by J. L. Abramo
“That’s good to hear.”
“I need to check on the stakeout up the street,” says Murphy, pulling out his cellular phone.
“Well?” says Rosen, after Murphy makes the call.
“Nothing doing. They’re not going anywhere until the suspect or their relief shows up. They’ll call if they need us. I guess we can hit the sack for a while. Where do you live?”
“Aren’t you rushing things just a little, Detective?”
“I meant that we can take off, I can give you a ride home,” Murphy stammers.
He’s blushing, she thinks.
“My car is back at your Precinct,” she says.
“Okay, then, I can give you a ride to your car,” he says, rising quickly and grabbing the guest check from the table. “Mind if I take care of this?”
“Go ahead. I get it next time.”
Tony Territo parks his BMW behind Stevie’s Jaguar on Avenue T.
He spots Stevie standing near the corner.
“Where is he?” Tony asks, walking up to his cousin.
“About halfway down the block, on this side. He’s just sitting there in his car.”
“Okay, thanks Steve. I owe you one. Get going, I’ll take it from here.”
“Be careful, Tony.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m a survivor.”
“So,” says Murphy, letting Rosen out at her car.
“So,” says Rosen.
“Drive safely.”
“You do the same.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you then,” Rosen says, as she climbs in behind the wheel.
Murphy watches her pull away.
And he’s feeling pretty good for a minute or two.
And then he remembers his brother.
Bobby Hoyle rises shakily from the bar stool at the High Times.
“I’ve had enough, Pete,” he says to the bartender. “Have a good night.”
“Are you going to be alright getting home?”
“I’m walking.”
“I know that,” says Pete, laughing kindly. “That’s why I asked.”
Bobby Hoyle staggers out to the street and stumbles the half block to 12th. As he walks toward his house, he sees a man walking toward him.
Bobby squints, but he can’t focus, he can’t seem to recognize the man’s face. He waves and calls hello, in case it’s someone he knows. As the man gets closer, he raises his arm and points it in Bobby’s direction.
There is something in the man’s hand that Bobby can’t make out.
Bobby continues to walk toward the man, wearing a stupid smile.
Suddenly a voice from behind the man stops him.
“Sonny,” the voice says.
Sonny Colletti begins to turn as the bullet rips into his shoulder, spinning him around to face the shooter.
Two more shots silently tear into Sonny’s chest and Colletti’s gun drops loudly to the ground.
Sonny’s body collapses to the pavement beside it.
Tony Territo steps up to the body and puts another one into Colletti’s head for good measure.
Territo turns and moves quickly back to his car.
Bobby finally finds his tongue and begins yelling for help.
Porch lights come on up and down the street.
Territo’s car races away up Avenue T.
Bobby Hoyle stands frozen in his shoes as the first of the neighbors begin circling the body.
And the first police siren shouts out its approach.
And Detective Murphy has something to take his mind off his brother Michael again.
For a while.
The telephone rudely wakes Sammy Leone at one in the morning.
“Sammy, Sonny is dead,” says Richie Colletti.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” asks Leone, shaking off sleep.
“He was shot, in Gravesend. It looks like he was there to take out the Hoyle kid.”
“The Hoyle kid shot Sonny?”
“We don’t know, the cops aren’t saying much yet.”
“What the fuck was Sonny thinking?”
“He was probably thinking about making points with the old man,” says Richie. “My father is going nuts. He wants you over here at the house. Now.”
“Try to calm him down, Richie, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Leone quickly throws on clothing, rushes down to his car and climbs behind the wheel. Before he can start the engine, the silencer is pressed against his head.
“Put your hands on the dashboard and rest your head against the steering wheel, Sammy. Don’t fuck around.”
“Territo?”
“Do it, Sammy.”
Leone complies.
“You’re a dead man, Tony.”
“Not yet, Sammy. Shut up and listen. I’m guessing you heard about Sonny. I know that you were with him when he murdered my daughter,” says Territo, playing his hunch. “I want to know whose decision it was. Tell me if Dominic ordered it.”
“You’re out of your mind, we were only there to fuck up your car, the girl was already down. The old man doesn’t even know about your daughter yet.”
“It’s a sin to tell a lie, Sammy. You might want to think about confession before it’s too late.”
“I’m telling you that you’re wrong, Tony, and you’re finished. When Colletti finds out that you killed his son you won’t last ten minutes.”
“How would he find out, Sammy?”
“I’m going to tell him, you fucking maniac, and I’m going to love breaking the news to him.”
“Wrong answer, Sammy.”
And then Territo puts a bullet into the back of Sammy Leone’s head and climbs out of the back seat of the car.
Gabriel Caine takes a taxi from the airport.
The cab drops him in front of the large ranch house in suburban Tampa.
The house is dark.
He walks up to the door, a suitcase in one hand, the black cloth-covered book in the other.
He looks like a door-to-door Bible salesman, out way past bedtime.
He rings the doorbell.
