Hipster Death Rattle Read online

“And?”

  “Well, the reason I didn’t say anything before is I did find a Twitter user named ‘hipster death rattle.’ But whoever it is joined way back in 2002. No followers, not following anyone. And just the egg. You know, the egg avatar, means he or she never bothered to put up a picture?”

  Petrosino nodded.

  “And over on Instagram, fourteen people took pictures of the crime scene graffiti and used it as a hashtag. But that’s it.”

  “All right. Keep keeping an eye on it.”

  “Sure,” Hadid said. “Hey, I was thinking. You want to go get a beer tonight? I want to get to know the local bars, and frankly, I could use a break from the wife. She’s getting tired of my big mouth.”

  Petrosino just looked at him. Hadid again felt like a man being sized up for an enema.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Hadid said. “Back to the precinct?”

  But Petrosino was already walking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “You start, Mr. Moran,” Petrosino said.

  Tony was in a windowless room in the 90th precinct. The soundproofing tiles all along the walls and ceiling had been freshly painted avocado green. Twenty years before.

  He had called Petrosino, saying he had questions to ask, and the detective had said to him, “I was just about to call you.” Turns out Petrosino had questions to ask him. So here he was, playing intrepid reporter. But why did he feeling alarmingly like a suspect?

  Petrosino’s partner, Hadid, took a seat across from him and said, “So, Mr. Moran. ’Sfunny, you don’t look Irish.”

  “I didn’t say I was Irish,” Tony said.

  “Well, by your last name…”

  “There’s an accent on the ‘a.’ Morán.”

  “I knew that. It was just a joke.”

  “Is that what it was?”

  Hadid got flustered. “Oh…You know what I mean. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’m Algerian, and people think I’m Spanish all the time.”

  “They think you’re from Spain?”

  “No,” said Hadid. “What I mean is—”

  Petrosino finally spoke. “Okay, guys, enough with the flirting. Hadid, on second thought, get Tuchman in here. Save us a meeting later.”

  When Hadid left the room, Tony felt it was his chance. “I just had a quick question or two about something.”

  Petrosino held up a finger. “Let’s do this first, champ. Don’t worry. I won’t forget.”

  The door opened and in walked Hadid, followed by a man who looked more like a lawyer than a cop. His tie matched the handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. He had a tie clip and cufflinks and a pinky ring that was slightly smaller than Staten Island. He introduced himself as a Lieutenant Tuchman.

  They all stood opposite Tony. He said, “Well, now it’s a party. Or an inquisition. Which one is it going to be?”

  “Not exactly a party, but thank you for coming in,” Tuchman said. “I’d like to start off by asking you to tell me, tell us, as much as you can about Patrick Stoller. What kind of person was he?”

  “Well, I guess he was a nice guy. A decent editor. He was very organized, I can say that.”

  “How’d you meet him?” Tuchman asked, leaning forward. His pinky ring threatened to poke Tony’s eye out.

  “At the Sentinel,” Tony said. “I was working there freelance, and the editor who’d been there for twenty-five years retired, and they wanted me to take the job, but I didn’t want it, so they promoted Patrick.”

  “So, you didn’t want his job?”

  “No. The hours suck, the pay sucks, and who wants the responsibility?”

  “If I remember correctly,” Petrosino said, “you had said you weren’t exactly friends with Stoller?”

  “Right. Just co-workers.”

  “You two didn’t get along?” Hadid said.

  “It’s not that.”

  “Professional jealousy, maybe?” Hadid again.

  “You know, this sounds like it’s turning from ‘some questions’ to a barbecue pretty quickly.”

  “Just a few questions, Mr. Moran,” said Tuchman, twirling Staten Island around. “We don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “No worries. I’m having a lovely time. I’m learning so much about police work. To answer your question: Patrick and I got along fine. We didn’t exactly hang out. But, I mean, do you guys hang out after work?”

  Hadid looked behind him at Petrosino. Petrosino gave him a poker face. Hadid turned back and said, “Nope.”

