Fourth Victim (8 page)

He climbed back up into the tugboat’s cab, put the quarter tip in the ashtray, and looked at the next delivery ticket. He didn’t really see what it said. Maybe invisibility was contagious.

Normally, Healy wouldn’t’ve been thrilled to see that the Suffolk cop from breakfast was back at the firehouse after lunch. He didn’t know about the rest of Kings Park, but it did seem to have the best protected firehouse on Long Island. Healy decided to put the cop to work, if not for the county, then for him and Joe.

“Jeff, right?” Healy asked, walking up to the cop.

“Right.”

Jeff was young, a real muscle-head who liked wearing his uniform shirt tight and spent as much time out of his unit posing as doing anything else. Healy knew the type. Out here they could survive their twenty years. In the city they tended to get chewed up and spit out.

Healy walked up to him conspiratorially. “Listen, Jeff, a piece of advice.”

“What?” The kid squeezed a lot of the wrong kind of attitude into that one syllable.

“You know what I used to do for a living?” “How would I know and why would I care?” “I was a detective.”

“Yeah. Macy’s or Sears?”

“That’s funny. No, NYPD.”

“How was Traffic Control in the city?”

“You missed your calling, kid.” Healy called him that purposefully. “No, but close. Internal Affairs.”

The kid tried to look completely unaffected, but mentioning IA gets a rise out of every cop, civilians too. While the young cop didn’t exactly blanch, a little of the piss went out of him.

“There some message here for me?” He stuck his chest out in an act of physical defiance.

“You know any of the Suffolk County DAs?”

“Some.”

“My last name’s Healy. Healy, like George Healy.” Now came the blanching, and the kid got that panicky look even innocent people get when they’re not sure what they’ve gotten caught up in. “I didn’t do nothing,” said the cop.

Christ, Healy thought, how many times had he heard people say those same words in just the same tone and how few times was it true?

“Calm down, Jeff. I really am doing you a favor. What I want to tell you is that I think this firehouse, cozy as it is, could use a little less protecting than the rest of Kings Park. Better I tell you than some other citizen calling into the Fourth Precinct. You don’t wanna have your supervising sergeant start watching you. That’s how bad things start.”

“I hear you. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Healy slapped the kid on the back and gave him a big smile. He had him right where he wanted him. “Listen, Jeff, could you do me a favor.”

F
or the first time in a long time, Healy wasn’t there when Serpe got back to the yard. It was odd not having him around. You get used to people in spite of yourself, Joe thought, and all the loss in the world can’t teach you how to undo that. He had cashed out John and Anthony, paid them for the week, watched a little TV, checked and re-checked the tank valves on the trucks, swept the office floor, and then ran out of ways to avoid going home. He was about to lock up the office and close the yard gates when Healy pulled up. Joe looked out the trailer window, then sat in the quiet office listening to the car door slam, the crunch of his partner’s footsteps, the chuffing of Healy’s soles against the steps, the creak of the door.

“I caught you. Good,” Healy said.

“So, anything?”

“Everything maybe.”

“How so?”

“I think your instincts were right. There’s something going on in that body shop.” “Yeah, but what?”

“I like somebody in the shop for Jimenez.”

“That’s a helluva a leap there, Bob.”

Healy explained about the body shop’s being on credit stop and how Noonan lived in Mastic.

“It’s a long way from not being able to buy fenders from Honda to homicide,” Joe said.

“Maybe, but maybe not. Noonan lives five blocks from where we found the body.”

“How do you know that?”

“A Suffolk cop ran some tag numbers and sheets for me when I was at the firehouse.”

“And you got him to do this how?”

“I said pretty please.”

“You threatened him?”

“Something like that. Hank Noonan’s been in the system since he was a kid, drugs mostly, some other petty shit. Probably drove his old man crazy. But he’s got a real hard case working for him, a guy named William Burns. He has an up close and personal knowledge of the New York State Department of Corrections. Among other things, he did a long bid for assault with a deadly weapon.”

“You got a name and address on the blond?” Joe asked.

“Sure. Debbie Hanlon. Lives right over here in Farmingville.”

“I wonder what she does with her Saturday nights.”

“You’re thinking we should find out, huh?”

“I am,” Joe said. “You think we should bring your brother into this or—I can’t believe I’m saying this—Hoskins?”

“Hoskins, huh? You know, now that you mention the prick, was he at the wake?”

“He was there, all right. I got the bruises to prove it. But that’s another story. I met Monaco’s sister too. First, let’s figure this shit out.”

“Before I talk to my brother, let’s talk to the girl. Shake her up a little and see what falls out of the tree. If what’s going on at Noonan’s isn’t related to the murders, I can always get word of it to someone in the Suffolk PD without involving George.”

Joe looked at the clock. “Okay, let’s get something to eat and give Debbie Hanlon time to get home.”

