“You must be proud.”
“Of course I am. I’ve always been proud of Sarah.”
“She has forgiven you for Katy’s death?”
“Let’s just say that the last case I worked helped Sarah understand that the fault lines can get awfully blurry and the closer you are to things the harder it is to assign blame.”
“That was the case of the little girl, the artist? You rescued her the way you rescued me once.”
“That’s the way the media played it, but it wasn’t like that at all. I’m not sure she wasn’t better off away from her parents. But what’s this got to do with anything, Carmella? What are you doing here? How did you-”
“It’s Carmella now, not Carm?”
“It stopped being Carm the day you left for Canada.”
“I had to go, for all of us. You know that. We were starting to hate each other and I could never let that happen. You only married me to get over Katy and to give Israel a name. Somewhere you know that is the truth.”
“How is he?”
She was young again, a beatific smile washing over her face. “He’s amazing, so smart, so handsome.” She reached into her bag and came out with an envelope. “These are pictures of him for you to keep. I could have emailed them, but I know how you are old-fashioned.”
“No, Carmella, not old-fashioned, just old. Thank you for these.” I slid the envelope into my suit pocket. “But you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”
“You have not changed, Moe. Still persistent.” Her smile changed, turning to rueful and sad. She was older again. “I always admired that about you. You never lost track of things no matter how confusing the situation would get. No, you have not changed.”
“Do any of us change, really, even if everything else changes around us?”
“You are very philosophical today.”
“I have my reasons.”
“With Sarah getting married…”
“That too,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Carmella, for chrissakes!” I clapped my hands together in anger.
Her face turned dead serious. “I want to hire you. I need you.”
I laughed. “You don’t need me. You proved that when you moved up to Canada. Besides, you were the best detective and PI I ever knew. When we were business partners, you always did the heavy lifting. And if you can’t do it yourself, hire Brian Doyle and Devo. They run their own shop now.”
“No, not them. You.”
“Sorry, I can’t help.”
“You have to.”
“What the hell is so important that you come to me after all this time?”
I regretted asking almost before the words were out of my mouth. She took a small framed photo out of her bag and handed it to me. The woman in the photo looked a little like Carmella. She was older, heavier, but with the same fiery eyes and rich mouth. I handed the picture back.
“She’s lovely,” I said.
“My big sister, Alta.”
“I thought you didn’t have any more contact with the Consecos.”
“I did not. I don’t.”
“Look, Carmella, what’s this got to do-”
“I thought you might have heard. Alta was murdered last month. She was stabbed dead in the street outside a pizzeria in Gravesend.”
I’d grown up in Coney Island, not too far from Gravesend, and I don’t think I’d ever given the name much thought. Gravesend was just another neighborhood. I mean, you don’t say Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach, or Brownsville and contemplate the origin of the names. They were neighborhoods with names, names like any other names… until now, until I found out there was a time bomb ticking in my belly. Tick… tick… tick… A long time ago in a cemetery, Mr. Roth told me that he didn’t want to be buried, that to be cold in the ground wasn’t for him. And now the time had come for me to think about that. I didn’t suppose it mattered. When you’re dead, you’re dead, but when you can see the end in sight, it does matter. Gravesend. For as long as I had left, I wouldn’t be able to hear the name again without considering its implications.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I said.
“I cut my family out of my life so many years ago and now…” Carmella was crying. “Here, take this.” She handed me a slip of paper. “Get back to your party. Give your family my love and wish Sarah all happiness. Call me, please.”
She was in my arms again and I was stroking her hair. When I looked up, Pam was standing a few feet away, glaring.
From the Daily News, May 6, 2009
Cold-hearted EMT murdered in Gravesend, Brooklyn
By Henry Leroy
One of two FDNY EMTs accused of ignoring a man who died of a stroke at a Manhattan bistro was stabbed to death outside a popular Brooklyn eatery. According to a spokesman for the NYPD, Alta Conseco, 48, of East New York was accosted by an unknown assailant or assailants in close proximity of the Gelato Grotto on 86th Street in the Gravesend section of the borough. Stabbed several times, she managed to crawl to the famous pizzeria where she collapsed. No further details about the attack were released. She was off duty at the time of the assault.
Conseco was taken to Coney Island Hospital where she was pronounced dead. On March 12, Conseco and another EMT, Maya Watson, made international headlines after witnesses claimed the EMTs ignored pleas for help from the bistro staff after Robert Tillman, a cook at the High Line Bistro, seemed to faint. When they were asked to help, the two off-duty EMTs are reported to have told the bistro staff to call 911 and then left. Both EMTs have consistently refused comment.
Conseco and Watson have been vilified by New Yorkers for what many perceive as a callous decision and a dereliction of duty. They were both suspended for thirty days and put on desk duty upon their return to active status. Both the Manhattan district attorney’s office and the FDNY have investigations pending.
THREE
I had to wade through a lot of shit before I could get to any credible media reports on Alta Conseco’s murder. During the last case I worked-the abduction of Sashi Bluntstone, an eleven-year-old art prodigy-I’d learned some hard lessons about the ugly side of the worldwide web. The internet could be a magical place, but it was a sewer too. It was a place where people with axes to grind could hide behind screen names and ceaselessly vent their spleens in the most vicious and brutal ways imaginable without ever having to justify their points of view or answer for their screeds. Sashi had been a particularly favorite target of a group of frustrated art bloggers who posted invective-laden rants and altered photos of her being crucified, raped, and flayed alive. All of that aimed at a prepubescent girl because she had managed to make some money with her paintings, so you can imagine the harsh and varied expressions of loathing that lay in store for Alta Conseco and Maya Watson.
When I finally did climb out of the sludge at the bottom of the sewer pipe, most of the media reports I found weren’t very good and were pretty much the same. They spent about an equal amount of space or time presenting the scant details of Alta’s murder and rehashing Robert Tillman’s death. The reports that came a few days later weren’t much better. No, actually, they were worse. They shed little if any light on Alta’s homicide. In fact, as the week wore on, reportage of her murder became more of a pretext for the papers and TV outlets to sensationalize Robert Tillman’s unfortunate end and to further vilify Alta and her partner. There was an almost inexhaustible number of articles, opinion pieces, and rants by TV talking heads, many of them delighting in portraying the two EMTs as representative of New York City itself.
Over the last few years I’d noticed that all the goodwill the rest of the country had shown New York City since 9/11 had steadily eroded and Robert Tillman’s death was like the last nail in the coffin. It was Kitty Genovese all over again. New York was that cold uncaring place, the place where neighbors hear the screams of a young woman being murdered and turn their heads, the place where EMTs basically tell a dying man to go fuck himself.