  Petrosino shook his head. “Okay, so you weren’t best buds. You told us he lived in the other direction, and you were right. So do you have any idea why Patrick would be riding his skateboard in that part of the neighborhood at that time of night?”

  “Cardio? Sight-seeing? Geocaching?”

  “Mr. Moran, please…”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. I did think it was strange, especially since it was hot as hell that night. Maybe he couldn’t sleep.”

  Tuchman leaned back now. “How about this? Was your editor Mr. Stoller working on any particular scoop?”

  Tony shrugged. “We’re always looking to fill the issue but no, we don’t exactly do exposés or get scoops, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No?” said Tuchman. “Maybe an in-depth story on gangs in the neighborhood, something along those lines?”

  “Are you kidding? Our crime coverage is a police blotter. We’re mostly a lot of gallery openings and bad restaurant reviews.”

  “Reviews of bad restaurants?” Hadid said.

  “No, badly written restaurant reviews,” Tony said. “Look, we write nothing negative. We’re a supportive community newspaper. We have to be, otherwise we wouldn’t get any ads. Can I ask why you think he was doing an exposé? Are you suggesting a gang member didn’t like something he might have been working on and then killed him for it?”

  Tuchman said, “Perhaps we should emphasize here that we don’t expect you to tell me exactly what story your friend was working on. We understand how journalists operate. Professional ethics and all that.”

  “Can I ask you guys a question?” Tony said.

  “Just a moment. Let us finish,” Tuchman said.

  Ignoring him, Petrosino said, “Of course, you can. Go ahead.”

  “So what is your prevailing theory about the slashings? Do you think it’s just a repeat of those gang-related slashings we had back in…2008, 2009?”

  Petrosino spoke. “2008. Yeah, the police department has—”

  Tuchman interrupted. “What Detective Petrosino is trying to say is that the 90th Precinct Gang Task Force has had a near hundred percent arrest-and-conviction record when it comes to gang-related crime.”

  “Hundred percent?” Tony said. “Is that even possible?” When he said this, he spotted Petrosino covering a smile with his hand, pretending to move his toothpick around.

  “It is,” Tuchman said.

  “Okay, fine. But getting back to my question, what is your prevailing theory? Do you have one that you can share?”

  Tuchman smiled now, an oily, politician’s smile. “You know we can’t give you much detail. But we can tell you this: We are still not saying that Mr. Stoller’s death was anything other than a violent attack in a relatively deserted part of the neighborhood. But we are considering every possibility.”

  “Well, here’s what I’m thinking,” Tony said, talking to Petrosino. “And mind you, I’m barely one step above a blogger. But this guy says he’s the director of the Gang Task Force. But you keep asking questions about Patrick as a person. I think you think this wasn’t a random slashing, by gang members or whoever, but that someone killed Patrick very much on purpose.”

  Petrosino and Hadid looked at Tuchman, waiting for him to respond.

  “Very interesting. That is an idea we have discussed, Mr. Moran,” said Tuchman. “I can’t say much more. But since you’re being very helpful, I’m going to go out on a l
imb and be upfront with you, and maybe you can help us a little more. Let me ask you: Do you know who the Southside Quistadoreys are?”

  “Sounds like a rotary club.”

  “A rotary club,” Hadid said. “Is this guy some kind of joker?”

  Tuchman ignored them both. “Have you ever heard the name Eladio Cortés?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cortés is the current leader of the Southside Quistadoreys. He’s a dangerous character. Suspected of fifteen bodies on his scorecard. Never served time for anything but small potatoes though.”

  “I did know an Eladio Cortés in kindergarten. He picked his nose a lot. Probably not the same guy. Or maybe exactly the same guy. The psychology of the criminal is fascinating.”

  Petrosino chewed hard on his toothpick. Then Tuchman said, “Can you tell us why your friend Patrick was in touch with him?”

  “A gang leader?” said Tony. “Does that mean you found his phone? Or did you subpoena his phone records?”

