“Not a problem, boss.” He knew better than to fight the headlock.
Roberto tightened his arms. “If you weren’t my nephew—you’d be dead.”
Michael’s mother had died of natural causes at an early age, so he was told. His father died a year ago, and the family loyalty was passed to Roberto, the only living sibling of his generation. He controlled everything, including who lived and died.
With pressure on his neck, Michael tried to speak. A squeaky voice pleaded for another chance at Mario. He’d screwed up and had to make good—begging was his only option.
Roberto released him, forcefully slammed his face into the table, and broke the platter of cookies over his head. Blood spilled on the white tablecloth. “Clean up this mess.” Then he stormed out the room.
Chapter 4
An interview with neighbors shone light on an ex-boyfriend who he was heard deep into a shouting match with the woman found dead in the apartment. Mario wasn’t aware of any ruckus. She was identified as Dawn Taylor, and a picture from her wallet showed her and a man at the beach. Two neighbors confirmed the man in the photo was involved in the disturbance.
One person came forward saying Dawn had broken up with the guy two months earlier. She wasn’t 100 percent sure of the reason but overheard conversations of him losing a job twice within six months.
The double homicide hit the front page of the newspaper the next morning. Little information was given by a police spokesperson for the ongoing investigation, other than a person of interest was the dead woman’s ex-boyfriend. The statement issued indicated it might have been a domestic dispute. No mention of a police officer living in the building.
Mario wanted no part and handed it off to Truman, his former partner, and now number-one detective under his command at the Eighth District.
Two hours later, Truman met at the station with Mario and three, top-ranked detectives. Mario sat at the head of the table and reviewed open cases. He called on Truman first for an update on the apartment murder.
The police had found several daily racing forms and hundreds of dollars of lost betting tickets from the New Orleans Fair Grounds Race Course . On the kitchen table, a newspaper was opened to the sports page with horses circled for the day’s races.
Mario looked over the pictures of the evidence taken. “So, he was a gambler?”
“Worse.” Truman tossed a photo. “Enough cocaine was found in the apartment to charge with distribution.”
Mario suggested they dump the man’s cell phone and the girlfriend’s too. Check for recent calls and calls to or from the same numbers. One of the senior detectives added they might want to match up all the names connected to the numbers to run through the DEA. If they got a hit, it would allow the case to be reclassified as a drug deal and not a city homicide.
Mario shook his head. “Dale was a clean-cut, working guy. Hard to believe he had a gambling problem and pushed drugs.”
Truman read aloud again all the things found in the apartment. The racing tickets spread in three parts of the house, the sports page opened to the horses in the day’s race, and the coke found in the top drawer of a nightstand.
“Something is puzzling.” All eyes were on Truman. “Overall, the guy’s apartment was immaculate. Except for the items mentioned, a dish wasn’t out of place, not even a coffee cup in the sink. The racing tickets were all from yesterday’s event.” He arranged five tickets on the table. “Look at these tickets. Who bets four horses to win in the same race?”
The new information got everyone’s attention. One detective showed where the amounts weren’t the norm either. One ticket was for two dollars, another for twenty dollars, and a few for one hundred dollars. His opinion—someone went to the racetrack, scooped up lost tickets from the floor, and planted them in the apartment.
“That’s not all. The brick in the drawer had no fingerprints. Was the guy cautious and wore gloves? Then stashed it where it could easily be found?” Truman wanted to check into it further before turning things over to the DEA. It looked like a setup. But why?
Chapter 5
Mario picked up Howard at police headquarters and drove to the airport. All Howard knew was that Julie Wong needed to speak to Mario. Her words urgently made him a little uneasy. They discussed Lorenzo’s family money or the cartel’s money. At this point, they weren’t sure who to return the money to or if that was the best move.
Mario had been in touch with Ralph Givens, his con-artist friend turned investment broker. The same business that almost got him twenty years in federal prison. Mario promised he’d never help him again, but this time it was Mario who called on the slimeball for assistance. “I spoke to Ralph. He’s been monitoring the Panama bank, and his contacts say there have been no inquiries regarding Lorenzo’s money gone missing. All twelve million is safe.”