The red Civic two-door pulled onto the cracked blacktop at 47 Tulip Avenue at a little after 7:30. A motion sensitive floodlight popped on and made it that much easier for Serpe and Healy, parked across the street, to watch Debbie Hanlon. The blond pushed open the driver’s side door with her leg and got out of the car carrying a large drink and a bag of KFC. She hip-checked the door shut and took a slow stroll around the car. She put the bag down on the welcome mat, fished the mail out of the box without looking at it and tucked it under her arm. She fumbled with the the front door key before finally getting the door open, picked up the chicken, and went inside the empty little house.

They waited until she got inside and had a chance to relax. They wanted to throw a scare into her, but not push her to do something stupid or dangerous. They wanted to knock her off balance, not run her over. The fact was that detectives, even good ones, were sometimes wrong about their hunches. They were on a fishing expedition and couldn’t afford to have it go wrong.

Bob Healy knocked firmly but politely, shield in hand, Joe Serpe over his right shoulder. Although you are supposed to turn in your shield when you retire, detectives often suffered convenient lapses of memory when the time came. Healy had suffered such a lapse. Joe Serpe hadn’t gotten the chance. He had been forced to hand his gun and shield over on the day he was arrested. The man he handed them to was Detective Bob Healy. Looking back, that was only a small irony in the scheme of things.

The door pulled back. There was recognition and resignation in her face.

“Come on in,” is all she said.

There were no questions, no protests, no hysterics. It didn’t matter to her that the shield was wrong or that one man didn’t seem to have one. The defeat was immediate and apparent in Debbie Hanlon’s suddenly mournful brown eyes. Both ex-cops knew the look. She was intimate with defeat. She expected it. And now that it had come, she was, if not happy, then relieved. She turned and walked through her small, darkened house into the kitchen and slumped into a chair at the table. The strong smell of fried chicken filled up the whole house, but Debbie seemed to have lost her appetite and swept the food into the garbage.

She pointed at Serpe. “Billy figured you for a cop right away.”

“That was Burns with the moustache?” Joe asked. “Where was Noonan?”

“In the back office. There’s an office behind the shop.” Now she looked up at Healy. “I’m surprised at you. You seemed nice.”

“I am nice.”

“No, you’re a cop.”

Healy changed subjects. “Your house?”

“My mom’s. She moved down south last year.”

“Listen, Debbie,” Joe said, “we’re not here to give you grief.”

“You’d have to take a number to do that anyway.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be so bitter?” Healy said.

“I didn’t know you had to be of age.”

“But you have such a beautiful smile.”

“I guess I shoulda been a clown then.”

Joe pointed to his chest indicating that he wanted to question Debbie for the next few minutes.

“Like I said, we’re not here to cause you trouble,” Joe said. “Why do cops always say that? It’s stupid.”

“We’re here about the murder.”

“What murder?” she asked, her expression unchanging. “Alberto Jimenez, the driver from Epsilon Energy.”

“I told you I did’t know nothing about that.”

“Why say that when we know you do?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“Come on, Debbie. We know the shop’s in trouble, that you guys are on credit hold with all your suppliers. We know that Hank’s been in trouble with the law and that Billy’s done hard time.”

“So what? That don’t equal killing nobody.”

“Look, it’s not hard to figure. Hank’s cash poor and desperate. Billy comes to him and says he’s got a way to fix that in the short run. With all these oil drivers getting killed, what’s one more robbery? Maybe they didn’t mean to kill Albie and things just got outta hand. Maybe the guy put up more of a fight than they expected. We understand how it can happen. It happens that way a lot. If that’s what happened, you need to tell us so we can tell the DA.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, nervously combing her hair back as she had at the shop. “I got nothing to say to you guys.”

“This is an unofficial visit, Debbie.” It was Healy’s turn again. “Next time it won’t be. You talk to us now and we can protect you, keep you completely out of it. Maybe you can save Hank and Billy a few years inside. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about them, but I do about you.”

“You sound like every guy I was ever with before I sucked his cock. They all care about you until they come. Then afterwards I turn back into the fat girl. So get outta here. I got nothing to say to you.”

Joe grabbed her broken finger away from her hair. “We didn’t do this to you, Debbie. Remember that.”

“I told you, I slammed it—”

“—in a car door. Yeah right.”

“Get out!”

“Debbie,” Joe said, squeezing her finger a bit, “I don’t know which one of them you’re hot for or which one broke your finger, but they’ve killed before and they’ll kill again to protect themselves. If you’re not gonna talk to us, be smart, don’t go to them and tell them we were here. Bob, give her a card.”

Healy handed her one of his old cards from the job, his home and cell numbers written on the back. “Call me, Debbie, anytime,” he said. “I’d like to be able to do something for you.”

“Why don’t you just ask me for a blow job. It’d be easier.” She ripped the card to pieces and threw them in the air like confetti.

“That was dumb, Debbie, and that scares me,” Healy said, giving her another card. “You’re not dumb. Let us help you. And watch what you say to these guys. My partner’s right. Once you start killing, you might as well keep going.”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t rip up the card either, slipping it into her back pocket.

