killed a cocksucker like Rusty Monaco, I know you’ll treat people right.”
Serpe closed the office door behind him without saying another word. It was tough to dispute Eiserman’s street logic and Joe wasn’t going to try.
Raiza Hines sat back down in the unofficial official booth of NYPD IAB as Healy went to the bar to get their drinks. As he waited, he looked back at Raiza, taking her measure. She seemed a cool customer, determined, not crazy ambitious like Skip Rodriguez. Skip had gotten pretty far, but he liked Raiza’s chances of getting further up the food chain.
“Vodka rocks, lime,” he said putting her glass down on the table and then sat himself opposite her with his beer in hand. “So, what’s the message from your fearless leader?”
“The food in that Indian restaurant is too hot for takeout. You’re better off eating it there,” Raiza said, shaking her head at her boss’ childish code. “You know what he’s talking about?”
“Blades, I think the question is, do you?”
“Monaco, Russell T. Born Elmhurst General Hospital, September ninth, Nineteen-sixty. Graduated NYPD Academy Class nineteen-eighty. Retired September twenty-fourth, Two thousand and three. Rank, Detective third … Should I continue?”
“Very good. I take it that since he was a recent victim of violence that his jacket’s too hot to touch.”
For the first time since they met, Detective Hines smiled at Healy. “Before.”
“Before!” Healy coughed up a little beer. “That means someone was grousing around in his files before he was killed.”
“Indeed there was and now there’s an access block on almost all his files.”
“I take it it’s not IAB’s doing.”
“Please put that in the form of a question,” she tweaked. “Smart, pretty, a sense of humor. Skip better watch his back and cover his ass.” “No comment.”
“Rusty Monaco was a piece of shit, but he was two years retired. The brass must have breathed a big sigh of relief when he put in his papers. Why would they be rooting around now, I wonder?”
“I suspect that’s what my boss wants me to help you find out.”
“Skip’s always had a nose for a big score.”
Healy handed Blades a Mayday refrigerator magnet and a napkin with his cell and home numbers scrawled out.
“Classy stuff. I think the NYPD should start using magnets and napkins too.”
“Come on, finish your drink detective, we’ve got work to do.”
Turning right at the Smithtown Bull statue and off Main Street onto St. Johnland heading up into Kings Park, Serpe smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. Even now, as he recalled the unlikely set of circumstances surrounding the transformation of two bitter enemies into partners and friends, he couldn’t quite believe it.
It had been late in the afternoon last Valentine’s Day; a raw, miserable Saturday when Serpe got an urgent call from Frank Randazzo’s mom. She was the dispatcher back then and told Joe there was one more stop to be done, one that couldn’t be put off until Monday. It was already dark out, Joe remembered, but just as he pulled over to write up the delivery ticket, it began to snow like a bastard. Worse still, he had to about-face over the LIE and head all the way back north into Kings Park. Maybe that was why the name Healy made no impact on him as wrote the ticket.
Twenty minutes later, as he began to make the delivery, it hadn’t yet dawned on Joe that the man he was rescuing from a frozen weekend and a wall full of burst pipes was the same man who had meticulously built the cases against him and Ralphy Abruzzi. Only after Healy walked up behind Joe while he was pumping the last of the two hundred gallons and uttered a few words of thanks at his back, was Serpe’s memory sufficently shaken. But it wasn’t until Joe went to collect the money and saw the family pictures through the glass storm door that he knew for sure. “Motherfucker, it’s him,” Joe said. And when Healy came to the door he
Serpe closed the office door behind him without saying another word. It was tough to dispute Eiserman’s street logic and Joe wasn’t going to try.
Raiza Hines sat back down in the unofficial official booth of NYPD IAB as Healy went to the bar to get their drinks. As he waited, he looked back at Raiza, taking her measure. She seemed a cool customer, determined, not crazy ambitious like Skip Rodriguez. Skip had gotten pretty far, but he liked Raiza’s chances of getting further up the food chain.
“Vodka rocks, lime,” he said putting her glass down on the table and then sat himself opposite her with his beer in hand. “So, what’s the message from your fearless leader?”
“The food in that Indian restaurant is too hot for takeout. You’re better off eating it there,” Raiza said, shaking her head at her boss’ childish code. “You know what he’s talking about?”
“Blades, I think the question is, do you?”
“Monaco, Russell T. Born Elmhurst General Hospital, September ninth, Nineteen-sixty. Graduated NYPD Academy Class nineteen-eighty. Retired September twenty-fourth, Two thousand and three. Rank, Detective third … Should I continue?”
“Very good. I take it that since he was a recent victim of violence that his jacket’s too hot to touch.”
For the first time since they met, Detective Hines smiled at Healy. “Before.”
“Before!” Healy coughed up a little beer. “That means someone was grousing around in his files before he was killed.”
“Indeed there was and now there’s an access block on almost all his files.”
“I take it it’s not IAB’s doing.”
“Please put that in the form of a question,” she tweaked. “Smart, pretty, a sense of humor. Skip better watch his back and cover his ass.” “No comment.”
“Rusty Monaco was a piece of shit, but he was two years retired. The brass must have breathed a big sigh of relief when he put in his papers. Why would they be rooting around now, I wonder?”
“I suspect that’s what my boss wants me to help you find out.”
“Skip’s always had a nose for a big score.”
Healy handed Blades a Mayday refrigerator magnet and a napkin with his cell and home numbers scrawled out.
“Classy stuff. I think the NYPD should start using magnets and napkins too.”
“Come on, finish your drink detective, we’ve got work to do.”
Turning right at the Smithtown Bull statue and off Main Street onto St. Johnland heading up into Kings Park, Serpe smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. Even now, as he recalled the unlikely set of circumstances surrounding the transformation of two bitter enemies into partners and friends, he couldn’t quite believe it.
It had been late in the afternoon last Valentine’s Day; a raw, miserable Saturday when Serpe got an urgent call from Frank Randazzo’s mom. She was the dispatcher back then and told Joe there was one more stop to be done, one that couldn’t be put off until Monday. It was already dark out, Joe remembered, but just as he pulled over to write up the delivery ticket, it began to snow like a bastard. Worse still, he had to about-face over the LIE and head all the way back north into Kings Park. Maybe that was why the name Healy made no impact on him as wrote the ticket.
Twenty minutes later, as he began to make the delivery, it hadn’t yet dawned on Joe that the man he was rescuing from a frozen weekend and a wall full of burst pipes was the same man who had meticulously built the cases against him and Ralphy Abruzzi. Only after Healy walked up behind Joe while he was pumping the last of the two hundred gallons and uttered a few words of thanks at his back, was Serpe’s memory sufficently shaken. But it wasn’t until Joe went to collect the money and saw the family pictures through the glass storm door that he knew for sure. “Motherfucker, it’s him,” Joe said. And when Healy came to the door he
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