A Bullet for Carlos (10 page)

When I finally got to the office, I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. Carol was already at her desk. “Morning, Carol. Nice day.”

“I love new members of homicide. Always so enthusiastic and positive.”

I set the files on the desk and noticed a note stuck to the calendar. ‘See me’ it said, and it was signed by Frankie. I grabbed the note, picked up a coffee, then went to see Frankie. “You wanted me?”

He sat silent for a few seconds, looked around the room, then said, “Walk with me.” He bypassed the coffee room and found a remote spot near the janitor’s closet at the end of the hall. He leaned against the window and stared. “If I’m going to solve this, I need to know what happened. And I don’t want the bullshit you gave the media.”

I waited a long time before answering. “Someone told me I could trust you.”

“I’m going to lay it out nice and neat for you, Gianelli. If you want to save that badge you’re going to have to come clean with me on
everything.
”

I thought about telling him it was Manny Rosso, but how could I betray Manny after what he did for me? Then I thought about what Uncle Dominic said about trusting Donovan. I sighed, and opted for partial truth.

“All right. Here’s how it went. Everything was like the report said. We were set up to bust the dealers and got surprised. They killed Jerry and then Sean. I was trapped in the alley with no backup. It was
me
who called Dominic Mangini, using Sean’s phone. I knew Dominic couldn’t get there in time. Just…”

“Just wanted to tell him goodbye?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it was.”

“So what happened? No way Mangini got to you from the Bronx and I doubt he had that many men close by in Brooklyn.”

“Some people came and killed the dealers.”

“People like Manny Rosso and his men?”

“I didn’t get a good look.”

“Not when he saved you? Or when he carried you into the hospital?”

“Guess not.”

Frankie gave me a look like, ‘
sure, I know this game
,’ but what he said was, “That’s all right. Manny seems to be invisible. But I’m not interested in Manny Rosso. I’m more interested in why you didn’t have backup.”

He surprised me with the question. Maybe Dominic was right, and Donovan
was
a good cop. “Sean was convinced someone in the department was leaking information. He and Rafferty pushed for no backup. I didn’t like it, but…I was the new kid.”

“And your lieutenant approved this?” Frankie asked the question like he didn’t believe it.

“He didn’t want to, but we—Sean, Jerry and I—convinced him it would be okay.”

Frankie wrote something in a small notepad, then looked straight at me. “Why did you wipe the call list on Sean’s phone?”

That question surprised me. “I didn’t.”

Frankie’s eyebrows raised. “Somebody did. It’s right here on IA’s report.”

I took a deep breath and got a little huffy. “Look, I just admitted to calling Mangini, but I
didn’t
wipe the phone.”

“Who did? Manny? Was he covering for Mangini?”

I had started liking Donovan, but now he was pissing me off. “You’re the detective. Figure it out yourself.”

Frankie put his hand on my shoulder. “I will. Soon enough, I will. But for now I’ll focus on finding out why these dealers wanted to kill you.”

“So you really
are
a good cop?”

“I don’t know about the good part, but I’m not dirty.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Now how about you sharing with me.”

“I’m not good at sharing,” he said and walked away.

“Bastard.”

“Be patient, Gianelli. Keep working those cold cases.”

Two days later I
found a folder inside the desk drawer. It contained four names with Texas license numbers and Houston addresses. A handwritten note said ‘other four were Brooklyn.’

Later that day, when I saw Frankie, a smile crossed my face. “I owe you one.”

Frankie looked around, then at me. “There was a saying in the neighborhood where I grew up. ‘Don’t thank me for something the law won’t let me do.’”

“Funny saying.”

“Yeah.”

I asked Carol to
get the number for Houston Police Department, the drug enforcement division. She not only gave me the number, but the name of someone to help. After a few questions, and me giving him the details of our case, I got the name I needed—Tony Ramirez.

I wasn’t supposed to be messing with my own case, so I waited until no one else was around, then called. “Tony Ramirez, please.”

“Officer Ramirez is not in, can I take a message?”

I gave the guy on the phone my badge number and precinct, but left my cell phone as a call-back number. “Ask him to call about a case, please.”

“All right, ma’am. I expect him later.”

Two hours later a call came in. “Gianelli.”

“This is Ramirez.”

“Officer Ramirez, this is Connie Gianelli. I’m a detective in Brooklyn Homicide.”

“What can I do for you?”

I went through what I had told the other guy. “We had two undercover officers shot and killed a while back. During the investigation we discovered Texas licenses on four of the suspects, with addresses in Houston. I wanted to see what, if anything, you might be able to tell us about them.”

“Give me the names and addresses. I’ll call you back.”

“I’m in a hurry—”

“Aren’t we all.”

I sighed, loud enough so he probably heard. “First one is Pablo Garza, 1624 Calvin Street, Houston—”

“No need to go further. That’s an abandoned house. And if the next one is 1628, it’s abandoned, too.”

“Is Houston so small that you know all the houses?”

“I was just there on a case. Two dead drug dealers.”

“No shit.”

“No shit,” he said.

“How were they killed?”

“They were executed.”

This was it. It
had
to tie in to my case. “I’ve got to get down there.”

“What?”

Possibilities raced through my head. “Houston,” I said. “I’ve got to look into this.”

“Ma’am, no offense, but we do fine by ourselves down here.”

I put a little bit of attitude in my voice. Not on purpose, but it worked it’s way in there. “Ramirez, these assholes killed two cops and almost killed me. I want the one who gave the orders.”

