Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (10 page)

I nodded. We reached the car and got inside. Vic started it up then turned to me.

“Is that who you’re working for? Thomas Blake?”

There was no point lying to Vic. He’d spot it anyway.

“Yeah. He hired me.”

“To investigate this case? Why? Does he know Ginny Olsen somehow?”

“Not that I know of.”

Vic smiled. “I know you’re holding out on me.”

I looked down and rapped my knuckles together.

“I’ll let it go…for now.”

“Thanks.”

“But if you have anything that can help my investigation…” I cut him off.

“Come on, Vic. If I have anything, you’ll know as soon as I do.”

“Okay.”

“Right now I’m just on a hunch. He knows nothing about your case.”

“Okay. But I don’t like you holding out on me.”

“I know. Now when can you take me up to the Bronx?”

“The Bronx? Is this what I think it is?”

“Come on, Vic. I need to check into the dead hooker. Maybe there’s a connection.”

“To what?”

“To Blake, okay. To Thomas Blake. But it’s not the kind of connection you think.”

“I don’t like it, Hank.”

“Just trust me on this.”

“You know I trust you. But give me a little something, here.”

“Okay. Blake thinks someone is trying to kill his daughter.”

“Wow. Really? And he’s hired you to protect her?”

“No. He’s got his own muscle.”

“So he’s hired you to find the guy.”

“Yeah. Basically. He thinks someone is trying to kill his daughter…and…”

“And what?”

"Nothing, nothing. I think, maybe. Just maybe, your case has something to do with his case. Okay? Is that enough for now?”

Vic nodded his head. “Okay. I’ll make some calls and take you up to the Bronx.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

* *

Vic lined things up then we met the next morning and took his police cruiser uptown. We were to meet the detective from Bronx Homicide who was working the hooker case.

“His name is Howie Barnes,” Vic told me as we drove over the Third Avenue Bridge and skyscrapers gave way to midsized tenements. “I don’t know him well, but I’ve heard he’s pretty cynical.”

“Aren’t all Bronx homicide detectives?”

“
Every one
I’ve ever met,” he said with a snort. Then in a more serious tone, he said, “It’s the job. Dead hookers. Murdered drug dealers. Shit like that every day. It gets to you.”

“I know.”

Vic looked over at me. “I guess they should appreciate the job they have.”

Vic knew I’d take that job in heartbeat. But I had a few skeletons in my past that pretty well guaranteed I’d never be a ‘real’ cop.

The bridge let us out on the Major
Deegan
Expressway and we got off in the West Fordham section. Vic took Burnside Avenue up to Jerome. We pulled a U-turn on Jerome and stopped in front of the McDonald’s at the corner of Burnside and Jerome Avenues.

“Looks like he’s not here yet,” Vic said. “He said he’d meet us right out front of the Mickey Ds. Figured it would be easier to meet here at the scene than over at the stationhouse.”

“Okay. I guess we have a few minutes to kill. You want anything?”

“I’ll take us through the drive-thru.”

“Nah. I want to stretch my legs anyway.”

“Okay.”

I got out, leaving Vic in the car. His window came down as I walked away and he called out, “May as well get me a coffee.”

“No problem.”

I walked towards the front entrance to McDonald’s, but didn’t go inside. Instead, I continued down the block and turned into a bodega just across the south side of Burnside Avenue. There was a man in a turban behind the counter with a long black beard with gray flakes in it. He looked worn, as if he’d been manning that cash register for many years, nonstop.

“You have fresh coffee?” I asked.

“Yes, officer.” Not surprising he assumed I was a cop, as I was the only Caucasian guy in a suit in the store, and it was fairly busy. “Right behind you.”

He pointed to a counter and I saw the pot, then fixed two cups. I walked towards him to pay and he said, “No need, sir. Coffee is free for New York’s finest.”

“Thank you. Listen, do you have a few minutes to talk?”

He looked at his watch and his neck shifted as he sold a pack of cigarettes to a customer. “Is everything alright, officer?”

“Absolutely. I just need to ask you a few questions, about an investigation I’m conducting. It doesn’t have to be this second.”

He looked at his watch again. “Okay. My wife will be here in about half an hour. Would that be okay?”

“Perfect. See you then.” I offered him two singles. “You sure you don’t want me to pay for the coffee?”

He smiled. “No, sir. Just tell your men to watch out for me. I’m opened twenty-four hours, you know.”

“I understand. It’s not easy making a living these days.”

“No, sir. It can be difficult.”

I held up the coffees in salute, stacked them on top of one another, and used my free hand to push open the door.

Once out in the street, I saw a second unmarked police cruiser double-parked next to Vic’s. Vic was standing on the sidewalk and Detective Howie Barnes was leaning on his tan Crown Victoria scarfing down a Big Mac. Judging by the way his belly was bulging out from underneath his white, stained and
untucked
dress shirt, it was clear this wasn’t the first burger Detective Barnes had enjoyed.

“Oh, you didn’t bring one for me,” Barnes said as I walked up.

“Here. Have mine.” I said as I offered a cup to him while handing the other cup to Victor.

“No. No. I never take another cop’s coffee. It’s bad karma.”

“Actually,” Vic broke in, “Hank’s not a cop. Howie Barnes, this is Hank Mondale. Hank’s a private investigator and a very old friend of mine.”

Barnes looked me up and down as if I had mad cow’s disease, then took a bite of the burger and said, “A private dick? What’s a private dick doing on this case, Victor?”

“He’s just helping me out. Okay?”

He gulped down the burger but didn’t wipe the sauce from his chin. “Whatever. I’m just surprised a private dick gives a rat’s ass about a dead crack whore.”

