“Believe me when I tell you how good it felt just having you touch me with an icepack that night, or holding your hand right know. It’s been a long time since I dated another woman, almost thirty years. You’re right we need to focus on this case. Maybe we can make time for getting to know each other.” My father would think I’m crazy telling a gorgeous woman we need to move slowly, Dad she is beautiful. I can’t hurt her, or my kids. God, Ann, is this really happening? I can’t forget you.
Mitchelli held her hand as his other hand moved to her face, his scarred hand gently caressing her cheek. His caress conflicted with his thoughts. Their eyes locked on one another, he moved closer, their lips inches apart, the sun setting behind them, silhouetting their bodies against its glare. He could not hold back; she had him, since the night she nursed him back to health in Quantico. He could not resist any longer, her eyes, her hair, and her frank honesty. Their lips touched slowly, gently, ever so softly, at first just for an instant, then again for along moment. The kiss easily exceeded both their expectations. Two desperately lonely individuals drawn together under unbelievable circumstances were falling in love.
***
A mother was changing her baby’s diaper five feet from the end of the picnic bench, where four men sat; their mouths open, staring at MacJames and Mitchelli kissing at the end of the pier, over the deep blue water, with boats dancing on its service like figure skaters on ice and the sun setting in the background. The details of their bodies obscured, shadowed against the blinding sun.
Buckala spoke first. “Geez, was that romantic or what?”
No one answered. Coarseni had promised Freed he’d back off and not criticize MacJames. Moss looked at Freed as he stared at the couple at the end of the pier.
Buckala laughed. “Roberto, I told you at my house, Mitchelli’s as cool as a jewel. Two hours ago he lays down our area of surveillance, like he’s worked for the agency for twenty years. I don’t know about you federally boys, you’ve been working on this case for eighteen months, but it made a hell of a lot of sense to me. One hour ago, were all laughing like kids on a field trip over a fart, who would have thought that was prelude to romance? Dom, that’s probably how you turn women on to get them in bed. Now he’s got the face of the best looking middle-aged women on the beach pressed to his. Roberto, he’s the most unlikely Steve McQueen I’ve ever met. In his own way, he does cool extremely well.”
Coarseni protested, “how come you think I’m the one that uses farts to get women in bed, what about Pat, you could’ve used Pat. I haven’t brought up the fact that half the Buffalo cops in town want to kill you. I have a home phone; I didn’t have to disconnect the phone service because the other degenerate cops I work with want to kill me for being a snitch bastard, a little tattletale, you bushwhacker!”
“Dom, you hit the nail on the head,” said Buckala. “Including the two lovers on the pier, the five of you are all that’s left of my professional career. You’re right, I should have used Pat, because you probably date sheep.”
Coarseni jumped up, swinging his arms. Moss grabbed him before he could get to Buckala. His sudden movement startled the woman changing the baby. She quickly grabbed the infant, shielding it with her body as she looked at Coarseni squirming trying to push away from Moss. Freed glared at them both.
Freed spoke reassuringly to the woman. “Beg your pardon ma’am, my brother’s teasing went a little too far, and my mother’s not here to keep them in line. Boys let’s finish eating and we’ll go for that walk.”
***
MacJames and Mitchelli slowly separated; she touched her fingers to his cheek and moved them slowly around his chin resting her palm on the top of his chest. His arm was around her back.
“Well, so much for my third day on the job,” he joked. They both laughed.
Mitchelli looked back towards the four men near the picnic table. Moss was standing, holding Coarseni, Freed and Buckala were seated, and the mother was running away with her child.
“Oh no, we’d better rejoin the team before Bob has a nervous breakdown.”
MacJames looked back. “Oh, I forgot they were there.”
“Oh, they’re alright. From my vantage point it looks like we inspired Coarseni and Moss to hug each other and we missed their kiss.”
