“You think?”
“Would you want him to know all your inner thoughts, every personal thought?”
“Well, maybe not.”
“You can’t separate the job from your personal life. Go with your feelings.” When MacJames did not respond, Pam got the hint. “I’ll mind my own business, what cover do you want me to use for your interview?”
“You’re better at those stories than I am, oh hell, screw it just tell him it’s important I speak to him concerning one of his former players, for an article in the local Bee paper. You know, a where-are-they-now piece.”
“Wow, we’ve never used that before, sounds almost believable.”
“You’ll make it stick.”
“That’s what I do,” said Pam.
“Keep it quiet, I don’t want the rest of the team to know.”
“I’ll text you tonight, with the meeting confirmation.”
MacJames pushed the end button on the phone, relieved she had set the wheels in motion to put her suspicions of Mitchelli’s past with Handly to rest. Oh man, he told me he’s spending the night on the boat, I need to pack an overnight bag. Negligee! Christ MacJames think about something other than making love, he just got out of the hospital.
As she walked into her living room with a discrete leather overnight bag which looked more like an oversized purse than a piece of luggage, she saw a silver Mercedes coupe pull into her driveway. The car screamed classic Mercedes; bright silver, large AMG racing rims, LED lights, a large triple cross Mercedes emblem distinctly centered in the grill. The exhaust growled just before the engine turned off. The long door of the coupe opened and slowly, one leg at a time, Peter Mitchelli stepped out of the car. He grabbed the doorjamb to pull himself out of the seat. She gasped; it looked like he had lost forty pounds since they had met. This was not the same man she nursed in Quantico. He wore black loafers, white pants, with a black long sleeve shirt. His waist had slimmed to the point where his upper body had a noticeable athletic V shape. His designer rectangular glasses proportioned perfectly to his face. Peter Mitchelli did not resemble the rough and tumble builder that she had first met. He paused for a moment, standing by his car while making a phone call. MacJames couldn’t help but stare. Angel, focus on something else, he’s struggling to walk. He’s clueless how attractive he is.
In the evening summer light, standing next to his silver Mercedes he looked like someone else he was not. She could see the slight bulge in his pants just below his calf, most likely an ankle holster. As he put his sport coat on, MacJames could see what appeared to be a small framed Glock pistol holstered on his belt. She decided not to walk out to greet him; she wanted to watch him walk up the driveway to her front door, she enjoyed every step. His movements were slow because of his injuries but confident, as if he owned the entire street. He surveyed the house as he approached, making mental notes of every architectural detail. His body cast a black shadow across the glass door, engulfing it with his size. She made him ring the doorbell even though she knew he was at the door, and then she waited briefly before opening it.
Mitchelli smiled at her. “You look great,” he said as handed her a single white rose.
She had been so preoccupied watching her ruggedly handsome boyfriend as he walked to her front door she had failed to notice he was carrying a rose. She wanted to be alone with him to finish the passion that too often had started and abruptly stopped.
Hidden behind her conservative government suits was a beautiful middle-aged woman. Her passion for Mitchelli had an impact on her personal clothing style. Coarseni’s comments concerning her Wal-Mart suits had struck a hurtful cord. For their date, she had carefully picked out a black skirt that fell just above the knee and a black patterned blouse, unbuttoned just enough to show off her cleavage. She had pulled back her auburn hair into a low ponytail held in place with a black pearl clip. It was far from Cartier, but it showed off her assets.
The simple style pleased her new boyfriend, who couldn’t stop looking at her. Mitchelli saw past her cheap, conservative suits. He was captivated with her natural beauty, specifically her face and eyes. Her sculpted figure certainly helped. But since their first meeting MacJames had shown a sincere concern for his children’s well being, which went beyond superficial chit-chat prior to dating.
MacJames graciously took the rose from his hand. “No one would ever guess you were lying in a hospital bed three days ago. You’re remarkable.” She looked briefly at the rose, she could not help herself; she moved towards Mitchelli, her five-foot-nine height perfectly matched to his. She put her left arm around his waist and the other on his shoulder while she kissed him. He responded by placing both his hands on her hips as their bodies pressed together.
MacJames softly whispered, “Peter we don’t have to go to dinner… I’d be content staying here.” She resumed her passionate kiss.
Mitchelli responded, “You look great, I have to show you off.” They looked at each other and MacJames ran her fingers through his hair. She studied his face, mentally comparing it to the swollen face she iced all night in Quantico. She barely knew him that night in Quantico, does she know him any better now? She was infatuated with Peter Mitchelli and had to put her suspicions on hold, at least for tonight.
As their bodies separated, he pulled her hand to his lips. “We better get going; our reservation is for seven thirty.” MacJames walked closely by his side, their arms locked. She wanted to be as close to him as she could, for as long as she could. He opened the car door for her and she slid gracefully into the low black seat. She saw Mitchelli’s face cringe with pain as he climbed behind the wheel.
They drove to the city’s East Side, noted for its family owned restaurants. The Mercedes coupe drove down Harlem Road, on Buffalo’s East Side. In twenty minutes they arrived at the restaurant, La Trevia. The building’s plaster walls, and distressed stone looked distinctly Tuscan Italian.