I took a sip of my coffee while biting my tongue. Normally, I’d tell this guy where he could shove that Big Mac, but this case was too important to me to blow it on this asshole.

“Okay, Howie,” Vic said, maintaining a smile. Victor always knows when to turn on the charm. “Just run us through what you know. I still think there’s something we’ve missed along the way that can help me with my case.”

“I talked to Tate,” Barnes said. “He thinks your case is dead. But whatever. I’m on the clock. So what is it you want to know?”

“Just walk us through what happened the night
Aleesha
Maldonado was killed.”

Barnes laughed. “
Aleesha
Maldonado. Even the name sounds like a crack whore. Two ‘e’s. Mother couldn’t even spell.”

Vic smiled. “Please, from the start.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “From the top. She come
walkin
’ up north on Jerome late at night.” Barnes pointed to the south. “She stopped at the bodega and hassled the poor yay-
rab
for a
onesy
.”

“I believe he’s a Sikh,” I said.

“Huh?” Barnes looked dumbfounded.

“He’s Sikh. They’re Indian, not Arab.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

His timing impeccable and temperament unflinching, Vic cut in again, “Let’s not get bogged down. So she tried to buy a single cigarette from the man at the twenty-four-hour bodega.”

“Right. And the guy says he only sells cigarettes by the pack. Says he knew the girl. She walked the streets just about every night and he works behind the bulletproof glass just about every night.”

“Okay.” Vic nodded. “What happened next?”

“One of our blue and whites takes a pass through and tells her to get lost. The usual roust. He didn’t feel like getting out and shaking her down, even though he probably would’ve found some crack and a pipe, at least the pipe. But it was late and she wasn’t
doin
’ nothing special. So he just told her to move on. But while they were talking the officer sees a brown Oldsmobile.”

“Right,” Vic said. “It’s in the report. Still no word on the driver?”

“Nah. Nothing’s turned up. With no plates we pretty much have to wait for him to come back and try and pick up whores again. And if he isn’t the killer, then he got spooked off. My guess is he’s the killer. But like I said, all we have is middle aged white guy in a brown Oldsmobile. Nothing’s turned up.”

“Can we see the crime scene?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why not.”

Barnes tossed the crinkled burger wrapper and walked over to his car. He took a large soda cup out of a cup-holder on the dashboard. He took a long, loud sip, then started walking north on Jerome Avenue.

“This way,” he said, not looking back at us but waving us forward.

We followed Barnes up a side street, then he turned left and up a second side street. From our vantage point, we could see the elevated train that ran over Jerome Avenue but couldn’t quite see the road. Between us and the train platform, there was a vacant lot filled with overgrown grass patches with far more weeds than grass.

“We found her in here.” He walked into the lot. There was a shed with concrete blocks for a foundation that didn’t look too sturdy. Barnes walked up to it. “One of her crack whore friends found her. Went in there to smoke up in peace and smelled something foul. She probably wouldn’t have called the cops on her own. A cruiser just happened to come through and saw her puking, then got out to investigate. There wasn’t much left of the girl.”

“Right,” I said. “That was in your report, too.”

“So, the private dick read my report.”

“Like I told you,” Vic said. “Hank and I are very old friends.”

“Makes no difference to me. Yeah, it’s in the report. The whore was dead for only two days, but decomposed like it’d been a lot longer. They’re lucky they were able to ID her at all.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, then asked, “What about the man at the bodega? He give you anything else?”

“Nothing of value.”

“Okay.”

“We think the killer walked down this way through the lot after he was done with her.”

“Really?” I asked. “Why would he do that?”

“Must have parked his car on Jerome. We found footprints in the mud. About a size ten men’s boot. Had to be him.”

I looked at Vic, but didn’t say anything.

“Can we retrace his steps?” I asked.

“You guys can do whatever you want. I
ain’t
walking through there. There’s nothing in there but rats and garbage. And I don’t like the smell of either.”

“Okay. Well thanks for the information.” Vic said.

Barnes walked back out to the quiet side street, and Vic and I walked slowly through the lot. It sloped downwards towards the busy street below. There was a lot of garbage: empty barrels, cigarette packs and beer bottles, mostly. We kept our eyes at the ground, looking for anything of interest, although not expecting to find much.

“That make sense to you, Vic?”

“You mean the guy cutting through here?”

“Yeah. If he followed her up here, why would he do it on foot? Makes no sense.”

“Seems unlikely.”

“Brown Oldsmobile was out cruising for hookers, but he isn’t our guy.”

“Maybe not, Hank.”

“I want to talk to the Sikh man at the bodega.”

“Sure. But Bronx Homicide already spoke to the guy.”

“Have you?”

Vic smiled. “No. It wasn’t my case.”

“Yeah, but you think it may be now?”

“Okay, let’s go talk to the guy. It couldn’t hurt.”

The footing was a little shaky, as the slope of the hill became steeper. Vic and I had to stutter step to keep our balance, but we made it safely to the bottom, and emerged on Jerome Avenue, about a half a block north of the McDonald’s.

We walked south, passed by the restaurant and continued to the bodega. The owner was standing out in front of the store. Once he noticed us, he quickly walked towards us.

“Hello, officers. Let’s walk this way.” He smiled and made eye contact with me, then with Victor and said, “I don’t want my customers to be getting nervous. You understand. People are wary of police in this neighborhood.”

I nodded.

“Not myself, of course. I like to see police come by my store, it makes me feel better. But nothing clears my store faster than a cop walking in. It’s just a fact of life for me.”

“Not a problem.” We turned, and started walking north on Jerome, away from his store. “I’m Hank Mondale. This is Detective Victor Ortega.”