A Bullet for Carlos (12 page)

She bowed her head and wiped tears. “I saved that for me. The good Lord would want it that way, but I didn’t have the courage.”

Tip hugged her. “I’ll tell you what, Mollie. Let’s get you down to the hospital and then down to the station. We’ll get some pictures of what he did to you, then let you tell them what happened. I think you can be back home before too long.”

She looked at him with hope in her eyes. “You think?”

“I do. Really, I do. It’ll be up to the DA, but I’ll put in a word for you.”

Tip turned to one of the deputies. “Bob, why don’t ya’ll take her to the hospital, and then get her some food and coffee. Whatever she wants.”

“You got it, sir.”

Tip walked around, checking the scene. He happened to catch sight of a tall blonde with a microphone in her hand talking to one of the uniforms. He walked up behind her and whispered. “You sure got a nice butt, darlin’.”

She jumped, turned off the mic and spun around. When she did, Tip saw it wasn’t who he thought it was.
Shit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Anger flared in her eyes. Anger and indignation.

“Don’t get worked up. I thought you were somebody else and was just saying hi.”

“Just saying hi? This isn’t the sixteenth century.”

“No, by God, I think you’re right.” Everyone laughed except her. And from the way she glared at him, Tip was glad she didn’t have Mollie’s gun, even with only one shot left. “Listen, ma’am, I’m awfully sorry. I thought you were an old friend. It was a joke.”

Her eyes said it all. The apology didn’t work.

It didn’t take long
to finish up at Mollie’s. Tip was back home and in bed by 5:00 AM. Plenty of time for breakfast and coffee. Not fancy coffee. Tip could drink almost anything. Corner-store coffee, Starbucks—hell, he even liked diner coffee. Someone could drop mud in a pot of water and he’d drink it. And now that he thought about it, he recalled that might have happened in Louisiana one time.

Before he left he went to the mantel. A long wooden box in the shape of an obelisk lay on top of it, just below the picture of his mother. Drilled into the top of it were holes sized to hold a marble. A white marble sat in the top spot, and about halfway down, mixed in among about twenty-five black ones. The rest after that were white again. When he solved a homicide he replaced the next white one with a black. It was about a third of the way done now, but the top spot remained white, that, and one other. The only unsolved cases—a little girl of six, and his mother’s killer. For a moment he hesitated, not wanting to taint Mollie’s reputation by placing her alongside these others, but…technically she had committed a homicide. With a muttered curse and a frown he placed a black marble in the next slot then recorded her name in the book he kept next to it.

The drive into work was smooth, but when he got there he found a note on his desk instructing him to see the lieutenant. He walked down the hall, got more coffee, then went to see him. Susie was sitting at her desk, looking like she’d been made for that one job in life.

“Morning, Sugar,” he said, and smiled. When Tip smiled, the side of his face twisted, due to a scar that ran ear to mouth.

Susie Morgan knew Tip better than he knew himself. “Morning, Tip. How are you?”

“If I was any better, I’d be you.”

She didn’t bother to laugh. “Cut the nonsense. That’s a tired old saying.” She kept her head down, finished entering something in the computer. “And he’s ticked off, so you better be nice.”

Tip cocked his head in the direction of the office. “Is he in there now?”

“He’s waiting.”

Tip rapped gently on the door, then opened it and walked in. A large burgundy chair sat in front of the desk. The lieutenant said it was placed there to complement the pictures on the wall, but Tip knew Susie had put it there to help hide the mess on his desk. Tip plopped into the chair then slumped low, propping his feet up on the rim of the desk. “How’s it going, John?”

Lieutenant John Renkin was a big man, bigger than Tip, and with deep rich black skin. People respected Renkin, and generally liked him, but they feared what was known as his mean look. Tip got to see it today, and not for the first time. After a wait that extended far too long Renkin put down the folder he held and looked over his desk into Tip’s eyes. By now, Tip had removed his feet and was sitting straight in the chair. Renkin picked up one sheet of paper and read from it.

“Tip, according to these reports you’re the best detective the force has. Perhaps the best that Texas has. You have a great relationship with the people on the street. You’re respected by the criminals and fellow officers alike. And there has not been a single allegation against you that has proven to be true.”

A shit-eating grin spread across Tip’s face. “Thanks.”

Renkin wadded the paper and threw it into the trash. “The problem is, that what I just read are comments you have made about yourself.”

“Somebody’s gotta tell the truth.”

“Denton, this is no laughing matter. You’re in here for sexual harassment charges, and
that
is going to cause me a lot of grief.”

Damn reporter.
“For talking about her butt? Come on, John. You know that’s not right. Besides, I thought it was Cindy Marsh, an old friend. I told that reporter it was a mistake.” Tip scrunched up his eyes. “How did she get charges filed against me already? I just saw her this morning.”

“This lady has connections.” Renkin raised his voice. “And besides, you can’t talk about anyone’s butt. Not even mine.”

“How about my own? Can I at least do that?”

The ring of the phone interrupted Renkin’s laughter. “Lieutenant Renkin.”

“Sir, there is a Detective Gianelli on the phone for you from Brooklyn Homicide. This is the third call.”

“What does he want?”

“Gianelli is a ‘she,’ sir, and she said it is something about an old case.”

Renkin looked puzzled, but said, “Put her through.”

The line rang and
Renkin picked it up.

“Lieutenant Renkin, my name is Connie Gianelli. I’m calling you from Brooklyn Homicide.”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“We have an old case here that seems to match one of yours.” She shuffled her papers. “Let’s see…Gardner. Lisa Gardner. In case you don’t remember, ‘lips cut off’ ring a bell?”

“Hang on a minute.” He put her on hold, looked at Tip. “Who’s handling the Gardner case? Remember, the mutilation?”