Howard drove and kept glancing at Mario. “We have to make a decision soon. Before one of us is dead, or both. I don’t think your jogger friend was bluffing.”
Mario gave a nod. He’d been asking his underground snitches, but had no leads on her name or description. A hundred-dollar bounty should get results soon.
The limousine parked at General Aviation and waited for Julie Wong’s aircraft to land. The long, sleek body of a Gulfstream jet was seen on approach as it hovered over the lake, as if it was stopped mid-air. Then the thrust of the engine sounded and pushed the plane to a safe landing. It taxied near the limousine. With the engines shut down, a stairway came from within the body of the aircraft and rested on the ground. Julie, dressed perfectly for the New Orleans climate and looking stunning as usual, strolled down the steps like she was walking the red carpet of a Hollywood premiere.
“Gentlemen.” She gave them each a peck on the cheek.
Howard opened the rear door of the limousine. She smiled and suggested they move to the airplane. It was more comfortable, and the crew had lunch ready.
“What’s so important?” Mario spoke, before hitting the top of the steps.
She turned back to them. “This guy, he’s all business—relax.”
In the plane, Julie sat at a table, and Mario and Howard took seats on a sofa large enough for four people, so they stretched out. A flight attendant received their drink orders, two coffees. Another attendant pulled solid mahogany wood trays out of the arms of the sofa. The coffees, in beautiful china teacups with saucers, were placed in front of both men.
Julie had water with lemon in a fancy glass and sat at a table facing the men. She thanked the attendants and asked them to give her some privacy.
A fuel truck pulled up next to the airplane. Much like a car at a gas station, the driver unscrewed a cap on top of the wing and pumped fuel.
Julie placed a briefcase on the table, glanced out the window at the truck. “So, Mario? How have you been?”
Mario took a sip of coffee; he never could hide frustration, and his face had a reddish glow. “Why did you drag me out here?”
She peeked out the window a second time. The man topped off the fuel, screwed the cap tightly, and drove off. “Sorry, the smell of the fuel bothers me.” She popped the two brass locks on the briefcase, opened it wide enough to slip her hand in, and came out with a gun with a silencer attached. “You see, if I fired the gun while fueling, the vapors might have blown us all up.”
Mario and Howard were told to keep their hands away from their pockets. The flight attendant stepped forward and disarmed them both, including the guns and holsters attached to their ankles.
“Julie?” Howard said.
She cut him off. “Hear me out.”
Howard shifted his eyes to the side. Mario picked up on it and glanced at the female attendant. If she got closer, he’d grab her and push her toward the gun. It would give Mario a chance at disarming Julie.
“Relax,” Julie insisted, but kept the gun pointed.
She asked if they knew the name, Roberto Ferrari. They both said they’d heard the name but knew little about the mafia boss of t
he East Coast. He was the boss of bosses. Had men in major cities; one city was New Orleans. Lorenzo Savino had been a self-made man. A member of a crime family with his own crew. Every dollar Lorenzo earned, a piece was kicked up to Mr. Ferrari. “Mario, you killed one of his top earners. Mr. Ferrari is pissed; he wants you dead and hired me for the job. As a witness, I’ll have to kill Howard too.”
She described Mario’s building and his apartment number. He wrinkled his nose at the information she spewed. He’d never talked about his residence with her. Unless Howard did? She kept the gun pointed and stood against the wall. Julie went into details about the man killed at Mario’s building a few days earlier. The information she couldn’t know, unless she was involved. She explained that the killer botched the plan. Got the apartment numbers mixed up and shot the wrong guy, and to cover it up took out his girlfriend.
Mario’s eyes blinked rapidly, glancing at Howard often. His mind raced, reviewing everything he’d ever learned in law enforcement, on the street, and natural instincts about defense when held at gunpoint. But Julie was a professional killer, not some robber trying to steal a wallet.
