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  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF GABRIEL COHEN

  “[A] sophisticated contemporary noir … What Cohen does so well here is to give us everything we require from a cop story … and then so much more: There’s a documentary panache to his depiction of Brooklyn and its history.” —Los Angeles Times on Red Hook

  “Gives you a real feeling for the neighborhood … [An] outstanding first novel.” —The New York Times Book Review on Red Hook

  “At a time when some of the older masterful cop writers, like Ed McBain, are dying or just fading away, Cohen’s appearance comes as a relief and pleasure.” —The Washington Post Book World on The Graving Dock

  “Intricate, atmospheric, funny, and enthralling. An impressive crime novel from a powerful, promising writer.” —George Pelecanos, author of The Night Gardener, on The Graving Dock

  “A murdered friend, a beautiful widow and the borough of Brooklyn loom large in this superb installment from NYPD Detective Jack Leightner… . An impeccable procedural plus a poignant love story, intelligent, understated and refreshing.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review of Neptune Avenue

  “Cohen’s novels belong … at the top of every Brooklyn crime-fiction list.” —Booklist, starred review of Neptune Avenue

  “Spellbinding … Deftly plotted and convincingly written. Cohen once more does the genre proud.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review of The Ninth Step

  Red Hook

  A Jack Leightner Crime Novel

  Gabriel Cohen

  For Monroe and Miriam Cohen,

  with love and thanks

  contents

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  epilogue

  acknowledgments

  Preview: The Graving Dock

  About the Author

  prologue

  TOMAS BERRIOS PULLED HIS Yankees cap out of his pocket and set it backward on his head, then ran his hand along his thigh, enjoying the smoothness of the nylon cycling shorts and the tautness of the muscle underneath. Good to be alive, yo. Good to be young.

  He pinched the tuft of hair under his bottom lip and surveyed his crew, gathered under the street lamp in front of his apartment: Felix, Ramon, Dionicio. Only Hector the BigHead was missing, late as usual.

  Upstairs, his little son’s head peered over the windowsill. “Get back inside,” Tomas said, but he smiled fondly at the boy.

  “Okay,” he said, bumping his bicycle down over the curb. “Let’s roll.” He didn’t look back—he knew that everyone would follow. And they did, pursuing the glowing taillights of a taxi as they pedaled off into the hot Brooklyn night.

  Just as they reached Fourth Avenue, a shout came from behind.

  “Yo! Holdup!”

  As Hector came pedaling, the crew waited outside a bodega. Melon-breasted women smiled at them from the malt liquor posters in the window. Across the street, a robed monk on a billboard beamed up at a bottle of Frangelico. “Tomarlo No Es Pecado.” To drink it is not a sin.

  “What the fuck is that?” said Ramon, laughing at Hector’s banana-seat bike with its high handlebars.

  “What happened to your for-real bike?” Tomas said.

  “Somebody stole it,” Hector mumbled, his oversize, pale head shadowed by the hood of a ratty sweatshirt.

  “You gonna make all of us look bad, riding that thing,” Tomas said. “How you gonna keep up?”

  “I be all right.”

  The group swerved onto the avenue, its four lanes divided by a concrete median. The first forty blocks were industrial, a strip of fix-a-flat shops, muffler-repair garages, auto parts warehouses. The breeze smelled of stale oil and fresh gas. Tomas hunched over the handlebars, shoulders straining over his pumping knees. His arm itched: he’d had the tattoo on his right tricep re-inked and the scab was almost ready to peel.

  They rode a wave of changing traffic signals, red winking to green as they blew down the avenue. Little bright bodegas whipped past, signs and smells announcing Cuchifritos, Comidas Criollas. They picked up speed, pouring faster and faster into a long V of streaming light, along the dark wall of a cemetery, through silent sleeping Sunset Park, past the somber basilicas and lumbering brick buildings of Bay Ridge.

  At the corner of Seventy-third Street, a red Camaro roared past. The passenger window rolled down. “Nice wheels, greaseballs!” shouted the shirtless Italian kid riding shotgun.

  Tomas’s heart shifted gears. He called to his crew, “Let’s get those guinea bastids!”

  The Italian leaned out of his window, laughing as he checked their progress.

  Maybe they’d catch him at a light. Concentrating on the Camaro two blocks ahead, Tomas rode close to the cars parked along the avenue, straight into a suddenly opening driver’s door. He flipped over the metal, flew tumbling twenty feet across the asphalt, thudded onto the hood of a parked Chevy Nova, and landed on his back in front of an Italian restaurant. The diners stared out the window in horror.

  His homies screeched to a halt, dropped their bikes, ran to him. “Jesus, guy, I’m sorry,” said the anxious white driver. Tomas raised a hand weakly, all his wind knocked out.

  After a minute he sat up, brushed some grit off his riding shorts, staggered to his feet. Little bits of gravel were embedded in his palms. He took a few tentative steps, stomach heaving: everything seemed to work okay. A miracle. He laughed. He was okay. Fucking invincible.

  While the crew regrouped in the street, the driver took advantage of Tomas’s good humor to retreat into the restaurant. Tomas picked up his bike, which had also survived with just a toe clip torn away. He turned. “Where’s Hector?”

