CHAPTER NINE

It started off as a good Monday morning. The weekend was slow, meaning that Eva and Jimmy didn't get called to respond to any homicides over the weekend. Normally, that alone would make a good start to their week. But today, the lack of new investigations meant that they could focus solely on the murders and robbery of the three drug dealers in the empty house. This was mixed news because, while they didn't wish anyone harm, they would have gladly welcomed a distraction from such a tough case.

"Can you believe this shit," Eva asked Jimmy.

"What's up?"

"I got a message here from the owners of the house," Eva said. "They want to know when we'll be done with our investigation so that they can get the house back on the market."

"That's sad and funny at the same time," Jimmy replied.

"Detective Smith? Detective Burke?"

Eva and Jimmy both looked up from their desks.

"Morning, captain," Eva said slowly.

"Captain," Jimmy said.

"I've been getting some questions from the bosses. Do you guys have any updates on the three dead dealers?"

Eva spoke up, "We're hoping to get over to Queens today. We've got a line on some associates of the local dealer, Darnell Odom. We're also hoping to locate Lamar Tate, Odom's partner, who we think might have been there with him. So far, our working theory is that Tate used outside help, some people with military training, to crash the party so that he can go into business for himself."

"Hope is a pretty poor tactic, detective," the captain said. "Hey, Jimmy. I had a chance to work with your father back when I was in Patrol. Hell of a detective."

To Jimmy, the remark seemed like an unspoken suggestion that he was currently falling short of his family legacy.

"I heard that a dealer over in Harlem was taken out Friday night. Seems to be a rival that did the hit. But, there are some questions about the tactics that were used in the hit. You guys might want to reach out to Manhattan North if you get some free time. See if anything interesting stands out."

Ortiz reached out to the Rabbi and, with minimal detail, explained that one of his guys needed a new departmental-issue bulletproof vest. He asked if the Rabbi would make a phone call to authorize the replacement. But, the Rabbi explained, that would cause waves and possibly garner more attention than if he just signed off on an incident report to go with the vest. They agreed to meet up later in the day to get the paperwork signed.

Assistant Chief Jeffrey Miles hung up the phone after talking with Ortiz and opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a silver-framed picture of a young, blonde-haired girl in a high school cheerleader uniform. The face in the picture, with a beaming smile and sparkling eyes, stared back hauntingly. He said out loud, "I'm trying, Jenny. I don't know who it was that sold you that crap. But I'll see every one of them dead." Tears welled up in his eyes as he gently placed the picture back in the drawer.

After twenty-one years in the NYPD, Miles had fought and clawed his way up the chain of command, currently holding the position of assistant to the Chief of Department. It was the second-highest rank that a uniformed officer could attain (the Police Commissioner and the Assistant Commissioners were civilians appointed by the Mayor.) The job of the Chief of Department (known in other cities as the Chief of Police) oversees every aspect of the police department. It involves managing many people and different areas all over the department. However, as the Assistant Chief, Miles' sole responsibility was to be the Commanding Officer of Operations. He was in charge of, and solely responsible for, the actual police officers and their actions in the department. It was up to him how the police did their jobs, what procedures they used on the street, what hours they worked, etc. For someone who spent their entire career wanting to fix everything that was wrong with policing in a large city, this was the top job.

When Miles had been promoted to Assistant Chief a little over a year ago, he had only one thing in his mind. He knew that the only way to stop the drug problem in this city was to go straight to the source and eliminate it. As he poured through personnel records, searching for the right people to handle this, he began to compile a list of potential candidates. To his amazement, he found a group of Narcotics detectives that seemed just right. This revelation convinced him that he was finally doing the work he was supposed to be doing. This was the reason that fate had found him working in this office, directing the NYPD, and attempting to protect his city in the best way that he could.

Motivated by the not-so-subtle hint from the precinct captain this morning, Eva and Jimmy reached out to the Manhattan North Homicide Bureau to get some information about the home invasion and murder of a drug dealer there. After getting some facts, they decided to drive over to Harlem to check out the scene for themselves.