“Shepherd had that but he’s retired. Nobody’s got it now, but it was a dead-end anyway.”

Renkin got back on the phone with Gianelli. “Okay, Detective, I’m familiar with the case, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to come down and review the case with your detective.”

“That’s jumping the gun a little bit, isn’t it?”

“Sir, from what I can tell these cases have got to be connected. And our vic lived in Houston before moving to New York. There is a definite connection.”

“And you have approval for this?”

“From the top.”

Renkin looked at Tip, then smiled. “That would be wonderful, Detective. I’ve got my best man on the case now and he would love to work with you. Call back and coordinate everything with Susan Morgan. She’ll get you whatever you need.”

Silence on the other end of the phone, then, “All right, Lieutenant. I guess I’ll see you in a few days.”

Renkin hung up the phone and gave Tip a cagey look.

“What was that all about?” Tip asked.

“You got a new partner.”

Tip jumped up from the chair. “No way. I’m not working that case. It’s a dead-end. And besides—”

Renkin stopped him. “I need you to be invisible while I fix this complaint. God only knows what I’m going to have to do to calm this lady down, but your ass is going to be buried until then. Hear me?”

***

I hung up the
phone and sat with my hands folded on the desk. Damn lucky to have gotten a lieutenant that cooperative. Maybe lieutenants in Texas weren’t as bad as New York. Now all I had to do was convince Morreau to let me go. About an hour later I got the courage to face him. I presented my case, expecting an immediate “no,” and was surprised by his consideration.

“Gianelli, it might not be a bad idea. It would be great if you could solve a cold case, especially one that involved working across jurisdictions, but I doubt the captain will go for it. Budgets are tight. I can barely get what I need for normal operations.”

“Come on, Lieutenant. I know I’m new here, but I swear you won’t regret it.”

After a little bit of negotiating, he agreed to present my case to the captain.

“Be ready in case he wants to talk.”

“I will, Lieutenant. Count on it.”

All night I prepared a speech and the data to support it. The next morning, geared for a fight, I marched into the lieutenant’s office. When I finished presenting the case, Morreau stared at me and smiled.

“When are you leaving?”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, Gianelli, but the captain didn’t even fight me. I expected him to get pissed at me just for asking; instead, he said he thought it was a good idea.”

“That’s great.”

“No, it’s not great,” Morreau said. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“From what I hear, it’s going to come out that your ex-partners were dirty. Once that happens the reporters are going to be all over this—and you—with a thousand questions. The way I figure it, the captain wants you out of sight until it blows over.”

“But I’m not dirty.”

“That’s not what he thinks.” Morreau stood and shook hands. “So go down there and show him up. Make us proud.”

“I will, sir. Thanks.”

“When can you leave?”

“Take me a few days, sir.”

“Good. It will take me that long to get the paperwork. Keep me posted on everything.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and got up to leave, but before I hit the door he called me.

“One thing, Gianelli. I catch you looking into your drug case, don’t come back. Just find a hole in Texas and stay there.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

***

Morreau waited for Connie
to get out of earshot then picked up the phone and called Donovan.

“What’s up, Lieu?”

“You got anything yet on Gianelli’s case?”

“Working on it. Why?”

“Work harder,” Morreau said. “The captain just approved Gianelli to go to Texas on a cold case.”

“If the captain is in a generous mood, I got a case in Rome I need to solve.”

“You know what I mean, Donovan. That whole drug deal stinks. Find out who was dirty.”

There was a long pause before Frankie said, “No matter where it goes?”

“No matter where.”

Chapter 14

Old Regrets

I
left the office and headed straight for the Bronx. Dominic and Zeppe had to be told about Texas, and delaying it would only make it worse. As I drove over the Willis Avenue Bridge I thought about all the things I had to do. The apartment would be all right; Tariq and Marley would watch that. And they could take care of Hotshot and the fish. Bills were no problem—pay them online. The paper had been canceled… That was about it. Now at the end of the checklist, I recognized my life was empty, but I had no time to dwell on it; Dominic’s house was only a few blocks away.

Dominic lived on a busy street that seldom had space for parking, but fortune blessed me with an empty spot across the street. I parked, then walked up to Mr. Gallos’ house, laughing as I passed the fire hydrant at the corner. As a little kid I used to strip my clothes off and play naked with the boys on the hot summer days when the hydrant gushed water. Back then the street was crowded with kids playing stick ball while relatives and neighbors watched from the stoops in front of the houses. I looked at what the street was now and felt sad. A lot had changed since I left.

Mr. Gallo opened the door, and as always, before I even knocked. “
Buona sera
,
Concetta
.”

“
Buona sera,
” I said, and stepped quickly through the foyer, and headed down the steps so I could get to Dominic’s house. A man I didn’t know greeted me at the door. He was ruggedly handsome, and had a fierce look about him. I noticed he glanced down the hall behind me, then did a quick assessment of me before leading me to the stairs. Dominic and Zeppe were both in the kitchen.

“I thought I’d drop by and see my two favorite uncles.”

“Your
only
two uncles,” Dominic said.

He was almost sixty and yet his voice sounded as if it belonged to a young man. “It wouldn’t matter if I had a hundred uncles. You and Zeppe would be at the top.”

“Get your wallet out, Dom. She wants something.”

I took my usual seat by the window. “My Cucuzza
,”
a Louis Prima song, was playing on Dominic’s record player. He still used the old records despite owning CD’s. He swore the music sounded better on vinyls.

Dominic had a pot of water on the stove, getting ready for espresso. I tried convincing him to switch to an automatic espresso machine but he refused, swearing it ruined the taste. He still made his coffee in a press, too, abhorring the idea of anything to do with coffee that was automatic.