Murder Takes Time (11 page)

Angela pushed herself into my face and held me there.

We made love then. When we finished she rolled over on top of me. We kissed and laughed, and then she lay her head on my shoulder, arm draped across my neck. “I love you, Niccolo Fusco.”

I kissed her forehead then her nose. “And I love you, Angela Catrino.”

I knew the moment I said it that my life was changing. I vowed again that if anyone ever hurt Angela, I would kill them.

CHAPTER 16

MORE CHARTS

Brooklyn—Current Day

F
rankie got to the station before Mazzetti did, before any of the morning shift except Carol. It was tough to beat her in. “Morning, Carol. You’re looking sharp.”

“Compliments are not necessary, Donovan, but yes, I did get your tape. It’s on your desk.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You really
are
the best.”

Frankie pretended not to see the blush on Carol’s face; instead, he got coffee then hurried to his desk. He was listening to the tape when Mazzetti came trudging in. “What are you listening to?”

“The tape of Renzo’s 9-1-1 call.”

Lou waited while Frankie played it twice more, his ear in close. “Anything?”

Frankie sat on the edge of the desk. “I didn’t tell you this before, because I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah, I remember. Crazy thought and all.”

“That’s right. And I’m still not sure. I thought this might be a guy I knew leaving me clues. I wanted to see if I recognized the voice.”

“And?”

“I want to say no, but one time I thought I detected a Philly accent.”

“There are plenty of guys from Philly up here. You can’t pry that accent loose with a crow bar.”

“Don’t I know it,” Frankie said. “Been trying to lose mine for years.”

“So we’re back to the grind.”

Frankie tossed his cup into the trash. “Guess we are, partner.”

They worked the rest of the day, catching up with the few people they hadn’t interviewed yet from the neighborhood and on pestering Kate Burns about DNA evidence. She had turned up some stuff, but there was an inordinate amount of it at the scenes and the system was already bogged down. By late afternoon, Frankie called it quits. Lou had already left for a dentist appointment. “Going home early, Carol. See you tomorrow.”

T
HE CHART WAS WHERE
Frankie had left it, hanging on the wall to the right of a poster featuring Bogart and Mary Astor that he picked up at a garage sale. Looked good keeping company with
Casablanca
. He grabbed a marker and started writing. It was time to find answers.

Nicky:

Friends—Who are friends? Me, Tony, Suit. Anyone else?

Honor—Don’t ever run. If this is Nicky, he definitely isn’t running.

Girls—There is a girl, but who is she? And what does she have on Tito?

Nuns—Sister Thomas—does she know anything? Would Nicky tell her?

Prison—Have no idea what he did in there.

Fearless—No shit.

Smart—Has us confused. Knows procedure.

Rosa—Her teachings would have affected him.

Tito—What’s the connection with him?

Cleveland—What the hell were you doing in Cleveland?

Then he stared at Tony’s chart:

Tony:

Friends—Me, Nicky, Suit, Tito, Manny.

Honor—Not sure if it still means anything to him.

Girls—Has wife, Celia. Others.

Nuns—Never had the respect for them that Nicky did.

Mob—Seems to be in tight.

Conniving—Can no longer trust Tony.

Smart—Smartest guy I know.

Rosa—His mother—but did he learn from her?

Tito—Does he obey? Or just work for him?

Brooklyn—Knows what’s going on.

Okay, enough of that,
he thought, happy with what he accomplished.

Time to look at the files again. Files usually held the key to a case. They just had to be reviewed over and over again. Just like the nuns taught them in school.
Never give up. If you are stuck, go to the beginning and start over.

First file: Renzo Ciccarelli. No occupation. Three arrests for gambling. No convictions. Killed in a house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence. Tortured before shot.

Second file: Tommy Devin. A plumber in the union. No convictions. No arrests. Killed in a house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence.

Third file: Nino Tortella. Car Salesman. Twelve arrests, all minor. Three convictions. No jail. Killed in a house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence. Tortured before shot.

Donovan stared at the data. Not much to go on. At least he hadn’t found it yet. It was there, he felt sure, but he had to sift through it. He drew three columns on a new sheet of paper: Renzo. Tommy, Nino. Underneath them, he penciled in the things they had in common and what was unique.

Several things caught his eye: Rat shit. Shot in head and heart. Killed at home. Preponderance of evidence. All of these went under each name as common to all.

A few items stuck out. Torture—only Renzo and Nino got penciled in.

Dead rat—only Nino.

Unless they just didn’t find one at the other scenes.

Frankie made a note to ask about that. He stared, flipped through the papers, then read again.

Cigarettes at Tommy’s house. Picture of mother turned down at Nino’s. Nicky would never dare let anyone’s mother see them be hurt so bad. Not even as bad as he must have hated poor Nino. Frankie wrote two more notes.

If this is Nicky,
why
did he hate Nino?

‘Check and see if pictures turned down in other two houses. See if there were pictures.’

