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Carlos described Freddie as a large, broad-backed man with thi
"Burned skin on his face and arms?" Eddie said.
"Is that what it is, burned skin? I just noticed it this week."
"It happened Monday," Babsie said. "He told the hospital it was an accident with a barbecue grill. He squirted the fluid and it flared up in his face."
"No shit? He had his face bandaged, but I never asked. He's not one of our talkers. A lot of the Russians will come up and talk to me rather than to the Anglo cops. Because I'm Hispanic. I guess they figure I'm non-American, too, but I was born in Brooklyn."
"Ever see him barbecue anything?" Babsie asked.
"No, but that doesn't mean much. He could barbecue on the other side of Coney Custards. They got a little dirt patch out there."
"Does that seem plausible to you?"
"I could see that happening to Freddie, yeah. He's not all there, you know," Carlos said, pointing to his head.
"What do you mean, 'not all there'?" Boland said.
"Slow, I guess. Slightly retarded. But not drooling or anything. The guy has a job; he works somewhere toward Brighton Beach. I see him walking to work every morning. He walks down the boardwalk, no matter how bad the weather is."
"Does he work for Yuri Borodenko?" Boland asked.
"Doing what?" Carlos said. "Sweeping the sidewalk? That's all I can see Freddie doing for Borodenko."
The radio dispatcher sent Six-oh David to a traffic accident on Neptune Avenue. The female dispatcher, a rarity in Eddie's day, had a Caribbean accent.
"So he does this occasionally?" Babsie said. "He forgets to close the door."
"Not that often, but every now and then."
"How do you handle it?" Babsie said.
"We go in, look around for him. If he's not there, we close it."
"Ever have a problem with him?" Eddie asked. "Is he violent, or a drunk, anything like that?"
"Not with me. But I can check with the other teams who work the sector. If you're looking at him for a kidnapping, I'd be shocked. This guy doesn't have the smarts to pull off a dognapping."
"Carlos," Babsie said, "does anybody come by and help him with complicated things, like paying bills, that kind of thing?"
"Zina. She probably helps him out. She lives across the hall."
"What's their relationship?" Boland asked.
"Relationship?" Carlos laughed. "You never met Zina. Zina is a dyke, with a capital D. You'll see what I'm talking about when she pulls in."
"Rather than hang around and wait for Zina, why don't we do this," Babsie said. "Carlos goes in and looks for Freddie. In case of foul play, illness, whatever. We go in as a safety factor, being his partner's not here. If nothing is there, we'll just close the door and leave."
"Eddie stays out," Boland said. "Just active police officers."
'Good enough," Babsie said, and glanced at Eddie, who appeared nervous, ru
Babsie entered behind Carlos and went right to the bedroom. Carlos walked around, calling Freddie's name. Boland stuck to his own agenda, looking for an address book or telephone numbers. On her hands and knees, Babsie focused on the area around the mattress as if she was looking for a lost contact lens. She checked every inch of the mattress until she found the green cloth. She called for Boland.
"It's a scrunchy," she said. "For your hair. I have a couple myself."
Boland frowned until Babsie pointed out the red hairs clinging to it. She put it in a small plastic bag she carried in her pocket. They went outside and showed it to Eddie.
"I know this is Kate's," Eddie said. "She was wearing it that morning."
"Hope this works out," Boland said.
"Just call the CSU to vacuum this place," Babsie said. "I'll call the Westchester DA, see if she can get a search warrant rolling."
Boland said, "We also need Parrot to sign an affidavit about seeing a redhead being carried in here. I'll get a better description from Carlos and we'll pick up Dolgev. He's probably at work. Then see where we go from there, but I think we're on thin ice with the courts. This search has bogus written all over it."
Babsie waved the scrunchy in his face, as if trying to remind him of the important thing. Babsie knew guys like Boland needed constant reminding.
"Okay," he said, the attitude slipping away. "I'll call the CSU. They'll fingerprint the shit out of this place. I'll ask them to scrape the sinks, drains, and vacuum around the mattress, anywhere else that looks promising. It's a defense lawyer's dream, but maybe we'll get something out of it."
"Kate will be enough," Babsie said, handing the plastic bag with the green scrunchy to Boland.
"I'll drop this off at the lab," Boland said. "But they're going to need a hair sample for comparison."
"A hairbrush," Babsie said. "She has three or four on her dresser."
"Perfect, but get them later," Boland said. "Right now, Babsie can stay here with Carlos and wait for CSU. Eddie's going to show me something in Queens."
"Show you what in Queens?" Eddie said.
"A short cut," Boland said. "To your old friend's house. Your old pal, Angelo Caruso. Somebody whacked him and his wife."
Chapter 28
Sunday
3:00 P.M.
Angelo and A
Eddie led Boland down the driveway. Eddie hadn't been in the Caruso home since June of 1984, when
Angelo and A
They entered the basement through the garage. A young uniformed cop sat at Angelo's workbench, where Angelo'd accidentally cut off a finger he later credited to a battle with a brutal pistola from the old country. The young cop said the house had been torn apart by intruders looking for money and jewelry. He expounded on how some burglars read the obituaries printed in the newspaper; the obits told them exactly when a family would be at church. Grieving people are distracted: They leave doors open, money lying around. The Carusos had probably arrived home early from the service at Our Lady of Consolation. They'd surprised the burglars and lost their lives. Paulie the Priest would have told this cop that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.
A