Mitchelli and MacJames quickly linked up with the team. No comments were made by the four men concerning Mitchelli and MacJames’s actions on the pier. The four men at the picnic table were grasping at what was left of their professionalism. The assets of Task Force E walked along the bike path; their casual walk hid their intensity. All six sets of eyes studied the waterfront. They walked two miles south, past the grain elevator, the commercial slips, almost to Bethlehem Steel Island. Then they walked north, past the beach by the three marinas and an old abandoned shipyard that was turned into a small marina. Its two-story warehouse ran the length of the peninsula that formed the dock area for large commercial slips. Moss took notes as they walked; Coarseni was taking pictures with his cell phone. Freed was convinced the primary areas should be the grain elevator and the old shipyard.
Mitchelli, Buckala, and Freed were assigned to watch the grain elevator, Moss and Coarseni would cover the shipyard and marina. MacJames would float between the two teams. Her specialty was analysis. She would continue to study the reports and data that flowed in daily from the other agents and relevant crimes other departments were investigating. She reviewed pertinent crimes that maybe intertwined with the missing agents. She looked endlessly for a link.
The team ended its work at 11:30 p.m. Mitchelli drove back to Clarence Center in his truck, attempting to grasp some understanding of what had happened over the last four hours. He had no migraine, but his mind was racing, thoughts careening through his head. He increased the volume on the stereo, hoping it would shield him from thinking of Ann and please his Mind Kill. Your life is too complicated; we need to simplify our lives. Our children are what’s important, not boats and cars. Slow down you’re trying to do too much; we don’t need a big house. Oh my god what have I done! The pressure was growing in his chest; it felt like he had someone standing on his chest trying to crush his ribs. I need to see Kaitlin and Peter; I haven’t spoken to them in days, what kind of a father am I? What a joke. Stay positive, no negative thoughts; the glass is half-full, positive. Remember what Dr. Rubin told you, push the negative away with positive thoughts, your brain chemistry will shift when overwhelmed with negative obsessive thoughts. He turned the music louder as the truck’s diesel engine rumbled down the expressway. My theory is logical, Freed accepted it, at least for the time being. Angela, that kiss felt wonderful. Ann, I forgot what it was like to kiss someone for the first time. Her soft hands, those green eyes…I feel like a sophomore in high school. What does she see in me?
The pressure in his chest subsided. Dr. Rubin’s prescription to focus on the positive not negative was working. It had to work; he hated taking those drugs and the obsessive thoughts, the repetitive voice in his mind, drove him mad. Surpassing a breakdown, he clung to sanity with every fiber of his being. His children, he needed to focus on them. He wanted to make them proud. No matter how big or small his contribution was to this investigation, the country asked, Uncle Sam needed him, and he answered the call. This job has to make up for my past! It’s not too late to define my life! His kids would have a college education, a small trust of their own. He would not be reading to them, or watching TV with them, but their future would be secure. Tomorrow morning I have to make priority list for the kids, the business and the investigation. Angela! I promised we would make time, to get to know each other. I have to remember Angela. Ann! The brakes of the truck screeched as the ten thousand pound truck abruptly slowed and jerked, tipping as it steered towards an expressway off-ramp. Surrounding the off-ramp on either side of the expressway was a huge Catholic cemetery. The truck made several quick turns and was in the cemetery, heading towards the mausoleum where his parents, father-in-law, and Ann were place
d. He had to pay his respects to Ann.
Peter Mitchelli would be the only member of his family to visit the mausoleum at twelve o’clock at night. The four mausoleum’s buildings were orientated ninety degrees to one another with a quad in the center. On top of the mound in the quad was a large statue, fifty feet high, of Christ’s crucifixion. The cemetery was completely dark accept for the light shining on the statue. Mitchelli unlocked the door to the mausoleum. Inside, there were hundreds of face stones, stacked ten high along both two hundred foot walls. His footsteps echoed across the marble floor to the marble walls as he walked towards his family. He stopped first at his father-in-law’s marble panel, kneeling as it was at the lowest level, and said a prayer. He told him how much he missed his help and companionship working on small construction projects around the house. His parents were next; they were at eye level, not far from Ann. He ran his fingers over the names, repeating the Our Father and Hail Mary.
