Blood Runs Cold

by Catherine Maiorisi

  “I followed Nardo to his apartment. But I was hungry and I needed the bathroom so I went to The French Roast on Sixth Avenue and had a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then I went back and sat on the steps across from his apartment and watched.”

  “What were you watching for?”

  “I told you.” He was impatient. “I wanted to know everything about his life. I wanted to know about the other men, who he was sleeping with.”

  “And did he have a lot of visitors?”

  “No. That’s why I knew we’d be together some day. He didn’t have a man in his life.”

  “Did you see Nardo again Tuesday night?”

  He smiled. “He came out and invited me into his apartment. I was excited because I’d never been there before. He was in pajamas.” Ginocchioni looked as if that was some wonderful gift, and then he looked down, shading his face with his hair. “He yelled at me. He was angry because the chiacciatra across the street told him I sat on her steps and watched him sometimes.”

  Parker cleared her throat. “What does chia—”

  “Gossip, chatterbox,” Corelli said.

  He sniffled. “He said I was sick. That if I continued to bother him he would call the police and they would send me back to Italy—or maybe to jail. That he wanted me to get out and leave him alone. I tried to explain but he pushed me. Hard.”

  “I’ll bet you were really angry. Where did you get the gun?”

  “What gun? I was crying and I ran out. He slammed the door behind me. I walked away, fast, crying. Then I went to a bar near my apartment and got drunk.”

  “I don’t think so, Franco. I think you were so hurt and angry at his shabby treatment that you pulled out your gun and shot him. What did you do with the gun? Will we find it in your apartment?”

  “I don’t have a gun. I didn’t kill him. He hurt me but I loved him. I knew someday he would really see me, that he would love me. I loved him so much. How could he not love me back? And now we’ll never have a chance.” He put his head on his arms on the table and sobbed.

  They left him in the room. Parker rubbed her eyes. “He sounds crazy enough to have killed de Balzo for love.”

  Corelli yawned. Their late night was catching up to both of them. “We’ll see what forensics turns up and we’ll check his alibi at the bar. You might be right, he could be one of those sick bastards who say I love you so much but if I can’t have you, I’ll kill you so no one else can.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Friday – 7:15 a.m.

  “Okay people, sorry to be late. Let’s get started,” Corelli shouted, trying to be heard above the ear-shattering chatter in the conference room. She looked around. How could they make so much noise and still be chewing and drinking. She tried again. But no luck.

  Dietz stood and yelled. “Shut up!” The room fell silent. “Our illustrious leader wishes to speak.”

  She tipped an imaginary hat to Dietz.

  “You’ve all heard about the shooting, I presume?” She didn’t remember any photographers last night, but somehow the front pages of all the morning papers had pictures of her sitting on the back of the ambulance holding the kittens and Parker standing next to her, looking worried. “And seen my picture with the three heroes of the night—Parker and the two kittens.”

  Laughter from the troops.

  “All four of us are fine.”

  Detective Hei-kyoung Kim raised her hand. “Do you think it was one of us?”

  The laughter stopped and tension filled the room.

  “No evidence was found at the scene, Kim. I’d like to think not.”

  Kim was visibly upset. “Then who?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Corelli made a mental note to speak to Kim later but now she needed to ease the tension. “Let’s talk about the important things. Did anybody see my debut on WNYN last night?”

  The team laughed again. Better.

  “Yeah, when do we get autographs?” Forlini said.

  She flushed. “How did I do?”

  “Made the department look good, I’d say,” Forlini said.

  Kim raised two fingers to her temple in salute. “Made me proud.”

  “Quite a lineup on WNYN,” Watkins said. “They led off with the shooting, replayed the media attack, and closed with the interview. It was very effective. Most of the other channels just had the shooting.”

  “I’m taking bets the TV guys and gals will be all over you trying to outdo WNYN,” Forlini said.

  She let the comments fly for a few minutes, then raised her hand for silence. “Now that my fifteen minutes of fame are over, you’re up, Watkins. Results of the autopsy and anything else you have.”

