Fourth Victim (4 page)

“Yeah. Green and white Ford L8000 … looks like an Epsilon Energy truck. What would an Epsilon truck be doing way the fuck out here? They’re strictly a North Shore outfit and don’t deliver this far east. I don’t see an ambulance or the ME’s wagon. I thought you said there was another homicide.”

“Trust me, partner, there was another homicide,” Healy said.

“I don’t know. Maybe one of their drivers got lost or something.”

“Follow me.”

About five feet past the front end of his car, Healy turned into the tall reeds. Serpe trailed a few yards behind.

“I can smell the oil from here,” Joe said

When Healy was sure Serpe had caught up, he popped on his flashlight and aimed it at the ground near Serpe’s feet.

“Holy shit!” Joe jumped back at the sight of Albie Jimenez’s body laying face-up and still half covered by the blue plastic tarp. “See what I mean about that other murder?” “It’d be hard not to. How’d you find him?”

“Dumb luck. I followed the cops here, but I wanted to stay far enough back so they wouldn’t notice me. When I came to take a leak, I nearly fell over the poor bastard.”

Serpe got down on his hands and knees, grabbing the flashlight out of his partner’s hand. “I don’t know him, but he’s wearing their uniform and he smells like home heating oil. Alberto,” Joe read the name stitched into the green Epsilon coveralls. “Somebody made mashed potatoes outta his skull. The other four victims were shot, right?”

“Nine mills, either in the chest or the back of the head. At least that’s what it said in the paper. They musta dumped the body here, ditched the truck over there, and split.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Doesn’t fit, huh?”

“None of it does. I guess we gotta go tell the cops,” Joe said, getting to his feet.

“Not so fast, Joe. I think maybe we better just phone this one in anonymously.”

“Why?”

“Because Tim Hoskins is the lead detective.”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah,” Healy seconded, “fuck.”

T
hey sat across the desk from each other, sipping their 7/Eleven coffees and reading the paper. A grainy photo of Alberto Jimenez was on the front page of
Newsday,
but there were scant details about the latest victim or the methods used by the newly dubbed Oilman Murderer. Some hotshot at the copy desk was probably jerking off over having come up with that one. It wasn’t as catchy as Zodiac or Son of Sam nor were the victims teenage girls or prostitutes. Still, nothing gets the news media’s juices flowing like a serial killer. Healy put his paper down.

“Anything about the anonymous phone call?”

“Nope.”

“I see you’re not dressed for delivering oil. Nice suit, Joe.”

“Marla picked it out.”

“I haven’t wanted to ask, but—”

“It’s okay,” Joe said, his expression belying his words. “She’s living back home with her folks. She lost her job.” “That sucks. Is she getting help?”

“Yeah, but it’s not helping. This Post-traumatic shit doesn’t go away overnight. I’ve been reading about it on the internet. Christ, Bob, she’s a fucking psychologist and still it doesn’t mean a thing. Those Russian motherfuckers ruined her. Getting involved with me ruined her.”

Healy didn’t say a word. Joe was punishing himself over Marla the same way he had punished himself over Mary. He understood that it was worse for Joe. Marla was still alive and slipping further and further out of Joe’s reach. And the ugly truth was, Serpe was right. If Marla hadn’t gotten involved with him, the Russians couldn’t have used her as leverage.

“Do you know how many times they threatened to kill her that night? That sick fuck Pavel stuck his hand inside her and made her lick his fingers off while he held a knife to her throat, he beat her, held a gun to her head. For chrissakes, Bob, they made her watch a guy being hacked to pieces with a chainsaw. A fucking chainsaw!” Joe bit his fist in frustration. “By the time she moved out, she wouldn’t let me touch her. She’d wake up screaming. She was scared all the time. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Not a fucking thing!”

“But there is something you can do about this!” Healy said, slapping his hand against the front page of the paper. “You’re the one with the debt here, partner, not me. Try and remember that. So what’s the plan?”

“I’m going to start casting the big net, asking around all the companies who lost a driver. Maybe there’s a link the cops aren’t seeing. With Hoskins catching the cases, that wouldn’t surprise me. Then I’m going to pay a call to the Monacos.”

“And me?”

“You get the easy part.”

“I’m gonna love this.” Healy rolled his eyes.” I can tell already.”

“You’re gonna call your little brother George the ADA and get all the info on the homicides that they’re not printing in the papers.”

“Oh, is that all? Should I also sprout wings and fly like an angel? That would be easier.”

“The wings are optional.”

“Fuck you.”

“While you’re at it, call your homies at IAB and get a hold of Monaco’s jacket.”

“That I can do. It won’t be easy, but—”

The phone rang and Healy answered, “Mayday Fuel, good morning.” When he turned back around, Joe Serpe was gone.

