Murder Takes Time (43 page)

“You’re full of shit, Harding. These guys are always guarded in what they say. I’m a cop. Just because I hang out with old friends doesn’t mean they’ll talk about crimes in front of me. I told you that from the beginning, but you wasted your money on this bullshit.” Frankie turned to Harding’s boss. “I’ve got more important things to do than argue with him.”

Clark was silent. Then he looked at Harding. “Agent Harding, we should listen to what the detective has to say. We’ve been after Martelli for a long time.”

Frankie had him by the balls now. He turned to Harding, held out his hand. “I know how we can get Tito. I can get Tony Sannullo to wear a wire. Think about it, you’ll be a hero.”

Harding glared but said nothing, then Clark interjected. “Why do you think Sannullo will wear a wire?”

“Tony’s scared. He wants protection, and I told him I wouldn’t do it unless he wore a wire.”

“Isn’t he your friend, Detective Donovan?”

“Yes, sir, he is, but this is also my job.”

“Let me make a call,” Clark said, and nodded to the door. “You, too, Harding.”

Harding scoffed, then stood rigid against the wall outside Clark’s office.

Frankie smiled. “Bet you ten to one we’re going to work with each other, Hard-on.”

“Call me that one more time, and I’ll kick your ass.”

“We’ll discuss that later; here comes your boss.”

“All right, Detective. You’ve got a deal—
if
you can get Tony Sannullo to wear the wire.”

“What do I get in exchange?” Frankie asked.

“Full support,” Clark said. “The complete package—video and audio. Twenty-four-hour manned surveillance.”

“How many men?”

“Four at night. Six during the day.”

Frankie shook his head. “Four at night’s okay, but I need eight during the day.”

Clark thought for a minute, as if counting dollars, then agreed. “You’d better make this pay off. These are your tax dollars.”

“Don’t worry, sir. It’ll pay off.”

Tax dollars, my ass.

W
HEN
F
RANKIE CALLED,
T
ONY
answered on the first ring. “Hey, it’s Bugs. Meet me at Cataldi’s in half an hour.”

Tony didn’t ask why. “See you then.”

Bugs knew Tony was scared, but he had to drive the point home. Tony was the key to getting FBI help, and without surveillance, Tito’s ass was gone. Not that Frankie minded much about Tito, but he didn’t want this to get to the point where it came down to Nicky against Tony, or worse, against himself.

Frankie parked the car, walked in and sat at Tony’s table, taking the seat across from him.

“What’s up, Bugs?”

“We’ve had people watching Tito, watching you, Paulie, and even me. And with all of that, we got shit. Nicky’s good. We can’t even get a lead on him.”

“I told you he’s good.” Tony looked about nervously. “So why’d you call?”

Frankie leaned over the table. “I need your help so I can keep you alive.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need you to wear a wire.”

Tony threw his napkin on the table. “Fuck you.”

“I don’t have the manpower to protect you. And Nicky has gotten everyone he wanted so far, even Johnny Muck.”

“No wire, Bugs; besides, what good would it do? Let you hear him kill me? Is that what you want?”

“Listen to reason,” Frankie said. “He’s tortured everyone first, except Tommy Devin, and I figured that out. Tommy was the driver. He didn’t shoot Gina. So, even if Nicky gets through surveillance, we got you covered with the wire. We can come in long before anything happens.”

Tony fidgeted with his silverware. “Let me think about it. Let’s eat first.”

They ate in peace, talking about anything but business, but when they finished, Tony looked over to Bugs. “All right, you got a deal. But don’t fuck me.”

“I’ll call with details,” Frankie said, then he stopped and got Tony’s attention. “Listen close. In the meantime, stay home. Go out the door of your house and you’re taking your life with you. Think of Celia, Tony. Don’t make her a widow.”

CHAPTER 67

RATTUS RATTUS

Current Day

F
rankie got up early to prepare for the FBI presentation. He knew this would be a tough audience—not just unreceptive, but hostile. He ate a light breakfast, just a bagel splattered with olive oil and garlic then an espresso to chase it away. The meeting was in a hotel, courtesy of Harding’s boss. Frankie was the second to arrive; the first was a trainee.

What is
he
doing on an assignment like this?

“Good morning,” Frankie said.

The trainee responded in a cheerful, FBI manner. “Good morning, Detective Donovan. I hope you are well today.”

“I am, thanks.”
This is going to be a long day.

Pretty soon, the whole group showed up, coming in together like kids answering the school bell. Once they were seated, Frankie stood, closed the door and stared at the suits and ties sitting rigid at their desks.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. They wanted me to have this talk to bring everyone up to speed. As you know, we have five murders: Renzo Ciccarelli, Tommy Devin, Nino Tortella, Donnie Amato, and Gianni Mucchiatto, otherwise known as Johnny Muck.”

He paused for questions, but all he saw were eleven heads taking notes.

“Although we can’t yet prove it, they all appear to be the work of one man—Niccolo Fusco, also known as ‘Nicky the Rat.’”

“Where did he get the name? Did he rat somebody out?”

Frankie laughed. “You would be laughing with me, gentlemen, if you knew how ridiculous that question was.” He paused, staring off into the distance. “I don’t think there’s anything in the world that could make Nicky Fusco rat someone out.”
Not a fuckin’ thing.