  “Sure thing. But first, have you named the kittens?”

  “Not yet. I’m not sure I’m keeping them.”

  “That’s like throwing away your lucky rabbit’s foot. You gotta keep them,” Dietz said. “You should have a naming contest.”

  “I’ll take it under consideration, Dietz.”

  Watkins took a quick swig of his soda, pushed it and his fried egg sandwich to the side, wiped his hands, smoothed the sheaf of papers in front of him, and opened his black leather notebook. “Based on last meal, et cetera, time of death between nine p.m. and one a.m. No defensive wounds present, no wounds except the bullet, so he probably knew his killer. The bullet, a twenty-two caliber, lodged in his brain and killed him instantly. We haven’t found any proof that he bought a gun, so if it was his, it was illegal. So far only Scott Sigler and Miranda Foxworth knew he had the gun and where he kept it.”

  “We’ve eliminated Scott. Have another go at Ms. Foxworth. Watkins, Greene, anything else?”

  Greene took over. “We’ve started talking to Foxworth’s clients, but we’ve only caught up with two of them. One didn’t know del Balzo and the other had run into him at parties and bars but only knew him to say hello. Both had solid alibis. We’ve set up meetings for tonight or tomorrow with some of the others.”

  Watkins turned a page in his notebook. “Oklahoma police found no record for Miranda Foxworth.”

  Corelli turned to Dietz. “Did we track down Nelson Choi?”

  “Got it,” said Dietz. “He’s a hotshot investment banker at Stillman, Friedberg, and Choi, a Wall Street firm. That’s him in the name.” He hesitated, as if waiting for comments.

  “Dietz,” Corelli said, “we’re impressed. Now get on with it.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, the New York office said he was in Chicago, but Chicago said he had left for the day and would be flying back to New York tonight. Nobody knew when he would be back in the office. Chicago gave us his cell number, but when I called, it went directly to voice mail. I left your cell number and asked him to contact you as soon as he gets the message.”

  “What about Andrea Sansone and the del Balzo research?”

  “We got sidetracked with Choi so we haven’t done much. We’ll get on it.”

  “Forlini, Parker and I read your reports on the neighbors last night. Good work. We brought Franco Ginocchioni in this morning. He had an altar dedicated to del Balzo in his apartment and he’s admitted to stalking him. Your witness says Nardo was alive when Ginocchioni left, but he’s given us permission to search his apartment. Get a team and check it out after the meeting. If you don’t find the gun or something to link him to the murder, release him but take his passport.”

  “Will do. I spoke to another neighbor, a young lady who lives across the street from del Balzo. She was putting her garbage in the can in the front of her building and saw a guy ring del Balzo’s bell Tuesday night.” He glanced at his notes. “She said he was another spectacular specimen like del Balzo—tall, long wavy black hair, very handsome, dressed in black—and since she was pretending she wasn’t looking, she happened to notice he was wearing cowboy boots. She thought maybe she’d seen him before, but couldn’t be sure since,” he made quote marks with his fingers, ‘so many of those gay guys are hunks it’s hard to tell them apart.’ I still have
n’t gotten some people at home.”

  Corelli and Parker looked at each other. “Sansone?” they said, speaking at the same time.

  “What?” Dietz said.

  “Andrea Sansone, the guy I asked you to check out yesterday, has long black hair and wears cowboy boots. Check out his alibi, then maybe we’ll bring him in for questioning.”

  “Okay guys. I’m getting desperate. We need something and we need it fast.” She looked around the room, noting the nodding heads.

  “I’ve got something,” Kim said. “We got a report of a taxi drop in front of del Balzo’s apartment at eleven Tuesday night. Pick up on Fifty-Seventh and Lexington Ave.”

  “That sounds like—”

  “Scott Sigler.” Kim waved a piece of paper. “He charged the fare to American Express.”

  “Good work, guys. Bring him in this afternoon. Sweat him a while and then Parker and I will take him.”

  Corelli turned to Dietz. “We need a canvass of the ambassador’s neighbors to see if anyone saw him or his wife coming in late.”

