Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (27 page)

“You’re never going to smoke,” I informed the baby.

I felt the baby move.

“It’s not negotiable.”

My stomach rumbled. This time it was due to hunger. “I hope daddy gets here with mommy’s coffee soon. It’s okay, Sweetie; it’s only decaf. Yes, that’s right. I’ve given up regular coffee, just for you.”

The baby was still trying to get comfortable.

“Anything for you, Sweetie.”

The baby grew fidgety.

“Yes, even the red wine; that’s gone too. No, I don’t mind.”

Sonellio moaned again, more deeply than before, and I wondered if he was out of time. He had been moaning since I arrived, a low and even sound that accompanied his shallow breathing. He moaned again, louder still. There was something unnerving about the sound of it. It sounded as if he was agitated. It was almost as if he sensed something and was trying to give me a warning.

The baby abruptly stopped fidgeting and became calm.

I felt goose bumps rise on my arms and neck.

“Chalice!”

My heart skipped a beat. I was waiting for Gus to return and was expecting to hear the loving tone of his voice.

The voice I heard was not his.

There was something disturbing and strange in the sound of the voice I had just heard. My heart became still.

It seemed like seconds passed.

My heart finally began to beat again.

I turned.

My eyes locked on the gun that was pointed at my baby and me. I instinctively covered my belly with my hands to protect my baby as any mother would, but we were out in the open, naked and vulnerable. I cried out in terror,
“Gus!”

And then I heard the sound of the gun fire.

I hit the floor and heard the sound of shattering glass. The bullet missed us and gone through the window. I heard footsteps racing down the corridor. “Stephanie!” I heard Gus calling out to me, a desperate cry for my safety and for the safety of our child. I could see under the hospital bed. My assailant was gone. Gus came charging through the doorway. He helped me off the floor. “My God, are you all right?” He stared at me with an incredulous expression, waiting desperately for me to put him at ease. Wind rushed through the shattered window.

“I’m okay.”

He still looked worried. “And the baby?”

“I braced for the fall with my hands. We’re both okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No, the shooter wore a ski mask.”

“Shit.”

“But he called out to me before he fired. I think I know who it is.”

“It
sounded like Babocci, but I’m not sure. His voice was muffled by the mask.”

“Could it have been his son?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I never met his son. Babocci’s café is just blocks from here.”

We made a quick call for assistance. The hospital staff was on top of the situation—they rolled the boss into another room within minutes. Toni was hysterical. I can’t tell you why I wasn’t equally unnerved. I suppose it was the call to action that distracted me from my emotions. Something deep down inside was pulling at me, desperately trying to point me in the right direction. “Can you stay with them until backup arrives?”

“You’re incredible,” Gus said. “Do you actually think I’d let you go alone? There’s no way in hell.”

I saw the look of admonishment on his face. “All right, I’ll get the car out of the parking lot and wait for you by the front entrance. Backup should be here any minute.”

“Fine,”
Gus
said. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

I hit the staircase and raced down the stairs to the main level. The stamina I had built up from years of exercise and running was still with me. I broke into a sprint and raced to our car. I pulled around to the front of the building and alerted Ambler and Forzo to the new developments. Gus was getting into the car by the time I completed the second call.

“I just got off the phone with Forzo. He’s sending every available unit to Babocci’s restaurant. We’re very close. We’ll probably get there before any of Forzo’s units respond.” The engine was running—I threw the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The car smacked down hard as I zoomed through the intersection and sped off toward Café Baci. Forzo’s people would have Babocci’s license plate number from DMV within minutes. Forzo would have every unit under his command on the street and looking for Babocci’s car. Time was of the essence. I wasn’t sure if we would find him at the café, but my gut told me we would.

I had the lights and siren on as we raced toward Café Baci. I had been there hours earlier and was able to navigate the route as if I were on autopilot. I slammed on the brakes as we pulled up in front of the café. The lights were off and the door was locked but we were in pursuit of a felon. Gus broke the glass door with the back end of his Maglite, reached in, and unlocked it. “Stay behind me,” he said. “Got it?”

“Got it.” We entered the café and used our searchlight beacons to look around. It was almost dawn, but the heavy draperies on the front windows kept the interior dark. We proceeded through the seating area and cautiously made our way into the kitchen. There were no windows in the kitchen—it was completely dark. I found the light switch, but it was smashed and inoperative. I pulled open the door of the huge walk-in refrigerator. Gus looked inside while I covered him.

“Clear,” he said.

He was still in the refrigerator when shots rang out in the dark. I stumbled as I backed behind the counter to take cover and accidentally pushed the refrigerator door shut with Gus inside. I heard Gus scream just as the door closed. I couldn’t tell what his scream meant. Was he calling out for me or was he . . .
Oh dear God, no!
I was pinned down while the shooter sprayed the area with bullets. “Gus?” I called out in panic. “Gus, talk to me.”
He can’t hear me in there
, I thought . . .
I hope that’s all it is
. I didn’t want to allow the thought to enter my head but it forced its way in.
He’s been shot. He might be dead.
I felt my body go limp. A round zinged by, not far from my foot, and brought me back into the moment. I couldn’t see the shooter, but I could tell the direction the shots were coming from. He had me pinned behind the preparation counter. He had fired several rounds, but I didn’t know how many he had left. I couldn’t stand up—it would have given him a clear shot at me. I fired blindly over the top of the counter, hoping that God would aim for me. I heard a shriek, followed by the creaking of rusted hinges. Light flooded into the kitchen. I could hear the shooter running down steps.