“Julie, whatever Roberto Ferrari is paying you, we can double.” Howard, talking out of character, was pleading for their lives.
With a cocked head, she asked, “Where would cops get that kind of cash?”
“Doesn’t matter. It can be done.”
“Relax,” Julie smiled. Pointing the gun down, she pulled the clip out and released the bullet in the chamber. “Both of you protected me when I most needed your help. I don’t forget my friends. You’re lucky the first guy messed up, and Mr. Ferrari hired me to finish the job.”
It wasn’t easy for the two powerhouse men who fought gangs and criminals of all types to accept they were nearly taken down by a 110-pound woman.
Julie came around the front of the table. “There is a problem, though. Shortly after I was given the job, it was canceled. I’m told Michael talked his way back into his uncle’s graces.”
“Jesus Christ, Julie!” Howard shouted. “There must have been an easier way to alert us that Ferrari wanted us dead.”
“The threat is real. I got to you—anyone can.”
All Julie could offer was the name Michael Ferrari as the guy who screwed up the hit at Mario’s apartment building. He now had the contract for a second try.
Chapter 6
Truman tagged along with Mario downtown to catch the arraignment for Little Pete Gallo. Other than Angelina “Lina” Savino, who was never charged with a crime, Little Pete was the only remaining Savino family member not in jail.
Mario parked his cruiser across the busy four-lane street just a half block from the courthouse. Mario popped his umbrella as a light rain fell. Truman insisted he’d hoof it and ran ahead. In front of the building, a dark-colored SUV sat in a no parking zone. Mario recognized the personized license plate.
Mario couldn’t resist busting the man’s chops standing outside the vehicle. He pointed out the red painted curb indicating a no parking zone.
A big bruiser of a guy with his arms locked gave Mario a look, unwelcoming. “I’m not parked. I’m waiting.”
Truman met Mario at the top of the massive courthouse steps. A glance back at the brute of a guy showed his intimidation game was in full bloom. “He’s a driver for the Savino family, a first-class asshole, as is his employer.”
In the hallway, Mario and Truman crossed paths with Lina Savino, escorted by a man on each side of her. In her traditional black dress, still mourning the death of her brother-in-law. Her piercing eyes would make most people feel uncomfortable. Mario just smiled.
“You killed Lorenzo and my nephew.” Her expression oozed with hatred.
Mario nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, in self-defense.”
She appeared to want to spit in his face—but didn’t. “I wish your death to come as brutal as Lorenzo’s.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a wish—and hopefully will come true.” The doors were held open by her escort, and they took a seat up front in the chamber.
Mario and Truman stood in the back of the courtroom. The judge, now seated, read through notes. On the left was Gilbert James, the district attorney, showing support for the legal representation for the prosecution. On the right was the defendant, Pete Gallo, and his attorney, Gustavo Martino. Half the law firm was present. Gustavo always believed in showing force in numbers.
The judge asked the lawyers to approach the bench. They chatted, then the judge announced a recess, and the two attorneys joined the judge in his chambers.
The room broke into rumbling with the absence of the judge and counsel. The judge had just taken his seat, looked through some notes, and took a recess; it was highly unusual.
Pete Gallo turned back to his aunt and gave a grin. Mario observed Little Pete looked way too confident. “This asshole cut a deal.” Truman agreed.
The judge returned to the bench, and the attorneys went to their positions at the tables. It was hard to tell which attorney was happy with the meeting or tongue lashing the judge might have performed on one of them.
The judge spoke with somewhat of a disgusted look on his face. Judges rarely showed emotions, but he did. “Both parties agree to the terms of the plea?”
The attorneys responded, “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge hesitated, flipped over some papers, and closed a file folder. “The court agrees to the terms. No time served. Mr. Gallo, you’re free to go.” He slammed his gavel down. “Case dismissed.”
After the celebration with his attorneys, Little Pete gave a wink of his eye and a pleasurable smile Mario’s way.
