A Bullet for Carlos (20 page)

Reporters and Coffee Shops

T
ip grabbed my arm before we left the apartment. “When we go out, the reporters are going to be all over us. They’ll do anything to get a story—lie, cheat, steal. Hell, some of them will even go to bed with you.”

“How about I let you do the talking?”

“Sounds good.”

Tip led the way out. I said to the cop stationed at the door. “Keep a guard on the door until someone notifies you, and keep the questioning going until we get answers from all the apartments.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Yes, ma’am?
By the time we reached the bottom, the reporters had already gathered. I stood back and observed the side show.

“What have you got for us, Tip? What’s her name?”

“We’ll release a statement soon.”

“Come on, Tip,” a short-haired blonde cooed from the side, her voice a little too sensual for the normal cop/reporter relationship.

“Told you already, Barb. Got nothing.”

Tip shut it down. If there had been anything between them it must have been in the past, or he was a damn good actor.

“How about you, Tip’s partner?” At that everyone laughed. “You got anything for us?”

I blushed, covering it with a smile. “He does all the talking. I’m just a token female homicide detective.”

“Where’d you get that accent?” a guy with a baseball cap, that was obviously covering a bald head, asked.

“My accent? They were handing them out for free in Brooklyn.”

“Got a sassy one there, Tip. Better watch out.”

“Tip, give us a name. Come on.”

Tip stopped. Sighed. “All right. Shit.” He reached in and pulled out his notepad, flipped a few pages. “Mary,” he said, then his nose scrunched up as if he couldn’t read his writing. “As far as we know she lived alone except for a little lamb that went everywhere she did.”

Amidst all the curses, we laughed and made our way to the car. Halfway there, a reporter whose name tag read “Samantha Roberts” approached. She was blonde, and she was Texas tall. Most of it legs.

“What are you doing off the leash, Denton? I heard you were on desk duty.”

Uh oh.
There was history here, too, but of a different sort. Nothing friendly about this lady’s voice, or her glare.

Tip stopped, looked as if he considered saying something but smiled instead. “Emergency case.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Tip’s face tightened. I could tell he was about to let loose on her, but he kept it civil. “Lady, I’m sorry about that, okay. I already told you I thought you were somebody else.”

Samantha didn’t respond, but a smirk appeared on her face. The kind of smirk that deserved a smack. Tip shook his head and set a quick pace to the car. “Let’s go grab a cup of coffee,” he said as he climbed in.

I shot Samantha a glare, still wondering what was between them. “Sounds good,” I said. “You got a lot of cafes around here?”

“We’ve got plenty of them. A few blocks from here there’s a Starbucks with a drive-through. About half a mile north we got another Starbucks. But if you’d rather sit outside with great music and good people-watching, there’s a Starbucks on the main drag six or seven blocks south of here.”

“How about we go to Starbucks then?”

“Good idea, Gianelli. I’m starting to think you’ve got more brains than that accent indicates.”

“
My
accent?” All I could do was shake my head.

Tip got a caramel
macchiato and headed to the patio to grab a table.

I took the seat next to him, sipping on an espresso. “Do you know how many calories that has?”

“A guy like me needs sweet drinks,” Tip said, then set his notebook on the table.

I took another sip. “Before we get started, how about telling me what that was with the reporter.”

“Jealous?”

“Not that one. I’m talking about the tall blonde who looked like she wanted to cut your heart out. And don’t try any lies.”

“It’s nothing.”

I straightened my shoulders and held him with a glare. “We’ve been doing good so far, but remember the deal about telling each other the truth.”

He sipped his drink, made a frown. “Now you’ve got me thinking about the calories in this, and it’s gonna ruin my favorite drink.”

I continued staring.

“A couple of weeks ago I made a comment about her butt. I thought she was someone else.”

“Jesus Christ, Tip. I’m no shrink, but from what I can tell so far you’re not really like that. Why the hell do you do it? And you
know
that kind of stuff will get you in trouble.”

He got very uncomfortable, squirming in his seat as if he were being interrogated.

“I already told you, I thought I knew her from before, so I walked up behind her and said she had a nice butt. She looked like my friend from the backside. Anyway, the reporter got pissed and filed a complaint.”

I finished the espresso before saying anything. “Thanks. And if it’s any comfort, I halfway agree with you. You have to understand that women hate that bullshit. I mean
really hate
it. You shouldn’t have said anything, and you’re an ass for doing it…but she shouldn’t have taken it that far.”

“Are you trying to trick me?”

“Just being honest back to you.”

“I might even get to like this telling the truth stuff. It’s pretty fun.” Tip’s left eye scrunched up. It always did before he smiled. “By the way,” he said, “you did real good back there. My first homicide I lost it right in front of everybody.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. I almost did back there, too. I can’t stand bad smells. I come close to throwing up when my dog shits on the floor.” He took one more sip of his drink then tossed it into the trash can. “All right let’s get these reports filed and start solving a crime.”

I didn’t get up, just cocked my head and looked at him. “You have a dog that shits on the floor?”

“Not all the time, but whenever they get pissed at me they do. I think they take turns at it so I don’t know which one it is.”

“You’ve got
more than one
dog that shits on the floor? No wonder you don’t have a wife.” I cleaned the table in front of me and crumpled my napkin. “Let’s go catch this son-of-a-bitch.”

“I’m with you on that. Can’t stand a man hurting a woman.”

That comment came out of the blue. It was the second time he’d said it, and when I looked at his face I could tell he was serious. Dead serious. The man might have a little more underneath that rough Texas skin than I thought. “Where do you want to start?”

“Everything starts with the files. First we’ve got to figure out why this lunatic killed her. There’s always a reason even if it’s only in the killer’s mind, and if there’s a reason then the victim probably knew the killer or came into contact with them somewhere. What we’ve got to do is find that out.”

