasn’t exactly what she was expecting.

19

>ASTORIA, QUEENS

Saturday, May 19, 1973

Livana awoke early and made her way down the hall into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Fedor, like Basil, liked a jolt of caffeine to get his day started. This being a weekend, however, she did not want to wake anyone. Saturday was their only chance to sleep in.

Cassandra had climbed into bed with her at some point during the night. Her daughter had not done this in years, but the girl was clearly missing her father. Or she had a bad dream and needed comfort and security. Whatever it was, Livana did not object and actually found it consoling.

Livana sat at the table waiting for the percolator to boil when she almost thought Basil would come plodding in, not quite awake yet complaining that she had gotten out of bed without kissing him.

Now she wished she could make good on all the mornings when she did just that—not because she did not want to cuddle with him, but because she did not want to disturb his sleep.

She missed him. She missed their life—the way it was before the fight. It was not an existence filled with excess; they hardly had the things they needed. But theirs was a family, a mother and father who attended church, raised their two children right, and kept to themselves. They did not wish harm on anyone and were content to be left alone.

None of that seemed to matter anymore.

Their family had been ripped apart: Dmitri and Cassandra forced to grow up without a father, Livana without a husband. Basil was not the perfect father or the perfect husband. But he was a good man who wanted only happiness for all of them, and he worked hard to achieve it.

Until that one fateful Sunday night.

And now he was gone.

Livana poured herself a cup of coffee and was taking the first small, tentative sip when Cassandra entered the kitchen.

“Mommy, where’s Dmitri?”

“Still asleep, baby. Did I wake you?”

“He’s not sleeping. He’s not in his room.”

Livana set her mug down and smiled. “Of course he is. He’s probably wiggled under the covers like he likes to do when he’s cold.”

“But it’s not cold.”

Livana pushed up from the chair and took her daughter by the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go find your brother.”

They walked into the room that Dmitri and Cassandra shared and she was on her way over to the bed before stopping at the window to draw it closed. A light breeze was ruffling the curtain and billowing the sheer blue linen across Cassandra’s bed.

“Did you open the window during the night?”

“No. We keep it closed, like you told us.”

“Dmitri, wake up.” She patted the comforter, her hands covering the entire mattress before she turned to scan the rest of the room. “Dmitri?”

“He’s not here, Mommy.”

Livana walked out into the hallway and checked the bathroom, then stopped at Fedor’s and Niklaus’s room. She put an ear to the door and listened. Did not hear anything.

She gently turned the knob and peeked inside: Fedor was asleep on the bed, Niklaus on a cot against the wall. Dmitri was not there, at least not that she could see.

Fedor stirred, then sat up. “Liv? What’s wrong?”

Livana hesitated, then said, “Nothing, go back to sleep.” She closed the door and backed down the hall. She pulled a light jacket over her nightgown and walked out front. After making a trip around the building, she saw Fedor standing on the stoop.

“I can’t find Dmitri.”

Fedor helped her search the house, their movements rousing Niklaus from sleep.

Moments later, they reconvened in the kitchen. No one had heard un-usual sounds during the night. No one had seen Dmitri get up after they had gone to bed. No one had any idea as to where he might have gone.

As they were running through scenarios, the telephone rang. Fedor grabbed the receiver off the wall. He listened a minute, then said, “Who is this? No, I’m not—wait! Don’t—”

He stood there, the handset still pressed against his ear, as he swallowed deeply.

“What is it?” Livana asked.

Fedor licked his lips, then hung up the phone. “They have Dmitri. They took him. Livana, I’m so sorry.”

“What? Who’s got Dmitri?”

“I think it’s the people who—” he stopped and looked at the kids— “the same people.”

Livana’s face flushed and tears flooded her eyes. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. They said he’s fine.”

He took her by the arm and said to the kids, “We’ll be right back. Don’t worry, Dmitri’s gonna be fine.”

Fedor ushered Livana into the bedroom and closed the door. “He’ll be returned to us if I go to the police and withdraw my statement. I’m sup-posed to say I was mistaken when I gave them my description, that I was confused. And under no circumstances am I to tell the police that Dmitri’s been taken.”

