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Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Chapter 18 • Chapter 19
Chapter 15
NINE O’CLOCK THAT EVENING.
Burke and I sit in a car on Tenth Avenue and 20th Street in the shadow of Manhattan’s newest beloved tourist attraction, the High Line.
I had wanted to drive my 1962 light-blue Corvette for this job.
K. Burke’s reaction to that idea?
“Forget it, Moncrief. You might as well have a brass band marching in front of that Corvette. They designed that car to attract attention,” she said. Grudgingly, I told her she was correct.
So we sit in an unmarked NYPD patrol car. A Honda? A Chevy? Who cares? We are watching Preston Parker Simon who is sitting in his black Escalade outside a brand-new thirty-five- story building. The three of us are waiting for the same thing—the young internet video tycoon. Once Simon picks up the “rich kid” we will tail them. Domestic Bliss can only track him when he’s on the clock; our objective is to discover the location of the place that Simon calls home.
Fifteen minutes later we see Simon get out of his SUV. He holds the door open for Danny Abosch. They exchange what appear to be some pleasant words. The kid steps inside the car. They take off.
Simon’s car turns right onto 20th Street. Another right onto Ninth Avenue. Whether the tycoon is going to dinner or just going home he is, of course, going to Alphabet City. Apparently every person in New York below the age of thirty goes to the Alphabet City.
The car eventually stops on Saint Mark’s and Avenue A. Abosch is home. Or possibly at a friend’s home. Or possibly at a girlfriend’s home. Or... it doesn’t matter. Whatever might come next is what matters.
Shortly I’m tailing Simon’s car on the East River Drive, heading north. A fairly heavy snow begins. I stay “glued by two.” I learned that this is the expression for tailing a car while allowing one other car in front of you for camouflage.
Simon exits the Drive and starts moving west all the way across Manhattan, then north on the Henry Hudson Parkway, across the Henry Hudson Bridge into the Bronx.
My tour guide, Detective Katherine Burke, explains the Bronx to me in two easy sentences.
“Riverdale is the fancy-ass part of the Bronx. Everything else is meh.”
Traffic lightens, then slows. The snow dusts the road. “Glued by two” has to end. Now I keep some space behind Simon. He pulls off the main road, crosses even farther east. The street sign says “Independence Avenue.” Then Simon pulls into a long circular driveway of a very elegant apartment building.
Two men come out of the building. One is clearly a doorman— the hat, the coat, the gloves. The other is smaller, in a black wool pea coat, a dark woolen ski cap pulled down over his head.
Simon hands the doorman a very large, flat, wrapped package. “You don’t have to be a detective to figure out that Simon just gave the doorman a painting,” says Burke. “I wonder if...” But I interrupt her. I speak loudly.
“Son of a bitch!” I say.
“What’s the matter?”
“The other man,” I say.
We watch as Simon hands the other man a similar-looking wrapped package.
“Do you know him?” she asks.
“I sure as hell do.”
“Who is he?” asks Burke.
“It’s the little guy on the back elevator. It’s Angel Corrido.”
Chapter 16
ANGEL AND THE DOORMAN carry the paintings into the building. The doorman returns immediately. Angel remains inside.
We watch Simon and the doorman closely. They seem to be having a very intense conversation. The pantomime goes like this: The doorman moves close to Simon. The doorman looks like he is screaming. Then it appears that Simon is having none of it. Simon, using both hands, pushes the doorman. Although the doorman is larger than Simon, and the shove doesn’t seem particularly violent, the doorman staggers backward and falls to the sidewalk.
As the doorman staggers to his feet, Simon puts his hand in his coat pocket. I am expecting a knife or a gun to be pulled out. In- stead he hands the doorman something I don’t recognize.
“Looks like Simon may have just slipped the doorman some cash,” I say.
“I’m not sure, Moncrief. He handed him something. It looked like a tiny package.”
“Some rolled-up bills,” I say.
“No,” says Burke. “My guess is he gave him a good noseful of coke.” Then she adds, “And by the way, don’t you think we should call him by his real name? He is not ‘Preston Parker Simon.’ He is Rudy Brunetti. Let’s stop calling him Simon.”
I think that this is a... what?... the kind of correction that Burke enjoys. Ah, well, it is easier for me to agree. So I nod. Then I say, “Brunetti it is.”
Now we watch Simon... er, Brunetti... go back inside the building. The building doorman gets into the car and drives it into an attached building marked garage.
He’s back on the door in less than five. I immediately drive up to the building entrance.
“Who are you here to see, sir?” says the doorman, a very thin man, two days’ growth, a dark stain on the lapel of his heavy brown coat.
He’s only spoken a few words, but I can tell that he has an accent. My guess is Danish.
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