  “His wife?” Dietz said. “You think she murdered her son?”

  “She doesn’t have an alibi and she seems as obsessed with being prime minister as the ambassador, so let’s see if we can eliminate the two of them.”

  “Jeez, you really think both parents are suspects?”

  “Didn’t I teach you anything, Watkins?” She grinned softening the rebuke. “If we’re not thorough, we can’t be sure.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Watkins said. “But it seems a little far-fetched.”

  Corelli scanned the group. “As I said, we’re being thorough. But let me remind you, no mention of this outside this room. Also, be discreet when you talk to the neighbors.”

  She waited for the murmurs to die down then continued. “Parker and I started the follow-up on the guests at the dinner that the ambassador attended Tuesday night, but there are about a hundred people on the list and we need a team to talk to everyone.”

  A few seconds of silence before a collective groan as they realized how much grunt work was involved.

  “Let’s see if Dietz can get some cadets from the academy to help. You guys can supervise them and get it done faster.” She waited for Dietz to jot it down. “Anybody have anything you need or want to say before you leave?”

  Someone yelled, “Help,” and everybody laughed.

  “All right, let’s get to work. See you tomorrow. Keep us posted.” Corelli gathered her notes while chatting with Detectives Greene and Watkins about the TV interview. After they left Corelli and Parker were alone at the conference table.

  “You know, Parker, I keep coming back to the idea that Nardo knew his killer. And the ambassador is my prime suspect.”

  “What about Carla? You really think she did it?”

  “You’ve seen her. What do you think?”

  Parker rubbed her forehead. “Yeah, I guess so. She’s icy and she acts like becoming prime minister is the only thing that matters in the world. But that doesn’t mean she’s capable of murdering her son. Besides, she wasn’t hysterical or anything but she did seem upset to hear Nardo was dead.”

  “The ambassador, on the other hand, didn’t react at all when I told him his son was murdered. Actually, it seemed like it wasn’t a surprise.” Corelli was trying to follow the facts and not allow her dislike of the ambassador to lead her astray. “Also, he didn’t hide his disgust at Nardo’s being gay which would explain Nardo’s desire to embarrass him by dressing as a woman and destroy his chance of being prime minister. Maybe Nardo knew something about a mistress or some financial misdeeds or even an association with the mafia. In any case, the ambassador appears to have the most to gain from Nardo’s death. Was the threat to his political ambitions a compelling reason for him to murder his only son? Maybe. If Nardo did go public with something scandalous the ambassador stood to lose the election, probably his current job, and maybe even his wife.

  “As for opportunity, he could still have done the murder even if he left the UN shindig at eleven. And, of course, if it was Nardo’s gun, he could have known it was there. We need to push harder to find out what Nardo had on him.”

  “Those are my thoughts. Whatdoya think Ms. ADA?”

  Parker rolled her eyes. “I think Dietz is right. What you’re sketching here could be a Greek drama or a Shakespearian tragedy. The only thing missing is proof that it went down that way. I think we’d better continue to investigate.”

  Corelli sighed. “It would be a lot easier to be a playwright or an author making it up as you go along.” She stood. “But we’re detectives so let’s get to work.”

  Dietz came back into the room just as they were getting ready to leave. “Captain Winfry would like a few minutes.”

  “Probably about the interview,” Corelli said. “I’ll pick you up later, Parker.”

  She knocked and entered. “Morning, Captain.”

  He looked up. “Corelli. Sit. Good interview. And what’s her name, Darla North, did a great job showing that mob scene. Looked like a scary situation. Maybe they’ll ease up a bit.”

  “It was scary. If that rookie officer, Twilliger, hadn’t rescued me, I don’t know…”

  “I saw Sergeant Mallory’s report. Twilliger will be commended. The others will be taken care of.”

  “Sir, Darla North wants to do a series of short interviews, and if you have no objection, I’d like the next one to highlight the team working on the del Balzo murder. Maybe invite her to sit in on a meeting, give some of the others a chance for screen time. She might also want a minute or two of your time.”