“I’d like to put a bullet between his eyes,” Mario mumbled.
Truman gave a side glance and pretended he didn’t hear the threat.
Pete Gallo walked out of court a free man with only a slap on the wrist. Despite his connection to Lorenzo Savino, his criminal record, and day-to-day involvement in the family drug business.
Mario flipped Truman the keys and asked him to get the car. “I’ll meet you out front. Take the umbrella too.”
Mario interrupted District Attorney Gilbert James, who appeared to be satisfied with the results of the judge’s decision. “We keep catching bad guys, and your office cut deals?”
“Easy, detective.” Gilbert packed up his folders into a leather briefcase. “Maybe if you hadn’t killed Lorenzo and his banker, we’d have the leverage to lock them all up.”
“Bullshit, his hotshot team of attorneys would have gotten them off.” Mario was pushing the DA as far as he could without retaliation of a phone call to the chief. “I sleep better with Lorenzo dead and, who knows, on a sunny day, Pete might get hit by a lightning bolt.”
Mario got out front in time to view Gustavo Martino grandstanding on the courthouse steps to the press. Lina and Pete stood proudly behind Gustavo, as he bolstered his client’s innocence. Explaining the prosecutor encouraged a deal because it was a case he couldn’t win. A settlement saved the DA’s office the embarrassment of another loss. The Lorenzo family agreed so they could move on with their lives. His grandstanding ended, and the Savinos departed for their waiting car.
Mario caught up with Lina and pulled Pete by the arm. “This is far from over.”
Lina rattled off something in Italian. “Otterrai il tuo.”
Pete smiled. “She said you’ll get yours.”
“You’re threatening me? You’re threatening a police officer?” Mario shouted as the car pulled from the curb. He took a deep breath. Slowly turned to see how many people saw and heard him act out. Luckily, reporters were busy on camera, making sure they’d get their lead story on film from the courthouse steps.
Mario spotted his car. Truman stopped at the corner for the traffic light, then slowly pulled forward when the light turned green. At the intersection of Broad and Tulane Avenues, Mario’s unmarked police car blew up with Truman inside. The sound of the explosion turned heads,
and people screamed as flames shot fifty feet into the air. Cameras turned toward the tragedy. Mario rushed to the corner, although no one could get within thirty feet of the intense fire. Sirens were heard; help was on the way. Nothing could help Truman; he’d died a horrible death.
Chapter 7
The Central Business District fire station was half a mile from the courthouse. First to arrive were two fire trucks, and they foamed the street and had the fire under control quickly. Sirens were heard from a block away heading toward a horrific scene. The loud sounds of a deep horn blowing announced the arrival of the SWAT team as the bomb squad trucks drove up Broad Avenue and blocked the intersection.
News cameras on top of trucks tried to get the best view of the charred vehicle and possibly Truman’s crisp body. Nothing made people tune into the nightly news more than a catastrophe, and reports gained bonuses for the best repulsive film coverage.
Barricades were set up one square block from the scene, then police crime scene tape was placed across the entire intersection.
The yellow tape was lifted for Chief Gretchen Parks’s vehicle to come through. She parked a distance away, not to taint evidence. Mario rushed to her and explained it was Truman in the car. She ordered a full tent covering the crime scene to block any visual to the public. Things moved quickly, and within minutes, the only thing the cameras could record was the white tent and a crowd of thrill seekers.
“Did he hit something? Another car, a light pole, anything to make the car blow?” Chief Parks wanted the answer to be a massive auto accident and not a murder for hire on one of her detectives.
“No, chief. I saw it from the courthouse steps. The car blew up in the middle of the intersection.” Mario bowed his head. “It was a bomb, and it was meant for me.” He tried to hide his emotions, but the robust cop’s legs were shaky. He took a seat on the curb; with tears in his eyes, he promised, “Chief, I’ll get them all. Every last person who had a hand in this.”
The chief, overcome with sorrow, could barely get the words out. “Get them in custody. The system will put them on death row.”
Street Justice Page 2