Perfect Crime (12 page)

Eyes closed, Scott tried to relax, but found himself counting as he often did when he couldn’t sleep. It passed the time, keeping his mind rather than thinking about the future or the story that they were pursuing.

Perhaps he did actually lose consciousness—either that or it only takes a thousand and five seconds to reach New York from Chicago by air. His eyes opened as his ears popped, indicating the plane was coming in for landing at Kennedy International. Scott glanced about, hoping he hadn’t snored or drooled conspicuously on his pillow. Fortunately, Tessa offered no comment on his sleeping habits.

Scott pushed open the window shade. Leaning his head back, he lazily looked outside as the plane landed, bringing them to the gate as the sun started to rise. He turned to his flying companion, “As promised, we made it here safely. Now it’s time to get lost in the crowds while we find some answers. New York City, home to millions of people; you can go days without seeing someone you know.”

Tessa looked at him, her smile was weak.

Chapter 10

Creative Writing

Squeak, squeak

Somewhere between Chicago and New York, the wheels of Tessa’s luggage acquired an annoying squeak. Scott tried to ignore the sick birdlike sound as he rolled the bag through the crowded airport terminal. Preoccupied, he almost missed the man in a black suit holding up a sign with his name on it.

Tessa walked beside Scott. “Did you call for a car?”

“No, I didn’t.” Scott said. It was completely foreign to him to be among the set with a chauffeur at their disposal. The man in black didn’t turn or hail them as the two reporters walked past. Scott looked over his shoulder at the driver who continued to scan the crowd. “But now, I’m curious.”

He asked Tessa to wait for him near the glass doors, and retraced his steps. “Hello.”

“Mr. Crawford?”

“Maybe. Who sent you?”

The driver tipped his head and blinked at the hostile tone. “The Post. Marlayna Reed wanted to be sure you had everything you needed.”

Typical. “Worked for her before?”

“Yes. I routinely drive Ms. Reed.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “Never seen you before,” he declared, his jaw set in condemnation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you know Ms. Reed, you know her address.”

“Of course, Apt. 45, Northlake Terrace.”

“The other address.”

“Excuse me?”

Remaining calm, Scott said, “You could have looked that one up on Google. I’m waiting to see if you know Marlayna.”

The stranger glanced around, apparently reluctant to give specifics that someone might overhear. “She has a home in Westchester. Rudger Lane.” Back stiff, he added, “She has a dog. Would you like his name?”

“No, thanks.” With a wave of his hand, he motioned for Tessa to join him. “We’ve been shot at and firebombed in the last 24 hours. You should probably know that if you’re going to be driving us around.”

The driver extended his hand in greeting. “Glad it won’t be boring.”

Scott returned the handshake. “I’m Scott; this is Ms. Morgan.”

“Phillip.” The man took a moment to acknowledge Tessa before he took her bag. “Is this it?”

Scott nodded. “Yep, and we won’t be going to the hotel right away, there’s something uptown we want to see.”

“Okay. Follow me.”

They’d made a plan as they’d left the plane—a visit to Spanish Harlem to look at the murder scene was first on the list. Traffic flowed at a reasonable pace as they drove in the shiny town car towards the Locust Street destination. Scott looked out the window—he missed this city. Chicago had its charm, but there was just something about New York. It felt more comfortable than anywhere else.

Phillip provided some commentary; acting as a tour guide, pointing out landmarks as the car sped on. Scott turned, and he watched Tessa’s profile. He wondered how long it would take Chicago to feel like home.

“Locust Street…Spanish Harlem,” Tessa said. “Something still bothers me about what G.J. said, “‘Why do you think they found her in New York? Harlem is Harlem.’”

“What do you think he meant?”

Tessa shrugged.

Scott said, “Maybe we’re making it more complicated than it is. After all, that area was originally settled by Italian immigrants and it’s not like there are none there now.

“Nevertheless, why New York? Why not keep this—whatever it is—in Chicago?”

“Good question. You mentioned something about a takeover attempt last year. Maybe it’s not such a stretch to think it might be related.”

