Bob Healy still wasn’t sleeping very well. It was almost worse now than before he spoke to Joe Serpe. Like his Irish grandma used to say, “Setting things right is God’s work and he seldom sees moved to do it.” But Healy had already tampered with the past and there was no longer any question of leaving things well enough alone. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be an easy way out of his predicament. Unless he called for another oil delivery, which Serpe would certainly avoid, Healy could think of no comfortable way to approach Joe.
Christ, Bob figured, he’d waited all this time. He could be patient a little longer. Something would come up. He only hoped it would be soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without sleeping the night and this business of going to Mass was starting to get to him.
He opened the paper. S.O.S.-Same old shit:
IRAQ
IRAQ
IRAQ
MURDER
Murder! While it was surely true that New York City had come a very long way from its ugly streak of 2000 plus homicides per year, murder was still more than a trace element in its chemistry. On Long Island, however, murder was still big news. It was even bigger news when two murders occurred within blocks of each other, in the same town, in a span of eight or so days.
Bob Healy read the story with great interest, though there were few details. The victim was about the same age as Cain Cohen. His name was Jorge Reyes, a nineteen-year-old illegal from El Salvador. Like the Cohen kid, he’d taken a pretty bad beating. The preliminary cause of death, however, seemed to be related to several stab wounds which Reyes received. The cops were very vague about the number of wounds, location of the wounds, etc. In fact, the cops were being rather too coy about everything. Bob Healy could read between the lines. Reyes’ murder was in some way connected to an ongoing 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 the truth.
“The cops have a suspect in Cain’s murder.”
“Yes, Jean Michel Toussant. He was employed here as mental health therapy aide.”
“You know Cain told me he got rough with some of the residents.”
Bergman snapped. “Look, Mr. Serpe, is this about a lawsuit or something? Are you trying to put the squeeze on us? We’re a state-run agency. We hire people, and if we get complaints, we have to follow union procedures. I’m sorry if-”
“Calm down, calm down!” Joe held his palms up. “You’re reading this all wrong.”
Bergman sat back down, but his face was still red. “Then what is it you want?”
“I used to be a cop.”
“Cain told us. He told everyone. So…”
“I want to find this Toussant. The Suffolk County cops can’t seem to do it.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Bergman puzzled, his tone far from accommodating.
“That’s a good question.” Joe let his honesty show. “I was hoping I could talk to the staff, maybe some of the residents. Maybe Mr. Fren-I mean, Toussant, said something to one of them that would help.”
“We all really liked Cain a lot, Mr. Serpe, but I couldn’t possibly let you upset the residents or involve this home in any vigilantism. Besides, the police have already interviewed everyone here. I don’t see what you’d be able to find that they weren’t.”
“Okay,” Joe relented. “I understand you wouldn’t want me upsetting the residents. How about the staff?”
“Like I said, Mr. Serpe, I’m afraid not, but I understand your impulse to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been working crazy hours since-”
Bergman was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come.”
It was her, the woman who had comforted the Down’s girl at Cain’s funeral. She strolled right past Joe over to Bergman’s desk and handed him a manila folder.
“These are the assessments you asked for, Ken,” she said in a very businesslike tone.
“Marla Stein.” Bergman gestured at Joe. “Meet Joe Serpe. He worked with Cain at the oil company.”
Joe was already standing, hand extended. “Pleasure to meet you.”