Fourth Victim (20 page)

I
t was an anniversary both dark and light; exactly one year ago to the day that Serpe’d received the late day call to make an emergency delivery up in Kings Park to someone named Healy. Later that evening, the Russians caught the hose monkey hiding in the oil yard and beat him to death. The monsters left him to rot in the sludge at the bottom of the International’s tank, the tank that still held Gigi’s money. Frank had taken Joe to Lugo’s that night for a drink before they headed their separate ways. Frank went home to his wife and kids and approaching destiny; Joe to his cat and a bottle of Absolut.

Joe sent John and Anthony home early so they could do what young men did on Valentine’s Day. Bob Healy had the whole day off. He and Blades were up at some ski resort in Vermont and weren’t scheduled back until later that night. Serpe suspected they weren’t doing much skiing up in the Green Mountains. They were up there celebrating Valentine’s Day, Blades’ justly earned promotion, and her transfer from IAB to Brooklyn North Homicide. Shit, Joe thought, a month into a relationship, you really didn’t need an excuse for celebrating.

He put in a call to Gigi to see how she was doing. She’d been transferred to a rehab facility in Connecticut about a week ago and Joe called her every day just to bust her chops and make sure she did her work. He remembered how much he hated that part of his recovery and how much it helped to have Marla around to push him. Joe’d even gotten in touch with Gigi’s last girlfriend and urged her to call and visit. But he wasn’t acting out of guilt. This wasn’t like what had happened to Marla. In fact, the way Joe saw it, Gigi would probably be dead if he hadn’t gotten involved with her. Finn McCauly would have come calling regardless. Given what he’d done to Stanfill in order to get his hands on those pictures, there’s no telling what he would have done to Gigi. Hell, he nearly broke her neck anyway.

Joe shut the trailer lights, set the alarm, closed the door behind him, and padlocked it. It was about five and the sun was still above the horizon, if not by much. Only a month ago, he would have been standing in fallen night. Spring was coming and, for no reason he could explain, that made him really excited. He came down the steps in two strides, checked the trucks to make sure their tank valves were closed, and walked through the gates to chain them shut.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” The voice was familiar, the words were strange.

“Hoskins?” Serpe turned ready for battle. “Calm down, shithead. I’m not here for a fight.”

“Then what?”

“You ever get an itch on the bottom of your foot?”

“What?”

“An itch, you ever get one on the bottom of your foot?” Hoskins repeated.

“Sure.”

“You know when those are the worst? When you’re driving. You like struggle to move your foot inside your shoe and that don’t work. Then you’re reaching down and sticking your finger inside your shoe and you’re trying to drive and that don’t help.”

“Is there a point to this?” Serpe asked, but not too impatiently.

“But you know what’s really frustrating is when you manage to work your way out of your shoe and you can like rub your foot on the car mat or against the corner of the brake pedal and that still don’t help.”

“I know how that feels.”

“Well, Serpe, I got an itch like that, but it ain’t on the bottom of my foot.”

“Sucks.”

“I think you wanna hear about it.”

“You do?”

“I do. You got a hot date with Monaco’s sister?”

“She’s rehabbing her shoulder.”

“Then let me buy you a drink. Lugo’s okay?”

“I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” Serpe heard himself say, but not quite believing it.

This was getting to be a weird tradition, Joe thought, as he pulled into the back lot of the bar. This was the second Valentine’s Day in a row he’d be drinking with a man at Lugo’s. At least he liked Frank. The same could not be said for Hoskins. But for him to approach Joe, never mind ask him for a drink, took a lot. Drinking with your buds was one thing. Drinking with your sworn enemy was something else entirely. As he walked through the parking lot entrance into Lugo’s, Serpe remembered the last time he was there. He imagined he could smell the cloying scent of Kathleen Cummings’ perfume, feel her arms around his neck. Men had sacrificed their left testicles to be with her, so she said. He wondered how much they were willing to sacrifice to get away?

“What are you smiling at?” Hoskins asked Joe as he walked up to the bar.

