Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (13 page)

Livana ran down the stairs, then jumped the three feet to the tracks. Her feet slid in the loose rock, but she stumbled her way toward her son. “Dmitri!”

She reached Proschetta and saw the detective slamming a palm-size rock against the track—no, not against the track, against the chain links that were holding Dmitri in place.

The vibration was intensifying, and Livana knew that meant the train was getting closer. Was it on the same track? No, they would not have done that. This is all just to scare her. They wouldn’t actually kill a child.

Would they?

She reached down and stroked her son’s head, trying to stay out of Proschetta’s way. “I’m so sorry, Dmitri. Are you okay?”

He lifted his chin a few inches and nodded.

“That’s my boy. Hang in there.”

Proschetta slammed the rock down again and stopped—“Yeah! Got it.” He scrabbled over to the other side and started working on the chain securing Dmitri’s left arm.

Three more to go.

Proschetta glanced up quickly and looked around. He must have felt the rumbling too, because he gave her a look, then quickly turned his attention back to the task and swung the rock again. “You see any kind of emergency lever, something that’ll switch tracks?”

She rose and turned slowly. “What am I looking for?”

“No idea. A lever, a box, a brake.”

Livana ran in a thirty foot radius but did not see anything that resembled what the detective had described.

One thing she did see, however, were the close-mounted headlights of a train off in the distance. “No …” she said under her breath. Then, more robustly: “It’s coming!”

She turned and sprinted back to Dmitri. Proschetta had freed both arms and was working on his left leg. Her son was up on his hands, looking back at Proschetta, who had been whaling away at the track for several minutes. Even in the poor lighting, Livana saw the perspiration pimpling the detective’s face, the blood on the knuckles of his right hand.

“Hurry,” she said, grabbing her hair.

Dmitri swung his head back toward Livana. “Mom …”

“It’s gonna be fine, honey. We’re almost there.” She scurried around and found another rock, then tried to hit the chain by Dmitri’s right ankle. It was much harder than it looked; she kept missing and slamming the rail—and once hit Dmitri. He flinched but did not cry out or complain.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

Proschetta slammed the track again—and the chain popped aside. “One more.”

But the train was moving closer. The track was rumbling vigorously.

Proschetta cursed. “Harder to hit when the damn thing’s moving!” He kept at it, however, and picked up the pace. But his miss rate increased as well.

“Damn it.” He cried out, dropped the stone, and shook his hand. It was swollen, the palm a shiny blood red. He grabbed the rock again and started striking the links, groaning with each blow. “Hang on, kid. I’m gonna get you free. Get ready to run. Livana, go—go to the platform.”

The clink of stone on metal was drowned out by the loud blast of a train horn.

“Livana,” Proschetta yelled above the din. “Go!”

Instead, she stood up in front of her son’s body and waved her arms over her head, imploring the driver to brake.

“He might not be able to stop in time. Get out of the way.”

“He has to stop, he’s coming into the station.”

“He’s on the inside track. He’s just passing through.” Proschetta looked up. “He’s coming in too fast, definitely not stopping.” He resumed his hammering. “Get on the platform, now.”

“I’m not leaving my son!”

“Your daughter’s at home,” he said between strikes. “Her father’s gone. She needs you.”

Livana started jumping, waving her arms at the same time, doing what appeared to be a crude type of calisthenics.

“I’m gonna get him free, I promise. Now, just go!”

Livana did not stop. Proschetta did not stop either.

And neither did the train, which was now squealing its brakes, sparks flying from both sides of the car.

The headlights were blinding as Livana froze in place, no longer moving her arms, paralyzed by the conflict of not wanting to leave her son and not wanting to leave her daughter.

But as the train barreled down on her, she heard what sounded like three rapid gunshots. Almost immediately after, two hands grabbed her and yanked her to the side.

Her face slammed into the rough gravel as the hulking mustard and black locomotive rumbled by her head. The brakes released, the screeching ceased, and the train gathered speed, moving on down the track.

The intense wind blew her back as she attempted to get to her feet. She covered up and waited for it to pass, then saw Proschetta lying atop her son, who was pushing to get out from under his weight.

“Dmitri!” She rushed to his side and helped him up, and she hugged him, held him close. Nothing—no one—was ever going to take him away from her. Ever again.

IN A MOMENT OF desperation, Proschetta had removed his service revolver and shot the lock, but also hit Dmitri’s leg. He carried the boy to his car and, leaving Fedor’s truck in the lot, they brought the boy to the nearby St. Charles Hospital.