The small Mercedes coupe appeared understated compared to the extravagant cars that filled the valet area. The parking area was strewn with Jaguars, BMWs, Aston Martins, Porches, along with several Bentleys. The silver Mercedes served its purpose, a prop for an attractive middle-aged couple out for a night on the town. As the valet opened the passenger door, MacJames’s sensual legs caught his attention. The restaurant was crowded for a Thursday night. The couple sat at the bar while they waited for their table and ordered two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon.
MacJames lifted her glass and said, “To you Peter, you gave me hope.” Mitchelli raised his glass and clinked it against hers.
“You never needed hope?”
“Hope in myself, that I could care for someone again, fall in love. It’s not too late, I can have a life outside my career and share it with someone.” She smiled and uncharacteristically shook her head. “Sounds pathetic.”
He grinned. “I don’t think it’s pathetic. We’re two people who need each other. Our emotions are clouding what we say. Date talk, think about your conversations from other relationships. What you talked about when you first met, when you think you’re falling in love with someone.”
“Desperately silly.”
“Exactly.”
“But you’re trying to get to know someone; it’s awkward,” she said.
“True, but our pace has been so hectic we haven’t had the time for uncomfortable date talk.” He placed his glass on the bar and stared at the liquid, contemplating his life’s decisions.
She grabbed his hand. She knew the Mitchelli Mind Kill was warming up; the self-inflicted mind torture would level him, crippling him before they sat down for dinner. MacJames was different from the other women that pursued Mitchelli; she could read his mood, his expressions. Maybe it was her law enforcement training, her career as an analyst. Her failed relationships could have made her more sensitive at interpreting men’s moods and expressions. She possessed a special knack, an ability of zeroing in on his emotional sensitivities. She just couldn’t get him to talk about them.
“Ann must have been very special,” she said. “I’m sorry--if this is hard for you, we can leave if you want.”
“What did you say?”
She put her hand on his chin directing his glance to her. “Good. I’m glad were not leaving. I gave you an easy out and you passed the test.”
“How do you know I haven’t been testing you?”
“You are testing me. Was it a test when you took your shirt off in a church, or the day on the boat you did a butt flop off the swim platform into the water?” She put her hand over his. “You told Kaitlin to check out my bumper, I still don’t think you have.” She drew a smile from Mitchelli. “Don’t give me any of that roughneck garbage tonight.”
“Embarrass me through my kids, I checked out your bumper prior to the day at the beach. You’ve taken good care of yourself. Kaitlin and I approve.” He looked down at his glass. “I should have done a better job trying to look good for Ann, she was like you beautiful, always put together.”
MacJames laughed, “Put together, we’re assembled like buildings!”
Mitchelli smiled. “I meant…”
“I know what you meant. Peter, every man I’ve dated, or for that matter married, has been stuck on his good looks. You’re colossal; none of them were in your league, stepping out of your coupe walking up to my front door tonight… You took my breath away.” She pulled his head up from looking down at the bar. “Your personality makes you explosively attractive; you’re quiet, yet bold, timid yet foreboding. Many men would brag about the things you’ve accomplished, especially over the last several weeks, not you. You barely discuss them, only when you’ve wanted to get your point across. You are a uniquely sensitive roughneck.”
“I’m sensitive, please tell me why. My siblings hang signs outside my office: ‘DON’T FEED THE BEAR.’”
MacJames had pulled a Mitchelli. She had successfully redirected the conversation, distracting him from his own self-inflicted guilt. She was drawing him in, closer and closer making him feel comfortable. Not only did she want to distract him from his torment, she wanted him to open up and confide in her.
“I’m a three time loser in the Catholic church,” she said. “Most men would have never considered how awkward it was for me at Sunday’s mass, whether to receive Communion or sit in the pew like a loser. You were thinking of me before yourself and stayed with me during Communion. You wouldn’t leave me alone in the pew.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. It was very selfish; it’s been a long time since I’ve had a gorgeous woman at my side in church. I was worried one of the better looking young polish parishioners was going to take my seat next to you if I went up for Communion.” He placed his hand on his forehead. His eyes scanned the bar then locked onto MacJames’s. “You never left my bed side in Quantico, no way was I going to leave you. I have many faults; my siblings have a list they probably shared with you while I was in the hospital. Listen up, MacJames: I could care less about your previous relationships. I will never judge you over your marriages, so don’t give it a second thought. You are a winner in my in my mind and heart.”
He had done it, lifting a tremendous burden from MacJames. She had always self-consciously judged herself over her failed marriages. She had obsessed whether Mitchelli would be concerned. She had started other relationships, only to have them end with hurtful noncommittal explanation from men over her failed marriages and her dedication to her career. Mitchelli’s statement destroyed the vale of insecurity clouding her mind. She was a winner, the previous marriages didn’t matter.
MacJames was sat in astonishment as Mitchelli continued talking. “I don’t like talking about myself, I never did,” he said. “I’m embarrassed when you compliment me. It is not that you’re saying anything wrong, it’s me--there must be something wrong with me. The truth is I enjoy being with you, I could look at your face forever. I could give a damn about your previous husbands; when I look into your eyes, I forget about my problems.”