The first thing to get their attention on East 117th Street in Harlem was the fact that it was a one-way street, with cars parked on both sides of the street, providing very narrow space and unpredictable traffic speeds. The next thing they noticed was the area around the front of the apartment building sectioned off with crime scene tape.

"So, they pulled the van right up on the sidewalk. And nobody could see or hear anything that they were doing. And nobody was seen getting in or out. Is that right?"

"Yeah," Manhattan Homicide Detective Pete Mastromo replied. " Wit's say the van parked there for about ten or fifteen minutes, depends on who ya talk to, and then just left. Locals are so used to making a point of not looking at that building that nobody even noticed the door frame all jacked up until a patrol unit finally arrived on the scene."

"I assume," Eva was asking, "that nobody pays attention to the building because they knew who lived there and were scared to death."

"Yeah," Mastromo confirmed. "The freaking place might as well be invisible."

"Any idea what they used to open this tin can," Jimmy asked while examining the twisted metal of the front door frame.

A uniformed patrolman standing guard by the front door said, "It looks like they used some kind of small explosive on it. Like those special forces guys use in the movies."

Mastromo shot a confused look at the patrolman and asked, "You a detective now?"

"No, sir," the patrolman sheepishly answered.

"Then be quiet," Mastromo said. Turning to Jimmy, he said, "We had a guy from ESU swing by and take a look for us. Ya know, those guys do like five of these a day, right? So, he says, based on these stress marks here and here, it looks like they used a mechanical device of some kind. He don't think they did it by hand."

"So, they used the van for cover and to carry a big-ass can opener," Jimmy said. "Then they just entered right here from the van. Any count on the suspects?"

"Nah," Mastromo replied. "Same boot prints all through the place, few different sizes, but definitely the same pattern on all of 'em. Again, same friggin thing with all the shooting. Same rounds were used everywhere. And we know that because all the shooting took place on the second and third floors, and we know what guns all the vic's had."

"Wait," Eva said cautiously. "How do you know what guns the vic's used?"

"They were all laying next to the bodies when we got here," Mastromo grunted. "You believe that shit? Half the freaking case was practically gift-wrapped when we show up and start poking around."

"Well, Pete," Jimmy said. "We're either about to make or break your day with this next…"

"Whoaaaaaa!" Mastromo said. "If you're about to staple three more bodies to my case, just get back in the freaking car and get your ass back across the bridge, pal. See, nobody gives a shit what happens in Harlem. But these cases get connected to somewhere like Williamsburg, and suddenly I got 1 Police Plaza breathing down my neck. Suddenly I gotta drop everything and stare at piles of nonexistent evidence all day like some kind of Zen detective."

"Relax, Pete." Jimmy said. "We're hoping to leave the cases non-connected. But this really does have the same signs as our mystery house. Let me guess, they left the weapons, but took the drugs and money."

"Nope," Mastromo said. "One of the survival traits this one had up until Friday was that he didn't keep no drugs around. According to the Narco guys, he hasn't touched any dope in years, probably hasn't even seen it for that long. Had everyone else doing his running for him."

"What about the vic's," Eva asked. "They have wallets and cell phones? Or were those missing like ours were?"

"Again, no." Mastromo shook his head. " Far as we can tell, the ID's and phones from the vic's are all accounted for. Most have pockets full of money and all their jewelry, too. Pretty clear this was a targeted hit, cause they even left two guys alive. I'm leaning toward another dealer wanting to take the territory. Same thing happens every few years, somebody knocking somebody off and taking the throne for a little while. Though, if it was a rival, I don't understand leaving two witnesses breathing. But these guys ain't always the sharpest, so…"

When they went upstairs to the second floor and looked around, Jimmy was quick to notice the course that the gunfight followed from the bullet holes left in the walls. Scouring through a stack of crime scene photos as he went room to room, he could see where bullet casings landed and where bodies were found.

"Pete, this wasn't the work of your average dope boys," Jimmy noted. "Whoever did this was well-versed in room clearing and taking corners. There's minimal stray shots around any of the vic's. And almost all of these end with headshots."