While the doctors worked to remove the bullet, Livana called Fedor and told him what had happened—and that Dmitri was safe. She promised to update them as soon as the doctors gave her a report.

The round had not damaged an artery and had not struck bone. Given where he was hit, he was fortunate that it went clean through the calf muscle. He would have some difficulty walking until it healed, but unless he planned to be a professional athlete, it would not cause him any disability.

“I’ve seen my fair share of gunshot wounds,” Proschetta said. “I’d say that’s a damn good report.”

“I’m just glad he’s safe.”

“The chains were so tight against his legs, I knew there’d be no way to shoot the lock or the chain without hitting his body—not to mention the danger of a ricochet. As it was, I got off a lucky shot. Coulda been a lot worse. Not like I had a choice.” Proschetta chuckled. “Of course, I’m gonna have a hell of a time explaining why my revolver was run over by a train.”

“Is that a problem?”

Proschetta thought a moment before answering. “Like you said, the important thing is that your son is safe.”

“How’s your hand?” It was splinted and wrapped in thick gauze.

“Three broken bones. Guess I smashed my fingers more than the chain. Fortunately, my aim with a gun was better than with a rock.”

They both got a chuckle out of that.

A few minutes later, Livana called Fedor and told him Dmitri was going to be fine. But when Fedor said, “We need to talk,” her sense of relief turned to unease. “When you get home,” he said. “Now’s not the time. It can wait.”

She did not know what the problem was, but since it was apparently not an urgent matter, she was too mentally exhausted to deal with it at the moment.

When Livana walked into recovery, she saw Dmitri lying on a cot, an IV connected to his forearm. His body was covered with deep abrasions as well as long, pink welts across his back and large bruises on his face, something his surgeon had commented on—and asked about.

“It looks like this child’s been abused. That, combined with the gunshot wound, I’m going to have to call—”

“Hang on a second, doc.” Proschetta rooted out his badge and told him that it was a sensitive case and that they could not divulge the details of what had happened to him. The doctor reluctantly accepted his explanation.

He made a note in the chart, then clicked his pen closed and faced Livana. “We’ll put him on antibiotics to guard against sepsis from the bullet. I’ll make sure you get complete instructions.”

When the doctor left, Proschetta pulled a chair next to Dmitri’s bed. He waited another half hour for the boy to become lucid and the anesthesia to clear his system. After he stirred and opened his eyes, Proschetta moved across the room to give Livana a moment to talk with him.

When he returned to the bed, Livana smiled broadly. “We’re grateful for everything you’ve done. How can I thank you?”

Proschetta sat down. “Just doing my job, Livana.”

“I think you went beyond the call of duty.”

Proschetta smiled. “Maybe just a bit. I’m glad to be able to help. Thanks for trusting me enough to call. I knew something was up when Fedor came into the station and recanted his statement. But there was nothing I could do. He insisted everything was fine.” Proschetta turned to Dmitri, then cleared his throat. “So, bud, you comfortable?”

Dmitri nodded, but turned his gaze toward the ceiling.

“We need to talk about what happened, when those people took you from your home.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Dmitri said. He pounded his fist on the bed. “Not my fault!”

“No one said it was. I just want to know—”

“Detective,” Livana said. “Do you think—”

“Yes. This is important.” He looked sternly at Livana, then swung his gaze back to Dmitri. “Did they hurt you, son?”

He turned his head away, then nodded.

“Tell me what happened.”

Dmitri closed his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Did they hit you?”

He gave Proschetta a slight movement of his chin.
Yes.

Proschetta leaned in close. “Did they, you know, hit you with a belt? On your back?”

Another nod.

“Did you get a look at the men? Can you tell me what they looked like?”

Dmitri’s mouth became contorted, as if he was trying to keep himself composed. He lifted his head and brought it down into the pillow, repeatedly.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Proschetta said, rising and placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, son.”

“Honey,” Livana said. “Stop that. Stop.” She stroked his hair and he slowly relaxed, letting his head rest on the pillow and turning away from Proschetta. “I think he’s done answering questions. There’s no point. These people are animals. We’re not going to press charges. One’s enough.” She looked hard at him; she could tell he understood that she was talking about losing Basil. “I just want this to go away.”

Proschetta stood up straight and took half a step back. “I know. I was—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him. Or you.” He pulled the baseball cap from his pocket and stood there for an awkward moment. Finally he said, “I’ll go, leave you two alone. Is there anything I can get you?”

Livana massaged her forehead, trying to release the stress. She was mentally and physically spent. “Just my car. It’s back at the train station.”

