investigation. Gangs, he thought.
With newspaper still in hand, Healy walked over to the phone and dialed. It was a long shot, but when a long shot is all you have, you play it.
Joe had done thirty stops, loaded twice and wanted nothing more than to try to meld his molecules with those of his fold-out couch. In order to resist that temptation, he had been feeding himself a steady diet of caffeine in the forms of coffee and Coke. He’d gone home, showered, shaved around his salt and pepper goatee, brushed his teeth and put on some clean jeans, running shoes, and a sweater. His hair was still wet when he rang the bell at the group home.
Only about half a mile east of the oil yard, and a few blocks west of where the Reyes kid’s body was discovered, the group home looked like any of the other houses in the neighborhood. It had once been a large L-shaped ranch to which the previous owners had added a full second floor. That same owner had also converted the garage into living space. Joe had driven by this place dozens of times over the last three years and only once, when Cain pointed it out to him, did he ever take notice.
“Who’s there?” a fuzzy male voice wanted to know.
“Joe Serpe. I worked with Cain and …”
A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked.
“Come ahead.”
Joe walked down a short hallway to a small office. The two cheap plastic plaques on the door read:
Kenny Bergman Home Manager
Joe knocked and let himself in. Bergman was seated behind a typical state-issue metal desk. The whole office was filled with what looked like used public school furniture. Dented aluminum and scratched wood seemed to be the unifying design elements. The wood-paneled walls were covered in diplomas, certificates and pictures. Bergman’s desk was covered with stacks of paper, an outmoded computer and a phone. The only up-to-date thing in the office was the row of closed-circuit monitors on the shelf over the manager’s left shoulder. Serpe recognized Bergman from the funeral chapel. He was a relatively young man–in his early thirties, maybe younger. He had a mop of curly brown hair and a full beard in desperate need of trimming, but Joe guessed Bergman did all right with women. If they were his pleasure. He had a straight nose, a bright friendly smile and big hazel eyes. But strain showed at the corners of his mouth, the creases in his eyes, the folds of his brow. The look of Bergman almost made Joe guilty for feeling tired.
Bergman followed Joe’s eyes to the row of monitors.
“We had a security system put in a few months ago. It’s weird. We never had any problems in the neighborhood and then word got out that a private agency was looking at the area as a site for another group home. Suddenly, we became targets of vandalism. People worry about their neighborhoods becoming warehouses for the unwanted. It’s a shame.”
Long Island is the NIMBY capital of North America. Not In My Backyard. You can’t even fart on Long Island without doing an environmental impact study. Any proposal to build public works, power plants, highways, treatment centers, community centers, schools, even parks and hospitals comes under intense scrutiny and attack. If there was the slightest chance property values would be negatively impacted, forget it. The thing wasn’t getting built. Offer to build a golf course, on the other hand …
Joe held his hand out to Bergman. The manager stood and took it. Joe thought it a solid, honest shake. Serpe had never gotten over his belief in judging people by the little things they did. Handshakes were important to him.
“You were at the funeral,” Bergman said. “Cain’s mom went a little crazy on your friend. That was Frank Randazzo, the owner of Mayday, right? I met with him a few times. Good man. Good heart.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“So what is it we can do for you, Joe?”
Serpe collected his thoughts. He knew he had no official standing to be doing what he was doing. He tried
With newspaper still in hand, Healy walked over to the phone and dialed. It was a long shot, but when a long shot is all you have, you play it.
Joe had done thirty stops, loaded twice and wanted nothing more than to try to meld his molecules with those of his fold-out couch. In order to resist that temptation, he had been feeding himself a steady diet of caffeine in the forms of coffee and Coke. He’d gone home, showered, shaved around his salt and pepper goatee, brushed his teeth and put on some clean jeans, running shoes, and a sweater. His hair was still wet when he rang the bell at the group home.
Only about half a mile east of the oil yard, and a few blocks west of where the Reyes kid’s body was discovered, the group home looked like any of the other houses in the neighborhood. It had once been a large L-shaped ranch to which the previous owners had added a full second floor. That same owner had also converted the garage into living space. Joe had driven by this place dozens of times over the last three years and only once, when Cain pointed it out to him, did he ever take notice.
“Who’s there?” a fuzzy male voice wanted to know.
“Joe Serpe. I worked with Cain and …”
A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked.
“Come ahead.”
Joe walked down a short hallway to a small office. The two cheap plastic plaques on the door read:
Kenny Bergman Home Manager
Joe knocked and let himself in. Bergman was seated behind a typical state-issue metal desk. The whole office was filled with what looked like used public school furniture. Dented aluminum and scratched wood seemed to be the unifying design elements. The wood-paneled walls were covered in diplomas, certificates and pictures. Bergman’s desk was covered with stacks of paper, an outmoded computer and a phone. The only up-to-date thing in the office was the row of closed-circuit monitors on the shelf over the manager’s left shoulder. Serpe recognized Bergman from the funeral chapel. He was a relatively young man–in his early thirties, maybe younger. He had a mop of curly brown hair and a full beard in desperate need of trimming, but Joe guessed Bergman did all right with women. If they were his pleasure. He had a straight nose, a bright friendly smile and big hazel eyes. But strain showed at the corners of his mouth, the creases in his eyes, the folds of his brow. The look of Bergman almost made Joe guilty for feeling tired.
Bergman followed Joe’s eyes to the row of monitors.
“We had a security system put in a few months ago. It’s weird. We never had any problems in the neighborhood and then word got out that a private agency was looking at the area as a site for another group home. Suddenly, we became targets of vandalism. People worry about their neighborhoods becoming warehouses for the unwanted. It’s a shame.”
Long Island is the NIMBY capital of North America. Not In My Backyard. You can’t even fart on Long Island without doing an environmental impact study. Any proposal to build public works, power plants, highways, treatment centers, community centers, schools, even parks and hospitals comes under intense scrutiny and attack. If there was the slightest chance property values would be negatively impacted, forget it. The thing wasn’t getting built. Offer to build a golf course, on the other hand …
Joe held his hand out to Bergman. The manager stood and took it. Joe thought it a solid, honest shake. Serpe had never gotten over his belief in judging people by the little things they did. Handshakes were important to him.
“You were at the funeral,” Bergman said. “Cain’s mom went a little crazy on your friend. That was Frank Randazzo, the owner of Mayday, right? I met with him a few times. Good man. Good heart.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“So what is it we can do for you, Joe?”
Serpe collected his thoughts. He knew he had no official standing to be doing what he was doing. He tried
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