Cold Moon Dead (2 page)

“What the hell happened, Vin?” Freedom snickered as she got out of the car. “Are you all right?”

I glared down at her for a moment. I tower over Free who stands around five-foot-five. Her rich brown hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, and she held herself in a tough guy stance, hands resting on the fully loaded sixty-pound police utility belt slung around her waist. A grin hovered around the corners of her mouth as her brown eyes twinkled.

“Some old broad had broken down in the low speed lane of the highway. I stopped to help and gave her a lift. The bitch pulled a .38 out of her bag, offered to shoot me, and stole my freakin’ car.” My hands clenched and I paced back and forth as I ranted. “If that wasn’t bad enough, she stole the freakin’ Louis Vuitton handbag that I just got.” I left out the homey pickup attempt. I had enough to live down, thank you.

Freedom burst into laughter, patted me on the back in a reassuring manner, and motioned for me to get in the car. She climbed into the driver’s seat, mumbling into the radio attached to her shoulder. We swung through empty streets onto the highway. I directed her to the place where the woman’s car had been, but it was gone. I glanced around, dialed the cops to ask if the car had been towed, and was told it hadn’t been.

“You were set up by an old broad,” Free said, overcome by laughter.

“Very funny, Free. Very funny.”

Cops have an odd sense of humor. I didn’t find anything remotely funny in the situation at hand. However, it had happened to me, and that made the issue up front and personal.

Free cast a sideways glance at me and said, “I’ll take you to the district station and make a report. You know the drill, right?”

“Yeah, I know the drill.” I stamped my foot on the floor and swore some more.

“Think of it this way, Vin . . . you’re still alive, right?” Her serious brown eyes turned on me.

With a grudging nod, I stared out the window as we drove through dreary winter neighborhoods.

The hole-in-the-wall district police station was set up for community policing. The cops kept the doors locked for fear of being shot, and didn’t answer when someone came to make a complaint—so much for community policing. The police chief figured if community stations were located within each of the nine districts of the city, it would promote feelings of goodwill between the officers and neighborhood residents. I smiled at the thought, though many residents might consider community policing another safety factor.

We entered the freshly painted concrete-block building. One wall held a mural of a police car. The department logo was painted on the front of the counter. I peered at the artist’s signature and realized my buddy, Lanky Larry, had done the work.

Round as a soup bowl and bald as a melon, Lanky Larry was gay, short in stature, big of heart, and sweet natured. He painted murals, and faux-finished walls and furniture in the homes of the elite in Rhode Island. He was also a good friend who had given me a hand on more than one occasion.

“You know this guy—the artist?” Free asked with a glance at me over her shoulder. Beckoning with a crook of her finger, she had me follow her through the room and down a corridor. The next small room held two computers, a fax machine, and a printer.

“Yeah, he’s a friend of mine . . . an awesome artist,” I answered with a grin.

“He slapped that mural on the wall like it was nothing. It blew me away,” she said, leaning back in the chair, away from the desk that held a computer. “I can’t even draw stick people.”

With a smile, I took the seat opposite her in the only other chair in the room that was the size of a closet. My gaze wandered the walls while we waited for the computer program to upload the report page. Gang insignia posters covered one wall. Photos of scumbags sent to federal prisons across the country covered another. I glanced at the map of the district and wondered what all the numbers meant, but didn’t ask.

Freedom asked questions. I gave her answers to the best of my recollection. I hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention to the old lady’s wreck of a car, but her appearance was emblazoned in my memory. We hadn’t gotten far when the radio attached to Free’s shoulder started to crackle. She was told to report to some incident or other.

In a flash she was out of the chair. I was instructed to wait until she got back. Where the hell was I supposed to go with no car anyway? Free flung the front door key at me, along with some cash, and said I should get coffee from the bakery across the street. I nodded. I followed her as she hurried out the door and watched her jump in her cruiser. With siren blaring and lights flashing, Freedom headed toward the scene at warp speed.