  Felix undipped the water bottle from his crossbar, spit. “I think he stopped off at the McDonald’s back by the cemetery.”

  “We’ll give him one minute,” Tomas said. “That’s it.”

  “Forget his ass,” Ramon said, the sharp angles of his face made starker by the streetlight overhead. “Let’s go.”

  The others waited to see what Tomas would do. For years he’d been the leader of the group, but in the past several months, for some unknown reason, Ramon had taken it upon himself to test his authority.

  Tomas pretended not to hear. After a minute, he led the crew off again, spreading out in a line for the last lap before they reached the water. The night air was sweet. Now and then a flash of gleaming metal, a silver-blue arch of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, rose over the rooftops like some improbable element of a dream.

  At the end of Fourth Avenue, they crossed the Shore Parkway to a grassy strip bordering the harbor. They hit high gear now, gliding single-file on the smooth path along the river, a squadron of Stealth bombers under the moonlight, coursing between the bay on the rig
ht and the Shore Parkway’s river of lights on the left.

  Tomas braked to stand exhilarated under the bridge, which rocketed across a lake of molten pewter toward the dark mass of Staten Island. Unlike the Brooklyn Bridge, with its spiderwebs of cable and comfortable stone towers, the Verrazano was Space Age, stripped for speed, an expressway hung from two grand but simple strings of light. From under the bridge, a barge glided by like a half-submerged submarine, bucking powerful currents rippling silver around the bend.

  Tomas moved away from the others and stood on the path along the water’s edge. Finally, a moment alone. Always, there was his wife, and his mother-in-law, who never left the house. Sunday morning, when a man deserved a few moments of peace and quiet, the kids pounced on him in bed, squealing like puppies. At rush hour in the subway he was packed in with a bunch of other wage slaves in an airless sardine can. The only time he was by himself was when he was on the John or riding up and down in the service elevator at work.

  This, now: here was a place of power. Under this eerie manmade object built to such an immense scale, a floodlit arc reaching out into the sky, the night hummed with something great, some invisible electric force. Funny, he thought: that he should be dwarfed by the bridge, yet feel his heart expand.

  It bothered him that none of his crew could appreciate the scene right in front of their eyes. Except Hector the BigHead, who finally caught up, swerving next to him. In the background, the others grumbled about getting under way, but Hector stood silent, showing the proper reverence. He felt it too. Maybe that was why Tomas put up with him, touched in the head as the kid was.

  Across the harbor, the Statue of Liberty held up her torch like a cigarette lighter in the night. Give me your tired, your poor…Fuck that, Tomas murmured to himself. You weren’t really an American until you had money—you were still just a Dominican or a Puerto Rican or a Pole.

  Five miles back, just across from the southern tip of Manhattan, lay Red Hook, his lucky neighborhood, where soon he would make the score that would change things forever. Tonight he was on one side of a great wall, a wall built to keep people like him out, but in just twelve hours he would stand on the other side. He was glad for his children, glad for his wife, but most of all, in his deep heart, he was glad for himself. Tomorrow his life would begin.

  one

  THE GOWANUS CANAL WAS a bilious green. Long ago, Brooklyn kids had jumped in off its narrow banks to shout and splash around, but more than a century’s worth of raw sewage and pollution from the adjoining factories had rendered the water unfit for every living thing except some algae and a tiny perverse species called killifish. Its opaque depths kept many secrets, but by a stroke of luck this corpse was not one of them.

  The body lay in a scrub of sun-dry marsh grass at the top of the bank. As Detective Jack Leightner made his way up, his hamstrings strained, but he told himself he was still in good shape for a fifty-year-old. As a member of the elite Brooklyn South Homicide Task Force, he’d been called in to aid the local precinct with the investigation.

  A team had already fanned out around the corpse, stooped over like migrant workers as they searched the ground for evidence: a scrap of clothing, a clump of hair, maybe just a cigarette butt with DNA evidence smooched on the filter…A Crime Scene Unit photographer shifted around, snapping pictures.

  One of the locals, a massive man with a bear’s ponderous gait, straightened up and smiled as Jack approached. “Hey, whaddaya know?” he said. “The cavalry’s here!”

  At thirty, Gary Daskivitch was the youngest detective in the Seven-six Precinct. He and Jack had worked together the year before on a murder in the nearby Gowanus housing projects.

  “You catch the case?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. Looks like we’re partners again.”

  At four o’clock the August sun should have been high, but a bank of scudding dirty-cotton clouds dimmed the light. The air bore the heavy, metallic tang of an approaching storm.

  “Hey, you see the Mets play last night?” Daskivitch asked.

  Jack snorted and looked up at his partner, who stood a full head taller. “I saw it. Almost made me ashamed to be a New Yorker.”

  He tugged the knees of his slacks and squatted down. Baseball was fun, but not nearly as interesting as a fresh murder. The vic lay on his left side, splayed out in the grass in front of a chain-link fence. A beefy young man, he wore a pair of cheap gray dress slacks and a T-shirt beneath a red plaid shirt. Hispanic, probably mid-twenties. Several nasty bruises mottled his face but the cause of death was not apparent. The kid stared out, his eyes gray as the sky above; they glinted silver in the photographer’s flash.

