The jet descended and Pedro’s pulse quickened. Born in the Dominican Republic and raised in Rome, he was accustomed to travel, but at age twenty-seven, this was his first trip to the United States, and the island of Manhattan had long been a point of fascination for him. As the airliner’s wheels touched down on the tarmac, he surveyed the passengers around him. None of the businessmen flying coach seemed to share his excitement. The jet stood still for a few minutes, then taxied to its gate. A moment later his fellow passengers filled the aisle.
Pedro stood and opened the compartment above his seat and removedhis black bag. He traveled light to avoid wasting time claiming checked baggage. The woman ahead of him strained to free her suitcase from its compartment. He smiled to himself. Why had she insisted on stuffing such a large bag into the narrow compartment? Unfortunately, her struggle would delay him as well. Reaching out with his left hand, he plucked it free.
The woman took the case from him and said, “Thank you so much,” in English and faced him. She had to look down, as he stood only five foot five, to smile her appreciation. He may have been short, but he had the physique of a body builder, and he had grown accustomed to the attraction women felt toward him. He wore his curly black hair short and neat and his mustache pencil thin, like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
.
“You’re welcome,” he said with a slight smile. He spoke fluent English, Spanish, and Italian. His short-sleeved white T-shirt made his bronzed skin appear even darker, and the woman tried to be discreet as she sized up his chest and biceps. He pursed his lips and nodded, seeing that the passengers ahead of her had already deplaned. Her face turned red, and she made her way up the aisle, pulling her rolling suitcase behind her.
“Have a nice day,” the flight attendant said to him as he passed the cockpit. The young woman had dark hair and a bright smile.
“You too,” Pedro said in Italian and winked at her. He carried his bag through the gangway connecting the jet’s fuselage to the gate. Air-conditioning cooled the crowded airport as friends and family members greeted many of his fellow travelers. He searched the waiting faces for his contact. He did not even know who to expect, just that he would have seen his photo.
“Pedro Fillipe?”
Turning, he saw a tall Hispanic man roughly his own age. The man’s hair and mustache had been shaved in a manner popular in the music industry. His skin was not as dark as Pedro’s, and he wore a baggy sweatshirt overeven baggier blue jeans with deep pockets. His sneakers were spotless, and his gold chain gleamed.
“Si,” Pedro answered with disdain. He could tell the man was also Dominican, and while he had not expected his host to pick him up in person, he was offended that another Dominican had been sent in his place. Did Father Hagen think he would only be comfortable in the company of one of his own people?
“What’s up, bro?” His countryman extended an open hand. “Miguel.”
Pedro gave the man’s hand a firm squeeze but said nothing. Best to let Miguel know up front that he was not to be toyed with. It was not uncommon for young people from the DR to be corrupted by American culture, and in his opinion, Miguel was a disgrace. He remembered when he had been a boy and teenage girls returned to the island for a visit after moving to the United States. They left wholesome and good-natured and returned materialistic and cynical, showing off their flashy clothes and snotty attitudes.
Putas
.
“Get your bag?” Miguel said. He seemed friendly but insincere, like a con artist.
“I can manage it.”
“Suit yourself. Car’s this way.”
Miguel led him through the terminal, and Pedro studied the people around them. Each person, regardless of sex or age, seemed to project an attitude that contributed to the aggressive energy that hung in the air. They went outside to the parking lot, where Pedro marveled at the airport’s size. Miguel guided him to a dark green SUV with tinted windows and unlocked the door with a remote control. When they got in and fastened their seat belts, Pedro recognized the stale scent of marijuana. Miguel started the engine and turned on the CD player. Rap music blasted from speakers in the backseat.
Miguel grinned at him. “You like hip-hop?”
Pedro shook his head and looked away from Miguel, embarrassed for him.
“No problem, pa.” Miguel lowered the music, but Pedro reached over and turned the CD player off. Ignoring him, Miguel slid on a pair of dark sunglasses, shifted the vehicle into gear, and drove out of the airport. “You staying long?”
Pedro stared ahead through the windshield. “Not long. Tonight, maybe tomorrow. It depends on how long my business takes.”
“In and out, huh? I hear that.”