“The thought of drinking with you.”

“Fuck you, Serpe.”

“That’s more like it.”

“What are you having?”

“Blue Point lager.”

“I got you a Bud. Come on over. I got us a booth in the back.”

“How romantic.”

Hoskins didn’t say fuck you, but he thought it. Serpe could see it spelled out on Hoskins’ jowly face. When they slid into the booth, neither even bothered to make a move to clink bottles. Joe got to it. “About that itch …”

“I got leukemia,” Hoskins said. “Some kind you need lessons for just to pronounce.”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, fuck is right.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe said reflexively.

“Bullshit, but thanks anyways. I started treatment and the doctors got that look on their faces like maybe I shouldn’t invest in that condo in Myrtle Beach. I think that’s why the itch is so bad. If I’m going, I’m not going with this bullshit case hung around my neck. My coffin’s gonna be big enough without having to stuff a fucking albatross in there. I don’t want it on my conscience.”

“You’d need a conscience to worry about that,” Joe said.

“I discovered mine late. About thirty seconds after the doctor told me I had leukemia. World would be a better place if everybody thought they were dying.”

“Everybody
is
dying.”

“Then if they realized it more,” Hoskins said. “So like I said, the itch is bad. I don’t think the Burgess kid killed those drivers.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the news conference?”

“Joe ‘the Snake’ Serpe noticed I wasn’t there. I’m honored.”

“Look, Hoskins, just because you’re dying doesn’t mean I like you any better. So let’s—”

“Okay, you’re right. This is business. No, I missed the press conference because that’s the day the doctor gave me the good news. I thought they were gonna ask me to prepay my bills.”

“Honesty. That’s a start. So what is it about the case that you don’t like?”

“How about everything? I mean, the stuff in the city, the stuff about Burgess and his son, okay, I buy that. I buy the blackmail. What I don’t buy is that it was Khouri Burgess that killed those drivers.”

“Why?”

“The Burgess kid, he strike you as a criminal fucking mastermind?”

“Not really,” Serpe admitted.

“More like a frightened little kid, you ask me. Besides, the case is weak. It’s all circumstantial,” Hoskins said. “They’ve executed people on less.”

“Sometimes they executed the wrong man.”

“I’m listening.”

“We got no physical evidence tying Khouri Burgess to any of the crime scenes. I mean like zero. The piece he killed himself with was a three-fifty-seven. All the oil drivers were done with a nine, the same nine. The NYPD searched high and low and couldn’t find a nine millimeter or anyone who says he ever knew Khouri Burgess to be in possession of one. Christ, Serpe, there’s not even an African-American hair at any of the crime scenes except at the one where the nig—”

“—Cameron Wilkes was murdered.”

“That one, yeah. I did a little canvassing on my own. Went back to Wyandanch, Hagerman, and the other neighborhoods where the murders took place and not one person could remember seeing anyone who looked like Khouri Burgess at all. It’s not like you wouldn’t remember him with that weird freckled fucking skin of his. Remember, the Mets had a player with skin like that a few years back. Butch something.”

“Huskey, Butch Huskey.”

“Right. Him. You remember someone like him walks by you or is hanging on your corner at night. Even nig—black folks remember a face like his and he wasn’t exactly a shrimpy little guy.”

“Okay, I agree with you there,” Serpe said. “That
is
odd.”

“And why make Monaco the fourth victim? That don’t sit right with me. Killing him first or last just calls too much attention to itself.”

“Even if I agreed with you—”

“You don’t?”

“You make some good points. I’m not saying you don’t make some good points, but what does it matter? What do you expect me to do about it?” Joe asked.

“Help me prove it.”

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Serpe thought about it for a minute before answering. “Did you go to your bosses or George Healy with your suspicions?”

“Come on, Serpe. They’re still orgasming over getting this shit wrapped up in a nice bundle. They don’t wanna hear nothing that doesn’t fit in with the story they told the world or the one they told themselves.”

“You’re right. But why come to me? You hate my guts. Last time I checked, you were coldcocking me in the parking lot of a funeral home.”