“But
who
—who’s taken him?”

“They didn’t identify themselves. But I’m sure it’s Crinelli’s people.”

“But—”

Fedor held out a hand. “They’re calling back in two minutes. If I agree to do what they’re demanding, they’ll drop Dmitri off somewhere nearby.”

“And if you don’t?”

He checked his watch but did not answer. “I’ve gotta get back into the kitchen. I don’t want to miss the call.”

As they walked out of the bedroom, Cassandra ran up to Fedor. “Is Dmitri okay?”

“He’s fine, little one,” Fedor said. “He’ll be home soon.”

The phone rang. Fedor grabbed it up, listened a second, then said, “Yes, yes, I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt the boy.” He listened, then said, “Okay. But when and where can I get Dmitri?” Another moment later, he hung up.

Fedor stepped briskly toward the front door.

“What did they say?” Livana asked, running after him.

“I’m on my way to the police station. Once they have confirmation that I’ve retracted my statement, they’ll call and tell us where he’ll be.”

“He’s safe, though, right? Did they tell you he’s safe?”

Fedor reached for his hat, concern painted across his face. He turned away and said, “I know you want answers. I do too. I’m gonna do my best to make sure he comes back to us happy and healthy.”

FEDOR RETURNED NINETY minutes later. He trudged into the house and sat down heavily in the living room easy chair, not bothering to remove his coat.

Hearing the front door open, Livana came running in from the backyard, gardening gloves on her hands, followed by the kids.

“I’ve been a nervous wreck,” she said. “What happened?”

“I looked Detective Proschetta in the eyes and told him a lie. And he knew it was a lie.” Fedor closed his eyes. “He kept asking me why I was doing this, what had they threatened me with. And I kept telling him that nothing was wrong, they hadn’t threatened me.”

“And?” Livana asked.

“And nothing. I told him I was sorry for wasting his time and I left.”

“Did he say that they were going to release him? Did they say when—”

“No. I mean, I tried asking. He said that without my statement, and if I wouldn’t testify at his trial, they probably couldn’t make a case. They’d have to let him go. So I said, ‘When would that be?’ And he said not to worry myself with that stuff. I think he was angry with me. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“But if only—”

“I couldn’t press it, Livana. I did the best I could. If I said too much, he would’ve known for sure something was wrong. And as much I would’ve wanted the police to help us, they said I couldn’t tell them.”

“Or what?”

Fedor looked at her, his brow hard. “It wasn’t an option. I could
not
tell the police.”

“So now what?”

“We wait for the phone to ring. That’s all we can do.”

AN HOUR AND twenty-three minutes passed. They sat together in the living room, Cassandra on Livana’s lap with her favorite doll in her hands. Niklaus thumbed through his box of baseball cards and read the backs until he couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“I thought you said they’re supposed to call, Dad.”

“They are, Nik.” Fedor’s response was terse, as if all his energy was invested in maintaining his composure.

“My son’s all alone and there’s nothing I can do to comfort him.” Livana started combing her fingers through Cassandra’s brown locks, then braiding it. Her daughter, who normally did not like her mother fiddling with her hair, did not object, as if she understood that Livana needed to do this for her emotional well-being.

Minutes later, the ringing phone pierced the quiet. They all seemed to jump in unison.

Livana and Fedor arrived simultaneously. Fedor lifted the handset and angled it so she could hear.

“Where can I find him?” Fedor asked.

The voice was measured, though tense. “The police have not released him yet.”

“I can’t control what the police do. I did exactly what you told me to—”

“Calm down. We know.”

“So where’s the boy?”

“We’ll be in touch when—”

“No! Where’s my baby,” Livana screamed. “I want my baby!”

The call disconnected. Fedor moved the phone away from his face.

She brought her hands to her cheeks. “They hung up?”

“What happened?” Cassandra asked, running into the kitchen.

Fedor slowly set the receiver on the hook.

“Is Dmitri okay?” Cassandra’s eyes teared over. “Is he coming home?”