A man answers the door.
“Gabriel?” says his father-in-law.
“I want to see my wife and daughter,” Gabriel says, in a voice without inflection.
“Karen didn’t tell us that you were coming. It’s very late.”
“I want to see my wife and daughter,” Caine repeats.
“Come in,” is all the man says.
Gabriel follows him into the dark house.
TWENTY THREE
All the well-thought-out strategy of the previous afternoon was unnecessary by Tuesday morning.
All they could really do now was to wait. Wait for Gabriel Caine to turn up. Wait for Victor Sanders to turn up. Wait for a search warrant.
There were surveillance teams stationed at Caine’s address around the clock. Front and back. In six-hour shifts. Officers in plain clothes and unmarked cars from four neighboring precincts.
There were also cars at Victor Sanders apartment in Sunset Park and outside of his mother’s house on East 3rd Street in Gravesend. And word on the street, using Stump and other police informants and assorted shady characters, that Sanders could expect a sweet deal in his impending drug trial if he showed his face.
All they could do was wait.
Samson walks into the Precinct at eight.
“Good morning, Washington,” says Samson, coming up to the front desk. “Kelly finally get a day off?”
“Yes, and just in time the lucky bastard. The shit hit the fan.”
“What happened?”
“You’ll get it quicker if Murphy fills you in. He’s up in the squad room,” says the desk sergeant. “He’s been here all night.”
Samson takes the stairs three at a time.
“Damn,” says Samson, “that’s all we need right now is a fucking mob war.”
“It’s fucking pandemonium, Sam. It looks like Sonny Collett
i was about to put one into Bobby Hoyle and someone came along and saved the kid’s skin,” says Murphy. “A few hours later they find Sammy Leone in his car, his brains all over the dashboard. Ballistics says it was the same gun that killed Sonny.”
“Speaking of ballistic, Dominic Colletti is going to go insane,” says Samson. “I want someone on Colletti and his other son twenty-four-seven.”
“It’s taken care of,” says Murphy, “and Landis is on his way to speak with Bobby Hoyle. The kid was a basket case last night, not to mention falling-down drunk. Maybe he’ll make a little more sense this morning. Landis has a couple of uniforms along to talk with neighbors.”
“Damn. Fucking Italians.”
“C’mon, Sam, they’re not all bad.”
“Go home and get some sleep.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” says Murphy, struggling out of his chair.
“And Tommy.”
“Yes, Sam.”
“You could have called me.”
“Yes, Sam, I could have.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Gabriel, you look terrible,” says his wife.
“I’m fine.”
“You are far from fine. Listen. My father can cover for me at the office for a few hours, and Mom can watch the baby. Let’s go out and have breakfast somewhere. We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I just wanted to see you and the girl again. To see you and Beth. I can’t stay long. I have something I need to do.”
“Is it a job?” she asks.
“Yes. Work.”
“That’s great. Let’s go for breakfast, you can tell me about it.”
“We’ll take Beth. I want to be with her while I can.”
Shortly after Murphy leaves, Samson’s phone rings.
Sergeant Washington from down at the front desk.
“I hope this is good news,” says Samson.
“Does word that there are two FBI Agents down here looking for you qualify?”
“Not exactly.”
“Should I send them up?”
“As opposed to what, shooting them?”
“I’ll send them up,” says Washington.
Murphy lets himself in to his mother’s house. Ralph almost knocks him to the floor in the doorway.
“Careful, pal, you might wake me up,” says Murphy. “I can see you’ve been eating well.”
“Is that you, Michael?” his mother calls from the back of the house.
“It’s Tommy, Mom. Thanks for babysitting Ralph.”
Where the fuck are you, Mike.
“Anytime, son, I enjoy the company,” she says when Murphy walks into the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
“No, Mom, but I could really use a few hours’ sleep.”
“Use the bed in your old room. The sheets are clean.”
“Wake me at noon, Mom. Or if you hear from Mike.”
Samson has filled the FBI Agents in on the details of the two murders, particularly their obvious similarities.
He has also run down the evidence, particularly the biblical references, and summarized what he and his team believe it reveals about the killer’s motivation.
“We’re almost positive that we have the perpetrator identified,” Samson says. “Gabriel Caine, lives close to where we found the second victim. We’re waiting for Caine to surface, and working on a warrant to search his place.”
“He loses a child, and he takes children in return,” says Ripley. “Do you have children, Lieutenant?”
“A teenage son and two daughters, eight and five.”
“I have two boys, just about the same ages as your girls. And the Caine and Ventura boys?”
“Caine’s son was five years old and Billy Ventura was eight,” says Samson, considering the fact for the hundredth time.
“How horrible,” says Winona Stone.
“Do you mind if I ask how you heard about the Ventura and Addams boys?” asks Samson.
“Does it really matter?” asks Ripley.
“I guess not,” says Samson.
“Have you determined who Caine’s next target might be?” asks Agent Stone.
