The Dog Killer of Utica (20 page)

Catherine and Eliot are walking to The Chesterfield for dinner. He tells her about his day. She asks how Rintrona is doing. He tells her, “Surprisingly well.”

“I presume you gave him your theory?”

“I did. I told him that it would be better if Coca were arrested.”

“Better? Better than what?”

“I meant that—”

“I know what you meant, Eliot.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Better than what? Answer me. Better than murdering him?”

He’s undressing—she is not. Takes her hand and tries to lead her to the bed. She resists.

She says, “You and Bobby talked about it, didn’t you? Killing Coca.”

“Bobby did.”

“You did too, didn’t you?”

“I put the lid on it. I have no desire to be a vigilante.”

“Don’t lie to me, Eliot. You’re convinced, evidence or no evidence. We don’t come up with hard evidence, real soon, you’ll take him out.”

He embraces her: “Let’s finish what we started in the living room.”

“Forget Coca. (Pushing away.) He did not rent a car in Syracuse. This is what I learned. Get it through your head: He did not. That partial plate Bobby gave us? Assuming it’s accurate with him shot three times, on the ground, in the weak light of dawn? Refers to over eleven hundred vehicles privately owned in Onondaga County. See what we’re up against? We have nothing but your feelings. In other words, we have nothing. Put your pants back on.”

“Tomorrow is another day?” (Hand on her crotch.)

“Definitely. And yesterday, by the way, was the day before today.”

At the front door, still in his briefs, still turned on, he asks how she acquired the list of rental agencies.

“Becky Altieri, the part-time assistant to Antonio’s executive secretary, who e-mailed it to me.”

“She got it via Google?”

“Of course.”

“Still have it on your phone?”

“Naturally.”

“Send it to me.” (She does.)

“May I ask why?”

“I’ll tell you when I know.”

(She goes.)

Seventy-four-year-old Lydia Abraham, a thirty-year volunteer, approaches the cell holding Michael Coca to find him naked and on his knees in the prayer position of Islam.

She says, “Good morning, sweetheart. Got your oatmeal. Dear me, aren’t you cold like that?”

He responds from the prostrate position, “Bring me a lawyer and a half cup of brown sugar.”

Ten minutes later, a uniformed officer appears with a cell phone. Coca asks Information for the number of Utica’s most legendary attorney, Salvador J. Capecelatro, who has been dead for forty-seven years. An hour later, the Saturday
commanding officer misreads Coca’s release order, and Coca is on the street twelve hours in advance of schedule. He walks home to Sherman Drive, on a bright, clear day of bracing air at fifty-two degrees—the best day of the week—strolling a meandering route, a seventy-five-minute journey, tapping his nose all the way with a splintered popsicle stick, muttering all the way. A passerby will eventually come forward to report to the police that Coca had stopped her with tears in his eyes, saying, “Mr. Capecelatro does not accept collect calls from jihadists.”

Drives to the 7-Eleven on Eagle Street and purchases three twenty-five pound bags of ice.

Calls Catherine to tell her that her list of agencies was incomplete. His own Google search found one that Becky had surely dismissed because of its name: Rent a Wreck.

“Relax, Eliot. Bobby saw—did you forget? A late model, not a junker. Becky is a smart kid.”

“But did she inquire? That’s the question. I inquired. They rent two three-year-old vehicles, repainted, new tires, at rates the major agencies can’t match because they deal strictly in new cars. A three-year-old model is easily mistaken for a new model—especially after you’ve been shot three times. This is
not about Becky’s intelligence. This is about a serious glitch in a case of multiple murders.”

“Just say it: You want me to drive back to Syracuse and check this out.”

“Before he’s released sometime in the early evening. Please.”

“I’ll do it, but that’s the end of this wild goose chase. I have a meeting with Don and Tino Mendoza in about an hour to review Barbone, Kovac, and Santoro. Then an appointment with Dr. Greenblatt at 1:30. Then I’ll go.”

“I’m not asking you to reschedule Greenblatt.”

“I’m not asking you to get counseling.”

“Promise you’ll text me if you hit the jackpot. I’ll be in Troy with Bobby and Maureen at
Trovatore
, starting at two until about five thirty.”

Calls Antonio Robinson.

“Robby, me.”

“Now what?”

“What are you doing today?”

“Slitting my wrists.”

