Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6)

by Theodore Jerome Cohen

  “I’ll say. Makes it easy to duck around the corner. Once we get to Amanda’s, we’ll back into the motel parking lot from the rear and find a space where we have a clear view of Amada’s room.”

  “Back in?” asked O’Keeffe, surprised.

  “Yeah, it’s an old trick I learned from my dad. I used it a lot at the Westbury Drive-in Theater on Brush Hollow Road in Nassau County when Steph and I were dating in high school. I’d pull up to the theater exit, and then, after the movie had started, I’d turn off my lights and slowly back my dad’s car into the theater. Sometimes the lot attendant would catch us and come running, yelling and waving his flashlight. When that happened, I’d just put the car in Drive and gun it, spitting gravel all over the place. Most of the time, however, if I drove very slowly and took my time, the attendants paid no attention, thinking someone was leaving. And after we had backed in far enough, I’d turn into the lot, pull up to a stand, and grab a speaker to hang on the window . . . not that we had any interest in watching the movie, mind you.”

  “You truly belonged in Sing Sing, Martelli. Why your father ever bothered to save your ass is beyond me. Between running numbers for the mob, picking pockets on the subway, and all the other things you did in high school, I’m surprised the mayor signed off on your application to become a detective.”

  “His Honor knows quality when he sees it, my friend.”

  “You are so full of it! I don’t know how Stephanie even puts up with you.”

  Sixty-four

  AsMartelli had surmised, it was Matt ‘Tiny’ Farmer and another of Lupinacci’s henchmen who drove to Martelli’s and O’Keeffe’s motel at 2 AM Monday morning. Farmer had all but begged Lupinacci to be the one to ‘off’ the two detectives. “We owe them for what they did to Larry and me that night in Horsefeathers, boss. It’ll be a pleasure to waste them!” Tiny had said when he talked with Lupinacci the previous day.

  “Well, don’t fuck this up like you did the job last week, or I’ll send you to the same landfill your friend Gianotti’s headed for!”

  Farmer and the man with him knew all too well what he was talking about. Word of Gianotti’s execution in Lupinacci’s office early Sunday morning had spread rapidly among the members of Tommie Lupinacci’s ‘family.’ Even his father, Jimmie, would have been proud the way his son handled things. For Tommie Lupinacci’s part, he considered it just a part of doing business. Gianotti had failed him on an assignment of the highest importance. Now he could not be trusted. More important, knowing what he did, he could not be turned out. Besides, killing him sent a message to others. ‘Perform or die.’ It was that simple. To Tommie Lupinacci, killing Gianotti not only was a part of doing business, it was good for business.

  “We’ll wait a few hours until the truck traffic picks up,” Tiny reasoned out loud. “Many of the drivers use their engines to brake on the hill coming into this valley from the ridge above. I figure around 4 AM or so, we’ll start to hear some 18-wheelers slowing down, and their backfires will give us the cover we need to plug those two assholes in their sleep. Meantime, keep a watch and wake me in an hour.”

  The Gorilla put his head against the driver’s side window, closed his eyes, and slept while his partner kept watch on Martelli’s and O’Keeffe’s rooms. An hour later, after waking him, Tiny’s partner napped for an hour. Just as Tiny had surmised, around 4 AM a large, heavily laden tractor-trailer rolled down the hill behind them, its engine backfiring as the driver, beginning his descent into the valley where the motel was located, used it to brake the big rig.

  “Let’s get going,” said Tiny.

  The men got out of their car, and with weapons drawn, each pistol fitted with a suppressor, made their way to the detectives’ rooms. Using master keys obtained through Lupinacci’s connections, the men were able to open the doors to both rooms. There they stood, guns aimed at what appeared to be two sleeping bodies, until they heard a truck descending into the valley, and as the truck’s engine started to backfire, emptied their weapons into the beds in front of them. Then they closed the doors, walked to their cars, and called Lupinacci.

  “It’s taken care of, boss. There’re more holes in them than a Swiss cheese.”

  “Good. Now get out of town. Fast. Lay low for a couple of weeks or so. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Tiny ended the call. “We need to get outta here,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car in Drive.