Pedro was grateful that Miguel did not ask about the purpose of his visit.
“So what are the women like in Rome?”
Pedro would have no problem entertaining Miguel if he chose to do so. “They have respect for themselves.”
Nodding, Miguel sounded disappointed. “That’s cool. Not like the bitches around here.”
They moved through traffic, then followed a winding street past grass and trees. When they reached Queens Boulevard, Pedro was amazed not only by the number of cars but by the city’s overall pace. He knew New York City was known for its fast lifestyles, but what he saw was even busier than he had expected. At some points, the boulevard had eight lanes with service roads on either side. Stores and brick apartment buildings six stories tall lined the sidewalks. When they stopped at traffic lights, some of the drivers blasted their music even louder than Miguel had intended, and when the light changed again, little thought was given to the pedestrians still crossing the street.
“They call this ‘the Boulevard of Death,’” Miguel said.
He turned onto Jamaica Avenue, and they passed expensive residential neighborhoods and poverty-stricken areas that turned Pedro’s stomach. As they traveled beneath elevated train tracks, he wondered why the blacks and Hispanics he saw lived in such squalor. Why would people voluntarily leave his beautiful island country for this life? Children ran barefoot on the filthy sidewalks while adults sat in lawn chairs before their dilapidated houses and buildings and crowded around magazine stores to purchase lottery tickets. Abandoned lots served as communalgathering spots. Teenage boys emulated gangsters, and the girls shamelessly wore next to nothing. Obesity was rampant in the middle-aged people who drank beer in public and smoked cigarettes. This was not what Pedro had expected.
Miguel turned left onto a quiet side street, and the neighborhood improved. A park appeared on their right, followed by a well-maintained cemetery with green lawns. “Here we are,” he said, double-parking in front of a stone church. He hopped out and walked up the cracked cement driveway and unlocked the padlock that secured the wrought-iron gates.
What kind of church locks its gates? Pedro wondered.
Miguel got back into the SUV, backed it up, and turned into the driveway. When they pulled up to a small barnlike structure behind the church, Miguel switched off the engine. Pedro got out of the vehicle, removed his bag from the backseat, and closed the door. Miguel closed the gates again and secured the padlock. Pedro glanced at his watch: 11:20.
“Good morning!”
Pedro turned as a tall priest in black robes emerged from the church’s side entrance. Father Francis Hagen, in his late forties, had salt-and-pepper hair and a wide smile. He walked toward Pedro with his hand extended.
“Good morning, Father,” Pedro said in a respectful tone as he shook the priest’s hand.
“Welcome to America. How was your trip?”
“Pleasant enough. I slept most of the way because I didn’t like the movie they were showing.”
Father Hagen continued to smile. “The same thing happens to me whenever I visit Rome. Are you hungry?”
“No, just anxious to carry out my mission. Did you confirm my appointment?”
Father Hagen lowered his voice. “Yes, I spoke to your contact lastnight. He’s expecting you for lunch. I have responsibilities here, but Miguel will be glad to drive you.”
Pedro cast an uncertain glance at Miguel. “He doesn’t know anything, does he?”
Father Hagen shook his head. “Of course not. I understand the need for discretion.”
“Good. I don’t like him.”
“Miguel? I know he’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s basically a good man.”
“No. You shouldn’t trust him, either, Father.”
Miguel joined them.
“Miguel, show our guest to his room. You need to drive him into the city shortly.”
“Sure, Father.” Miguel gestured for Pedro to follow him. “This way, bro.”
Pedro looked at the priest.
“I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Pedro followed Miguel around the church to the rectory, shaded by a tall tree. Miguel opened a side door, and Pedro entered a large bedroom with a kitchenette and a private bathroom. An area rug covered much of the hardwood floor, and the bed had been made. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and a small refrigerator hummed in the corner.
Miguel said, “You’ve got cable. I stocked the fridge myself. You think of anything else you need, let me know. I’ll wait for you at the car.” Stepping outside, he left the door open.
Pedro set his bag on the bed and opened the refrigerator door, glad to see bottled water and fruit mixed in with the beer and junk food. He used the restroom, and when he opened the door, Father Hagen stood waiting for him.