Hoskins squirmed in his seat. “Look, I don’t wanna marry you or nothing, but I’m not as blind as this lazy fucking eye makes me seem. I saw how you flushed out the Russians and found the retarded kid’s killer. It was you and your partner that found out that the fifth oil murder was a bullshit copycat thing. Shit, if it wasn’t for you and Healy, Burgess would still be preaching this Sunday. And even though I can’t stomach what you did to Ralphy, he used to talk about you all the fucking time. He thought you were the best detective the NYPD had.”

“Enough. Okay. What do you need?”

“Let’s look over the files together,” Hoskins said.

“Me and Healy have been over those files twenty times.”

“Maybe, but it’s been a couple of weeks. We could go to the actual crime scenes together. Maybe you’ll see something I missed.”

“Tomorrow, four pm, my office.” Serpe stood up and took a final pull on his Bud.

Hoskins held out his hand. “Come on, it won’t kill you.”

Serpe shook it. He didn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West, but he wasn’t exactly filled with Christian love for the man either. Too much bad had passed between them to forgive. As he left Lugo’s, he swore to himself that he was going to spend next Valentine’s Day with a woman no matter what it took. Before he left the bar, he made sure Kathleen Cummings was nowhere in sight.

She wasn’t around, but Serpe didn’t quite make it out of the bar. Stan Brock grabbed Joe by the forearm, and when the ex-boxer grabbed you, you tended to stop in your tracks. They shook hands and Stan demanded Joe have a beer on him as payback for the last time. It wasn’t like Joe had anywhere else to get to.

“What’ll you have?”

“Blue Point lager.”

“Hey, Pete. Blue Point and an O’Doule’s here,” Stan called to the barman.

“O’Doule’s! You’re drinking near beer? You quitting, Stan?”

“Nah. I got a date meeting me hear in a few minutes and I want to be straight when she gets here.”

Serpe took a good look at Stan. The ex-pug was in nice black wool slacks and a gray wool sweater. It was the first time he’d ever seen the man out of his work clothes and boots. You could really see his boxer’s build when he wasn’t dressed in coveralls and hoodies. Hell, he even smelled like something other than #2 home heating oil. The barman put the drinks up. They clinked bottles.

“Looking sharp, Stan the Man. Looking sharp.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“So they found out who was killing us,” Brock said, recalling the conversation they’d had the previous month.

“That they did.” Given his bizarre evening to that juncture, Serpe didn’t feel like discussing it further. Brock had other ideas.

“Murder, man. It’s like a fucking virus. Once Cain done in his brother, it spread.”

“You religious, Stan?”

“Me? Nah.”

“A philospher?”

“Yeah, sure. Brock and Plato Home Heating Oil, Incorporated.”

“Sounds good to me,” Joe said. “You hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Jimmy Mazzone’s selling Baseline,” Brock said. “Gastrol bought ‘em out for big big bucks. Millions, I hear.”

“Baseline Energy?”

“Never thought I’d see the day that Jimmy Mazzone would sell out to one of those full service motherfuckers. What’s this business coming to?”

“It’s rough.”

“I guess. Maybe after Stevie got murdered. The wife and the daughter had probably had enough. I heard he was gonna marry the daughter.”

“I heard the same thing.”

“Life’s too short.”

“Watch it, Stan, or that philosophy thing is gonna get around.”

They clinked bottles once more and had a laugh. Joe said his goodbyes and shook Brock’s hand again.

“Thanks for the beer, Stan.” Serpe was about to ask his friend who the lucky woman was when Kathleen Cummings came in through the front door. Brock fairly twitched at the sight of her. “Watch your left nut, bro.”

“What’d you say, Joe?”

“Have a great time. See ya.”

B
ob Healy nearly swallowed his tongue when Hoskins showed up the next day asking for Joe. Serpe hadn’t warned Healy, hadn’t discussed last night. He’d thought about letting his partner in on the news of his alliance with Hoskins, but realized he scarcely believed it himself. Serpe stepped out of the bathroom when he heard the trailer door shut. He checked his watch.