Crossing the street, I sauntered into Sugar Cookies Bakery. The aroma of cinnamon and chocolate teased my nostrils. I stepped up to the counter and ordered a regular coffee. While the young girl poured the brew into a paper cup, I considered the glass cases filled with confections. Too many choices, so I settled for a sprinkle-covered donut. After paying—thank you, Freedom—I left the shop and headed back to the community police station. Sinking my teeth into the soft, sweet, yeasty goodness, I sighed. I earned that donut after what I’d been through.

I decided to wait at the empty front desk instead of the little cubby-hole in back where I was before. I discovered that the tall swivel chair behind the counter was fairly comfortable, even with its wrought iron back. Though my legs are long, my feet still dangled. I sipped the coffee, nibbled the donut, and savored every morsel while I leaned back in an effort to relax in the peace and quiet. The cops only used the station for bathroom breaks, to eat lunch, or write reports. Otherwise they patrolled the streets.

Time crawled while I waited for Freedom’s return. I could do nothing but wait, so I settled in and finished my snack. The day hadn’t started out so well, but I was feeling better.

A firecracker-like noise caught my attention. I slid off the seat and strode to the glass-paned door. Two ceiling-to-floor windows faced the street alongside the door and offered a clear view of a two-block area. A dark sedan sped past. I peered at the license plate and memorized the number.

A rugged, mid-height, gray-haired man, dressed in a worsted-wool sport coat, staggered backward and then turned toward the building. He saw me watching and then he stumbled inside the station when I opened the door. Blood trickled past the edge of the jacket cuff and down his hand toward his fingertips. I felt the donut in my stomach flip flop a couple times, as though it were alive. Pale, flaccid, sweaty skin covered his face. I helped him to the stool behind the counter. Heavy breaths puffed from his mouth as his chest heaved. I wondered if the old guy would drop dead right there, in front of me.

I raced into the bathroom and unrolled a long sheet of paper towels. I bunched them in my fist, returned to the old guy, and stuffed them into his free hand. By then he had removed his jacket to check out the injury. A small hole had ripped his white shirt open at the shoulder. Blood saturated the material.

Choking, I flew into the bathroom again.

The scrumptious donut made an ugly return, splattering across the floor before I could reach the toilet. Bent in half, I retched a couple of times and then straightened up to wash my face, rinse my mouth, and blow my nose. Disgust roiled through me as I glanced at the floor. I cleaned the mess, gagging the whole time, and then returned to assist the man out front.

Blood-soaked paper towels filled the wastebasket under the counter and the old man barked an order for more. I returned to the bathroom and brought the whole roll of towels back. The victim had a better handle on the situation than I did. I watched in squeamish awe as he dabbed up the blood and applied pressure with a wad of towels.

“You a cop?” He ground out the words.

“N-no,” I stammered, and swept my hair back from my face and off my shoulders. The hair flinging was a telltale nervous habit of mine, well known among my friends.

“You look familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I murmured, anxious to keep from throwing up again.

“What’s ya name?” he rumbled in a voice filled with pain.

“Esposito,” I said, wringing my hands. “Lavinia Esposito.”

“You from Cranston?” He huffed the question out on a strained sigh.

“Uh, yeah . . . originally.”

“I knew a woman who looked just like you. She had the same name.” He flexed the fingers of his hand while he spoke. “Your old man owned a pizza joint?”

“Um, yes, he did.”

“Gino Esposito, right?”

“Uh huh,” I said, keeping my eyes averted from the bloody sleeve and wads of paper towels soaked with blood.

“Call my doctor, kid. He’ll come’n get me.”

“Don’t you think we should wait for the cops?” I asked, hoping he’d go along with my suggestion.

“Nah, they’re a bunch of dopes. They’ll ask a string of questions I won’t answer. Just call this number, and ask for Louie-the-Lug.” He recited a number that I dialed on my cell phone.

A high-pitched, nasal voice answered on the first ring. I asked for Louie-the-Lug before handing the phone to the injured man. I tried hard not to listen—well, maybe not that hard.