  Sixty-five

  By 1:30 AM, Martelli had deftly backed their rental car, lights out, from the rear entrance to Amanda’s motel into a parking space in the corner of that motel’s front parking lot. There, tucked back among some large bushes and hidden by the overhanging branches of an large weeping willow, their dark-colored car was virtually impossible to see, given the poor lighting provided there by the motel’s management. This vantage point gave them a clear view of Whitman’s room, some 300 feet to their right. The room was dark, though her rental car was parked in front of the door. “She must be sleeping,” said Martelli.

  “Looks that way, Lou.”

  The room to the right of Whitman’s appeared occupied. The flickering light from a TV set could be seen through the thin drapes, and a car was parked in front of the room’s door. The room to the left of Whitman’s was dark, and its allotted parking space was empty.

  “Open your window, Sean. We’re going to need more than our eyes tonight.” The air, still warm from the day’s heat, had the sweet smell of newly mown grass. Frogs could be heard croaking in the bog to their left, the waters of which fed the massive willow under which they had parked. Now and then the annoying sound of a mosquito could be heard. “Damn,” whispered O’Keeffe, as he slapped his left arm, killing the insect that had just bitten him. A soft breeze blew through the car, and the chirping of crickets could be heard.

  Neither man spoke for several minutes until Martelli broke the silence. “Thirty,” he whispered.

  “Thirty what?”

  “Thirty chirps in 14 seconds.”

  “Ooookay,” responded O’Keeffe. “I’m afraid you have me at an advantage.”

  “Rob once did a science project in which he determined the relationship between the number of cricket chirps in 14 seconds and the air temperature. I just counted one cricket that chirped 30 times in 14 seconds.”

  “So, what’s the temperature?”

  “Beats the shit outta me. I can’t remember the formula he came up with. But the teacher said he did a terrific job and gave him an A-plus. You do know, of course, where he gets his smarts, Sean.”

  “Sure. Stephanie.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The men laughed.

  “We probably should take turns getting a little shuteye,” said Martelli. “It could be a long night.”

  “I agree. Why don’t you grab 40 winks. I’ll wake you at midnight. We can alternate on the hour.”

  “That’s okay with me.” Martelli took a sip of water, reclined his seat, and folding his hands in front of him, rapidly dozed off. O’Keeffe, meanwhile, remained laser-focused on the area to the front of Whitman’s room. Unbeknownst to both was the fact that more than 200 feet to their right was a dark sedan parked facing out in which slept three men. Vanni Ragosta was at the wheel. To his right sat Enrico Bussato. And behind the driver was their boss, mobster Tommie Lupinacci.

  The time was 4:09 AM when Tommie Lupinacci was awakened by the sound of his cell phone ringing. “Lupinacci,” he answered. The other men stirred, sat up, and rubbed their eyes. Ragosta took a sip of water and passed the bottle to Bussato.

  “It’s taken care of, boss. There’re more holes in them than Swiss cheese.”

  “Good. Now get out of town. Fast. Lay low for a couple of weeks or so. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Lupinacci ended the call and put his phone in his pocket. “Okay, Vanni, get the bottles.”

  Bussato opened the passenger-side door and went
to the trunk, which Ragosta had already popped for him. From it he took two large beverage bottles with screw-on tops that had been filled with gasoline. Opening both, he used one to carefully soak two cloth wicks which he fitted into the necks of the bottles. Then, closing the trunk quietly, he returned to the car and took his seat.

  “Okay, are we clear how this is going to go down?” asked Lupinacci.

  The men nodded. “Yes,” said Vanni. “Enrico and I’ll smoke her out so you’ll have a clean shot at her. We’ll be outta here before anyone knows what happened.”

  “Okay, let’s go. Nice and slow. No headlights.”

  Ragosta started the engine and slowly pulled the care out from their parking space, turning to the right as he did and driving toward Whitman’s room. When they had come abreast of the room, Ragosta stopped and put the car in Park, leaving the engine running. Then, taking one of the Molotov cocktails, he waited while Enrico lit both. Everything was in readiness.

  Bursting from their car, Ragosta and Bussato ran to within a few feet of Whitman’s room and threw the Molotov cocktails through her room’s plate glass window. Instantly the room erupted in flames.