  Tuchman tapped his ring on the metal desk. Somewhere the dead were hearing it and covering their ears. Tuchman talked to Petrosino and Hadid without taking his eyes off of Tony. “Gentlemen, I think maybe it’s time for a little quid pro quo with Mr. Moran.”

  He didn’t wait for them to respond. “Understand, Mr. Moran, that what I’m about to tell you has not been released to the press, and we would appreciate your keeping this to yourself until we complete our investigation. If you release it, our chance of getting this killer could go south. I’m sure you want us to catch your friend’s killer as much as we do…Are we clear?”

  Tony guessed Tuchman’s dramatic pause was to show them all how impressive he was.

  “Yep. We’re clear.”

  “Tell him, Petrosino.”

  Petrosino took a toothpick out of his mouth and smoothed down his yellow-brown mustache. He said, “Patrick Stoller had contact with an individual who called himself Eladio Cortés. They were dozens of texts between them.”

  Tony didn’t buy it. “He had a gang lord’s phone number? And what were these texts about?”

  “Couldn’t trace it. Was probably a burner phone. We can’t go into detail about the content of the texts, but in any case, here’s the thing: Stoller received several texts from that phone number on the day he was killed.”

  Tuchman stepped in. “We think your friend Patrick was on to something, and it backfired. If you know something about it, it could really help us make this connection.”

  “Let me get this straight. You think this Cortés guy slashed Patrick—then he took his iPhone because he didn’t like the story Patrick was writing? Why did he even bother dealing with him in the first place?”

  “Well. We see it this way,” Tuchman said. “Naïve white boy from Smalltown, Pennsylvania. From what we understand, your friend wanted to be a big-time reporter, and as far back as two years ago he was talking about doing a story on the gangs. So, somehow he finally gets a contact and then arranges to meet a gang member to get a scoop. Cortés says the hell with the story and takes him for what he’s got.”

  Tony said, “Uh huh. Plus there’s the added benefit if you tie Cortés to Patrick’s death, then you have a suspect for all the slashings? Case closed. This summer’s biggest story neatly wrapped up.”

  Petrosino stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against. “Mr. Moran, as far as anyone in the press is concerned, we are looking at a wide range of suspects.”

  “I don’t know anything about a gang story. Like I said, we don’t run that kind of stuff. If Patrick was after a Pulitzer Prize, he never told me. Like I said, we weren’t close, and I only work part-time. Why would Cortés even bother to meet him just to kill him and potentially leave a trail?”

  “If criminals were smart, they’d be bankers,” said Hadid.

  “One thing I’ve learned is that gang members can be very arrogant, too arrogant for their own good,” said Tuchman, standing up abruptly. “Okay, gentleman, I have got to run.”

  He handed Tony a business card. “If you remember anything else about your friend, please let us know. We’re only here to help.”

  Tuchman left the room with gusto, as if he spent time practicing his exits, and the atmosphere suddenly felt a lot lighter.

  “Can’t say it hasn’t been fun,” Hadid said to the closed door. “Because it hasn’t.”

  Tony was about to ask a question when Petrosino stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Just a second,” Petrosino said. “I have a quick question for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I see you live on South 4th Street. That’s not very far from where your friend was found.”

  “Despite what real estate people say, Williamsburg isn’t that big a neighborhood. Nothing’s very far from anything.”

  “Yeah, well, just as a matter of formality, can you tell us where you were that night? Were you at home? At the hospital, I recall you got there pretty quickly.”

  “I was in Queens. I took a cab. There was no traffic at that time of night.”

  “Can someone verify where you were?”

  “Ummm. Yeah, someone can.”

  “Why ‘Ummm?’”

  “It’s just…it’s just ridiculous. I was with Gabby—Gabrielle—from the office. We were at a poetry reading around here, then I took her home to Queens.”

  “Poetry reading?” Hadid said.

  Tony ignored him.

  Petrosino said, “This Gabby, is that your girlfriend?”

  “Co-worker.”

  “Another one of those. Right-o.” Petrosino put another toothpick in his mouth. “Now, you said you had questions for me.”