  A chain joined two cinder blocks to his ankles. The fence, which marked the rear boundary of a lot filled with abandoned delivery trucks and a rusted black crane, curled up at the lower edge; a rusty spike had pierced the cuff of the victim’s pants. The cloth was bloodsoaked: closer inspection revealed that the wire had also pierced the vic’s calf.

  Jack duckwalked around to look at the corpse’s back. The man’s well-muscled arms were tied behind him with rope and his legs were similarly bound. “Hey, Dupree,” Jack called out, “you get a close-up of these knots?” A particular knot could be a signature, linking this case to other murders.

  “Got it,” the photographer said curtly, annoyed by this questioning of his expertise.

  The vic’s T-shirt was raised above his belly, which hung to the side like a sad, soft gourd. If Jack didn’t know better than to touch a corpse before the Crime Scene guys finished their job, he would have reached out to pull the shirt down.

  “Who found the body?” he asked the young detective.

  “We got an anonymous call early this afternoon.”

  “You ID him yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, rising. “Why don’t you make a sketch while we wait.”

  Daskivitch took out a steno pad and began to draw the position of the body in relation to the fence and the canal.

  Down on the water, a breeze jigged the reflections of the sky and the straggly trees and bushes that managed to cling to the banks. Across the way ran a long factory wall with no windows. Farther along, the canal was bordered by warehouses and industrial lots. A drawbridge crossed the water seventy yards to the north, but the sightlines were obscured by trees and tall grass. Whoever killed this man had picked a spot so isolated you could dump a body there in broad daylight.

  Half a mile to the south, the F train shuttled across the skyline, a centipede on its elevated track. A mile over the horizon the canal would pass through Red Hook—where Jack was born, where his father had worked the docks—and then open into the Gowanus Bay and New York harbor.

  Jack sidestepped down the bank. He watched a Clorox bottle and a potato-chip bag float south on the oil-slick water. Which would reach him first? He put his money on the Clorox bottle.

  A minute later the chip bag slid by in first place.

  “Hey, Jack!”

  He turned and clambered back up, pleased to see that Daskivitch had been joined by Anselmo Alvarez, the head of the Crime Scene Unit, a short Dominican man with ramrod posture. A few strands of hair were combed carefully across Alvarez’s bald pate, in tribute to what his ID photo revealed had once been a proud pompadour. The investigator was the best forensics man in Brooklyn—he took seriously the responsibility of standing up for the dead.

  “Let’s start,” Jack said.

  Daskivitch shut his notepad. The men pulled on white latex gloves and crouched down.

  First Jack checked the victim’s pants for identification. Due to the execution-style disposition of the body, there wasn’t much chance of finding any, but he had to check. Even after twelve years in Homicide, it still felt odd to reach his hands into someone else’s pockets. They were empty.

  The victim’s kinky black hair was pressed out awkwardly against the dirt.

  “We can surmise one thing right off the bat,” Alvarez said. “The dec
eased is having a very bad hair day.”

  Jack smiled. Alvarez himself could not really be said to have hair days at all anymore, but he kept the thought to himself.

  He noted the soul patch, the tuft of beard under the vic’s bottom lip, and the tattoo of a jaguar on the right tricep. The red and green lines of the tattoo were crusted over—it was either fresh or had just been renewed. Jack had never gotten a tattoo, even during his time in the Army: a tattoo would brand you forever. He avoided bumperstickers on any car he owned for the same reason. It was better to go through life unmarked.

  “What should we do next?” he asked Gary Daskivitch. When it came to murders, the kid was a rookie. (With only four homicides in the past year, the Seventy-sixth Precinct was hardly a crisis zone.) He’d learn better if he was pushed to do more than just watch.

  The young detective frowned in concentration. “How about we check to see how long he’s been here?”

  “Okay. How we gonna do that?”

  “I guess…first we need to get him off the fence.” Daskivitch took a breath, then reached out and hesitantly prodded the corpse. Jack traded a subtle wink with Alvarez; the rookie hadn’t yet seen enough bodies to be comfortable with the task. Hell, the kid didn’t even look comfortable wearing a suit.

  It took the men several minutes to disengage the victim’s leg and pants cuff from the rusty chain-link.

  Daskivitch rolled the body forward; he noted that the weeds underneath had not had time to brown.

  “You’re doing good,” Jack said.

  Alvarez took out a flashlight and shone it into one of the victim’s eyes: the cornea was clouded over. The forensics man pressed his hands against the face, arms, upper body. Jack followed his example. The body was rigid until he reached the thighs, where the flesh still rolled under his palm.

  “Feel this,” he told the young detective.

  Daskivitch winced as he patted the body. Other veterans would have baited the rookie with wisecracks, but Jack refrained. He liked the young detective. The kid was brash—he’d recently come from several years of playing cowboy with a narcotics squad, leaping out of vans and making tough with crack sellers—but he took his new job seriously and was eager to learn.