“Cassie.” Fedor gave her a pat on the rear. “He’s going to be fine. Just—just go back and sit on the couch with Niklaus. Please.”

She bit her lip and made a show of passive resistance as she walked off.

Fedor rubbed his forehead and lowered his voice. “I think you should let
me
talk to them, Liv.”

She grasped the counter to steady herself. “Are they going to call back? Why aren’t they calling back?”

“They will. Give them a few minutes. You probably just freaked them out.”

Livana had a feeling that these people did not get panicked by a screaming woman. They were teaching her a lesson: treat them with respect or they’ll hang up. Or—worse, they’ll kill her son.

They’re going to call back, she told herself.

A moment later, the phone rang.

Fedor stuck his left hand out, keeping Livana an arm’s length away from the phone. He turned his back on her and said, “Sorry about that … Yes, I know where that is. Okay, but—” He clenched his jaw and looked like he wanted to slam the receiver onto its cradle but stopped himself and set it gently on the hook.

“Well?”

“They gave me an address. They said Dmitri will be there.”

“Let’s go.”

Fedor hesitated. “They don’t want me there. It has to be you. Alone.” He grasped both of her arms and looked in her eyes. “You can do this.”

She took a deep breath. “I know.”

LIVANA DROVE FEDOR’S pickup to the designated location near the entrance to Powdermaker Hall at Queens College. The instructions were that vague, and the building was massive: a good two blocks long.

She stopped at the curb across the road from the expansive, and at first glance full, parking lot, and ran onto the grassy quad. She did not care if campus police wrote her a ticket. She just wanted her son back.

School was not in session and despite the gray weather, the temperature was mild and a few students were out tossing a Frisbee or sitting on the grass reading their textbooks. Livana walked up to the building, her eyes rapidly scanning the vicinity, knowing she would instantly pick up her son.

But she did not see him.

“Dmitri,” she called out. Her voice was weak, her tone tentative, tinged with fear and more than a hint of hysteria. More strongly: “Dmitri!”

A few students turned toward her, no doubt wondering what was going on. Livana looked older than most, if not all, of the graduate class on campus, so she was either a professor or a mother. Frazzled and frumpy, she did not look like the former. But her appearance did nothing to explain her presence on the campus screaming someone’s name.

“Are you Livana?”

She turned so fast she nearly lost her balance. “Who are you?”

A male in his early twenties wearing elephant bell bottom dungarees took a tentative step back. “I was told to give you a message.”

“Are you working for them, you son of a—”

“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands. “A guy gave me twenty bucks and told me to wait here, that a woman about your age would be coming by looking for someone named Dmitri.”

“You found her. Now what?”

“He said to give you something.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope.

Livana snatched it like a ravenous tiger pouncing on a wild boar. She tore it open and read the typed message:

Woodro Deli


1342 Peninsula Blvd


Hewlett


Livana stared at the note, then looked up at the man.

“Everything okay?”

“I don’t understand. My son—my son was supposed to be here.”

He eyed her cautiously. “You don’t look very good. Are you okay? Want me to get campus police?”

“No! No, no. No. I’m—I’m fine.”

The man started to back away as Livana turned and ran toward her pickup.

She reached it in a dozen strides, jammed the key into the ignition and screeched the tires as she headed down the road, off the campus and then onto Jewel Avenue. Two minutes later she was careening down the Van Wyck Expressway, weaving in and out of traffic. Her eyes were tearing and she had to repeatedly swipe them on her arm.

“Bastards. What kind of game are they playing? Why are they doing this?”

She pounded the steering wheel several times, then took a deep, uneven breath and let it out. Focused herself. If she drove like a maniac without concentrating on what she was doing, she would end up killing herself—and possibly others.

Livana eased up on the accelerator slightly and realized that she was only vaguely familiar with Hewlett, having visited there once, shortly after moving to the country.

She figured she could stop at Green Acres Mall to ask directions or at least find a phone booth with a Yellow Pages directory. Or a gas station—there were several located along Sunrise Highway. Livana stopped into Esso, the first one she came to, and rolled down the window.

“Regular or high test?” the attendant asked as he wiped his fingers on a grease rag.