Tragic (17 page)

“Thank you,” Antonia said, shaking Marlene’s hand warmly. “You’ve given me hope that there will be justice.”

With his entourage in tow, Karp led the way down a flight of stairs to the seventh floor and then conducted a short walk along the hallway leading to the “stand-in” room and viewing room. He asked Detective Pete McNeely, assigned to the DAO detective squad, who ran the office lineups, to explain the process to Antonia.

“Sure,” McNeely said. “The room on your left is the ‘stand-in’ room; that’s where we’ll bring a half-dozen men in at a time for you to see. The room on your right is the viewing room, where you’ll be with DA Karp, ADA Guma, and Detective Fulton. If the men have lawyers, they can be present in either room, but the lawyers are prohibited from speaking or in any way disrupting the process. They are there strictly and solely to observe.”

Leading the way into the stand-in room, McNeely said, “The men will stand here in a line. They will appear to be looking at you, but as you can see, it just looks like a mirror and what they actually are looking at are their reflections. But if you’ll step with me into the viewing room”—the detective led the group into the next room—“you’ll see that your side appears to be clear, though somewhat tinted.”

“How does that work?” Antonia replied.

“Well, I’m glad you asked that,” the detective said, obviously pleased to be “the expert” on the matter. “Here’s how: A so-called one-way mirror has a very thin reflective coating applied to one side, about half as much coating as would be on there if you wanted to make the mirror truly opaque. In this case, the ‘mirror’ surface reflects about half the light that strikes it, and that’s what the men in the lineup see. The rest of the light goes through so that someone on this side sees what is going on in that other room. But the real secret is how the two rooms are lit. In the stand-in room, you probably noticed that the lights
are very bright and we see in there quite clearly; in the viewing room, it’s dark, so very little light passes through to the stand-in room—too little to see anything. Put another way, I’m sure you’ve stood outside a dark office building at night and all of the windows look like mirrors. However, if a light is on in an office, you can see inside just fine because the light is escaping. Does that all make sense?”

Antonia smiled. “Yes, much more sense now,” she said. “Thank you for explaining.”

As the detective blushed and stepped back, Karp said, “Are you ready to proceed?”

“Yes,” she replied. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay then, Detective,” Karp said to McNeely, “let’s get cooking.”

Once they entered the viewing room, Karp explained what was going to happen next to Antonia. “Six men will be entering the room. They will look straight ahead and then turn sideways before turning straight ahead again. Each individual will be holding a number. I’ll ask you at that point if you recognize any of them. If you do, just tell me the number the man is holding. Are you ready?”

Looking nervous, Antonia nodded, and six men were marched into the stand-in room and told to face front, then sideways, then front again.

“Do you recognize any of these men?” Karp asked.

Scanning the faces, Antonia bit her lip; then she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine. Mrs. Carlotta, would it be fair to say that you did not get a good look at the driver of the car that came to your house several nights before your husband was murdered?” Karp asked.

“I didn’t see him at all. My husband saw the back of his head, but I didn’t look.”

“I see. So if the man driving the car was in the stand-in room, would you recognize him?”

“No, I would not.”

“Thank you,” Karp said and pressed an intercom button. “We’re ready for the next group.”

The six men were led out and six more replaced them and followed the same procedures. “Do you recognize any of these men?” Karp asked.

Antonia’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure.”

“Take your time.”

“Well, Number Four, he looks like the second man, the one who stood behind the man who did most of the talking,” Antonia said. “I think it’s him but I am not completely positive; he kept his head down and didn’t say much.”

“Okay,” Karp replied before pressing the intercom button again. “Thank you, the next group please.”

“I’m sorry,” Antonia said, wiping at her eyes. “I’m not much help.”

“You’re doing fine. Relax as much as you can,” Karp said as the second six were replaced with a third set.

“Number Two,” Antonia said immediately before she was even asked.

“Number Two? Please explain.”

“Number Two, that’s him,” she said with contempt. “I will never forget that face. He’s the one who did most of the talking. The one with the accent and the strange eyes.”