“Home all day?”

“What are you after, Eliot?”

“I’m making those special meatball sandwiches you love and inviting you to the
Trovatore
in Troy. Whaddya say we get those Saturday afternoons going again? Let’s get back on track, bro.”

(Silence.)

“Robby, you still there?”

“Whatever happened to us, El? It’s been a year since we—what happened, El?”

“Never mind the past. It’s now. We’re now.”

“The past, El. You can’t just—”

“The music, Robby, on those Saturday afternoons? The wineskin of Chianti? The fabulous sandwiches? You could stop at The Florentine and pick up a half dozen cannolis. Come on! Whaddya say, Robby?”

“Just the two of us again?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll drive. Come over at noon, and that’ll give us time to get there without breaking the speed limit.”

He hangs up and calls Rintrona to give him the news that Antonio Robinson will be coming with him to the
Trovatore
, that he’s making enough sandwiches for the four of them, and not to worry because Antonio is clean.

Rintrona says, “I’ll be carrying just in case.” Conte assures him that Robinson doesn’t know who he is.

Rintrona asks, “That a fact because it better be,” and Eliot lies again, “That’s a fact. He has no idea.”

Rintrona wants to know, “What’s so important that you have to bring him of all people to this beautiful occasion?”

“Because he’s my brother, Bobby, and I miss him.”

“My heart goes fuckin’ pitter-pat. What am I supposed to do? You claim he doesn’t know me, but I know
him
. I witnessed him stone-cold execute that guy.”

“What you do is call on your extensive experience as an actor with Troy Little Theater. We’ll play it as it lays.”

“Have any idea, Eliot, how long it’s been since I’ve been laid?”

Vacuums and dusts. Shaves face, arms, chest, and legs. Flosses and brushes. Locates fedora at back of closet. Irons dark suit.

Cleans and loads snub-nosed .38. Pours the three bags of ice into the claw-footed bathtub and runs cold water. Lowers himself in. Dozes.

Places in her Cadillac SUV three suitcases of clothes and one of firearms. At two she’ll drive to 1318 Mary Street to find no one at home. She’ll try again at 3:30 with the same result and will decide to return in the early evening before hitting the road for the long drive to Phoenix. She needs to talk to Conte about a business matter of mutual interest. And then perhaps … She’s thinking around seven o’clock.

Noon
: Antonio Robinson calls Conte to say that he’ll take a rain check, maybe next week, he’d really like that, but he needs to spend the afternoon at the hospital with Milly. “I’ve been a lousy husband, El.”

1:30
: Catherine Cruz enters her medical clinic and is told
that Dr. Greenblatt is running about an hour behind schedule. She decides to wait after calling Rent a Wreck and being informed that the agency will be open until seven.

2:30
: At the funeral home on Rutger Street hosting the wake of Billy Santoro, a well-dressed man in a fedora enters, walks to the closed casket, kneels, and prays out loud three Hail Marys. Then rises and offers his condolences to Billy’s relatives. Remo says to Gene, “I didn’t know Coca knew Billy.” Gene replies, “He didn’t.” Don says, “So what’s he doing here? I don’t like it.”

At The Galaxy, Conte, Rintrona, and Maureen do not have time to eat the special meatball sandwiches before the gold curtain rises at the Met. They do so during the first intermission. They’re happy. Verdi’s impossible-to-follow libretto concerns them not. In
Il Trovatore
, Verdi’s vocal writing was at its ravishing peak. So who cares what the story is? You want story? Read, as Rintrona put it during the first intermission, “a fuckin’ novel.” “The only problem,” as Conte remarks to Rintrona and Maureen, “it takes the world’s best singers to pull this opera off with full effect. Which today’s cast certainly fills the bill.” Rintrona says, “I don’t even read the subtitles. Who gives a shit what they’re sayin’?” Maureen says, “Enough with the language, Robert.” “They open their mouths, Maureen, either sex, I want to jump in.”

Near the end of act 3, when the tenor launches the opera’s most famous aria, Maureen says, too loud, “Oh God! That’s it! That’s what I heard when Aida, oh God!” People in the vicinity turn in irritation. Rintrona elbows his wife. When the tenor launches the second verse, she jumps up, “Oh, God! When Aida!” She says, “I can’t hold it any longer” and runs to
the restroom. They follow her out as the curtain falls on act 3. Rintrona says, “We know now what we have to do. I’m going to ice this bastard.”