For a long while Tessa sat quiet, noticeably fighting with some inner conflict. Finally, with a look of resolve, she opened her purse, pulled out a bound notebook and handed it to him. The look on her face was somber and her tone echoed the same, “On the plane, all that ‘sharing’ talk…well, better late than never, right? These are just some notes; I don’t know, maybe you’ll find something.”

Scott flipped through the pages, looking at the precise neat penmanship. Tessa had chronologically listed all the murders, starting with the New York Mob hits that took place back in November and December of the previous year; notably included were first and last names, and rank in the ‘family’.

DeMarco was next on the 19th of January, and then the three women, Gail, Darla and Kate, filled in the blanks for the same day on the next three consecutive months. The last entry, yesterday, was left open.

On the next-to-last page, surprisingly detailed biographies were included, of Christopher ‘Cy’ Perelli, Pascal DeMarco and Anthony Aiello.

Scott tapped the notebook against his thigh, deep in thought. Tessa’s involvement. Not all the dots connected in the way he’d theorized.

The final page of the notebook was blank, except for a faint shadow—scraps of letters and lines. Scott couldn’t resist the temptation to hold the book towards the morning sunlight, to see if he could make out what had been so violently erased. It appeared to be highlights of a conversation with Father Luke. She’d taken the trouble to circle, several times, one cluster of words; the quotation marks surrounding the phrase suggested it was something the priest had said “…predominant families have left…..gone to the East Coast.”

“So,” Scott said, handing the book back to her, “been busy, I see.”

“You were snoring on the plane. I needed a distraction,” Tessa responded dryly.

She accepted her notes back, expecting a barrage of questions to go with the return, but it was quite the opposite. He didn’t seem to have much to say, only looking at her with that steady gaze she’d only now begun to grow accustomed too.

Without preamble, Scott divulged, “I met your father.”

“Really? How is he?” She said, sarcastically, “We don’t keep in touch much.”

“It was a long time ago.” Less than a year really, but to Scott it felt like ten. Donatello Morgano was second in command of the New York operations of one crime family and their paths – or rather his business interests had crossed with Scott on more than one occasion. Something more than the moment put an edge in his voice as he asked, “So why aren’t you sitting in a fancy apartment somewhere, being the stereotypical Mafia princess?”

Tessa fought the urge to twist in her seat and glare at him. Instead, she masked her chagrin and was quick with a comeback. “You’d have to do more than buy me plane fare to get the answer to that one.”

“How much money would it take?”

“Money doesn’t drive me. I just want all this stopped… and you want a great story.” She sighed. “In the end, I hope we both get what we want.”

Scott was saved from having to respond, by the sound of an approaching siren. Their car coasted to the side of the road, he turned his head in time to see a fire truck speed by. Craning his neck, Scott tried to see where the vehicle went, but it rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

It was clear they were entering a more depressed part of town. Buildings were crammed together, and the cars parked haphazardly on the streets were later models, showing the wear and tear of their years. A few rather expensive vehicles were sprinkled about, but as the locals would know, those were off-limits to any petty thief who wanted to live beyond lunchtime.

Coincidentally, Phillip turned the car onto the same road as the fire engine. Locust Street was residential, filled with brick apartment buildings. The car slowed, traffic blocked by emergency vehicles.

“Go ahead and park,” Scott commanded.

Tessa could see the crowd lining the sidewalk. Police and firemen were present and were trying desperately to get the situation under control. She followed Scott out of the car into the street, adding to the numbers.

Flames had already claimed most of the four floors, while smoke billowed from somewhere at the back of the building. Most of the brick on the front was charred black from the flames that fanned out from the broken windows and licked up the face of the building. The mass of people let out a cheer when the address, ‘1909 Locust St’, which was fastened next to the front entrance, succumbed to the heat and burst into flames. The visual was eerie as the numbers and lettering kept their form but burned brightly. “Looks like someone knew we were coming,” Scott said.

A short distance away, one teenage boy spoke to another teen standing next to him, “Aw man, there goes your piece.”