Karp was just about to release the group when Number Two spoke up. “
Vali otsjuda!
” He sneered at the mirror.

Quickly, Karp pressed the intercom button. “Number Two, is there anything you’d like to add to your comment? I have a stenographer right here who will want to get every word.”

The man did not respond except to continue sneering. “Okay,” Karp said. “That will be all.” He turned back to Antonia. “I appreciate you coming in on a night like this. Now, however, it’s late, and I’m going to ask Detective Fulton here to get one of his people to drive you home.”

Antonia nodded. “Anything I can do,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then added, “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Karp. I’m glad you have these men, but they’re just the tools someone else used. They’re not the real reasons my husband is dead.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Karp replied. “But hopefully they will lead us to the real reason.”

A
FTER A DETECTIVE WAS ASSIGNED
to escort Antonia home, Karp leaned back against the hallway wall. “That went well,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“She didn’t pick out Bill Miller, the redheaded guy in the first group,” Fulton noted.

“Which makes sense if the driver never got out of the car,” Karp pointed out. “As for group two, she was tentative, but she picked Frank DiMarzo out. And she nailed Alexei Bebnev in the third.”

“All this proves so far is that Bebnev, and probably DiMarzo, went to Carlotta’s house,” Guma said.

“In Miller’s car,” Fulton noted. “We got the license plate number. And her story corroborates the other evidence we gathered, too.”

“Right, which probably puts all three of them in New Rochelle,” Karp said. “But it doesn’t put them in Hell’s Kitchen a few nights later.”

“And none of those jokers who were with Carlotta—Vitteli, Barros, and Corcione—said anything in their statements to the detectives on the night of the occurrence about the gunman having an accent; plus the perps were wearing masks,” Guma said.

“One step at a time, my friend. We have the car now, and
maybe somebody will recognize it from the crime scene. Let’s talk to Carlotta’s driver, Randy McMahon,” Karp said. “In the meantime, you’re right, Goom; it certainly looks suspicious, but we need to flip one of these three before they all lawyer up.”

“So who’s going to be first up to the plate?” Guma asked.

Fixing his friend with a sideways glance, Karp made up his mind. “I want to talk to Nicoli Lopez before we try Gnat Miller. So why don’t you see where you get with DiMarzo first, Goom; then we’ll try the shooter, Bebnev. He has the most information, but I think he’ll be the toughest nut to crack, and we won’t be taking any lesser pleas than murder from him. But considering Bebnev was ready to shoot DiMarzo, a little falling out between friends, maybe Frank will be willing to talk about it.”

“Where do you want to do this?” Guma asked.

“The lineup room, so I can watch from the other side and get a feel for these guys.”

Guma and Fulton walked into the stand-in room, where they were joined by a stenographer. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and DiMarzo was shown in by McNeely. Karp noted the deep dark circles under the young man’s eyes.
Doesn’t look like Frank’s getting much sleep,
he thought.

Motioning to a chair across the table from him, Guma sat down and said, “Have a seat, Frank.” He looked at the stenographer and nodded. “My name is Ray Guma; I’m an assistant district attorney with the County of New York. We’re here tonight with Frank DiMarzo. Mr. DiMarzo, I’d like to ask you some questions about the December fifth shooting death of Vincent Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. But first I want to introduce the other people here in the room. The gentleman leaning against the wall in the corner behind me and to my right is NYPD Detective Clay Fulton, assigned to the New York District Attorney’s Office. The stenographer is Carole Mason; she works for the DAO and is here to take down every word we say. Is that clear?”

DiMarzo, who for the most part kept his head down since sitting, except to glance up briefly with each introduction, nodded.

“Mr. DiMarzo, you nodded,” Guma said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up so that Ms. Mason can record your affirmation.”

“Yes, I understand,” DiMarzo said sullenly.

“Good, now I’m going to advise you of your Miranda rights,” Guma continued, and did just that. “Do you understand your rights?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but before I start asking questions, I want to repeat again, if you’d like a lawyer present, but can’t afford one, you can have one free of charge and confer with him before you and I start talking. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“So are you willing to answer my questions at this time without a lawyer present?”

