Authors: Ira Berkowitz
I moved on to the tox report.
“Rohypnol?”I said.
“Appears so.”
“Why use a date rape drug on men?”
“Very good question,” Luce said.
“Are roofies part of the gay scene?”
“As a card-carrying lesbian, I never saw roofies. Hell, places I used to frequent folks don't need knockout drugs to get somebody into bed with them.”
The germ of an idea began to form.
“Now it's my turn,” I said, handing her Sal Lomascio's file. “The findings of the insurance company investigator. Save the prose for later. Look at the photos.”
She spread them out on the table and looked away.
“Been doing this a long time and it's still hard to take,” she said.
“Forget about the three on the main floor for now. What do you see in the basement?”
“Six rectangles of charcoal,” she said.
“The crates are lined up next to each other in two columns of three. Nice and neat. And that says thinking and planning.”
“I agree.”
“Somehow the doer got these guys to the warehouse. Used Rohypnol as a restraint. And the stab wounds to the
groin introduce a sexual element. All in all, very organized.”
“Organized to a point,” Luce said. “The stab wounds indicate frenzy.”
“Right. The doer makes a plan, nabs the guys, and then loses it.”
“Classic serial profile. Though a little disorganized at the end.”
“Hold that thought,” I said.
“OK. If it is a serial killer, the odds say it's likely a Caucasian male between the ages of eighteen and thirty-two who showed signs of abuse as a child. And the sexual element puts a gay man into play.”
“A moment ago you said that Rohypnol is rare in the gay scene.”
“I did. But that don't mean it's not around. Hell, you can buy anything on the street.”
“Fair enough. But if it is a serial, the ages of the vics pose a problem.”
“How so?”
“The autopsy gave approximate ages. These guys range from their early forties to sixty plus. Serials typically fantasize about a certain type. The guys in the packing crates are all over the place. Early middle age to considerably older.”
“Doesn't really add up, does it?” Luce said.
“It could if we take conventional wisdom off the table.”
“How so?”
“Let's say fantasy had nothing to do with it. Maybe the doer was someone with an orderly mind and smart enough to plan things out, but something else was in play.”
Luce considered that for a few moments.
“Such as?” she asked
“Revenge. Payback. Any number of things. The groin work and the age range of the men suggests a seriously pissed off prostitute.”
“Like Aileen Wuornos, the hooker down in Florida who took out her johns.”
“And that's what I'm going with until I find out more about these guys. Like what they had in common.”
“And then your theory changes.”
“Facts on the ground trump theories any day of the week. In this business you've got to be nimble.”
“Or the things that go bump in the night get you before you get them.”
“Bingo! Now let's talk about good stuff. How's Cherise?”
Cherise Adams, a Brooklyn cop, was Luce's life partner.
“Just dandy. We're thinking about adopting a child. Got a lawyer who specializes in that kind of thing. We're looking in China, Eastern Europe, south of the border. Anywhere there's a kid who needs a home. Got our fingers crossed.”
“Wish you luck, kiddo. You and Cherise would make great parents.”
“How about you, Steeg? I always figured you and Ginny for children. Look at the way you take care of DeeDee.”
Ginny was my ex-wife, and now a fading memory.
“Not Ginny's fault. She wanted them. I was the problem.”
“How so?”
So much for happy stuff.
“Truth?” I said.
“Always a good place to start.”
“I was afraid I would turn into my father,” I said.
She looked surprised.
“Dominic?” she said.
“An old school cop, and an old school father. Except for the occasional kick in the ass, he kind of left me alone. Dave was the object of his attention.”
“I could see how they wouldn't get along,” she said.
I was getting tired of having to explain my brother.
“You think he was what he is today when he was a child?”
“I just assumedâ”
“He was a kid who wore the mark of Cain on his face. A target for all the little assholes in the Kitchen. Instead of protecting Dave, Dominic piled on.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Who the hell knows? What I do know is my brother's first day in my father's house was his best day. After that Dominic turned him into his personal piñata.”
“I never knew.”
“No reason you should. My turn with Dominic came when I was suspended.”
A couple of years ago I clocked a sergeant and wound up doing three months without pay.
“The asshole deserved it,” Luce said. “He gave up your snitch.”
“He did. But remember, Dominic was an old-school cop. It was bad form to kick the shit out of your boss.”
“What does all this have to do with you and progeny?”
“The Steeg family stain could be generational.”
“I'm not following.”
I told her about Anthony joining Dave in the family business.
“It's really simple,” I said. “The Steegs tend to eat their young.”
“I love you, Jackson, but that's truly screwed up.”
“My life, and welcome to it.”
“And that's why you're trying to clear your brother.”
“In a nutshell. Besides, I'm convinced Dave didn't kill those guys in the basement and torch his own warehouse.”
“But the DA could still get him on felony murder for the squatters.”
“Only if he connects him to the arson. Any developments there?”
“They put a special task force on it and they're all running around busy as little bees. A couple of guys are exploring the possibility that Dave is dealing Rohypnol.”
“Please!”
“They're reaching, Jackson.”
“So,” I said, “would it be fair to speculate that the task force is ignoring the prostitute angle?”
“They're sticking with your brother. For now. Look at it as a narrow window of opportunity to work your magic.”
What Luce didn't say was that the window could slam shut at any time.
D
awn Reposo never caught a break.
She was a few years behind me at Most Precious Blood parochial school and, unlike me, at the head of her class. But academics tend to fall by the wayside when your parents are stone-drunk lowlifes. Dawn dropped out and began a steady slide into drugs and prostitution. After I helped her beat her last soliciting charge, we lost track of each other.