“Come here’n get me,” the man ordered. “Get here fast. I have a slug in my shoulder and it’s friggin’ killin’ me.” He gave instructions to our location and flipped the phone closed before he handed it back to me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Never mind that. You just forget you ever met me, right?” He turned a stern, dark-eyed glare on me. “Not a word to the cops and get rid of this basket of bloody towels, got it?”

“Okay, fine,” I said, lifting my hands in a stop motion.

Shortly, a car pulled to the curb—a small black Datsun, new and shiny. A pudgy man with three hairs combed sideways over his bald dome got out. He rolled around the side of the car and entered the station.

“I won’t forget your kindness, Lavinia,” the man said. He stumbled out the door and into the Datsun, assisted by the man I could only assume was Louie-the-Lug.

Muddle-minded, I watched the car scoot from the curb and take a right at the traffic light on the corner. Once he was gone, I used a plastic bag from under the counter to scoop up the stained bag from the basket. I gagged and my stomach rolled as I tied it all in a neat bundle and hustled outside to throw it in the community trash bin at the side of the building. Replacing the old bag with a new one, I went into the bathroom to scrub my hands, even though they weren’t dirty.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. For a minute, I was undecided on what course of action to take. It wasn’t smart to fail to report a shooting, let alone assist someone with a gunshot wound. As an instructor of law and order, I was well aware of the implications and possible consequences. The paper towels crumpled in my dried hands. Leaning against the wall, I ran a hand across my forehead and breathed out a deep sigh.

In a flash, my day had gone from bad to horrid. I needed to talk to my father before making any plans. This man might know my dad, and it seemed prudent to find out whatever I could to make an informed decision . . . right? Reluctant to place that call, I paced the office a few times, tapping my lips with my forefinger. If I didn’t ask, I wouldn’t know, and I had to know everything. My main problem in life is not just that I often find myself in unusual circumstances, but that I am endowed with an overabundance of curiosity that bodes ill for me—most of the time.

I dialed up the number as my anxiety rocketed to new proportions. The phone rang a few times and I considered hanging up. Just when I had decided to leave my father out of this, he answered the call.
Dang!

“Hi, Dad. It’s me, Lavinia.”

“And?” His deep voice rumbled.

His old-world, Italian attitude was the usual state of affairs. My father and I go head to head often, but he is my dad and I am his only daughter, so . . . he wished that I would marry, settle down, produce a pack of little monsters, cook pasta, and truck everyone to soccer practice. Those were never going to be on my ‘To Do’ list. I like kids—just as long as they’re other people’s kids. My brother, Giovanni, is a doctor in Nebraska and does no wrong in the eyes of my parents. Conversely, I am not viewed with those particular rose-colored glasses.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents love me . . . it’s just that Gio has an approved profession, a wife, and they live a mundane existence—it’s mundane in my estimation, anyway. After all, how exciting could the cornfields of Nebraska be?

My father is of the opinion that I work a man’s job and live too dangerously. He also disapproves of the fact that I hang out with cops and he continually points out how I have picked up bad manners and other poor habits from them. Well, not everyone is perfect.

“Dad, I recently met a man who says he knows you. He has gray hair, a rugged build, and hangs out with a guy named Louie-the-Lug. What’s his name, do you know?” The phone was silent for so long I thought I’d lost the connection. I shook the small piece of equipment, tapped it on the counter, and stared at the face of it. The line was still open, so I asked, “Dad, are you there?”

“Are you on the Hill?” he murmured in a resigned voice.

“No, I’m at a community police station waiting for Freedom Banger. Remember her?”

“I do.”

“So do you know this guy or what?”

“He’s a businessman from the Hill. That’s all I can tell you . . . other than his name is Tony Jabroni. I want you to stay as far away from him as you possibly can without leaving Rhode Island.” He sighed and asked, “Do you understand?”

“I got it. I was only curious since he knew about your pizza restaurant and all.” A businessman from the Hill? That word ‘businessman’ covered a lot of ground when it came to those who hung out on Federal Hill.

“Where did you meet him?”

Time to lie by omission. I was on the fast track to hell, so what was one more lie on top of all the others? Lying by omission was a gift I’d been given at birth and it had become second nature whenever I found myself in a tight spot.