  Whitman, crawling to the door on her hands and knees, opened it cautiously. Having no option but to flee the room, a room that was rapidly being engulfed in flames as the curtains, carpeting, and bedding fed the fire, she first crouched and then sprang forward across the threshold, firing her service pistol to provide cover as she ran to her right. Tommie Lupinacci was waiting, his pistol drawn. Leaning across the trunk of the car and firing at Whitman from a position hidden in semi-darkness, he felled the agent with two shots to her thigh, leaving her disabled and bleeding from the left femoral artery. When he finally stopped firing, Whitman lay semi-conscious on the sidewalk only feet from the flames that now had begun to engulf the building behind her.

  The movement of Lupinacci’s car had not gone unnoticed. “Sean, wake up!” whispered Martelli, urgently.

  O’Keeffe awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes, and looking at his partner, asked “What is it?”

  “A car just pulled out down the lot from us. I didn’t see anyone walk to it. Take a look . . . it’s approaching Amanda’s room now.”

  Martelli was just about to put his hand on the ignition key when he and O’Keeffe saw three men suddenly emerge from the vehicle. The one from the passenger side ran around the front to where the driver was standing and lit what appeared to be a butane lighter. Instantly, two wicks flared, illuminating the bottles to which they were attached. “Jesus, Lou, they’re Molotov—”

  Before O’Keeffe could finish the sentence, the two men threw the bottles through the plate glass window of Whitman’s motel room, sending it up in flames.

  Martelli turned the ignition and sped to the scene. Meanwhile, he could see Whitman spring from the door, firing at her attackers as Lupinacci fired on her.

  “Lou, they cut her down, those bastards!” cried O’Keeffe

  O’Keeffe leaned out the passenger-side window and fired two rounds at Whitman’s attackers, neither of which found its mark. But they were enough to send the men into retreat. Ragosta jumped behind the steering wheel and started to pull forward while calling to Lupinacci and Bussato to get in. “Come on, come on, we gotta get out of here.”

  Lupinacci ran alongside the slow-moving vehicle, opened the driver-side back door, and jumped in behind Ragosta. Bussato, however, was forced to run around the back of the car, which already had pulled away from him. He caught up with the car when Ragosta slowed a little for him, and though he was able to get the front passenger door open, all he could do was run with the vehicle by holding onto the door frame with his left hand and the door with his right.

  “Come on, Enrico, goddammit, jump in already!” yelled Ragosta. But the man, who was barely able to keep up with car much less jump in, was rapidly running out of breath.

  By now Martelli had drawn abreast of where the threesome had firebombed Whitman’s room and braked to a stop. Jumping onto the pavement while Martelli stayed behind the wheel, O’Keeffe got down on one knee and, using a two-hand grip to steady his weapon, emptied the remainder of his clip into Bussato. A withering storm of hollow-point rounds found their mark in Bussato’s back and shoulders, sending the man tumbling head over heels until he landed face down on the pavement, his limbs splayed in every direction like those of a rag doll that had been tossed aside by a child.

  Ragosta and Lupinacci did not wait to learn Bussato’s fate. Gunning the engine, Ragosta tore out of the motel parking lot and raced down the highway at speeds in excess of 90 miles per hour.

  “Help Amanda, Sean,” Martelli cried. “I’m going after them.” With that he put the accelerator to the floor and raced after Ragosta and Lupinacci.

  O’Keeffe ran to where Whitman had fallen and dragged her away from the building, which now was engulfed in flames. Other guests, alerted by the gunshots and the motel’s fire alarm system, fled the building. One guest ran to where O’Keeffe was bending over Whitman and helped him carry her to the grass on the other side of the parking lot.

  Sirens could be heard as O’Keeffe quickly determined the extent of Whitman’s injuries. From the quantity of blood she was losing, he knew an artery had been severed. Tearing off his shirt and using it as a makeshift bandage, he applied intense pressure with the palm of his hand to what appeared to be two closely spaced wounds. He also directed two men to keep her leg elevated so as to slow the loss of blood. Then, using his left hand to keep pressure on her leg, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

  “911 Operator, what is your emergency?”

  “This is Detective Sean O’Keeffe of the New York Police Department. There’s been a shooting at the Sunrise Motel. A federal officer is down. We need a bus now!”