Serpe made it a point to smoke his tires as he pulled away from the curb. They wanted to show Debbie Hanlon that the cops couldn’t get away from her fast enough. They’d gone fast, but not very far. Serpe eased up behind Healy’s car parked two blocks away on Ridgewood.

“How long you think it took her to get on the phone?” Healy asked.

“What’s the world record?”

“I don’t know, but I think she just set it.”

“We better get back over there. Don’t forget to park down the block on the opposite side of the street. Shut your headlights off and let the car roll to a stop.”

“You know, Joe, most of the time it doesn’t bother me, you’re treating me like I wasn’t a real cop. But remember, I was good enough to put people away who knew all the rules and all the angles. I was good enough to get you and your partner. Try and keep that in mind the next time we’re working on something like this together,” he said, sliding out of the car and leaving that balloon of poison gas in his place.

Serpe didn’t know what to say, but even if he had, it was too late. Healy was in his own car and gone. What Joe did know was that the time was fast approaching when him and Bob Healy were going to have to have that talk they’d both been avoiding for months. You could float that balloon of poison gas only so many times before someone took a pin to it.

It didn’t take long for the push they gave Debbie Hanlon to rebound. A little before 9:00, a fully pimped out Ford F-150 with a low rider suspension sped down Tulip and came to a stop in front of number 47. If the array of neon chassis lights, lime green and purple paint job weren’t quite conspicuous enough, the earth rattling thump thump thumping of electronic bass that pounded out of the pickup’s cab was guaranteed to get everyone’s attention. The bass was so overwhelming, it completely swallowed up the throaty rumble of a Harley from the next block over. When the Ford’s driver killed the ignition, Serpe’s teeth were still vibrating.

The driver got out of the cab and looked around with distracted eyes that didn’t seem to notice Joe sitting in his dark car a bit further up the block. Hank Noonan was a runty looking white boy dangling a cigarette from his lips and ill-fitting jeans from his hips. He wore a flat-billed Yankee’s cap with the NY logo skewed to the left of the hat and a silver satin jacket, NOONAN’S COLLISION stitched in red across the back. He ambled over to the blond’s front door with a gait that was part gangsta, part gangster, but mostly ridiculous. Serpe waited until Noonan went inside before calling Healy.

“Guess that’s Noonan, huh?” Healy asked.

“Gotta be.”

“What a clown. When you figure Burns to show?”

Before Healy even finished his question, Joe got the sick feeling in his belly that, unlike his hunches, was never wrong.

“What does Burns drive?” Serpe was screaming into the phone, but couldn’t help himself. “What does Burns drive?”

“What are you shouting—”

“What does Burns drive?”

“An old Harley chopper, why?”

Serpe was out of his car and running across the street,. 9mm in his right hand. Seeing this, Healy was out of his car too, weapon drawn, running to the house. Serpe was at the end of the driveway when a rapid succession of six or seven flashes lit up the front bay window. Each flash came with a loud bang. Joe froze for a second, just long enough for Healy to catch up and for darkness to settle back over the inside of the house.

“Fuck.” Joe whispered. “Take the house.”

Serpe, tucking the Glock into the pocket of his leather jacket, headed for the fence to the backyard. Before getting wounded, he’d have been able to put his hands on the cross bar and vault it. Now he was forced to slowly scale the four foot high cyclone fence and make sure to land on his good leg. Over the fence, between the house on one side and an overgrown hedge on the other, it was hard to see more than five feet ahead. But he heard a rapid thudding of footsteps and the distinctive groan and chinking of cyclone fencing as it strained against the weight of someone slamming against it.

Pulling the gun out of his pocket as he went, Serpe took off toward the back fence. His toe snagged on a hedge root and he went sprawling, the gravel chewing up the clenched fingers of his gun hand and the palm of his other. As he fell, there was a flash, a bang, something hissed and whistled over his head. Serpe rolled quickly to his right, pressing himself as tightly to the outside wall of the house as he could. There was a second flash, a bang, and the gravel spit up at him. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding out of his chest.

There was no third flash. The fence groaned again and, as Serpe rolled over, he could just make out Billy Burns straddling the top of the six foot tall backyard fence. As Burns swung his other leg over the fence, Serpe made a desperate run at him. He missed, but the force with which Joe hit the fence sent Burns flying. He hit the concrete patio in the adjoining backyard with a nasty thud and something snapped; more likely a bone than branch.

Burns screamed in pain and ran, cursing loudly as he went. Serpe tried to climb the fence to go after him, but the blood on his hands made it slow going. Just as Serpe finally got to the top of the fence, Burns’ Harley roared to life and this time there was no thumping bassline to dampen the rumble. By the time Serpe had one leg over the fence, Burns was gone. When he got down off the fence, he found an old Army issue Browning. 45. He left it where Burns had tossed it and limped through the open backdoor of the house.