4:45
: Intermission nearing its end. No text yet from Catherine. Conte calls. She says, “I was about to text you. We’ve got him.” He says, “Call Antonio, tell him to hold Coca on murder charges and get back to me on that right away.” “I did. Couldn’t get him. I’ll try someone else.” Maureen appears and Rintrona tells her to go home after it’s over—he’s got business with Eliot in Utica. Catherine calls back to tell Conte that Coca’s been out since midmorning and Don Belmonte has been sent to Sherman Drive to pick him up. There’s an all-points bulletin to all cruisers city- and countywide. “One more thing. In our meeting this morning, Tino Mendoza reported something about the Barbone case, which he doesn’t understand and neither do I, but I have a feeling you might. I’ll fill you in later.”

5:35
: The man in the fedora easily jimmies Conte’s front door, goes in, turns on all the lights, closes the blinds of the large front window that gives onto the street.

5:45
: The man in the fedora knocks on the door of Conte’s next-door neighbors, the Morenos. Florencio opens the door, the man flashes a badge and is admitted. Ten minutes later, the three Morenos walk out with the man close behind, holding a revolver in the back of Angel Moreno. They enter Conte’s house.

6:00
: Geraldine Williams pulls to the curb at Conte’s house. Is about to knock on the front door when a shot rings out from within. She retreats quickly to her SUV and removes from the suitcase of firearms the long-barreled .44 Magnum,
silencer-equipped. Jogs up the driveway to the side of the house—a high window there without curtains or blinds. Too high for her to see inside. A second shot from within. Pulls the SUV alongside and climbs up onto its roof. Clear view of a couch. Three people seated. The boy is in the middle. The middle-aged man and woman on either side of him have been executed. Grievous head wounds. Blood on the walls. The man pats the boy on the head. Then sits in a chair opposite the window, in profound peace, closing his eyes. The man in the chair, still wearing his fedora, is not in a hurry. Because he has a plan. The best is yet to be. The woman on the roof of the SUV is a superb shot. Ordinarily, as on eleven previous occasions, she would do him with a single head shot. She believes he is certain to kill the boy. Should she miss, somehow, but how could Geraldine Williams miss? But if she should, he’d have a chance at the boy. She plays it safe with a blast midbody that penetrates his stomach and smashes all the way through to his spine, shattering it. His gun drops to the floor. Geraldine Williams jumps down from the roof of the SUV and karate kicks open the locked door as Conte and Rintrona arrive and the boy races screaming into the night and into the arms of Eliot Conte. Followed by Rintrona, he carries the boy in and is hit by the horror on the couch and Geraldine Williams holding the muzzle of her gun to Coca’s head. Coca manages a smile and these words: “I was waiting … for Eliot to see his little … angel go to heaven … the best part.” Geraldine Williams says, “I need to be alone with him for a moment. Take the boy, Mr. Conte, and your friend outside for a moment. I need a moment.” They exit. When they reach the sidewalk, she comes to the threshold: “Okay. I’ve had my moment. His account
is closed. I’m leaving my card on your desk should you wish, Mr. Conte, to engage me on what was too briefly discussed at Joey’s. And a second card, which will put you in touch with intimate friends of mine in Philadelphia. Italians like you. They do cleanup of extreme scenes. Not a trace will remain.”

With Angel Moreno heavily sedated and asleep in the spare room, Catherine Cruz makes a light pasta sauce of garlic, sage, and olive oil. They eat in silence. Conte’s not spoken a word for more than two hours. He speaks, “Great sauce, really great, but too late for the garlic to work.”

She’s puzzled.

“Too late to ward off evil.”

She says, “Oh. Coffee?”

“Why not? I won’t sleep anyway.”

Over coffee, “Forgive me, Eliot, I can’t turn off the detective in me. I’m curious about one last thing. Okay. Here it is: Doesn’t matter, I suppose. He’s dead, so it really doesn’t matter, but my question is how did Coca know you and Bobby were his torturers if you were both disguised beyond recognition, as you told me, and he doesn’t know Bobby from Adam, and you’re silent through the entire event? Your theory that he went on a killing spree because of you assumes he knew you were involved in the torture. How could he possibly have known?”