  “Is it my turn already?” Tony said. “Okay. Thing is, there is a story I happen to be working on—the disappearance of a woman named Rosa Irizarry. As a matter of fact, she lived in Patrick’s building. Disappeared about a year ago. Do you know the case?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  Tony went on. “Well, at the time it was alleged she might have been the victim of foul play. She claimed that she had been constantly harassed to leave her apartment.”

  “That happens all the time,” Petrosino said. “Urban renewal, they call it. Look, we got our backs up against it with this slasher all over the neighborhood. This stuff isn’t really our department.”

  “Well, it could be. What if the harassment led to something worse? She did disappear, and she wasn’t the kind of lady to disappear.”

  “Sure,” Petrosino said. “Let me guess: She was a nice, sweet old lady with a lovely disposition.”

  “As a matter of fact, she wasn’t that nice,” Tony said.

  Petrosino smiled. “Well. Be that as it may, I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “Any chance you could point me to someone who can?”

  “Give me a call later. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Tony left the semi-cool interior of the precinct and went back out into the heat wave. Being in the precinct had left him feeling dirty and used, like the bottom of a shoe. He wanted air and sunshine. He knew what he needed. He walked toward McCarren Park, aiming for a long afternoon of pétanque.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  She had had to sell her car, the one she drove up with from PA years ago, when she first moved to the New York. It was a stinker, literally, so she’d had to sell it. And now Gunnar was being a total pain in the ass. The cheap, stingy sonofabitch. And Kirsten was glad he was stuck checking IDs at the door and looking away from her. They had argued at home and walked to SubBar together in silence. She didn’t look at him the whole time, and she did not want to see his face for the rest of the night.

  Kirsten stood behind the bar, having a cup of tar-thick coffee, the way she liked it. Above the never-cleaned coffee maker was one of Kirsten’s photographs, from her series of women in prayer. The rest of the series was currently on exhibit exclusively in her apartment.

  Aesthetically, of course, the women she chose to shoot were not beautiful, not by mai
nstream society’s current definition of beauty. She had been walking down Grand Street one day and noted one neighborhood woman after another, how they were so diverse, so ethnic, so real. She decided immediately that she wanted to photograph them. She began stopping them and asking them to pose, to put their hands together in prayer, even the two or three who said they were not religious at all. She had framed each photo in cheap, plastic frames with broken glass or plastic to emphasize their economic class. The result was a parade of holy women, of saints. It was an extraordinary series, it really was. But she hadn’t taken new pictures in a dog’s age anyway, years already. What did it matter? Throw a rock in Williamsburg and you’ll hit a jillion aspiring photographers.

  She chanced a glance at Gunnar. He stood outside the bar’s front door, which was jammed open because the owner preferred not to pay for high electricity bills and ordered the AC off unless it got over a hundred degrees outside. He kept his eyes forward. She guessed he didn’t want to see her face tonight either. Fuck him.

  She decided to start listening to whatever Black Martin had been saying to her the whole time.

  “…I’m thinking of moving,” he was saying. “I hear the Bronx is getting livable. Well, parts of the Bronx.”

  “I totally know what you mean,” she said, not at all interested, but years as a bartender had taught her how to pretend to be.

  “Black Martin” was her secret, unspoken nickname for him, to distinguish him from “Regular Martin,” who sometimes came in at the same time.

  He nodded energetically, his watery eyes not quite focused on her. He mumbled, “Gotta pee,” and walked off.

  The bar wasn’t packed. It never got packed. Most of the bar stools stayed empty every night. There were five bars within a block, three with better beer selections, two with live music, and all of them better pickup joints for twentysomethings than this place would ever be. SubBar was living on borrowed time.

  And so was she. If only Gunnar wasn’t such a skinflint. She needed to get down to PA, and she hated buses with a demonic passion. They couldn’t try one of those car-sharing outfits because they sucked. So the only option was to rent a car. She had enough, but she insisted that Gunnar chip in half, because it was just as important to him. But he refused. Tightwad! Her parents were the same way. She hated tightwads!