Robert Tanenbaum: Justice Denied

The African settled himself at the table’s fourth seat. “I … we, that is, my sister and myself, were on point of crossing Second Avenue. We were perhaps in the center of the street when we heard the shots commence-a fusillade.”

Wayne frowned. The man had been farther away from the action than some of the other witnesses. He asked a few more questions about the movements of the killers and their victim, but this merely confirmed what they already had. “Anything else, Mr. Sekoué? Did you notice anything unusual about the killers? Or their car?”

“Of the assassins? No, no one could see anything of them. Their masks, their gloves. As to the car,” he smiled self-deprecatingly, “it was a large American car, new, of the color dark blue. I am not familiar with the American marques.” He paused. “Surely, however, you will be able to search it, having the license number, no?”

Frangi said, “Sure, if we had the number, but we don’t.”

M. Sekoué’s spectacles glittered when he smiled. “Ah, but I have written it down, you see.”

And he had. Before their amazed faces he produced a tiny leather address book with a gold pencil attached. A license number had been neatly written inside the back cover. Wayne wrote it down in his notebook. The three men thanked the diplomat profusely, and he departed.

“That’s the kind of brother we need more of in this town,” said Frangi with feeling. “Now, five bucks says it’s ripped off and we’re back to zero. You want to make the call, Barney?”

Wayne nodded and walked over to the pay phone in the bar. He dialed and had a brief conversation. Roland and Frangi sat waiting, not speaking. Wayne came back to the table and sat down. “It’s not on the latest hot sheet. The next one’s not due for a couple of hours, so it could have been boosted this morning and the guy hasn’t missed it yet …”

“Barney, for chrissake, who owns the fucking vehicle?” cried Frangi.

Wayne smiled broadly. “How do you like Aram Tomasian? A local boy. Lives in Murray Hill.”

Roland Hrcany laughed out loud. Frangi raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Thank you, Jesus!”

They looked him over. A compact, short, olive-skinned man in his late twenties, Aram Tomasian stood in the doorway of his apartment and returned their look out of deep-set brown eyes. He didn’t seem surprised to see two cops at his door at eight of a Sunday evening, which was itself surprising. What was more surprising, he didn’t say, “What’s this all about?” or “What’s wrong?” or give them the phony smile that most people kept in stock for a visit from the police, but gravely ushered them into his home and said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Frangi and Wayne walked into the place and absorbed it in a glance, as cops do. Upscale but not ostentatious: white carpeting, beige Haitian cotton sofa and armchairs, an expensive stereo system and a large television mounted in a long teak wall unit, a glass and chrome coffee table. There was a large framed color poster of what looked like some old ruins on the wall and a dozen or so family pictures in silver or leather frames placed on various shelves of the wall unit, together with a substantial library.

Wayne looked at Tomasian and once again tried to make his mind blank, hoping for a telling illumination. A regular guy, was all he got, a little cocky, in control. Wayne didn’t care for that. “Why were you expecting the police, Mr. Tomasian?” he asked, making his voice a little flatter and louder than necessary.

Tomasian gestured at the TV. “The Turk who got shot today. I figured you’d be around.” He sat down on his sofa and crossed his legs.

Frangi sat down opposite. Wayne paced around the room, looking at the books, photographs, and jacketed LPs stored neatly in the wall unit. One shelf, behind clear glass, was devoted to a collection of some kind: four pieces of old-looking jewelry with bright enamel insets, some dull gems deeply engraved with designs, and several small panels of gray or whitish stone incised with carvings of saints.

Frangi said, “Why did you figure that, Mr. Tomasian?”

The man shrugged. “That call to the papers. It was on TV. They blamed it on Armenian nationalists. I’m an Armenian nationalist …” He made a flowing gesture with his hand indicating the obviousness of it all.

“And you know something about this Armenian Secret Army that claimed credit for the killing?”

Tomasian allowed himself a faint smile. “If I told you that, it wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?”

From behind the couch Wayne said, “Withholding information about a murder investigation is a serious crime, Mr. Tomasian.” Wayne liked to get physically behind the subject during interrogations. He found it got them off balance. Then he and Frangi could shoot questions at the subject alternately, and have the pleasure of seeing the guy’s head whip back and forth as he tried to face his questioners.

This pleasure Tomasian denied them, however. Keeping still, he said to Frangi, as if he had made the statement, “In that case, let me say that I have absolutely no knowledge of this murder, either the planning of it or the execution, and don’t know anyone who did. I am not aware that the Armenian Secret Army or any other Armenian organization had any part in it. I am not going to discuss the Armenian Secret Army with you in any way, or reveal its plans, its organization, its activities, or its membership.”

Frangi said, “Okay, Mr. Tomasian, if that’s the way you want to play it, fine. Let’s talk about you personally, then. This morning between eight and eleven-you were where?”

“Right here. I had a late night last night and I slept in, until about noon.”

“Alone, right?” asked Wayne, still behind the sofa.

Tomasian smiled again. “No, I was with my girlfriend. In bed. She left about one-thirty.”

“We’ll need her name, then,” said Frangi.

Tomasian paused and then said, “I guess there’s no way around it. This is all going to come out in the papers, right? The thing is, her family will have a shit fit. There’s no way to, um, keep this private.”

Frangi stared at him blankly, his pencil poised above his pad.

“Her name’s Gaby Avanian, Gabrielle.” He added an address on St. Marks Place in the East Village.

“You own a car, Mr. Tomasian?” asked Frangi.

“Yes, why?”

Frangi ignored the question. “Make and model?”

“It’s a 1977 Ford Polara.”

“Is that a blue car, sir?” asked Wayne, and when told that it was in fact that color he and Frangi exchanged a significant look. “Where do you keep it?” Wayne asked.

“In the garage in the building.”

“Did you use it today at all?” asked Frangi.

“No. I don’t ever use it much, as a matter of fact. I can walk to work. Sometimes I drive out of town on weekends or visit relatives in the boroughs, Westchester, like that. And sometimes I pick up supplies for my business.”

“What business is that?” asked Wayne.

“I’m a jeweler. My dad owns Metropolitan Jewelry. It’s a chain. I run the store at Lex and Forty-first, and I also do a lot of our original designs.”

The detectives exchanged another look and Frangi rose. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Tomasian,” he said, and offered a business card. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, give us a call.”

Tomasian glanced at the card and placed it on the coffee table. Again he smiled faintly. “But meantime, don’t try to leave town?”

Frangi said, “That would be considerate, Mr. Tomasian, but in any case, if we decide we want you, we’ll find you.”

Tomasian didn’t offer to see them to the door, and they let themselves out. In the elevator, Wayne said, “So. You like him. I could tell.”