“No disrespect, ma’am, but these people kill kids with their drugs every day. I want them as much as you do.”

Wasn’t much I could say. “All right, Detective. But call me if you get anything, will you?” I thanked him and hung up.

I tried concentrating on the case at hand but all I could think about were the addresses in Houston. As I went through more notes on the Carlisle case, I remembered that one of the other files had a connection with Houston. I put the folder down and went to get the rest of the case files. After leafing through three of them I came to it—Shannon Mason was from Houston.
Goddamn. Had to be this one.

I read through the reports again, skipping over the pictures. There wasn’t much to go on, but it was worth a try. I needed a reason to get to Houston.

I asked Carol to check the FBI databases to see if anything matched the Mason case. It didn’t take long. Houston had a victim after Mason and there were too many similarities for it to be coincidence. The only question was why hadn’t Houston called Brooklyn. “Carol, can you please find out who I need to talk to about this?”

She got back to me in half an hour with the number and a name—Lieutenant John Renkin.

Chapter 11

Mr. Perfect

Houston, Texas

M
r. Perfect finished his squats—twice his body weight, to build his legs and back and also tighten his ass—then he moved to the power bench for chest work. On Wednesday he did chest and legs, and he had another great workout today. His arms and thighs ached, the lactic acid burning, and a glance to the mirror confirmed what a specimen he was. Every week he managed to improve an already perfect body.

While he worked, he watched her. Patti was her name and she was nearly perfect. Not as perfect as him, but nearly. Tight ass. Good legs and arms. Great abs. He wouldn’t call her pretty. Not pretty like him, but…what…sexy. Yes, sexy is what she was, and she had a body to excite a man.

She was doing pull-ups and watching herself in the mirror. She liked to watch. Liked to
be
watched, too. Mr. Perfect could tell. Occasionally she saw him looking at her and she smiled. Not a cutesy smile, like, “oh gee you caught me looking at you”—no, this was more of a keep-watching-me smile. As he walked past her she smiled at him again. Third time this week. He checked his watch. She would be done soon, so he hurried and finished.

Mr. Perfect always left before she did. Got in the car, cooled off, waited, then followed her home. It wasn’t far. She could have even jogged to the gym, and that thought made him wonder why she didn’t because she liked to run. After three weeks of watching he knew her routine. She worked out four days a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. She came home afterwards and took a long shower. He couldn’t see her take the shower, but with his binoculars he saw her prepare. She went to the kitchen, toweled off, got a drink, then went to the bedroom. As soon as the door closed, he pictured the process she went through. Kicking off her shoes, peeling off her top and bra.
What next?
He tried to imagine it. Perhaps she’d lean in, turn on the shower, then pull up each leg and take off her socks. After that, she would pull her pants down. He gasped. As soon as the shorts hit the floor, the panties followed.

He unzipped and rubbed himself. He pictured her in the shower, standing with her eyes closed, scrubbing. Rubbing soap all over her body. Lingering at the right places. Oh God, she looked good. He focused on that image for a moment then proceeded. She turned off the shower and began the drying process with a soft fluffy towel. He wanted to be that towel, caressing her, massaging her, crawling into her cracks and tasting her. His eyes popped open and he had to pinch himself. Couldn’t let it go that far. He cleared his head of all thoughts of her, thought of working out. Doing push-ups and sit-ups. Heavy squats. Soon he settled down, lost the urge. Ten to fifteen minutes later, she came out fresh and clean, dressed in a tight T-shirt and panties. He could tell her hair was still wet, so he lifted his head and sniffed the air, pretending he could smell the freshness.

As he drove away, he recalled the way she smiled at him. It was a hungry smile. A needy smile. He stroked himself while driving. Let it build until he could feel the initial stages of ecstasy, then quit. It wasn’t time yet. Maybe next week or the week after. Yes, the week after would do fine. Mr. Perfect would let her have him then.

Chapter 12

Across the Border

Monterrey, Mexico

J
uanita and Rosalie finished their walk down the dusty gravel road to the warehouse. They passed by the guards with the guns and waved to the drivers, killing time as they waited for their shipments. For the past six months every day began the same for them. Six days a week, ten hours a day.

“More new drivers,” Juanita said.

“Stupid boys is what they are,” Rosalie added, then tossed her coffee cup into the trash as she walked through the door. In the next room, an eight by ten rectangle with no furniture and bare walls, they stripped their clothes, placing them into a bin with their names written in marker. Rosalie pressed a button on the opposite wall, and a metal door opened. They walked through naked.

Rosalie closed her eyes as she entered, focusing on the job and the money. Where else could she earn this kind of money without prostituting herself. True, she had to work naked all day, absorbing the lecherous glares of the men who watched them, but the bosses made sure all they did was watch. And even though at times it felt as if their eyes were touching her, she learned to put up with that. It wouldn’t be long before she had enough to get her daughter into a house.

She took her station next to Maria, who always got there before them, then went to work without a word spoken. Dialogue was forbidden during the work hours. They got two ten-minute breaks a day and a thirty-minute break at noon—aside from that, no talking. Clothes were forbidden for fear that the women would hide drugs in them. Talking forbidden for fear of plotting. The worst part of the job was leaving at night, when one of the men—and they each took turns—would inspect their asses and vaginas, supposedly to check for drugs. But the rules had been explained up front and packaging cocaine was a serious business. Any breach of the rules meant a swift death.