  “A bus?” asked the part-time emergency operator. “You need a bus?”

  Oh my God, thought O’Keeffe. “I need an ambulance! AN AMBULANCE! Now! A woman is dying.”

  “I’m dispatching an ambulance to the Sunrise Motel as we speak, sir. And please, try to remain calm.”

  Sixty-six

  Ofthe two drivers, Martelli was by far the more skilled. While Ragosta did indeed have a head start on the detective, he lost valuable seconds when Lupinacci, having been tossed around in the back seat, demanded Ragosta stop and let him climb into the front where he felt more secure. Now, Martelli was gaining on the pair, his big-engined Chevy pushed to the limit as it hit speeds exceeding 100 miles per hour.

  Ahead lay a series of sharp turns. Here, Martelli had the advantage because he had the ability to gauge the severity of the curves by watching how Ragosta handled them . . . where he braked, where he accelerated. From what Martelli saw, the mobster was having great difficulty controlling his vehicle. Indeed, the automobile’s steering characteristics caused it to plow straight on the curves, and from Martelli’s vantage point, Ragosta’s attempts to correct this problem only caused his vehicle to fishtail.

  The mobster managed to navigate through the first two turns, though not without problems and the loss of precious seconds. But on the third turn, Ragosta lost control of his car. It plowed off the road, flew across a culvert, and came to a stop in dense underbrush at the edge of a forest.

  Martelli, still some distance behind, saw the occupants get out and run into the forest. Seconds later, when he pulled to the shoulder, he checked his weapon and gave pursuit.

  He had not gone more than 200 feet into the trees when a shot rang out, the slug splintering the bark of the tree next to where he stood.

  Martelli stopped and listened. He heard nothing. Eyeing a large stone at his feet, he picked it up and hurled it 20 feet to his right. Immediately he saw a man step out from behind a tree 50 feet in front of him and shoot in the direction of where the rock landed.

  Working his way carefully around to the left and then forward, he found another rock, and hurled it to where the first rock had landed. Again the man stepped out and fired where he thought the pe
rson pursuing him was.

  “Put your weapon down and your hands in the air!” yelled Martelli, his 9mm service weapon aimed at the man.

  Ragosta, startled, turned, dropped his weapon, and raised his hands. But as Martelli came closer, holstered his weapon, and was about to handcuff him, Ragosta put his head down and tackled the detective to the ground. Martelli, much the stronger from his early morning workouts in the gym, rapidly subdued his attacker, but not without suffering a torn shirt. Handcuffing Ragosta, he was about to march him back to the road and call for backup when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Stop where you are and turn around.”

  It was Lupinacci.

  “Get these cuffs off me, boss,” yelled Ragosta.

  “All in due time, Vanni. First, I want to deal with this person, whoever he is. He’s caused me a lot of trouble, interrupting our little party back at the motel, the way he did. Maybe he’s even the one who’s been taking customers away from us in Lancaster. And to make things more interesting, it looks like he’s a cop!”

  Vanni had a surprised look on his face. “A cop? Waddaya talking about, boss?”

  “Look at the medallion hanging from his neck, the one with the bullet hole in it. It looks like a cop’s shield. Is that what it is, friend?”

  Need to stall while I think, thought Martelli.

  “It’s just a St. Michael’s pendant. I’m Catholic.”

  “Nice try. To me it looks like a St. Michael’s shield pendant. Correct me if I’m wrong,” Lupinacci said smugly, “but isn’t Saint Michael the Archangel the patron saint of police officers?”

  “Could be,” said Martell. “My wife gave me this as a gift. You’ll have to ask her.”

  Lupinacci smiled. “Well I’m afraid that won’t be possible, will it? What a pity. I can see your obituary now. ‘The officer leaves behind a wife and’ . . . any children, officer?”

  Martelli did not respond.

  “So, Vanni, we have to ask ourselves, what are the chances a cop just happened to be sitting with his partner—that was your partner who shot Enrico, wasn’t it?—in front of the Sunrise Motel, just a few hundred feet from the room of the woman who runs US Trash. Who did she really work for? The feds? Was this whole thing another set-up by that bitch Davis who fucked me over on those cigarette jobs?” He spat on the ground.