Then he stood by Ann’s marble panel; it was waist high so the children could touch it, the stone inches from their mother. He knelt down, placing both hands on the stone as though pushing against it, wanting to get inside. He put his head down, resting his forehead on the marble. He could feel the engraving of her name on his skin as he started to pray; the light from the crucifixion statue cast eerily across his body.
“I love you, Ann. I’m sorry. I did it for our family. I should have listened to you.” The giant had broken; his voice cracked with emotion as he spoke to her, as though she could hear him beyond the marble stone. “I hope you’re with our parents. God, there has to be a heaven, please watch over the kids, please. I’ll be there for them when this is over. I can’t live as a coward, please understand. I want you all to be proud of me, proud of what I may do, and forget what I’ve done. I beg you understand.”
One hand fell to the floor; he used it to hold his body up. “Ann, there will be money for their college, and insurance--they’ll be well taken care of. They can do whatever they want, I’ve taken care of it, Ann, so you don’t have to worry anymore, please don’t worry. Ann, I should have died, you were too good, too righteous. I was the one that deserved to die, not you. He let out a yell, raising his hands above his head. “God why! Not Ann, did it have to be her! I’m the sinner, I’m the black sheep of the family! I love you, Ann, whatever happens, I’ll always love you.”
He put his hand on the face stone. He ran his fingers along the inscription of her name, barely visible in the darkness but he could feel it. He kissed the stone, pressing his lips to it as though it was her face. I love you Ann, I have to be strong for the kids, my family, I can do it, I will do it. We can forget about...
He stood; the visit had done more harm to his aging body than the four instructors had done beating him in Baltimore. His shoulders hung low, his head tilted to one side. He walked from the mausoleum with a slight limp. He had hurt his knee when he knelt on the marble floor trying to get closer to his wife. He looked like a boxer, leaving the ring after taking a severe pummeling. The beating he efficiently dispatched on himself, mental anguish. As Mitchelli limped towards the door, his body disappeared into the shadows of the mausoleum.
His brother Phillip was correct in calling Dr. Rubin. He lived a fine line between rational and explosive. Mitchelli tormented himself. He hid it well, however not from his family. He obsessed over the loss of his wife and a perceived failure that he let her down. He ignored her wishes and failed to appreciate the simple things in life rather than material possessions. This is where Buckala’s cool jewel image of him shattered. He obsessively longed for the return of his wife and her forgiveness. If he could not control it, it would overwhelm and destroy him.
CHAPTER 13
Kaitlin and Peter Jacob were surrounded with caring, loving people. Peter’s mother-in-law Lillian had watched Peter Jakob since he was a little boy. Now she cared for both children before and after school; in addition to summer vacation. Lillian lived for her grandchildren. She was still young enough to keep up with them. She would stay over when her son-in-law was working late. Lillian told him not to worry about the children when he tried to tell her about his new work schedule with long hours; she would take care of them.
As he left for work, he debated taking the Mercedes E 550 coupe, it always lifted his spirits, but he chose the pickup truck. He thought the truck was better suited for surveillance, and he didn’t want Buckala stinking up the interior of the Mercedes.
Mitchelli had trained and instructed extensively with his Glock pistol. The first pistol made with a polymer frame. The press dubbed it the Tupperware Gun. News articles stated the Glock could get through airport x-ray machines because it was made of plastic; not true of course; the barrel, spring assembly, and slide were metal. Law enforcement departments quickly armed their officers with the polymer gun. The Glock gained a reputation as a simple, yet reliable high capacity pistol. Magnum 357 revolvers only carried six rounds. The Colt model 1911 pistol carried seven. The Colt was generally holstered by police officers cocked and locked, a dangerous procedure. A dropped cocked and locked 1911 would probably discharge. The Glock could be dropped from a plane and would not discharge. Mitchelli had two forty caliber Glocks, a model 22, full frame, carried fifteen rounds, it was the sidearm required for uniformed Sheriff’s duty. He also had a Glock Model 27, a compact, small-frame; which carried ten rounds in its magazine. The Glock 27 was his second favorite concealed carry weapon.
