L.I.E. just east of exit 70. The officer noted severe body damage to the front driver’s side of the vehicle. When he asked the vehicle’s operator if he needed assistance, the driver refused, saying he had pulled over to make a call.
The third and, in Healy’s opinion, the most likely candidate was an old black step van that was written up for several violations including, but not limited to, operating an uninsured vehicle and the operation of a motor vehicle with a suspended license. The body of the van was badly damaged and the driver was arrested for an outstanding warrant. This guy had probably lost control in the snow, smacked into Serpe, and run.
Healy was just copying down the info when the phone rang.
Joe Serpe had never talked to anyone on his block. Christ, he barely spoke to the landlord. But he knew someone had to have seen something, so he started knocking on doors. Many of the people who recognized him as that quiet guy from across the street, invited him in for coffee. As he went from house to house, Joe realized that God was not responsible for his invisibility. Over the last four years, he had made himself disappear. Unfortunately, his new good neighbor policy wasn’t netting him much information. No one had seen anything unusual. As he walked back across the street, he saw Healy’s car parked in the driveway, Healy unloading paint cans from his car.
As Healy primed the wall to cover the writing, Serpe scrubbed Mulligan’s blood off the linoleum tiles. Both men were deep in thought: Joe trying to make sense of what Healy had told him about the Strohmeyer kid’s suicide and the possibility that his gut feeling was dead wrong, that there was no connection between Cain’s murder and those of Reyes and Toussant. Healy was straining to see what possible connection there could be between Frank Randazzo’s adultery and the three murders. Both of them were making much more headway with the physical tasks at hand. The bloody graffiti was now completely hidden and the cat’s blood had been scrubbed away, along with years of neglected grime.
Neither Serpe nor Healy had any doubts about the warning written in Mulligan’s blood. Someone, probably the blackmailer, wasn’t happy with Joe sticking his nose into Frank’s business. And now that Marla had been threatened, if indirectly, Serpe wasn’t sure it was worth his continued involvement. Frank had made his choices and was paying for them. Tina would land on her feet. Women like Tina always did. Besides, Joe had lost enough. It was time for someone else to feed the beast. Soon the time would come when both men would have to admit defeat and get back to their lives.
Healy decided he would take the first step in that direction.
“Joe,” he said, using a rubber mallet to close the primer can. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you since that Saturday you delivered oil to my house. It’s about the case we made on you and your partner.”
“It’s ancient history, Healy, I don’t wanna-”
“Okay, even if you don’t want to hear it, I need to say it.”
“I owe you that much. Go ahead.”
“The original investigation-”
There was a knock on the door.
“Hello,” Joe called out, rinsing the mop in the sink.
“Joe, Mr. Serpe,” she said, sticking only her head inside.
Joe didn’t know her name, but recognized her as someone who lived on the other side of the street.
“Come on in.”
Joe wiped his hands on a towel and rushed to greet his neighbor. He held out his hand and introduced himself.
“My name’s Pat,” she said, taking his hand, “Pat Dahl. I live at number eighty-two, the brown ranch across the way there.”
“Nice to meet you, Pat. This is my friend, Bob Healy. He’s helping paint the place.”
Healy nodded, smiled.
“So, what is it I can do for you, Pat?”
“My husband, Carl-you spoke to him today. The bald man with the-”
“Oh, yeah. Nice guy. Used to work sanitation in the city, right?”
“That’s my Carl. Anyway, he says you told him someone was coming here to show you a car, but that you couldn’t be home and you’d lost the man’s number.”
“I know it was dumb of me, but I really need a newer car.”
“Oh, Joe,” she said as if they’d been friends for years, “believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted that thing. It was creased and dented all along one side.”
“Really?”
“Trust me, I saw him pulling out of your driveway at about nine o’clock. That’s when I go to the gym.”
“Just so we can be sure it was the car I was thinking of, can you describe it to me?”
“I’m sorry, Joe, I wouldn’t know one car from another. It was big and black. I guess it kind of looked like Jack Cantor’s car. He lives at number ninety-six.”
“Thank you very much for the heads-up, Pat. I don’t need someone else’s lemon. It was a pleasure meeting you. And say hello to Carl for me.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Neither Healy nor Serpe needed to say it. They gave Pat thirty seconds to get back across the street before they took a walk down to number ninety-six.
Jack Cantor’s car was a dark blue Lincoln SUV, but a smaller model-the Aviator, not a Navigator. If Healy was hoping the sight of it would somehow spark Joe’s memory, he was wrong. The events of that Tuesday afternoon would be lost to Serpe forever. Healy, on the other hand, hadn’t suffered a concussion. He didn’t actually need Joe’s memory, because he had the benefit of someone else’s.
“Let’s get back to your apartment, Joe. There’s a police report I need to show you.”
Friday,March 5th, 2004
Joe met Tina in the waiting room.
The firm of Bayles, Cohen amp; Mann was located on Main Street in Babylon Village. They were a fairly diverse and successful firm for one located in such a lovely section of nowhere. Long Island is full of quaint little south shore towns with narrow streets, marinas and big brass clocks. But not many law school students daydream about passing the bar to set up practice in Babylon Village.
Bayles, Cohen amp; Mann did their share of ambulance chasing, real estate closings, divorce work, and criminal defense. They did, however, have one particular specialty. They were known as the lawyers to the home heating oil industry. So it was no surprise that Frank sought their services when he established Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. It didn’t hurt that Tina’s father, a local insurance broker, had played golf with Steven Mann every Saturday for twelve years before moving to the Carolinas.
“How is Frank?” Joe asked.
“Better,” she said. “He’s breathing on his own now and the doctors think there’s a chance he won’t come out of it too badly damaged. They just don’t know how long the oxygen was cut off from his brain. If he’s going to spend the rest of his life in jail, what does it matter if he gets better?”
“That’s what we’re doing here, Tina, to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“You watched the DVD?”
“I did.”
Tina faced the floor, her face red with embarrassment, her hands once again squeezing the top of her bag.
“Men do stupid things sometimes. Things that don’t make any sense to anyone but them. Then when they think about it, it doesn’t even make sense to them.”
Tina didn’t want to go there. “How’s your head, Joe?”
“It’s much better. I’m still having headaches, but less and less severe all the time. So, did you check your