DiMarzo shrugged. “For now.”

“Okay, you’ve consented to answer my questions,” Guma said. “So let’s get started. As I said, I want to talk to you about the murder of Vince Carlotta—”

“Who?”

Guma stopped talking for a moment and leaned forward to look the young man in the eyes. “Let’s not waste our time here playing games. We’re investigating the murder of Vince Carlotta, and I’m giving you a chance to talk about it. Maybe you’d like to get it off your chest.”

DiMarzo stared at Guma for a few long moments and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but then his eyes darkened and he shook his head. “I ain’t no rat,” he said.

Guma sat back in his chair and tossed his pencil onto the yellow legal pad in front of him. “So that’s it? Play the tough guy, live by the code of the streets,” he scoffed. “You’re not going to answer my questions, are you? But what about one of your boys? What about Gnat? We know he was just the driver. Maybe he’ll talk?”

“Gnat wouldn’t rat on me.” DiMarzo scowled.

“No? How about Bebnev then? Wasn’t he getting ready to shoot you and leave you in a landfill? You think he’s not going to be an informant?”

DiMarzo remained quiet, looking down at his lap. He sniffed a little, but that was the only sound in the room for a full minute, until he shook his head and muttered, “I can’t.”

Guma snorted. “You can’t? Or you won’t?” He sat forward, forcing DiMarzo to look up into his eyes. “Who you protecting, Frankie? Who you taking the fall for? Right now, they’re in their nice warm beds with full stomachs, and tomorrow morning they’ll get up and look out on the new snow and think, ‘What a beautiful day to be alive!’ But what will you be thinking, Frankie? That you’re lucky to be alive with a guilty conscience the size of a Doberman eating at your mind? They couldn’t care less about you, unless it’s to figure out how to kill you now that Bebnev messed up this afternoon.”

The room was quiet again as everyone waited for Frank DiMarzo to choose. But when he did, it wasn’t what they hoped to hear. “I didn’t do nothin’, and I want to leave, and I want a lawyer.”

With a sigh, Guma sat back in his chair.
Game over,
Karp thought in the next room.
Nothing from here on out is worth a damn. Well, except for a couple of parting shots to make him think on it.

“Okay, so we do this the hard way,” Guma said. “You’re going to cling to that tired old crap about ‘the code of the streets.’ You ain’t no rat. But it doesn’t matter; you’re going down, Frankie. All three of you.”

“I’ve got nothing more to say to you,” DiMarzo replied.

Guma smiled as he stood up. “That’s okay, Frankie, because I don’t have anything more to say to you, either. Well, except that you look like hell. Like maybe you aren’t sleeping so well. It’s not going to get any better, you know, not until you own up and try to make it as right as you can. We’ll get you that lawyer now.”

After DiMarzo was led out, Guma looked at the mirror as he spoke. “I think I was close but no cigar.”

Karp pressed the intercom button. “Had him looking at that curve you threw, but he didn’t swing,” he said.

“Bebnev next?” Fulton asked.

“Yeah, but I’m not holding my breath,” Karp said.

When Alexei Bebnev walked into the room, he looked around the room with scorn. “What do you want?”

“My name is Ray Guma; I’m an assistant district attorney with the County of New York,” Guma replied, indicating with his hand that Bebnev should sit down across from him. “We’re here tonight with Alexei Bebnev. Mr. Bebnev, I’d like to ask you some questions about the December fifth shooting death of Vincent Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen and—”

“I have nothing to say to you,
zhopa,
” Bebnev snarled as he remained standing. “I know my rights. I want lawyer.”

Guma stood and glared at the Russian. “Very well, Mr. Bebnev,” he said. “Then I’ll just inform you that you are under arrest for the December fifth murder of Vince Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. And now I’ll advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can be used against you. You also have the right to an attorney; if you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided free of charge. Do you understand?”

“Vali otsjuda!”
Bebnev cursed and spat on the floor.

Guma shook his head. “That’s the second time you’ve spoken some Russian. What’s it mean? Or would you like me to get a translator?”