Tessa looked to the left and saw the beauty of the graffiti-artwork being taken by the flames. The ‘masterpiece’, painted with bright bold colors, now melted into the charred building and would soon be part of the rubble. Scott stepped away to look at something, so she walked over to the kids, asking, “Is that your tag just above it?” pointing to the less intricate writing scrawled across the wall.

Suspicion flashed on the face of the artist. The other boy drew his gaze down the length of Tessa’s petite frame and back up. “Who’s asking?” he growled.

“I’m a reporter and I like your work,” she uttered matter-of-factly. She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture. The still-legible graffiti read ‘Romans 12-19-21’.

“You Roman?” she said, feeling silly for asking such an obtuse question.

It most likely didn’t mean anything to anyone else standing on that street watching the building burn, but Tessa knew as soon as she saw it, that it was another scripture reference. This time there was no need to look it up.

Vengeance is mine

“No way,” the young artist finally stated, “I use color and that guy was in a hurry. I take my time. The name’s Vastian.”

Mingling with the crowd, Scott caught snatches of conversations in various languages, although one or two words might actually have been in English. He eavesdropped on the harried fire chief who was concluding, as Scott was, that the building had gone up far too fast for a cigarette or space heater to be the source. An interview might be good. But then he looked around and noticed Tessa wasn’t standing by herself. There were four kids crowding her, a couple more on the way, and she was taking pictures. He didn’t run to her side, but he didn’t linger with the fire department either.

She looked at the boy named Vastian, she’d seen that look before, the one that furrowed a boy’s brow too many years before his time. “Did you see the guy who wrote the tag?” Tessa asked, trying to sound casual. The number of teens near her seemed to double as she took another picture. She scanned the crowd and snapped another photo.

One of the teens said, “A couple of my boys tried to find out what the hell the guy thought he was doin’, marking up Vast’s wall. But this crazy dude with a big freaky red tattoo on his arm, and some mean hardware was riding shotgun for the guy with the spray can. We didn’t stick around long after he told us to fuck off.”

Scott had moved closer and Tessa wondered whether he’d caught the exchange. She didn’t need to ask the boy to describe the tattoo, she was well aware of the unusual symbol permanently inked on the top of Cy’s hand.

So instead she asked, “When was this?”

“Early this morning…before the sun was up.”

“What else did you see?”

Vastian took one quick step, closing the small distance between them, his face lowered as he glowered at her, “Niente,” he growled, “and if these other guys are smart, they saw nothing, too.”

Tessa offered a calm look in response, temptation to press the point clear on her face.

Scott was about to step forward and counter one intimidating presence with his own. The teens however, looked up, and abruptly scattered. The surprise caused Scott to jump when a hand reached out and touched his shoulder. “Hey, Scottie,” came a voice from behind his ear.

Turning, a genuine smile crossed his face and Scott greeted one of his local sources, “Hi there, Marcy,” offering to shake hands with the blond officer in uniform.

The handclasp was warm and lasted perhaps a second longer than necessary. Over the roar of the flames, Scott could hear the fire chief directing his crew to save a neighboring structure. Hoses changed direction, giving up the pile of bricks behind him. Marcy ignored the noise and said, “What are you doing down here?”

“Sightseeing,” Scott offered. He then motioned towards his partner. “Tessa, I’d like you to meet Detective Marcy Finch.”

The two women sized each other up, but Marcy kept her focus mainly on the blond man. “You’re the only press here.”

No one wanted to come to this end of town if they could avoid it. “Everyone will probably wait and get it off the wire. You know I don’t work for the Post anymore.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” she smiled, giving him a glance that implied she knew him better than some.

“Nope. So what can you tell me?”

“That this is the second time I’ve been to this address, in as many days.” With a jerk of her head she motioned to the burning building as the source of all the controversy. “I got reassigned to this beat after they found a dead woman in there late on the 17th. Perelli woman from Chicago. They pulled another body from the same apartment, right before the place got too hot. This one’s a male…probably late twenties…no ID. I won’t know more till after an autopsy’s done.”

Scott continued to play the innocent bystander, nodding in all the right places, and acting astounded that such a thing could happen. The information confirmed what he already knew, and maybe more.