“I’ll grab an orderly on break and we’ll bring it here. And you know how to get in touch with me if—” He gestured for her to follow him to the door. “You need something, you just give me a call. If you hear from the bastards again, if they threaten you—” He stopped, realizing Dmitri was lying within earshot. He lowered his voice. “If they contact you for any reason, please let me know.”

Livana smiled and thanked him, but wondered what the police could do to protect them. Her mind flashed on the question she had asked Officer Kennedy the night of Basil’s murder. And she felt like she could now answer it herself: the Mob, in fact, ran New York.

20

>137 EAST HOUSTON STREET

The Lower East Side

Manhattan

Tuesday, November 5, 1996

Proschetta took Vail to Yonah Schimmel’s Knishery, a New York City icon famous for its potato knishes and all the variants it had developed over the years: mushroom, salmon, jalapeno, cheese. No matter what they chopped up and put inside, however, it all came down to the special Yonah Schimmel recipe that made the stuffed dumpling a delicacy in Jewish American cuisine.

Walking up to the storefront, Vail noticed that the yellow, blue, and red sign claimed that its origins dated back to 1910. She believed it, as the eatery looked to be every day of its eighty-six years. She stepped up into the narrow restaurant and the smell of baking bread and sautéing onions hit her nose. She breathed in deeply and her stomach rumbled.

To her immediate left was a stainless steel and glass display case where dozens of knishes sat, begging to be eaten.

“Karen.”

Vail whipped her head right and saw Proschetta seated at one of the wood tables against a wall covered with yellowed newspaper clippings about Yonah Schimmel and the knishery alongside photos of celebrities, including a large one with Woody Allen taken pretty much where she was standing.

“Protch, good to see you.”

“How’s the NYPD treating you?”

A broad conspiratorial grin spread across her lips. “Couldn’t be better.”

Protch slapped the table. “Good. As it should be. You deserve it all, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Your reports have been thorough and well-written. And the detectives who’ve followed up leads based on your reports found them extremely helpful. The command staff took notice. All I did was put you in a position to succeed, and point them in the right direction, to put you on their radar. Everything else you’ve done yourself.”

A busboy set a bowl of pickles on the table.

“Try the half sours,” Proschetta said. “They’re out of this world. If you like pickles.”

“I like pickles.” She snatched one off the plate and took a bite, her gaze moving around the small restaurant. In the back, full soda cases of Coke, Dr. Brown’s, and Sprite were stacked against the wall. “Interesting place.”

“Place? This is a New York City
institution
. Wait till you taste the knishes.”

They ordered, made small talk, and then Proschetta lifted his glass of Dr. Brown’s. “I’m enjoying this, Karen. Don’t get me wrong, but I know you didn’t call up your former instructor just to have lunch.”

“It’s a nice thought, though.”

“But not likely. So Dominic Crinelli.”

“Can we talk here?”

Proschetta chuckled. “No one’s here at the moment. I’ll make it fast before anyone comes in. Besides, Jews eat here. Italian mobsters, not so much. Don’t worry.”

“We found Mr. Crinelli murdered last night in his house.”

“You can drop the ‘mister.’ Guy was a lowlife thug all his life, nothing less. And to make things worse, I couldn’t make the charges stick. As to his murder, I heard. All senior ranks got an alert this morning. In case there are repercussions.”

“Then you know why I wanted to meet?”

“Not a clue.”

The server set their knishes in front of them.

“Mmm.” Vail leaned over the food and inhaled deeply.

“You live in New York and you’ve never had a knish?”

Vail shrugged. “Life’s full of exciting experiences.”
Though I’m not sure this qualifies as one of them.

“So Crinelli.” Proschetta took his knife and fork and cut into his knish. Steam rose and he leaned away, out of its path. “First time he crossed my path was back in ’73. I’d just made detective and I caught this case where some meathead starts a fight with this family guy in a bowling alley. The guy fights back and hurts him real bad. Family guy claims it was self-defense, and I believe him.

“Problem is, the injured asshole’s in with the mob somehow. The Castiglia family. His father was their accountant or something, don’t remember.” He snapped his fingers. “Illegal furs, that’s it. The father’s company was bringing in furs from overseas, purposely mislabeling them because it was against the law to kill certain animals. Anyone checked, the label showed a legal fur—but it wasn’t.

“Anyway, the Castiglias, they kinda owned part of the business. Skimming the profits.” He stabbed a fork into the knish and scooped up a piece. “Family guy who was in the fight, he threatens to go to the police about the illegal furs. They dispatched a crew to send a message, work the guy over with bats, break some bones. I don’t think they had orders to kill him, but the thugs got carried away and bludgeoned him to death.”