“Four on the nose. Good.”

“I never saw you limp that heavy,” Hoskins said as Healy sat in utterly stunned silence.

“After a full day on the truck … It’ll be better when I’m off it for a little while. Give me and Healy about five.”

“I’ll be outside.”

Healy stared at his partner in disbelief. His mouth moved, but every word he tried to put in it seemed not to fit.

“I’ll explain it to you later, Bob, when I understand it. Is the money right?”

“Fifty cents over.”

“Don’t let the IRS find out. I’ll call you about it later. Right now I gotta go.”

Serpe picked up the cardboard box in which the copies of the homicide files had sat dormant for the last few weeks and left. Healy sat, looked at the door, and shook his head.

Hoskins followed Serpe to his condo in Holbrook. The two of them walked from the parking lot, each with a cardboard box of his own.

“Nice digs,” Hoskins said.

“It’s too big for me, but. Fuck it!”

“I can find her, you know, Marla Stein. I know she split.”

“You’ve been checking up on me?”

“Yeah, for a time there, you were my hobby,” Hoskins confessed. “You gonna ruin a man’s life, you gotta know about that man’s life.”

“Sick kinda logic to that, I guess.”

“The offer stands. I can find her.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve already done her too much harm. You want a drink?”

“JD on the rocks.”

“Coming up.”

Serpe spread the files out on the living room floor, while Hoskins did his work at the dining room table. Joe couldn’t help but think about how empty the place had been since Gigi left. It wasn’t so much that he hungered for Gigi’s presence. It was more that some places are just meant for two. At that moment, there with his former enemy at his table, Serpe decided he’d put the townhouse on the market as soon as he could. Marla had long ago given him her power of attorney.

“This is bullshit!” Joe shouted, his eyes tired and sore. “There’s nothing here.”

“You’re not seeing it.”

“I’m not seeing it because there’s nothing here to see.” Hoskins shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

That only pissed Serpe off. “Are your files any different than mine?” he snarled. “Is there anything in the originals that you left out when you made these copies?”

“My hand to God, what you got is an exact copy of what I got here.” Hoskins swept his thick arm above the files. “Check for yourself. The only thing not here is the actual crime scene evidence and that we’ve got pictures of.”

“Come on,” Serpe said, already throwing on his leather jacket. “Let’s go have a look.”

“At what?”

“At what’s not here.”

They had the plastic bags laid out on a table, no one paying the two of them any mind. Most Suffolk cops gave Hoskins wide berth to begin with and none of them really knew Serpe. Hoskins was right; there wasn’t much evidence. There were the recovered bullets, of course, swaths of bloody clothing, some papers, etc. There were contents from the cabs of all four trucks. Serpe imagined he could smell #2 oil even through the plastic bags.

“How the fuck can you stand that smell all day long?” Hoskins asked. “Christ, it stinks.”

Serpe was glad he wasn’t imagining it. “Like anything else, you get used to it.”

“Does it ever go away?”

“Not really. It’s almost impossible to wash outta your clothes and there’s no getting it out of your head. Is it alright to handle the evidence out of the bags?”

“Here,” Hoskins said, handing Serpe a pair of latex gloves. “Officially, these are still open cases for now. In a few months, when everyone’s moved on and forgotten, they’ll convene some sorta pow wow and declare them closed. My luck, I’ll be dead already. When you wanna look at a different case, I’ll give you new gloves.”

It wasn’t five minutes before Hoskins asked for Joe to come over by him and explain something about the business.

“Serpe, come over here,” he said, a scratched and dented metal ticket box next to him on the table. On the box was a blue plastic label, the name STEVIE in raised white lettering.

“It’s a ticket box. So what? I’ve got one for every truck.”

“What do you keep in it?”

“My drivers have to keep a copy of the BOL—sorry, the bill of lading. That’s how much oil is loaded on the truck at one time. They keep a manifest, which justifies the differences between what’s newly loaded and what’s already on the truck. They have their delivery tickets, trip/inventory card, and whatever non-cash payments they receive. Checks and money orders, that kinda thing.”