"Hey, whatever the fuck," Mastromo said. "So, the guy taking over hired some of them Back Water mercenaries or whatever to come in here and clean house for him. Whatever. Don't fucking do this to me, Jimmy."

"Relax, Pete. I got ya. I just want to make sure we're seeing the same thing here."

"I see a cold case coming that nobody gives a fuck about, Jimmy."

"Alright, alright," Jimmy said. "What's up with the two that were left alive?"

"Not much. They were on the third floor with one other guy, playing one of those video games on a big-ass TV. These guys heard the shooting, one came down to find out what was going on, and they dropped his ass by the stairs. Apparently, two of the shooters come upstairs, point guns at the gamers, order 'em on their feet, make 'em pull their shirts up and turn around, and then tell 'em to lay face down on the floor and don't move if they want to live."

"So, they kill everyone with guns, but leave the gamers because they're unarmed?"

"That's what I got from the gamers," Mastromo said. "They were still laying on the floor when the first patrol unit showed up, like an hour later. So, I'm not thinking these guys are gonna make up too much shit. One of 'em claims that he heard shouts from downstairs, something about one of the perps getting shot. He thinks there were maybe three shooters and they all sounded like they were white guys. Which makes the whole 'killed by the competition' theory seem a little thin. But I'm really hoping nobody else will notice that."

"Whoa!" Jimmy eagerly asked, "One of them got shot?"

"Easy there, Lone Ranger," Mastromo said. "We only got the word of two scared wits that ain't sure what they heard. Plus, we got no evidence of anyone getting shot other than the stiffs we found. Techs have been all over the place and can't find a drop of blood from the perps. Also, no blood or other trace evidence on the stairs or the front door, which seems to be the way that they left — the same way they came in. If somebody was shot, I think they'd leave some sign on their way out."

"Well," Eva said. "If they have the tactical training that we suspect they do, maybe they were able to apply first-aid or whatever before any blood was lost."

"Yeah," Mastromo asked. "Then they got their own hospital, too. I followed up on every gunshot wound that showed up at hospitals over the weekend, in all five boroughs, and a few over in Jersey, too. Zip. Nothing that couldn't be traced back to its source, and all precincts had reports on file for every one of those GSW's. You think I don't know my fucking job here?"

"No, Pete," Jimmy said. "It's not that. We're just kind of desperate here, ya know?"

"What I know is that I want no fucking part of what you guys are drowning in."

"And, I guess ballistics reports are going to be awhile," Eva asked.

Mastromo pushed up his glasses askew into his curly black hair and asked, "Ya think?"

"Hey, Pete," Jimmy asked while holding up a stack of paperwork and photographs. "These copies for us?"

"Yeah, go back and wallpaper the office with 'em. Just don't drag me into your shit show, Jimmy."

"Give us a call when the ballistics reports come in," Eva asked.

"Yeah, sure. As long as they don't match your Brooklyn case. I don't need the brass looking over my shoulder while that case is busy going nuclear over there."

"Look, Pete," Jimmy said, "I'll keep ya out of our mess as long as I can. There's not really much to connect the two cases. But if this pattern keeps up, there's nothing I can do. Somebody's going to connect the dots sooner or later."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Mastromo lamented. "I'm just hoping this shit stops here. But when the fuck does that ever happen? Just keep me out of it as long as ya can. I need time to go buy a truckload of Vaseline. None of this shit's going to get solved, and sooner or later my ass is gonna get tapped like drums at a Rolling Stones concert. Fucking dealers want to kill each other, and we're always getting stuck in the crossfire."

"Hey Pete," Eva said. "You know the department mantra: No good deed goes unpunished."

Mastromo chuckled and said, "Don't I know it."

As Jimmy and Eva were driving back to Brooklyn, Jimmy said, "Hey, let's put Queens off until tomorrow. That's gonna be an all day job, anyway. And I got someone we should go talk to."

Eva grinned and said, "I was wondering when you were going to get around to him."