I left the coffee shop feeling good, excited about my first homicide case, thankful that Tip was turning out to be better than I originally thought, but mostly, I was thankful that Patti Green didn’t have kids. I don’t know if I could have handled it if she’d left kids behind.

Chapter 24

A Call From Frankie

F
rankie Donovan got to the station early. He’d been working the drug bust and getting nowhere. The getting nowhere didn’t bother him so much—he’d been in that situation before—it was the feeling that nobody wanted him to solve this case. He wasn’t even getting pressure from the top brass, and that smelled rotten. Ten people dead, two of them cops, and nobody was busting his ass to get a suspect? As he thought that his cell phone rang, and he somehow knew it was going to be one of those weird coincidences. “Donovan.”

“Detective Donovan, this is Lieutenant Chambers. I was Connie Gianelli’s—”

“Yeah, I know you, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“I was calling to see how Connie was doing. I hadn’t heard from her in a while.”

“Doing great. I think she likes homicide. And we definitely like her.” Frankie made his way to the coffee room while Chambers talked.

“How does she like Houston? I hope she doesn’t decide to stay.”

The statement took Frankie by surprise. “I doubt that. She’s there to work a cold case.”

Chambers laughed. “Convenient that case being in Houston, where the leads from her personal case led.” Frankie was about to say something when Chambers started up again. “Listen, Detective, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but IA is digging hard to find dirt on Connie. They’re probing the streets, talking to her snitches, even her neighbors. I’m a little…concerned.”

Frankie wondered why Chambers was telling him this. “I’ll do some extra digging. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“No problem. And tell Connie I said hello.”

“If I talk with her, I will. Thanks again, Lieutenant.”

Frankie leaned back in the chair, wondering how Chambers knew she was in Houston. Maybe Connie told him, but it didn’t sound like he had her number. Maybe Morreau and him talked? As he pondered it, Mazzetti walked in, looking every part the zombie that he always was prior to his morning infusion of coffee.

“Got any brewed?”

Frankie pointed to the pot. “Get me another one, too.”

Mazzetti poured two coffees then sat next to Frankie. “Anything new?”

“Nothing,” Frankie said. He sat back in his chair and stretched, then sipped on some coffee. “This has been a dead-end since we started and somebody wants to keep it that way.”

Mazzetti wrinkled his brow. “You think she had something to do with it?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know, but I know for certain she didn’t shoot eight drug dealers with five different guns.”

“I’d like to see that trick if she did.” Lou paused. “I got a tip last night from one of my snitches. He said Manny Rosso had a hand in this.”

“Manny, huh? Not a surprise. We know Connie called Mangini from Sean’s phone.”

“So that hooks her up with Mangini, not Manny.”

Frankie frowned. “Come on, Lou. I already told you that Gianelli and Mangini have history.”

“Yeah, everybody knows she grew up by him, but her record is clean.”

Frankie grabbed his notes and his coffee and headed for the door. “Let’s go see Manny Rosso. I have a feeling he might know something about it.”

Mazzetti grabbed his coffee, but he wore the puzzled look he did when he disagreed. “I already told you, my snitch said he did.”

“And I happen to agree with him. Not much happens in Brooklyn that Manny doesn’t have something to do with, or at least know about. Besides, Manny owes us.” They started to leave, then Frankie turned to him. “Lou, keep busy for a minute. I need to see Morreau about something. I’ll fill you in later.”

Frankie walked into Morreau’s
office. “Got a minute, Lieu?”

“Make it quick.”

“Who knows Gianelli’s in Houston?”

“Us, the captain, IA…I think that’s it.”

Frankie cracked his knuckles a few times as he thought. “I got a call from Chambers, asking how she was doing in Houston. How’d
he
know?”

“Chambers is married to Captain Kyrokous’ sister, so I’m sure he knows everything. Besides, IA could just as easily have told him.” Morreau opened his desk drawer, digging for something. “You got any rubber bands?”

Frankie opened the door a crack. “Carol, the lieu needs some rubber bands.” He started to close the door again when he thought better of it. “Please?”

“Would’ve been your ass if you forgot that.”

“No coffee for a week.”

“More like a month.”

Carol popped in and tossed a few rubber bands onto his desk. “Thanks, Carol,” he said, then turned to Frankie. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Just get your ass out there and solve this case. It doesn’t smell right to me and I want it off my charts.”

“You got it, Lieu. We’re on it.”

Manny lived in a
modest house in Bensonhurst, a section of Brooklyn still heavily populated by Italians and peppered with small Italian restaurants, shops and cafes. Frankie pulled onto a wide part of the sidewalk in front of a breezeway, shut off the car and got out.

“Suppose somebody needs to get out,” Lou said.

“They’ll beep the horn if they do. We won’t be long.”

The sidewalk was brick, herringbone design, and still in fine shape despite heavy use and rough winters. Manny’s house had three steps leading to a small brick porch. Frankie knocked hard on the porch door, then watched the windows. Blinds opened, just a crack, and a few seconds later the front door opened, then the porch door. Manny’s smile covered his face, which said a lot about his smile, because his face was big, Orson Welles big.

“Well if it ain’t Bugs Donovan. Come on in.” He eyed Frankie up and down. “Lookin’ sharp, Donovan. Somebody might think you’re dipping your beak into the collection plate if you keep wearing clothes like that.”

Frankie couldn’t help but smile. Manny had charisma and charm, like a lot of the gangsters, but he was ruthless when it came to business and would kill a person without a second thought. Frankie knew from working with the FBI that they attributed more than ten murders to Manny personally and many more that he ordered. Trouble was they couldn’t prove any of it. There never seemed to be a witness, at least none willing to testify.