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Her kind understanding—especially when she said things with that light Irish accent—made me want to rush home that much faster.
Chapter6
TERRI HERNANDEZ METme in East Harlem near where Estella Abreu, the young woman we’d pulled out of the Hudson, had lived. I caught Terri up on everything I’d learned about our victim.
“The only address listed for her is this one, with her parents, on 116th Street. A patrol sergeant made notification almost as soon as we knew who she was.”
We were about to do one of the most challenging things all homicide detectives do: interview the family of a homicide victim. You never know what you’re going to find. A family in denial. A family grieving so deeply they can’t focus. A family so shattered by the loss of the child they don’t know how to cope. There’s a wide array of responses to losing a family member to homicide, and none of them are positive.
“You know I did some work not too far from here. Did a year in Narcotics that, for a time, had me coordinating with officers at the Two-Three,” Terri said.
“Is the neighborhood better or worse than back then?”
“Same. Still tough. Right over there is where a convenience-store robber shot at me.”
“What happened to the shooter?”
“He ran and ended up shooting a cabdriver. Then he took the cab and went on a high-speed chase. The New Rochelle cops finally got him with Stop Sticks. He was booked, but since he didn’t hit me and the cabdriver survived, he got time served and two years’ probation.”
I said, “If the shooter had hit you, the judge would’ve given him another month or two for sure.”
“I don’t think people realize how close most cops are to just stepping away.”
“I hear ya. All we can do in the meantime is our best. Maybe if we did a better job, this neighborhood wouldn’t be so rough.”
Terri pointed down the street. “Over where those guys are selling dope was the site of my biggest fistfight. Place looks about the same. For a girl to get out of here and go to nursing school is really something. Her parents have to be special.” She shook her head and added, “And this is their reward? Makes you wonder why we all try so hard. Shit happens no matter what.”
All I could do was nod. I’d been thinking about this most of the afternoon. This beautiful young woman, studying to be a nurse at Pace University, and suddenly everything was taken from her. It made me sad, but it also made me angry.
Chapter7
WE PAUSED OUTSIDEthe building, a five-story apartment complex a few blocks from the East River. It was quiet on the street this time in the early evening. A few people were coming home from work. There were no kids playing outside. That said all that needed to be said about the neighborhood.
A man standing by the steps saw us pull up and immediately called someone to let them know the cops were here.
Terri said, “Relax, we’re not here for you or any of your petty crimes.”
The man looked insulted and relieved at the same time.
We climbed up two flights of stairs to the Abreu family’s three-bedroom apartment.
As we walked, Terri asked, “Any indication why Estella was so dressed up, or where she was going? Some kind of university function?”
“No. Nothing like that. Still checking.”
I took a deep breath to prepare myself for what we were about to do. The apartment door was open, and we could hear people talking inside. I knocked lightly, hoping someone would notice me at the open door. I’d seen scenes like this play out too many times. Still, there was something positive in seeing people here, comforting grieving parents.
I spotted a couple I assumed to be the Abreus together on a small love seat: a short, pudgy man wearing a work shirt with the nameRAULstenciled across his left breast, sitting with his arm around a small woman dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She had the same long dark hair as Estella, and I could see a strong resemblance.
One wall looked like a shrine to Estella, with photos from her First Communion and soccer trophies all set up on a library table in the corner of the room. An elderly woman who I thought might be Estella’s grandmother silently arranged more photos on the table.
A young man came to the open door and said, “May I help you?”
I leaned in close and told him who we were and why we were here. He appreciated the quiet introduction. He motioned us inside, then said to the couple on the love seat, “Tio, I think you need to talk to these people.”
A few minutes later, we were in a bedroom with Mr. and Mrs. Abreu, sitting on a bed covered by a thick, vibrantly colored comforter printed with birds nesting in trees. We’d waited for Mrs. Abreu to compose herself in the bathroom. It looked like she could’ve used a couple more minutes.
We started slowly. Grieving parents don’t usually come up with the details that can really help in an investigation right away. We chatted about their daughter’s life. That is always the best route to information.