  He sat back, rubbed his chin, and eyed her. “They did say they wanted you to be nice to the press. But you can’t give it all to her—”

  She stood up. “Sir, I—”

  “Privilege of rank, Corelli. I get to talk first, so sit down. I understand you don’t want to feed the piranhas, so figure something out, a print interview or maybe a press conference when you have something to announce, but you can’t give it all to WNYN. Bring North in to do the team thing, though. I think it will give people a boost.”

  She smiled. “Yessir.”

  “Remember, diversify.” He stood up.

  Corelli stood. “Sir, I thought Parker and I avoided the walk of shame this morning by getting in really early, but Dietz told me you’ve prohibited officers from congregating in front of the station in the morning and you’ve ordered the media contained away from the building. Thank you. Life is much easier when you don’t start the day by running the gauntlet to get to your desk.”

  “Although only you two were forced through the gauntlet, the public and many of your colleagues complained that the huge crowd and the media circus made it difficult for them to get in and out of the station. Let me know if they try something else.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday – 9 a.m.

  The press corps came to life shouting questions, extending microphones, and pointing cameras, but since they were behind barricades on the other side of the street, Corelli and Parker ignored them and walked up the steps to the front door where Officer Twilliger was standing at attention.

  “Morning,” Twilliger said, leaning over to ring the bell for them. “Um, I heard about the shooting. I’m glad he missed. And thanks for puttin’ in a good word to the boss.”

  Corelli smiled. “Good work always earns good words in my book.”

  “Yeah, well if there’s ever anything I can do for you, on or off the job, you let me know.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Once again the crone answered the door, but today, with her face red and swollen and her eyes small slits, she looked even older. A rosary with ruby-red glass beads and a gold crucifix dangled from her hand, and she seemed to be muttering prayers.

  “You.”

  “Yes, Signora, so sorry for your loss,” Corelli said in Italian, touching the crone’s shoulder.

  “May his soul rest in peace.” The crone made the
sign of the cross then pulled a handkerchief from an apron pocket and mopped the tears making their way through the deep crevices in her face. She stepped back and pointed to the hall.

  The hallway was dim, but the soft rumble of voices led them to the living room. Behind them, the doorbell chimed again. They stood in the doorway. Two days ago, laughing and joking TV people had filled this formal but tastefully decorated room. Today the crowd was somber, dressed in dark clothing, small groups talking in muted tones, sipping coffee from delicate china cups.

  A wake, Corelli thought, no body, but it’s still a wake. The del Balzos sat next to each other on two easy chairs. Carla, carefully made up. Both of them impeccably dressed and coiffed. Neither of them looked as if they had shed many tears, but was it professional control or cold hearts? On the other hand, Flavia, sitting to Carla’s right, was sobbing, while Emilio, standing next to her, stared straight ahead, stone-faced. The doorbell chimed over and over. People streamed past Corelli and Parker and joined the line of mourners waiting to express condolences, and when they were face-to-face with the bereaved, leaned over them, kissed a cheek or the air near a cheek, took a hand, patted a shoulder, spoke softly, and then faded into the crowd.

  Nardo’s colleagues from the delegation clustered together off to the side, swollen eyes, red noses, comforting each other. No professional façade there. Franco Ginocchioni was not the only one sobbing openly; several of the women and even Mario Derosa broke down from time to time.

  “There’s our man Sansone, back to us,” Parker said, tilting her head. Sansone held a beautiful young woman, patting her tenderly and speaking softly in her ear. She looked up at something he said and smiled through her tears. The resemblance to Nardo was striking. Most likely his sister, Antonia.

  Corelli joined the line. “Wait here. I’ll get del Balzo.” When she reached Leonardo, she whispered that she would like to see him privately for a few minutes. Carla opened her mouth but Leonardo placed his hand on her arm and said something softly to her. She nodded. He rose and excused himself. Corelli and Parker followed him out to the glass-enclosed room. He walked to the window and turned.