Buried on Avenue B Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my mother

  EPIGRAPH

  You don’t want to see these guys without their masks on

  —the Mountain Goats

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part II

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Part III

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Peter de Jonge

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  DARLENE O’HARA SITS on her rug and gazes at her twenty-one-year-old son stretched out on her couch, his red beard tilted up at one end, his pale feet hanging off the other. Two hours earlier, Axl Rose O’Hara showed up unexpectedly at the door of her Bronx apartment. He put down his overstuffed messenger bag and Fender Stratocaster, announced he had momentous news, and promptly nodded off, and as the quiet Sunday afternoon fades into a quieter evening, O’Hara steals glances across the room, stunned by the pleasure it gives her to watch her long, beautiful kid sleep.

  Due to the cost of airfare, Axl, a senior at the University of Washington, hasn’t been back in New York for five months, and to see that he feels so comfortable in his old home that he is snoring in minutes is gratifying in itself. Knowing that he’s safe and sound and out of danger is even better, and when can a mother of a six-foot-three-inch manchild know with certainty that that’s the case, except when he is sleeping six feet away on her own living room couch? There’s a third advantage to their modest interaction. With Axl asleep, she can actually enjoy his company. She doesn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing, or the right thing in the wrong way, or the approximately right thing at precisely the wrong time, and see him grimace as if he’s just taken a mouthful of rancid food. No, son asleep/mother watching is about as good as it gets, and she knows it.

  Axl twitches and readjusts his limbs, and as her terrier mutt Bruno finds another niche on his flank, O’Hara marvels at how well her son has turned out. A minor miracle, considering she was fifteen when he was born, then stacked the deck even further by giving him the name of her favorite sinewy front man. O’Hara isn’t fooling herself. She knows her mother deserves most of the credit, and at five-foot-four, she certainly didn’t give Axl her height, which came courtesy of the neighborhood lothario who knocked her up. But still. She must have done something right.

  Six hours later, Axl shows no signs of waking. O’Hara covers him in a light blanket and pries off Bruno for his walk. O’Hara’s apartment is on the top floor of a three-family house in Riverdale, less than a mile from the Hudson, and as she and Bruno stroll past an empty playground, the dog’s rubbery nose is alive to every emission of the summer night. She lets him walk nearly to the water’s edge before she reins him in and points him back toward home. Although O’Hara is curious about Axl’s impending announcement, she isn’t overly concerned. What seems epic to a twenty-one-year-old usually isn’t, and based on the guitar, she figures it has to do with his music. A couple weeks earlier, Axl e-mailed her a file containing three songs recorded in a bathroom in his dorm, and he has talked about starting a band. Maybe they’ve landed a gig. If so, she’ll call her old partner Krekorian, who just got transferred to the robbery squad, and some old friends from the 7, and try to rustle up a crowd.

  When O’Hara and Bruno reach the top of the hill and climb the three flights of stairs, Axl hasn’t moved, and the next morning, he still hasn’t. That’s pushing fifteen hours straight, but who knows how long the kid had been up, and she takes Bruno for another walk. This time when they return, Axl is not only off the couch, he’s made coffee. Not only that, he pours her a cup.

  “Darlene, I’ve started a band.” Because of their relatively minor age difference, Axl has always been more comfortable calling his mother by her first name.

  “That’s great. I really liked those songs. No bullshit.”

  “We’re called the Flat Screens.”

  “I like it.”

  “Good,” says Axl. “The name’s important.”

  O’Hara wonders if that’s true. Or if every band name sounds slightly ridiculous until you fall in love with the music.

  “So you formed a band, and you’re called the Flat Screens. That it?”

  “Yeah . . . except that I’m moving to Bushwick.”

  “Really? You’re not going back to school? You only have one year left.”

  “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going for it. Actually, there is one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “Can you lend me three thousand dollars?”

  CHAPTER 2

  AN HOUR LATER, at 8:07 a.m., O’Hara restarts her day with a grapefruit juice and vodka at a downtown dive called Milano’s. Six months ago, after the tabloids allotted O’Hara her fifteen minutes for making a collar in the murder of NYU student Francesca Pena, O’Hara was transferred to Homicide South. Homicide South, or as it is sometimes referred to, “Homicide Soft,” is housed in the 13 on East Twenty-First Street. Milano’s is in a tenement on Houston between Mulberry and Mott, which means that in addition to being among the handful of bars open this early, it offers a workable ratio of discretion and convenience, neither too close nor too far from her new headquarters.