I called an old buddy who worked Vice. He ran her. Said she was on parole. Gave me the name of her PO. I called him, and he gave me her last known address. Hadn't heard from her in over a month, he said. Wasn't even sure she still lived there. Said if she didn't check in soon, it was back to the slam.
I told him I'd relay the message.
The subway ride to the Lower East Side took under fifteen minutes.
The address was a tired four-story building on Houston Street, a few blocks from the East River. A bodega occupied the ground floor. The building's entrance was adjacent to the store.
There weren't any names on the mailboxes.
I walked into the bodega and asked if anyone knew Dawn. The three people waiting to buy lottery tickets ignored me. But the counterman's eyes moved to a heavy-set Hispanic guy in a motorcycle jacket and jeans sipping coffee from a paper cup. His face looked like it had been on the losing end of an argument with a bat.
The Hispanic guy gave a slight nod.
I made him for Dawn's pimp.
“Three B,” the counterman said.
The pimp sidled up next to me.
“What do you want with Dawny?”
“None of your business,” I said.
“Wasn't the answer I was looking for.”
His breath smelled of onions.
“Try go fuck yourself.”
He spent a few moments factoring in my size and attitude, calculating whether he had a reasonable shot.
I found myself hoping he would conclude that the odds were in his favor.
I have a thing about pimps.
“You a cop?” he finally said.
“Take a hike,” I said, brushing past him. I expected I would see him again. Soon.
I left the bodega and climbed three flights of stairs to Dawn's apartment. The walls were festooned with some truly artless graffiti.
I knocked on her door.
A few seconds later I heard a hesitant “Yeah?”
“It's Steeg.”
The door opened a crack. Then her face appeared. Dawn had clearly overstayed her time in the business. Her hair was dull and lifeless, and her skin was the color of milk gone bad. The pigeon egg-sized purple lump on her left eyebrow kind of summed up the state of her life.
“It is you,” she said, breaking into a smile.
“Can I come in?”
She swung the door open.
“Sure,” she said. “Long time no see.”
“Long time,” I agreed.
The apartment was beyond depressing. A few sticks of mismatched furniture that had probably been scavenged from the street. And no little touches that made it a home.
A young Hispanic woman with red streaks in her hair and letters tattooed on her fingers was slumped on the sofa. Her eyes were open but empty.
“Who's she?” I said.
“Gloria somethin',” she said, with a sneer. “A new member of the family. Thinks she's gonna be bottom bitch.”
Gloria shot Dawn the bird and closed her eyes, mumbling, “Rickie's tired of your scraggly ass.”
“Piece of work,” I said.
“Not worth talking about,” Dawn said.
Dawn pulled the belt of a ratty cloth coat tight around her even rattier sweat suit.
“I don't like you seein' me like this,” she said.
“It's OK. We're friends, Dawn.”
“How'd you find me?”
“Your PO. Said he hadn't heard from you in a while.”
“You're here to bust me?”
“Nope. Not a cop anymore.”
“Then what brings you here?”
“We'll get to that. What happened to your eye?”
Her fingers moved to her eyebrow. “Had to pee in the middle of the night and walked into a door.” She tried for a smile. “Always was clumsy.”
“The scumbag I ran into down in the bodega have anything to do with it?”
“Who're you talkin' about?”
“The guy with the scrambled face.”
“Rickie? No. He's good. Takes care of me.”
“I can see that.”
“No. You got it all wrong. We're gonna get married. Gloria ain't gonna last long.”
A whore's lie. And we both knew it.
“Maybe I can help. Get you into rehab. Turn things around.”
She snorted. “Know how many times I been down that road?”
“Once more won't hurt.”
“Won't help either,” she said. “Just the way it is. Now that that's out of the way, why're you here?”
“Got a problem you may help with.”
I told her about the fire.
“So, Dave's got his dick in a crack.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I always liked him. But how can I help?”
“It's possible the men who were murdered were johns, and the killer was doing some payback.”
“Why not? Lots of guys I'd like to ice.”
“I'm kind of floundering here, Dawn. Don't have much to go on. If it was a pros, it would be hard for her to keep something like this a secret.”
“Hookers do like to talk. Especially when they get over on a weirdo John.”
“So, have you heard anything?”
The door flew open, and Rickie sauntered in.
He had a hunting knife in his hand.
“Fuck's goin' on?” he said.
Gloria's eyes opened and fixed on Rickie.
Dawn ran up to him. “Put it away. Steeg's a friend.”
“I'm the only friend you got,” he said, shoving her aside.
I seriously considered tossing Rickie out the window.
He strolled up to me. “Here's the deal. Don't matter if
you came for snatch, or just to chitchat. Gonna cost the same.”
I decided that the window required too much effort. I kicked him in the nuts.
Then I picked up the knife and waited until he was done puking.
“That was for tuning Dawn up,” I said. “Lay a hand on her again and I'll fucking erase you.”
“Rickie didn't do this to me, Steeg,” she said. “He loves me.”
I let the
love
bullshit pass without comment.
“Then who did?”
She and Rickie exchanged glances. I had the feeling that he didn't want Dawn to go down that road. But she shrugged him off.
“Same people who did Rickie,” Dawn said.
“What does that mean?”
“Somebody looking to take over prostitution in the city. Forcing girls to work for them. And hassling pimps who push back.”
“Hell of a business model.”
“Came after me a few nights ago. I was working the Lincoln Tunnel and this guy lays it out for me. Sell my ass for him, or get hurt. I tell him to fuck off, and he pops me. Rickie sees what's happening and goes for the guy.”
I looked over at Rickie. He still hadn't got his sea legs yet.
“Because he loves you,” I said.
She let that slide.
“Do you want to hear what happened or not?”
Not really. I had zero interest in getting involved in a war between lowlifes. But Dawn was determined to tell her story, so I let her.
“Sure,” I said.