While most drivers got along, the owners of COD oil companies weren’t exactly part of a tight knit community. These were small operations run by fiercely competitive men who’d chop their own profit margines down to nothing to steal a customer from the next guy. So while Serpe had engendered a lot of good will when he was a driver and by clearing the Russian mob out of the COD oil business, not many of his fellow owners were apt to roll out the red carpet when he came calling.

Baseline Energy on Long Island Avenue in Holtsville had been the first company to lose a driver back in late November. It was the first cold week of the heating season and Steve Reggio was doing night deliveries so customers wouldn’t get caught short on Thanksgiving. The cops found his body alongside his truck on a dead end block in Hagerman where it bordered North Bellport. He’d taken two bullets to the chest and one to the back of the head. They figure the killer got away with about twenty-five hundred bucks in cash.

Baseline Energy was a profitable company. Unlike Joe and Bob’s dusty yard, Baseline’s was blacktop paved and their offices were housed in a neat little concrete bunker. Their eight trucks were all newer than Mayday’s ragtag fleet of four. Many of the trucks were just rolling out of the yard on their way to load when Serpe pulled up. He waited for the trucks to leave before heading into the office.

There were two women—mother and daughter, he figured—answering the phones when Joe stepped inside the office door. The mom was in her fifties and trying way too hard to hide her age with a raven black dye job, skin-tight clothes, and a layer of makeup so thick it could’ve been peeled off like a rubber mask. She wasn’t unattractive, but Joe thought all the hedging just made her look older. The daughter was maybe twenty, came by her black hair naturally, and had everything else her mom aspired to.

“Can I help you?” Mom asked, putting down the phone.

“Is Jimmy in?” “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Joe Serpe from Mayday Fuel.”

“Oh yeah, you’re the guy that killed the Russians last year, right? I read all about that in the paper. Good riddance, but it was a shame about that retarded kid.”

“Yeah, he was a good kid.” Joe took the opening. “Shame about Stevie. I knew him a little bit from the terminal and Lugo’s. A real sweetheart and a good looking boy.”

The daughter blanched. The phones started ringing again, but both mother and daughter ignored them. Finally, the mother shouted for her daughter to pick up.

“I’m Marie, Jimmy’s wife,” said the mom, offering her hand to Joe. “You have to forgive Toni, that’s my girl, she and Stevie.”

“I understand.”

“I hope they string that cocksucker up—Pardon my French—when they find him. But the kids were engaged and when they got married, Jimmy was gonna make him a partner. Now.”

Both mother and daughter had tears streaming down their faces and no one was answering the phones.

“I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here.”

Now suspicion crept into the eyes of mother and daughter along with pain and grief. Marie stood up and came around the desk like a mother lion ready to protect her young. Joe put his hands up, palms forward.

“Listen, ladies, I’m not here to cause you any pain or anything or to try and take advantage of your grief.”

“Then why are—”

“If you read that stuff about the Russians last year, then maybe you know that me and my partner used to be NYPD detectives; pretty good ones, at that.”

The daughter unclenched her body, but the mother wasn’t letting down her guard just yet. “So what’s that got to do with anything?” she asked. “You know they found another dead driver last night.” “I heard it on the news this morning, yeah.”

“That’s five of us, Marie. Two in the last few days. Rusty Monaco, the fourth victim, I used to be on the job with him and I guess when he was killed. I mean, how many more of us are gonna have to get killed before the cops find this guy?”

Marie relaxed, finally. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. Milk, no sugar.”

“I’m kinda glad, I guess, that someone else is gonna look into this. That detective who came and talked to us was kinda an asshole,” she said, replacing the pot.

“Big, red-faced guy with a funky eye, named Hoskins?”

“Yeah, him,” she said, handing Joe the Baseline Energy mug. “Toni, answer the phones while I talk in the office with Mr. Serpe.”

Bob Healy assumed getting hold of Rusty Monaco’s records, though not strictly kosher or legal, would be easily done. He still had a lot of friends with juice inside NYPD IAB and anything that might help catch a cop killer—even if that cop was a mutt like Monaco—was probably doable. Skip Rodriguez, Healy’s former partner, promised to give him a call when the copies were ready to be picked up. That meant a trip into Brooklyn and a few drinks at Cloudy Dan’s bar—on Bob Healy’s tab, of course—with Skip. Although Rodriguez was a bit of a cutthroat, Bob missed him and looked forward to hanging out at Cloudy Dan’s.

Dealing with Suffolk County Assistant District Attorney George Healy was a very different kettle of sharks. Several years younger than his brother and more ambitious by half, George had risen to the head of the Major Crimes Unit and prosecuted most of the headline cases, such as they were, in the county. When that East Hampton billionaire got clubbed to death by his wife and her handyman lover, it was George’s case. And when the cops finally brought in the Oilman Murderer, it would no doubt be George’s case to try. It wouldn’t help Bob’s cause that his brother hated Joe Serpe and resented him for his interference in the Russian mob case nearly as much as Hoskins did.

“Major Crimes Unit, ADA Healy,” George said, distracted. “Please hold a second.”