I crawled over to the refrigerator and opened the door. Gus was lying on the floor. He was clutching his right arm and his automatic was lying on the floor next to him. He must have seen the panic on my face. “I’m okay,” he said preemptively. “The bullet hit me in the arm.”

I knelt next to him while I kept my gun aimed at the refrigerator opening. I tore away his sleeve and examined his arm. “Okay? You’re bleeding like a pig.” The bleeding was bad, but not terrible. “Thank God—I think it missed the brachial artery.” The brachial artery is the major blood vessel in the upper arm. Had the bullet torn it . . . I didn’t want to think of the possibility. I picked up his gun and put it in his left hand. “I hope you’re ambidextrous.”

Gus pointed the gun at the refrigerator opening. “Not a problem.”

“We need to stop the bleeding.” I spotted a clean dishrag and a spool of cooking string. I wrapped the dishrag around his arm and tied it tight with the cooking string. “That will have to do.” The bleeding slowed significantly. I stood. “You can’t stay in here.” Let’s get you up on your feet.” His blood pressure must have been very low because he wobbled and almost went down when he tried to stand. I helped him maneuver over to a vegetable crate and sat him down on it with his back against the refrigerator wall. “I guess you’ll be okay in here for a few minutes with the door open. I’ll be right back.”

“Stephanie, where are you going? Backup will be here any minute.” He looked into my eyes, and then he went out. I checked his pulse. It was slow and even.

“I’ve got this one, Gus,” I said. “I’m going to take care of business.”

Light from the basement staircase now illuminated the kitchen. The shooter must have been hiding on the other side of the basement door when we entered the kitchen, and then he opened fire when he thought he had us pinned down. I was cautiously making my way down the stairs when I heard the sound of a light bulb being smashed, and once again everything went black. I felt my heart knock within my chest, and it took seconds until I was courageous enough to move forward. I clicked on my Maglite and proceeded down the stairs. I held the Maglite level with my gun, but the corona of the beam illuminated the wooden steps at my feet.
I hit him.
There were drops of blood on the stairs.

There were shadows at the far end of the room. In the distance between the shadows, I saw the man in the ski mask standing in front of a large, sliding steel door.
A door to where?
He stood with his back to me. My ears were just sensitive enough to hear that he was fumbling with a key, trying to insert it into a lock. “Stop! This place will be swarming with cops in a minute. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

He looked back at me for a second, and then he was gone. He had slid the door open and closed it within seconds. I crossed the basement to pursue him. A shot rang out on the other side of the door just as I reached for the door handle.
Oh, Jesus, what now?
I braced myself for a shock.
Stay low. Use the door for cover.
I slowly pulled back the door while I stood behind it and used it to shield my body. The first thing I saw was the shooter’s eyes behind the mask staring through the darkness. When I hit him with my searchlight beam, the gun tumbled from his hand. He clutched his gut. Blood poured through his fingers.

The room was filled with metal tables and tanks of chemicals. The stench of petrochemical pervaded the air. A large glass painting stood behind him. It looked identical to the one Tom Babocci had painted as a final resting place for Michael Tillerman and his family.

“Why?” I asked.

The shooter’s lips trembled when he spoke. “You couldn’t understand.” I was sure of the shooter’s identity. It was Giacomo Babocci—I could tell from his voice. He pulled off the ski mask. I could see his stricken expression, and the abject sadness in his eyes. He teetered and then his weight shifted. He stumbled backward out of control. His inertia carried him into the large glass painting with such force that it shattered. He collapsed on the floor amidst a thousand bits of colored glass. I covered my mouth in horror. A couch had been hidden behind this painting just as with the one we had found earlier. Four embalmed bodies were positioned on the sofa: Sherri Jacoby, her two sons, and a man with an artificial arm.

I rushed over to Giacomo Babocci just as his gaze began to drift. “I did it for my boy,” he said, and then his eyes froze. He was gone.

I
sat together with my family at the funeral of Chief of Detectives Nicholas Sonellio, the man I had and would always refer to as The Boss. He was a great man, a man whose impact I would feel forever. He was a man I would love unconditionally for as long as I lived.

Ma and Gus squeezed my hands as the priest eulogized my dear friend. The priest was a personal friend of the family and spoke of Nick with tenderness and reverence. In truth, I was not surprised when he concluded the eulogy the way he did.

“I visited Nick just a few days ago. He knew the end was near but refused to speak of it. He poured me coffee and anisette, and we sat and watched television together. As we watched one of his old favorites, I knew that I would speak these words when the time came . . . Nick Sonellio was a hero to all of us, but he had heroes of his own.” He looked at Toni and her daughters with a fond smile. “These are the words of James T. Kirk,
‘We are gathered here today to pay final respects to our honored dead. And yet it should be noted, in the midst of our sorrow, this death takes place in the shadow of new life, the sunrise of a new world; a world that our beloved comrade gave his life to protect and nourish.’”

The
Memorial Day weekend promised to be glorious. Gus and I took a few days PTO, paid time off, the modern day term for vacation.
What’s wrong with calling a vacation a vacation? Why does everything have to be reduced to an acronym? Vacation, holiday, trip, retreat, escape; I find all of those terms acceptable, but PTO? Puh-lease, give me a break.

Several days had passed since I said goodbye to my dear friend Nick Sonellio. As you might imagine, I was having a hard time flipping the happy switch. I wanted to be happy. I yearned to be happy, but happiness seemed to elude me. Okay, I wasn’t depressed, but I was melancholy and melancholy sucked, especially when you had everything in the world to be happy about and you just couldn’t find your smile.

Gus packed for us and wouldn’t tell me where we were headed, but I wasn’t wearing a blindfold and we were on the Long Island Expressway headed east, so . . . “Where are we going?” I asked.