“We believe the Bowers woman who turned him away that night is safe. Caine’s visit to her home may have convinced him that she had pardonable reason, and she has no children. We’re keeping an eye on the house.”
“You said that Gabriel Caine never reported a two-car accident,” says Stone, “that he never reported being hit by another driver.”
“Right. But as I also said, we have reason to believe that there was another vehicle involved.”
“If there was a second vehicle, then the other driver obviously didn’t stick around to help Caine and the boy,” says Agent Stone, “and never reported the accident either. Why not?”
“There are lots of reasons why people fail to report accidents, especially if they’re responsible,” says Samson, “and unfortunately there are people who walk away.”
“I’d say that would make the other driver guilty of a hit-and-run, and would put him or her right at the very top of Caine’s get-even list.”
“That would suggest that he could identify the other driver. And that’s what has been bothering me most,” says Samson. “Why didn’t Gabriel Caine report a second vehicle if there was one, particularly if we are assuming he could have identified the other driver to the police?”
“I think that Gabriel Caine decided very early on that what happened out there that night was not a matter for the police,” says Ripley. “That he chose early on to place the matter into other hands.”
“That may be true. And if it is, it’s a very scary thought. But it doesn’t help us much,” says Samson. “I don’t imagine someone is going to come forward this late and admit to leaving the scene of an accident.”
“You’ve done a very good job of keeping the connection between these deaths out of the news,” says Ripley, “and I certainly understand why you would choose to. But there are times when we can use the media to our advantage, and times when it’s necessary. If there was another vehicle, and if you can get the driver to come forward…”
“We may be protecting a child’s life,” says Samson, completing the thought.
Just as his phone rings.
“Detective Chen is on the line for you, Lieutenant,” says Washington. “He needs you over at St. Anselm’s Church in Bay Ridge, right away. Something about another manila envelope.”
“Tell Chen that I’m on the way. Ask him to try getting Father Donovan over there, with his Bible.”
Samson grabs his coat and looks at the two agents.
“Do you have some time to kill?” he asks.
“Sure,” says Ripley.
“Let’s go,” says Samson.
Samson stops at the front desk on the way out.
“If Landis calls, or anything comes in on the Colletti shootings, get in touch with Murphy,” Samson tells the desk sergeant.
Ripley and Stone hurry out to the street after Samson.
“We’ll take our car, Lieutenant,” says Ripley. “We’ll be right behind you.”
“Did I hear him say Colletti shootings?” asks Stone as they follow.
“Yes you did,” says Ripley, “but I think it might be best to wait a while before we bring it up.”
Dominic Colletti is pacing the room like a wounded tiger. He has not stood still since identifying his son’s body hours earlier. Richie Colletti has just taken a phone call and approaches his father cautiously.
“Was that Sammy? Where the fuck is he?”
“Sammy is dead, Pop. He was shot in his car outside his place. Executed.”
The old tiger is speechless.
“Who’s doing this, Pop?”
The old man can hear the fear in his son’s voice.
“I don’t know. Puerto Ricans, the fucking Russians,” says Dominic. “Sammy pushed a lot of people around.”
“But why Sonny? And why d
id you send Sonny after the Hoyle kid?”
“I never sent Sonny there,” yells Dominic. “Sammy was going to take care of Bobby Hoyle himself. Sonny went on his own, God knows why.”
To fucking impress you, Richie thinks but won’t say.
“What if it was Tony Territo?” asks Richie.
“What are you talking about?”
“What if someone saw Sonny and Sammy that night, when you sent them to trash Tony’s car?” asks Richie. “What if Territo thinks we had something to do with what happened to his daughter?”
“Sonny was a made man. Even if Territo is insane enough to believe we’d hurt the girl, he knows if he hit Sonny he would have to deal with us and with John Giambi.”
“If Tony Territo thinks that we had something to do with his daughter’s death, he’s not going to give a fuck about dealing with Giambi,” says Richie. “And nothing is going to stop him from coming after us.”
“Find his father. Now. Find Vincent Territo.”
Samson, Ripley and Stone find them all in the rectory office. Chen, Father Donovan, and Father Santini, pastor of St. Anselm’s.
Samson carries his black evidence case.
The manila envelope lies face down on the desk.
The plastic bag holding the finger lies on the floor near the desk.
Chen and the two priests stand looking down at the bag as if it had teeth.
“I didn’t touch anything,” says Chen.
“I can see that,” says Samson.
The lieutenant pulls out a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag and hands them to Agent Stone.
“Would you mind?” he asks.
“No. Not at all,” says Stone, moving to retrieve the finger.
Samson slips on a pair of latex gloves and crosses to the desk. He turns the envelope face up. It is addressed to Father Santini, in blue crayon, canceled postage in the upper right corner. Before he gets to the contents, Samson notices the writing in the upper left-hand corner.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Samson says, forgetting for a moment that there are two priests in the room, “there’s a return address.”