“Was Crinelli one of them?”

“Oh—yeah, sorry. Someone saw what was going down, and he chased one of the assholes down—Crinelli—and got a decent look at him. Gave us a good likeness, and we picked him up.”

“This story doesn’t have a happy ending, does it?”

“Not even close.”

“They went after the witness?”

“Indirectly.” Proschetta proceeded to recount the details of the child’s kidnapping and eventual release.

“Damn.”

“Damn
effective
is what it was. They knew that if they killed a kid, all hell woulda broken loose. We woulda declared war. You probably don’t remember because you were just a teenager, but about ten years ago a Mexican drug cartel killed an undercover DEA agent, Kiki Camarena. Feds went nuts, shut down the drug trade, made life miserable for the cartels. The mob sure didn’t want any part of that happening to them.

“But the Castiglias almost blew it big-time because the kid nearly died. Don’t know what they were thinking, chaining him down like that.” He held up his right hand, which featured three bulbous knuckles. “Fractured three fingers slamming the rock against the track. Arthritis kills me in the winter and firing my pistol ain’t much fun anymore. But I’m not sorry. I’d do it again, no question.”

His gaze drifted off for a moment. “Anyway, even if they went about it the wrong way and got lucky because I was there for the kid, they ended up sending the right message. It hit home. Crinelli walked and there was nothing we could do about it because no way in hell would the family testify against them. That family … talk about heartache.” He shook his head and seemed lost in thought for a few seconds.

“Second time?”

“Different cast of characters. Same story. Nine years ago, after he was made a capo. Someone on his crew got into trouble. We had stuff on the guy and the FBI had been watching him for a while. He rolled on his boss and it looked like we were finally gonna show Crinelli the inside of a prison cell. Somehow they got to the witness, slipped some cyanide in his coffee while he was waiting to testify.”

Vail realized her knish was getting cold, so she scooped up a forkful. “Wasn’t he in protective custody?”

“Karen.” Proschetta frowned. “This wasn’t the first time we’d been down that road.”

“So how’d they get to him?”

“Inside job.”

Vail stopped chewing. “How?”

“The Castiglias had two cops on their payroll. Hard to believe they flew under the radar for twenty years, kept their noses clean for two decades.”

“How could we not see that? How could we not make the connection?”

“Cops can’t become made men. Against the rules of La Cosa Nostra. So there was no connection to be made. No. The Castiglias were smart, approached the two after they were cops, did a dance, felt them out, tested them. They passed with flying colors and the money started to flow. Not just money—women, fine wine, offshore accounts. Nothing traceable that could raise alarms.

“But I noticed something about one of ’em. Made me think. I told the FBI and Internal Affairs and they thought my theory had merit. They set up a wiretap and within six weeks we overheard a conversation that basically implicated the cop in the murder. He bragged about it, pointed out its importance. Felt he should’ve been compensated better.”

“Good old greed,” Vail said as she scooped up another helping. “This knish is really good.”

“I used to come here all the time as a kid. Ironically, it was my dad, who was Italian, who brought us here. My mom, who could trace her Jewish ancestry to the Spanish Inquisition—her ancestors were Conversos—she doesn’t like knishes. Go figure.”

“So you have anything on Crinelli that could help my case?”

“Your case?”

Vail flushed. “Well—Thorne, actually Russo—called me out to the crime scene. It had similarities to a murder I’d … helped with a year ago.”

“Tim Thorne?”

“Know him?”

Proschetta coughed into his hand as he said, “Asshole. Drunk.”

Vail smirked. “Apparently I’ve already experienced both of his personality traits.”

Proschetta sat back in his seat. “Russo set you up with him?”

Vail lifted her Dr. Brown’s and took a sip. “I guess you could put it that way. But I’m not complaining. I’m working a case.”

“Yeah, well … be careful. Shit has a way of sticking to your shoe and dragging the stink with you. Then everyone thinks you’re the one who caused the stench. I’m not sure that’s worth any points you’ll score by cutting your teeth on Crinelli’s death.”

Vail considered that. “I have a feeling this case is going to be much more than the death of a mob capo. I think this is a serial case.” Vail walked him through the Manos murder, the same MO that was used on Crinelli, and the unusual manner in which the fingers were glued together.

Proschetta’s brow rose. He shoved a piece of potato into his mouth, his fork poised, limp wristed, as he worked it through. “I see your point. I’ll amend my advice to you, then. Be careful. Know what you’re getting into with Thorne, keep your eyes open and your shoes clean. Promise?”

Vail grinned. “Promise,
Dad
. I’ll be careful.”