Bronx Requiem(23)

Ippolito and Palmer made their way to the administration building to check with the Housing Authority office.

“I give you ten to one, even if this guy does live here, he ain’t home.”

“Maybe,” said Palmer looking at his watch. “It’s not even one yet. He could be still in the sack. Pimps keep late hours, don’t they?”

“In which case, he won’t open the door.”

Palmer said, “In which case, maybe Amelia Johnson will, and we can find out from her what happened when her ex-con father came calling. Which doesn’t take a genius to figure. Things turned nasty, Derrick and his boys beat the piss out of him, and put a bullet behind his ear.”

“But first they dragged him ten blocks away on 174th Street?”

“Why not? It makes sense. They’re not going to pop him outside their doorstep.”

Ippolito noted that Palmer had expanded the murder to include Watkins’s fellow gang members. By the time this was done, Palmer would have everybody in Watkins’s crew arrested.

What the hell, thought Ippolito, he might be right.

The Housing Authority office confirmed Derrick Watkins occupied an apartment in building six. And was current on his rent. The only mark on his record had to do with him never responding to a request for access to his apartment to check on the source of a water leak.

They located Watkins’s apartment on the seventh floor and banged on his door, but there was no answer. Nobody else on the floor answered except for one elderly black woman who lived the farthest down the hall from Derrick Watkins’s apartment. She told them Derrick’s mother had died about eight years ago, Derrick had taken over the lease on her apartment, and his dear, departed mother would be ashamed of him.

Palmer asked a few people on the way out if they knew Derrick Watkins, or had seen what had happened last night. Same result. Not much.

As they approached the car Ippolito said, “What’d I tell you?”

“It was worth a try. So what do you want to do?”

Ippolito leaned against their unmarked sedan. Scrunched his face in thought.

“We have to figure an angle here. We can’t just wander around hoping this mutt is going to show up, or some moron is going to know where he is and tell us.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

Palmer had the impression Ippolito was holding out on him, but he knew enough not to push.

Ippolito levered his backside off the Impala’s fender and opened the driver’s door.

“Let’s get back to the precinct. We gotta report to Levitt.”

Before he stepped into the car, Palmer took a last look around. The sky had cleared enough for the sun to turn the weather from muggy to hot and muggy. Palmer ran a hand through his thick brown hair. He felt a nagging fatigue creeping into him. He checked his watch. He’d gone almost twenty-four hours without sleep. And he’d be working four or five more hours before he could rack out.

“All right,” he said, “let’s get back. Check with the skip. And then we can catch up with the medical examiner’s office and Crime Scene…”

“You can catch up. After we talk to the lieutenant, I’m out until midnight.”

“Fine. I’ll bunk at the precinct. Keep on top of this.”

Palmer didn’t talk any more about the case on the drive to the precinct. He knew Ippolito could be lazy, bigoted, and racist. But he also knew Raymond Ippolito was a top-notch investigator and had a ton of connections on both sides of the law in the Bronx. So, for now, Palmer decided he would do all the write-ups, report to the bosses, keep the files current, and make sure their immediate supervisor knew what they were doing so he could cover for them.

And when it all went down, take all the credit.





9

Lorena Leon surprised James Beck, buzzing him in without asking who it was. Maybe she expected him to show up now that Packy had been shot. By the time Beck hurried up to Lorena’s apartment on the second floor, Manny had fallen behind. Beck stood in front of Lorena’s door and waited for Manny to catch up and take a position next to the door. Beck raised a hand, but before he knocked, Lorena Leon opened her door partway, holding an old .38 six-shot revolver pointed at Beck. He reflexively kicked the door into her. She fell backward, pulling the trigger. A bullet ripped past Beck’s right shoulder and buried itself in the concrete-block wall behind him. If the door hadn’t hit her, the slug would have gone through Beck’s heart.

The old lady went down hard, but she still held on to the gun.

Beck jumped through the doorway and kicked the gun out of Lorena’s hand, sending the old .38 spinning across the floor.

Manny pulled his gun, stepped in behind Beck, looking for anybody else in the room.

Beck straddled Lorena. He’d knocked the wind out of her. He bent down, grabbed her under the arms, and lifted her onto her feet, holding her in front of him.

Beck said, “Breathe. Come on, take a breath.”

Manny closed the door behind him, wondering if anyone had heard the gunshot.

Suddenly, Lorena gasped, slapped at Beck, and yelled at him to let her go.

Beck held her tighter and shouted. “Stop it!”

He pivoted her to the couch and sat her down. He held both of her thin wrists with his left hand to keep her from flailing at him, while trying not to hurt her. He knelt on one knee in front of her.