Bob heard his brother cover the phone with his hand.

“Hey, little brother.”

George hated when Bob called him that. “What is it?” “Late breakfast?”

“Sure,” he said, trying to get Bob off the phone. “Where?” “What are you in the mood for?” “A month’s vacation in Tuscany.”

“Sorry. How about the diner in Hauppauge in forty minutes.” “I’ll be there.”

Joe Serpe had worn the same grave look of concern on his face for nearly thirty minutes, interrupting his trance with the occasional
I see
or
time heals.
He’d gotten all the useful information out of Marie Mazzone in about five minutes, but he hadn’t wanted to upset her anymore than she already was. Now, however, she had moved way beyond the murder to complaints about her husband’s inattentiveness. So when the office door swung back, Serpe almost clicked up his heels. That was until he saw the look on Jimmy Mazzone’s face.

“What the fuck you doin’ sniffin’ around my business?”

“He was just asking about Stevie,” Marie jumped to Serpe’s defense, which pissed Jimmy off even more.

“Did I ask you? Get out there and answer the fuckin’ phones.”

Marie didn’t argue. She got up, nodded so long to Serpe, and brushed by her sneering husband.

“So now that your lawyer’s gone, you wanna answer my—”

“Your wife was right. I came by to ask about Steve Reggio’s murder. Fact is, I came in to talk to you. Ask your daughter.”

“I don’t have to ask my daughter shit. Now get outta here. Stevie’s dead and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that. You just worry about your own shop and let me worry about me and mine.”

“Whatever you say, Jimmy.”

Serpe got up and walked past Mazzone into the front office. “Bye ladies. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Joe didn’t linger. He thought Jimmy’s level of belligerence was a little over the top, but he’d worry about that later. For now, he had other owners to piss off.

The diner called attention to itself like a fake twenty carat diamond ring. Beneath the flash and glitz, it was nothing more than a luncheonette. George Healy was already in the lobby, pacing the terrazo and checking his watch, when his brother came in.

“You’re late,” George said.

“I’m five minutes early.”

“Like I said, you’re late.”

“And mom always thought I was the crazy one. Come on, let’s sit.”

Bob Healy was careful not to say anything about the purpose of this meeting until they had ordered their food.

“A half a melon, dry toast, and green tea! Christ, George, you an assitant district attorney or a model?”

“Very funny, big brother,” he said as the waitress walked away. “And by the way, the answer is no.”

“The answer to what?”

“Come on, Bob, don’t play dumb with me. It doesn’t suit you. A fifth driver was killed last night and you’re partnered up with the hero of the oil business, Joe ‘the Snake’ Serpe.”

“Okay, you got me, so—”

“There’s no
so
here, brother. The only reason I even agreed to this meeting was to tell you that this is the first and last conversation we’re ever going to have about these homicides. When the Suffolk PD catches this guy—and they will catch him—I’ll be the one to prosecute the case. I can’t be seen to have given out any information to—”

“You sound pretty confident, little brother. I figure they’ll catch him eventually too, if he doesn’t die of old age or run out of drivers first. You know who the lead detective is, huh?”

“Hoskins,” George mumbled, frowning.

“Bingo! The same prick who would be tripping over his own shoe laces while the Russian mob murdered women and children and took over the COD oil business. Yeah, him.”

“That’s outta my hands, Bob, and you know it. Even if I agreed with everything you just said, I couldn’t help you with this.”

Bob Healy stood up and threw a twenty dollar bill on the table. “Where are you going?” George asked. “Back to work. I just lost my appetite.”

Serpe was on his way to his third stop of the day, Five Star Fuel, but he couldn’t get the second stop out of his head. Panther Oil was out of business. An ancient cab-over Ford with a for sale sign in its dirty front window sat out by the empty, gated yard collecting dust and very little interest. Joe knew it had been a small operation, but hadn’t realized that Cameron Wilkes, the second victim, was running a one man show. Most everyone knew and liked Wilkes, one of the few African-American owner/drivers in the business. For fifteen years he drove for other companies before taking the leap this past September. They found him dead in Wyandanch in the first week of December. Fifteen hard years for three months of independence. Joe wondered if it was worth it.

Five Star was a one star operation run by Tommy Breen, a man as popular as a bad case of the crabs. His drivers were all head cases and nasty to boot. His equipment was worse. Five Star had a raggedy six truck fleet that was kept running with duct tape and prayers. Oil trucks carry hazardous material, but Five Star’s trucks were themselves hazardous. They were all scavenged rebuilds whose parts had seen better days during the first Reagan administration. And Breen’s idea of fleet maintainance included the use of retreaded rubber on front tires, which was strictly forbidden by law. He was also known to run his trucks with heating oil—essentially diesel fuel—which was also completely illegal. Yet, Five Star seemed never to get anymore grief from the IRS, Department of Transportaion, or New York State Department of Environmental Protection than any of the other COD operators.