Frankie took a few deep breaths, wishing he could have lit a cigarette. He looked out over the faces and put on a smile. “Nicky got the name ‘Rat’ when he was six years old. He was caught stealing cigarettes, and the cops took him to the station.” He paused, remembering that it should have been him at the station. Nicky saved him that day, as he did many other days. Bugs shook his head. “For two hours, they tried to get him to tell which boys were with him, but he wouldn’t say a word. Hell, they couldn’t even get his name. After news of this spread, the local mobsters gave him the name of ‘Rat’ to honor him, not make fun of him.”

Someone in the back snickered. A few mumbled. Frankie glared. At times like this, he realized he didn’t belong here, in this office, with these people. He longed for his real friends. There were eleven agents in this class, and as he thought it, he smiled.

Suit wouldn’t have heard of it. He’d have dragged someone in off the street to make it twelve.

Of these eleven co-workers, how many would drop whatever they were doing and rush to his aid if he called late one night? How many would share their last cigarette—shit, their last meal—with him if he were hungry? How many would have his back if they got in a bind where it looked as if they all might die? Frankie knew the answer.
None of them. Not a fuckin’ one.

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to rip his tie off, go get Tony and Paulie, and take them out for pasta. He’d tell them, ‘Get your ass out of town. Hide.’ Then he’d convince Nicky to call it quits. Make it all go away. Shit, it happened in movies. It happened when they were kids. Who knows, maybe it could happen again. Except that he couldn’t trust Tony; he didn’t know about Suit; and Nicky…

A smile played with him, flitted on his face. He turned, flipped on the overhead projector, then quickly shut it down and grabbed an eraser for the chalkboard, then wiped the slate clean. A long piece of white chalk lay on the shelf. Frankie picked it up, turned it in his hand.

If chalkboards were good enough for Sister Thomas, they’re good enough for me.

‘Rattus Rattus’ he scratched out on the black slate. He turned to face the agents, all with puzzled looks on their faces. “This, gentlemen, is the genus rat. The most versatile, resilient, and innovative creature you might ever encounter. Rats can fall from a five-story building—and live. They can swim for miles in the ocean—and live. They can walk on wires, climb brick walls, hold their breath for three minutes, chew through cinder blocks…and they can jump four feet straight in the air from a fixed position.”

Frankie scanned the audience again. Several of them looked a little intrigued. “If that isn’t enough, they have a collapsible rib cage, which allows them to squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter.” He paused. “And, oh yeah, their bite can be twenty times more powerful than a dog’s.” Frankie stopped, took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. It was damn hot.

“So now that we know about rats, what the hell does that have to do with the case?”

“Good question, Agent. And to answer it, I’ll quote an old wise man I once knew. He said that people tend to grow into their names, for good or bad. That said, no matter how you look at it, Nicky Fusco has become his namesake. He can, as you have read in the reports, get into and out of, almost anywhere. He goes about his business virtually unseen and is extremely dangerous. To say he’s
fearless
would do him an injustice and elevate that word to a new level.” He gestured at the board. “So, gentlemen, this is what we are facing.”

Frankie made sure he gazed at each one of them before continuing. “And for those of you who snickered and mumbled— even for those who did it in their heads but kept it to themselves—let me tell you, if you slip up one bit, one iota, you’ll be dead. Nicky Fusco takes no prisoners. He makes—no mistakes.”

One of the agents spoke up. “We don’t even know if it really is this guy. Isn’t this all speculation?”

Bugs paced the room, tapping the chalk on his hand. “True, we don’t know for sure. It could be these are just plain old mob killings made to look like the same nut is doing it…but I don’t think so.”

After a few more questions, Frankie wrapped the session up, then headed home, kicked off his shoes, went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Chianti. The phone rang and he reached for it and answered.

“Hi, Bugs.”

Frankie snapped to alert. “Nicky?”

“You knew I’d be calling, didn’t you?”

A long pause. “I guess I did.”

“Teach those agents anything today?”

A long pause again. “Look, I know what you think, but I didn’t tell Tito where you were. Why don’t we meet and talk.”

“We’ll talk, Bugs. Soon.”

Frankie walked to the window, looked out. “Nicky, I know you’re hurting. I feel bad for you. But I’m telling you, don’t ever come into my house again. I’ll put you down.”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER 68

WATCHING THE WATCHERS

Current Day

I
knew they’d be watching Tito close—too close for me to stake him out properly. Way too close for me to do him in the house. Between the FBI surveillance and Manny hanging on Tito’s ass like a tumor, there was no way I’d take him out there. That brought up the question of where—and how.

I had to think this through. Sister Thomas always taught us to consider all options, eliminate the impossible, then choose from what remained. As I saw it, I had three options.

1. Take him at the house.

2. Take him on the road.

3. Take him at work.

They were the only places I could count on Tito being. Sister Thomas always had it right, though I doubt she would have been proud of what her teachings were being used for. I eliminated the union hall; it was better guarded than an army barracks. The road was out of the question; his car was bullet-proof, and the doors would be locked. Unless I wanted to use artillery, that option was out. That left me with one choice—his house—the choice I’d discounted. It was time to rethink.

After hours of deliberation, I decided to do more surveillance. Three times that week, I took a cab by his house, careful to sit high with my head turned, so that they couldn’t see my face. I caught him coming out once. Manny came out first, followed by two other guys, then Tito, with two more behind him. Manny started the car, and Tito got in the back seat.