  Although this is O’Hara’s first visit, she’d hear
d how narrow Milano’s is. When she leans back on her stool, her shoulders brush against the side wall. It’s so tight, thinks O’Hara, a drunk couldn’t fall down if he wanted to, at least not until he reached the street, where he became someone else’s problem, i.e., a cop’s problem. More than its cozy confines, O’Hara is taken by the delicacy of the light and the lovely sense of remove, both from the pedestrians hustling by on Houston and from time. Instead of the news, the TV is tuned to an old black-and-white on Turner Classic Movies, and from overhead come disembodied snippets of sixty-year-old dialogue. Leaning against the register is a twenty-pound dictionary, a hernia-inducing relic from an age when every dispute of spelling or geography wasn’t settled on some dipshit’s iPhone.

  As her eyes take in more of the space, she sees that every square inch is covered with old crap, and every square inch of old crap, including the pretzels and chips, is covered with layers of grime. Although O’Hara could take or leave the photos of JFK, Sinatra, and old Yankees in pinstripes, and could certainly do without the toy fire engine on the register, one more ode to the heroics of FDNY on 9/11, she appreciates the quiet efficiency of the pretty brown-haired barkeep and takes it as a good omen that she’s wearing an AC/DC T-shirt. In O’Hara’s considered opinion, AC/DC is not only the rockingest band in history but also one of the best T-shirts.

  There are two other patrons in the bar, and both were in front of O’Hara in line when the doors opened. On her left is an attractive overweight woman, her bag, suit, hair, and makeup immaculate. In fact, everything about her, except for the fact that she is at a bar at eight in the morning, is in perfect order. To her right, just beyond where a Times, Post, and News lie untouched in a neat stack, is a flamboyantly dressed middle-aged man, his Louis Vuitton man purse on the bar beside his Jack and Coke. O’Hara makes the woman as midlevel corporate, the man as a rather successful drug dealer, and although she would insist that her observations are based on more than racial profiling, she also notes that, of the three of them, he’s the only one drinking after rather than before work.

  O’Hara takes another sip and reminds herself that someone who names her kid Axl Rose O’Hara shouldn’t be shocked when he drops out of school and forms a rock band. Particularly when his mother’s idea of a bedtime lullaby was “Sweet Child of Mine” or down-tempo Stones like “Wild Horses” and “Angie.” One reason she feels so undone may be that picking up the tab for her son’s tuition was her way to make up for the other things she couldn’t or didn’t do. O’Hara toted him back and forth from high school for nine months, concealing the growing bulge beneath ever looser hippie blouses, and suffered the eye-opening indignities of childbirth, but from then on her own mother pretty much took over. And on those dark Irish days when she turned on herself and her deficiencies as a mother, she at least had those canceled checks to the University of Washington to hold up in her defense. It’s almost funny, she thinks. They say education is something no one can take from you, but Axl just took it from her.

  Mostly, though, O’Hara is scared for her son. She wants Axl to have a comfortable life. She wants it to be a stroll in the park, a piece of cake, and what are the chances of that as a musician? O’Hara wanted a professional job for her son—lawyer, accountant, teacher, etc.—because with those, being competent is generally good enough. Everything else, you’ve got to be brilliant or lucky or both, just to slip through a crack into the middle class. Of course to your kid, that kind of hedging comes off as an insult: “So you don’t think I’m that good after all. You didn’t really like those songs. That was just more of your condescending bullshit.” In fact, that’s not the case. She thinks the songs are wonderful. She just doesn’t like the odds.

  A couple more sips, and O’Hara is reminded of another point in favor of an unabashed dive. They don’t stint, and however fleeting, a generous pour on an empty stomach provides a measure of perspective. O’Hara concedes that as a name, the Flat Screens is growing on her, and as she slides her $7 Ray-Ban rip-offs over her freckled nose and steps into the glare of an August morning, she reminds herself it could have been a lot worse.

  He could have told her he was becoming a fireman, or a singer-songwriter.

  CHAPTER 3

  HOMICIDE SOUTH IS buried in a warren of windowless rooms on the third floor of the 13. Just off the elevator is a lonely cubicle.

  “Morning, Ray. Anything?”

