to hear the sound of wood splintering but the door remained in place. Backing up and then running forward, she battered the door again. This time it gave around the molding, and on the third attempt it crashed inward and she tumbled forward into the semidark apartment.
Freezing in place, it took her a moment to realize that there were two bodies on the ground in front of her. As her eyes adjusted she recognized Vinnie Cassino, who was lying on a dark wet stain that she guessed was blood.
Too late, she thought. Then she spotted Lydia Cassino, who groaned and tried to push herself up from the floor. She peered at her husband and cried out. “Baby! Oh, what’s he done to you!” Lydia clawed at her husband’s body and rolled him over.
Marlene moved and Lydia’s head jerked up. Her face was a mask of rage and fear as she started to scramble for her husband’s chair and the shotgun leaning against it.
Realizing the woman might just start blasting, Marlene vaulted to her feet and across the room in time to wrest the gun from Lydia’s hands and toss it aside. She then slapped the woman hard. “Lydia, it’s Marlene,” she said. “What happened? Did you see who did this?”
The woman’s eyes cleared as she recognized Marlene. “I didn’t see him,” she cried. “I came in and saw Vinnie…” Lydia looked at the lifeless body of her husband and an anguished sob escaped her lips. But the anger returned immediately. “I screamed and went to check on Vinnie and the son of a bitch hit me from behind. But I know who the murdering piece of shit was… Ahmed Kadyrov… the guy you’re looking for.” Lydia looked over at the window. “He go that way?”
“Yeah,” Marlene answered as she dialed 911 on her phone. “A man’s been stabbed,” she then said into the phone, and gave the address. “Perpetrator: white male…” She looked at Lydia, who nodded and added, “Skinny. Dark hair. Not six feet,” which Marlene repeated before continuing. “Last seen leaving the building from the fire escape.”
As Marlene spoke, Lydia went over to the window and looked out. “Long gone,” she said, picking up the shotgun and walking to the door.
“Where are you going?” Marlene asked, hanging up with the 911 operator.
“To look for the man who killed my man,” Lydia said. Her face was grim in spite of the tears that leaked from her eyes. But then the facade cracked and she sobbed as she dropped the gun and covered her face. “Oh, Vinnie, what am I gonna do without you, baby?”
Marlene went over and wrapped her arms around the other woman. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You know there’s only one way to get the guy who did this. Vinnie deserves it, and so do Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins.”
Lydia broke the embrace and stepped back. She was breathing heavily and started to shake her head, but then she nodded as her shoulders sagged. “Come on, we need to go,” she said. “The medics will take care of my Vinnie ’til I get back. But if we’re here when the police show up, they might find some things and toss my ass in jail.”
“Where are we going?” Marlene asked.
Lydia wiped her nose with the back of her hand and half-grinned despite her tears. “Why, to see my elderly mom in Yonkers, of course.”
They started to leave the apartment but suddenly Lydia returned to her husband’s body. She leaned over and removed something from the top pocket of his overalls. She then pressed her fingers to her lips and his head. “Mama’s gonna take care of this for you, baby,” she said. “Then I’ll see you on the other side.”
25
Preoccupied by Kadyrov’s latest mess-up, Detective Joey Graziani didn’t bother to pick up the receiver when the newspaper reporter called his number at the Two-Six detective squad that afternoon and left a message. “I need to talk to you about the Yancy-Jenkins case,” the woman, who had identified herself as Ariadne Stupenagel, said.
He started to erase the message-there were a lot of reporters who called wanting an “exclusive” interview with the heroic detective who caught the Columbia U Slasher, an “officially off-the-record, but…” privilege he gave only a select few he trusted. However, what she said next made him stop and reconsider. “I might have some information about who killed that Bronx detective who was working on the Felix Acevedo case. Phil Brock.”
With his gut clenching, Graziani called the reporter back and nonchalantly asked her to elaborate.
“I got a call yesterday from a guy named Vinnie Cassino,” Stupenagel explained. “He said he told Brock something about the real killer in the Yancy-Jenkins murders in Manhattan and the Atkins case in the Bronx, and the next day Brock gets murdered. He said the only other person who could have known about what he told Brock would have been another Bronx cop.”
“So why call me?” Graziani asked, trying to keep his voice calmer than his wildly beating heart.
“Well,” she said, her voice trembling, “it was you and Brock who caught the Columbia U Slasher and I thought you ought to know. I mean, you could be in danger, too, and if something happens to me tonight, at least I told someone.”
“Tonight? What’s tonight?”
“I was supposed to meet Cassino this morning,” Stupenagel told him. “He said he was going to bring me something that would prove the case against the ‘real killer,’ whatever that means; he didn’t elaborate. And he said he wanted the reward money so he could get out of town. But he didn’t show, so I thought it was all a bunch of bullshit until his wife called and said her husband had been murdered. But she still wants to meet tonight and give me this ‘evidence.’ Well, ‘give’ as in I give her two thousand dollars and she gives me what she calls ‘the story of the century.’”
“You trust her?” Graziani asked.
“No,” Stupenagel admitted. “To be honest, I’m scared. And that’s really why I’m calling you. Even if she’s legit, it means that two men have been killed over this already, one of them a cop.”
Graziani thought quickly. “You did the right thing. If it’s okay with you, I think I should tail you to this meeting tonight. If it’s legit, then the worst thing that happens is she gets a couple thousand bucks out of the detective bureau kitty. But if there’s a bad cop, and something goes down the wrong way, I’ll be there.”
“Oh God, I was hoping you’d say something like that,” Stupenagel replied, the relief in her voice palpable. Then she hesitated. “I still get to break the story,” she said. “I’m not risking my neck with no payoff.”
Graziani agreed. “Of course. You’ll deserve it.”
Deserve a bullet between your eyes, he thought six hours later as he checked the chamber of the. 380 before screwing the silencer onto the gun. You and the Cassino bitch.
The night was dark and the lighting sparse near the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument in Riverside Park. It was easy to remain in the shadows as the tall female reporter paced about waiting for her meeting with Lydia Cassino. He shook his head; it was surreal, though necessary, that he was contemplating murdering two women with no more conscience than he’d feel killing a couple of alley rats.
Just to get out of the Bronx? The words continued to mock him. No, he thought, now it’s more than that, and he was too far down the road to turn back.
The night before he’d met, as arranged, with Kadyrov at Grand Central Terminal. That’s where he heard the story about Vinnie Cassino’s death but that Lydia Cassino was alive.
“These other two women got there ahead of me,” Kadyrov said. “Probably from the city, slumming and looking for a little meth for a night on the town. So I had to wait until they left, but they took Cassino’s ugly bitch wife with them. So I went and did Vinnie and waited for her to come back. She’d be dead too but the cops showed up at the door.”
Kadyrov was adamant that Lydia Cassino had not seen him before he knocked her out. He saw her get dropped off and then hid in the bedroom until she was distracted by her husband’s body. “Dealers are getting whacked all the time,” he said. “It was just a robbery killing for all she knows. Somebody must have heard her scream and called the cops.”
“Yeah, I checked,” Graziani had replied. “Someone called nine-one-one. They must have seen you going down the fire escape, too, because they got a physical description. So what about the shirt?”