That was one more clue on the bad side for Nicky. After working two more hours, Frankie quit. His eyes were tired and things were not making sense. He jotted down one final note:

‘Find everything these three had in common. Need the link.’

He thought about what he had learned. On one side it pointed to Nicky: rat shit, rat in the fridge, the 9-1-1 call, cigarettes, roaches, picture of Nino’s mother turned down.

But Tony also knew about the rat, the cigs, and the roaches. He wouldn’t have bothered calling about the cat or turning the picture down, but…he
was
smart enough to have thought about it if he was framing Nicky. And of the two of them, Tony was the one Frankie pictured doing this. Either way, the killer was sending Frankie a message—but what? Was he telling Frankie who would be next? And if it was Nicky,
why
was he killing these people?
Why
had he disappeared to begin with? Why had he never called back?

Frankie wrote another column on the paper.
Who else?
Under it he scribbled more thoughts. If someone else was doing this, they would have to know Nicky’s habits. Have to be from the neighborhood.

He settled onto the cushion, deciding to sleep on the sofa tonight as he thought about what to do. He knew what he
should
do. He should go in tomorrow and tell the lieutenant that he wants off the case, that he suspects one of his old friends is the killer. Frankie scratched his head, closed his eyes and imagined the scenario. None of it good. How does he tell them that his absolute best friend is an ex-con and might be the one killing these people? And what if they ask about the rest of his friends…the ones who were mobsters. Either way he was fucked, but then again he’d been fucked from the moment he was born into that hellhole of a house.

He remembered times growing up when he wished his father would just go away, not come home one day from work. After some of the beatings he wished that he would die. When he was little and still believed in shit, he got scared that God would do something to him for thinking such thoughts. Later, when his hate had turned to his mother, he didn’t care. At that point the only friends he had were Nicky and Tony. Now Nicky was missing and Tony…well, Tony was still Tony. He always had a way of being a prick and he knew just how to get under Nicky’s skin.

CHAPTER 17

A NEW DIRECTION

Wilmington—19 Years Ago

A
fter the night we made love, Angela and I were inseparable. I had sampled the forbidden fruit, but there was no way I was telling the guys about it. They would spread the news, then I would have to kick their asses. It was better to keep it quiet. Let someone else have the glory of being “first.”

Soon afterwards, I stopped hanging out with the guys and did everything with Angie. I left Tony, Bugs, Suit, and the rest of them to fend for themselves, though I saw Tony every day at his house and we got together when we worked Doggs’ games. Things were different with Tony, though. He had been messing with drugs, and it showed.

One day when I came into Tony’s house, Rosa and Angie were in the kitchen. Mamma Rosa had the wooden spoon in her hand, waving it like a conductor’s baton as she talked to Angie. She held that spoon so much that sometimes she reminded me of Sister Thomas, who was never without her pointer or yardstick.

“Taste that again,” Mamma Rosa said to Angie. “Is it right?”

“Tastes good. Not as good as last time, but—”

Rosa administered a loving pat to the back of Angie’s butt with her spoon. “That’s what’s wrong with young girls. Not as good as last time means not good at all.” She rinsed the spoon, stirred the sauce, put the spoon to her lips and tasted. Her eyes squinted as she sampled it. “Nicky, come taste this.”

I smiled at Angie, then took the spoon and tasted the sauce. “I think it’s perfect.”

Rosa threw her hands up in the air. “
Perfetto.
Of course it’s perfect. You are young and in love.” She shook her head as she stirred. “How am I going to teach Angie if you don’t help me?” She wagged the spoon in my direction. “Just remember, you might be tasting this sauce for a long time. Don’t be telling her little love lies.”

Angie and I were still laughing when Tony came into the kitchen. “Nicky. How did I know I’d find you here? I was hoping to get a minute with my own mother, but I guess that’s out of the question when you and Angie are around.”

I laughed, but it was fake. There was something in his voice, and more importantly in his eyes, when he said that. “Guess you’ll have to get a new mom,” I said, trying for levity.

Before anything serious happened, Mamma Rosa whacked both of us with the spoon. “There’s plenty of me to go around, boys.” She pulled us to her and hugged us, like she did when we were little. I thought right then that no matter how old I got, or how much trouble I was in, a hug from Mamma Rosa would make things okay.

Tony laughed—a real one this time—and threw a punch.

I kicked at him. He dodged, threw a spoon at me. “Hey, Rat, it’s Saturday night. Come out with us. We’re working a game.”

I wanted to say no, but Angie signaled for me to go. “Sounds good. I’ll get dressed.”

“Better hurry, Nicky,” Rosa said, then smacked Tony with her spoon. “If you don’t want another one, get ready to go,” Mamma Rosa said. She stared at him over her glasses with that look of hers that brooked no argument.

W
E GOT TO THE
smoke shop in half an hour. While waiting for the game to start, Tony and I swept the floor.

Doggs came up to us. “You boys are getting a little old to be working the games, aren’t you?”

Tony shrugged. “We doing something wrong?”