“Okay,” Hoskins said, flipping open the ticket box with a pencil in spite of the fact they were both wearing gloves. “So this here is the trip/inventory card.”

“Right. See, the driver writes down after each stop where the delivery was made and how much oil he pumped. And there, next to each entry, he’s marked the method of payment. You can keep a running inventory that way, so you know when you’re running low on oil.”

“Makes sense. And these two sheets are the BOL and the manifest?”

“Right.”

“And these are the delivery tickets, right?” Hoskins fanned ten Baseline Energy tickets across on the table. “Holy fucking shit!”

“What is it?”

“They were prestamping tickets. Look,” Joe said, pulling out two of the tickets. “See, they’re both for the same address: 108 Hilltop Avenue in Brentwood.”

“So what?”

“See this ticket is dirty and the stamp at the top says one-hundred-seventy-eight gallons. That ticket’s been handled by a driver who’s been out working, who’s got grime on his hands and gloves.”

“I see that, yeah.”

“But look, the rest of the ticket is blank; no per gallon price, no tax, no total, no nothing. And see here, the yellow customer copy is still attached beneath the merchant copy. Look carefully at its twin. It’s pristine. It’s all filled out. It’s signed for and the customer copy has been torn out. This ticket was punched by a man with clean hands and fresh gloves. But most importantly, look at the gallons pumped stamp.”

“Two hundred gallons.” A light went on behind Hoskins’ sled dog eyes. “I get it! He’s charging for two hundred gallons, but he’s pumping in twenty-two gallons less. It’s like keeping two sets of books.”

“Bingo! And see the trip/inventory card, the driver wrote down two hundred gallons.”

Some of the steam went out of the cop. “But is it worth killing over? I mean, it’s only twenty-two fucking gallons.”

“It’s more,” Joe said, pulling out another pair of twin tickets. “That’s thirty more gallons. Now we’re up to fifty gallons. That’s two phony tickets outta ten. Baseline’s got eight trucks. They go out seven days a week in the winter. You do the math and tell me if it’s worth killing over.”

“I seen people kill for less, a lot less.”

“Me too. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Last night after you split, a friend of mine, an old timer in the business bought me a beer. He told me that Jimmy Mazzone is selling Baseline to Gastrol.”

“So what?”

“The sale price of an oil company is based upon the average gallons pumped over a two or three year period. You get like a buck a gallon, give or take. We’re talking millions of dollars here, Hoskins. Shit, my little rinky-dink outfit is gonna pump a few hundred thousand gallons this year. So if Mazzone has been doing this for years, it’s major fraud. He’s been shorting customers on one end and inflating his pumping figures on the other. What if Steve Reggio got a guilty conscience and planned on going to the authorities or to Gastrol?”

“But this Stevie guy was engaged to Mazzone’s daughter.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “And Khouri Burgess just murdered his own father and blew his head off. Under normal circumstances, neither thing happens. But neither situation is normal.”

“Okay, so he kills the kid, but you think he killed three innocent men just to cover it up?”

“Why not? It’s the same theory everyone was working on for why Monaco was killed, right? Rusty was the real target and the other drivers were killed to obscure that fact. Maybe we were right, but about the wrong victim. Besides, once you’ve killed your son-in-law to be, I figure it’s gotta get easier.”

“Even if I buy this, and I’m not saying I do, why would Mazzone leave the tickets there for the world to see? Why not destroy the evidence?”

“Maybe he didn’t have it planned out. Maybe he went to throw a scare into the kid, but Stevie wouldn’t listen. They struggle.
Bang
! The kid is dead. Somehow, I don’t think Mazzone’s first thought is to clean out the ticket box with his daughter’s fiance bleeding out at his feet. Besides, by making it look like a robbery, he must’ve figured the cops would focus on that, not on fraud.”

“He was right. I didn’t know what the double tickets meant.”

“Come on, we got some photocopying to do.”