He preferred a 380 caliber Walther PPKs with a blued finish. Its smaller predecessor is the famed PPK pistol James Bond carried in his many novels. Many thought the 380 caliber to be a weak man killer. Mitchelli did not. He liked the size of the Walther; the Glocks were too wide to be worn comfortably in ankle, shoulder or belt holsters. The Walther was thin and light. Occasionally Mitchelli carried it in his pocket holster, something he never considered doing with his Glocks. Mitchelli believed if a pistol was not comfortable to carry, odds are you were not going to wear it.
The Walther was legendary for its accuracy. Mitchelli had two; he preferred the dark blued finish to the stainless steel. The stainless steel pistol was handsome, but not tactical. In the evening, it was too reflective giving away the user’s position. In the daytime, the pistol’s stainless steel sights proved difficult to use because the sun would glare off the polished metal. Although not easily acceptable for a quick draw, he would carry the Walther in a shoulder holster worn under his shirt. He would shove his hand through the collar of his pullover shirt or between buttons on a button down. The pistol was under his left arm, two additional magazines, each holding seven rounds were carried under the right shoulder. He carried an additional box of fifty rounds in each of his vehicles, including his boats. The ammunition was simple, no hollow points, ninety-grain full metal jacket. After firing two hundred break-in rounds for each pistol, the round nose of the FMJ round fed easily in the steep slope of the Walther’s feed ramp. If Peter Maximus Mitchelli was opinionated about anything, it was his firearms.
He did not limp to his truck; the morning’s exercise had ground the pain out of his knees. He knew how to camouflage his feelings, and pain. The Cool Jewel was back at least for one more day. He had to stand tall; he had promised Ann he would not let her down.
He was at his desk at five minutes after seven. His office was a mess; he knew that cleaning up his desk had to go on his to-do list. He did not turn the computer on; the e-mails were a distraction, he immediately began creating his list of tasks.
When he had finished the list, and was perplexed. He did not know where to place Angela on his list. His heart was torn; he loved his wife. Like Ann, Angela was beautiful. His Mind Kill went to work bending his thoughts.
He contemplated whether he had mourned long enough; was seeing Angela disrespectful to Ann? Angela had taken care of him. He promised her he would make the time for them to get to know each other. That damn kiss, I sealed my promise with that kiss. Am I being selfish? What beautiful eyes, I was lost in her eyes. He ha
d to make the time, even if it was while he was with his children. Focus on your list, stay organized, turn on your computer, and get to work. Mitchelli lead, don’t follow, the glass is half full, the sun will come up tomorrow!
Mitchelli met Buckala at a gin mill by the Michigan Street lift bridge. Surrounded by old factories, grain elevators, and cereal plants; this area of the city was considered the breakfast bowl of Buffalo. The cereal manufacturers were on a two-mile island bordered by the Buffalo River on one side and the Buffalo Canal on the other. The gin mill was named Runners, after the bootleggers who ran Canadian whiskey up the canal avoiding law enforcement during prohibition.
Buckala had a snitch that frequented Runners; his prime source of revenue was loan sharking and gambling. His name was Kazz and Buckala knew he usually had a good handle on the happenings on the waterfront.
Mitchelli couldn’t believe how rundown the building was. The two-story bar was thirty feet wide, eighty feet in length was surrounded by burned out buildings. The bar had decades of paint spattered over its brick; the most recent color was a flat black. No handicapped entrance here; he slowly lifted his fatigued legs up the six small steps to enter the bar. The bar was dark except for four incandescent light bulbs hanging from the black copper ceiling. The lights would not pass inspection in someone’s basement, let alone a public bar. The cords to turn the lights on and off hung about six feet above the floor. The pull cords hung like cobwebs that patrons had to dodge. The thirty-foot bar was constructed of rough boards and plywood. The counter was a slightly better grade of plywood, coated with a thick layer of clear polymer in an attempt to make it look expensive. The shelves behind the bar held bottle after bottle of booze, many covered in dust. On the walls hung newspaper clippings which had yellowed over the last forty years. The occasional photograph of famous Buffalonians, sports stars, and criminals graced the walls. The furniture was beyond worn. The wooden furniture may have been stolen from a local school decades ago.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 14