“What problems?”
“My past.”
“What past problems?”
He ignored her question and continued, “I know it’s been a struggle for you to cater to me, nursing me back to health. You’re strong willed woman, that’s why you’re the Assistant Deputy Director. You didn’t get that position by doting on a companion. I appreciate your caring about my well being, even though I ignored some of your medical advice on the matter.”
MacJames raised her voice as she spoke. “You ignore some of my advice, HOW ABOUT ALL OF IT?”
The hostess interrupted them. “Mr. Mitchelli, your table’s ready.”
***
Buckala had just made a fresh pot of Turkish coffee and was settling into a comfortable position on his coach. Since his assignment to Task Force E, he hadn’t had any time to watch his recorded daytime soap operas. Suddenly, his cell phone rang.
Buckala answered, “This better be important.”
Freed was on the other end of the line. “Sal, Buffalo PD called me--they found one of your informants tortured to death on Jefferson Avenue in a garage.”
“How the hell did Buffalo PD tie him to me? What’s the guys’ name?”
“Dom told me he goes by Kazz.”
“Kazzlowski; shit, son of bitch; I know his house, I’m on my way.”
“I’ll meet you there; Dom says it’s pretty grotesque. He told me not to stop for donuts.”
Kazzlowski had a small insurance office in the back of a garage on Jefferson Avenue, the city’s west side. The office was his attempt to look as if he had a legitimate insurance agency; it was the size of a small bedroom. The garage was behind Kazzlowski’s home, on a street lined with crack houses. The value of the houses was far less than the demolition cost to tear them down. The two story houses had been built on lots forty feet wide, with narrow driveways from the street, which led along the sides of the houses to detached garages in the rear yards. This was a predominately black inner city neighborhood. Drive-by shootings were daily occurrences so prevalent that neighbors did not bother to report them to the police.
Buckala parked his twelve-year-old BMW at the curb. Freed met him as they walked down the driveway to the small office. They saw a woman in her early forties, wearing a short spandex skirt, her legs bulging the spandex to its limits. Braless, her breasts were falling out of her white tank top. As a policewoman calmed her down, the woman squeezed them into place. Lieutenant Tom Torbin from Buffalo Homicide met them just outside the office.
Freed asked Torbin, “Who’s the woman--his girl friend?”
Torbin said, “Oh, Boobs? She’s his wife; she turns tricks two blocks up the street to help pay for groceries. She went in the office to grab some smokes and found Kazz dead and she called us.” Torbin looked at Buckala. “Sal, you sure know how to pick them, the Kazzlowskis are real class.”
Buckala scoffed at him, “Real cute, I lead the department in arrests. Did you have any last year, Tommy Boy?” Torbin sneered at Buckala as they walked towards the garage office.
They entered the small office through a door on the side of the garage. The office although small, was neat. It had no frills, a concrete floor, plywood walls, a unit heater hanging from the ceiling, one window, an old wooden desk, one chair, one couch, and one coffee table. There were no ceilings; the roof trusses were exposed. Nothing was disturbed in the office. Just over the coffee table, Kazzlowski was hanging upside-down, tied at his ankles, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His blood cascaded from his open body cavity, over his chest and face to the top of the coffee table and on to the floor. His intestines were hanging outside his body cavity.
Coarseni greeted them at the door. “Hey guys, this was a class job, let me fill you in I’ve been here for almost two hours. The county coroner thinks they tortured him first, see look over here.” Coarseni pointed to his fingers behind his back, “they pulled out all his finger nails, then frickin’ squeezed them with dentist pliers, you know the ones with the pinc
ers for pulling teeth out. These guys were real sweethearts. They used channel locks, slowly smashing his nuts one at a time. Poor bastard, then they sliced his ball sack open and placed his nuts and penis in his mouth. Look one nut is still in his mouth. His dick and the other nut are on the coffee table. The piece de resistance was to finish the dumb bastard; they partially disemboweled him. We think someone startled them and they took off.” Then Coarseni’s mouth opened he stared at the neat flap of U-shaped skin, cut just below Kazzlowski’s waist, extending just above his groin and returning to his waist. The flap of skin pushed against Kazzlowski’s chest by his inner intestines hanging upside down out of his body cavity.
“Hey Doc,” Coarseni yelled. “I think they frickin’ carved something in his gut before they gutted him!” The doctor quickly came over with his assistant; both were wearing long latex gloves.
“Well, Agent Coarseni, we usually do not do autopsies in the field, while the victims are hanging upside down but let’s take a look,” the medical examiner said. “We county employees must keep our federal, better paid counter parts happy.” With the help of his assistant, the medical examiner pushed the organs up and away from the lower torso flap of skin, while the Buffalo PD photographer’s cameras clicked away. They struggled pushing the flap of skin up, trying to read the cuts in Kazz’s skin. “Dom, you are right looks like they carved the word… letters, no… I can’t read it; we’ll have to wait until we get him on the table to clearly interpret it.”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 26