“Here’s the name of your contact,” the priest said, holding out a Post-it.
Pedro took the powder blue paper square and studied the handwriting on it.
“Miguel knows the way.”
Father Hagen exited the room, and Pedro kneeled at the bed and prayed. He made the sign of the cross, then rubbed the opal ring on his right hand.
Seated at the desk in his Manhattan Homicide South office, located on the fourth floor of Detective Bureau Manhattan on East Twenty-first Street, Mace scrolled through the crime scene photos he had uploaded to his computer. Landry, who had replaced him as the unit’s lieutenant and who now served as his right hand, blanched at the sight of the images.
“The media will have a field day when this breaks,” Mace said. “Hector Rodriguez had to order scaffolding for the bedroom so his people wouldn’t disturb the evidence on the floor. We canvassed the entire building and turned up zilch.”
Landry double blinked. “Any press yet?”
Mace shook his head, but they both knew it was only a matter of time before a case this sensational exploded all over the airwaves and the Internet. “This was no crackhead home invasion. It was an act of rage, of total contempt. I can’t believe Glenzer was chosen at random. He was deliberately targeted.”
“How soon can we expect a confirmation on the ID?”
Mace shrugged. “Midafternoon, if we’re lucky.”
“Lane’s never handled such a high-profile case.”
“She’s as good as anyone else on the squad, and I don’t see any reason to replace her.”
“But we have to stay on top of this. I don’t care how badly that bends her out of shape.”
“Understood.”
Mace’s cell phone rang, and he checked the display. “That’s Willy,” he said, taking the call.
“Hector’s team is almost finished, and the EMTs are standing by to remove the body parts,” Willy said, his excitement unmistakable. “We found a safe in the closet. I’m talking old school, five hundred pounds of iron.”
Mace felt his eyebrows coming together. “Locked?”
“You could say that. Looks like whoever did the professor also tried to break into the safe. The handle and combination dial are both on the floor. This sucker’s sealed tighter than a virgin in a convent.”
“I’ll have Robbery send over a safe man. Let me know when he gets there.” Closing his cell phone, Mace faced Landry. “Looks like we’ve got a shot at a possible motive. How’s that research coming?”
“Crazy shit. I’ll get back to it now.” Landry exited the glass-faced office overlooking the detectives’ bull pen, occupied by half a dozen men, and returned to his adjoining office.
Mace lifted the receiver of his telephone from its cradle and punched in a number.
“Robbery,” a gruff voice answered on the second ring.
“Captain Banks.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Captain Mace, Manhattan Homicide South.”
“Just a minute.” The line turned silent until a moment later when a friendly voice came on. “Tony! I hear they’re making a TV movie about you now’.”
Mace grimaced. Six years earlier a tabloid reporter named Carl Rice had written a third-rate true crime book about a high-profilehomicide case he had solved as a detective. Mace had neither cooperated in the writing of
Rodrigo Gomez: Tracking the Full Moon Killer
nor read the finished product, but when the quickie paperback had become a surprise best seller, he found that he’d become famous in certain circles, and he didn’t like it. Just when he thought his fellow officers had forgotten the book, a cable network announced its intentions to adapt it into a TV movie. The production company had even offered to let him serve as its technical advisor, but he had turned them down. “I didn’t know anything about it.”
Banks chuckled. “Okay, okay. What can I do you for today,
Captain?”
“I’ve got a major league bag of shit in the West Village. Looks like we have critical evidence locked in a safe that’s suffered some abuse. I need you to send your best safe man to Bedford Street ASAP.”
“You need Robbins. I’ll have him at your location before lunch.”
“If you say I need Robbins, then I need Robbins. But I need him now, not later.”
“Can’t do it, Tony. He’s working a robbery at a restaurant in midtown.”
“My homicide is going to be a shit storm the likes of which this department hasn’t seen in a decade. I’m talking about a lot of accountability here.”
“Bust my balls, why don’t you? Consider Robbins reassigned.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“Have you ever eaten at one of those tourist traps? Fifteen bucks for a hamburger and fries. Fuck ’em.”
“I appreciate it.”