  “A kid got stabbed outside Rocco’s on Delancey,” says Hickey and hands O’Hara a printout. “They took him to St. Vincent’s. Listed in critical.”

  Hickey works the overnight, between 1:00 and 9:00 a.m., an inglorious assignment known as the wheel. If all hell breaks loose, he calls Kelso, the lieutenant, and wakes him up. Something less urgent, like an assault that may or may not get upgraded to homicide, he fills out an unusual and hands it off to the detectives when they arrive for their morning shift. If you’re working the wheel, you did something wrong and got caught. In Hickey’s case it was knocking over a cyclist in a bike lane—or, more precisely, being captured on the cyclist’s girlfriend’s cell leaving the scene. Now he’s strapped to the wheel as if it were a giant rock.

  Unusual in hand, O’Hara continues into the squad room and sits at her desk beside her partner, Augustus Jandorek. Jandorek is in his mid-fifties, natty and thin, with closely cropped gray hair and beard, a late-career detective who’s cast himself as Prince of the City. His gray tropical wool suit actually fits. A gold bracelet dangles at the cuff.

  “This whole thing is about pepper flakes,” says Jandorek. Although his copy of the unusual is on his desk, he is preoccupied by something on his computer screen.

  “At four in the morning, two guys step into Rocco’s for a slice. One is built like a refrigerator, six-five, two-ninety. The other, like a hotel minibar, five-seven, one-fifty-five. The smaller man reaches for the pepper, which might suggest he’s eaten at Rocco’s before, because their pie needs all the help it can get, although the guy at the counter swears he’s never seen him. As he reaches for the jar, he knocks the shoulder of the larger man. The smaller man apologizes, even offers to buy him a second slice, but the refrigerator won’t let it slide. Apparently, when he was upstate, he read Emily Post cover to cover and is a stickler on dining etiquette.”

  “He is unappeasable.”

  “You got that right, Dar. The motherfucker is nothing if not unappeasable. He invites his fellow diner to step outside, and when the man shows no enthusiasm, he insists. Once outside, the little guy stabs the big guy, Ted McBeth, in the abdomen. McBeth is at St. Vincent’s. The perp remains at large.”

  “So much for etiquette,” says O’Hara.

  Despite the way her day began, O’Hara is invigorated by the possibility of catching a homicide, a rare occurrence in Homicide South. On the far wall is a blackboard listing the eleven individuals unlucky enough to have been murdered below Fifty-Ninth Street in ’07, ten of whom have a blue line running through the middle of their names. The only name that doesn’t belongs to a man who choked on a hot dog in April. When the ME determined the choking was the result of damage to his esophagus sustained in an assault fifteen years before his last meal, the death went from a tragic case of underchewing to a homicide. To Kelso, who is obsessed with the squad’s closure rate, it has become a blemish that will never go away, and every time he looks up at the board, he feels like the frank is repeating on him.

  To detectives in the Bronx and Brooklyn or even Manhattan North, eleven murders in seven months is laughable, and the reason Manhattan South is called Manhattan Soft. Even compared to the 7, the pace is maddeningly slow, and not long after O’Hara arrived, Kelso, sensing her restlessness, sat her down for a little heart-to-heart.

  “Manhattan South may have a small caseload,” he said, “but there’s a flip side. When someone gets killed here, people, as in the media and brass, actually give a fuck, which is why we get assigned the best detectives in the system.” Kelso’s o
ffice is just beyond Hickey’s cubicle, and seeing it over Kelso’s shoulder felt like a warning. “Our closure rate has been the highest in the city five years running. Hell, three of the last four years it’s been perfect, and if it weren’t for that motherfucker who forgot to chew, we’d be at a hundred percent this year too. It’s not quantity, it’s quality. The detectives in Homicide South are the last adults in NYPD, and when you come here, that’s what’s expected—adult behavior.”

  O’Hara got the message, and Hickey’s cube, which seemed even scarier for being empty, reinforced it. Over time, however, O’Hara has also come to see that in homicide, adult is synonymous with old. Every detective in the squad, except for her, has got their twenty years in, or even their twenty-five. After that long, the job is like elevator music, what’s playing in the background while you’re thinking about something else.

  “We heading to St. Vincent’s?”

  “You in a rush to catch SARS? Or Ebola? Or West Nile? You must not have seen that waiting room lately. I made a call. McBeth is still in surgery. We won’t be able to talk to him for hours.”