by Susan Fleet
Tommy opened the door and Orazio stepped inside. The aroma of garlic and hot red peppers filled the air, and voices floated through the arched doorway of the dining room to his left. Beside the doorway, a huge fish tank in the foyer held brilliantly colored tropical fish languidly swimming in the water.
To his right, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, Killjoy stood behind the take-out counter, his face expressing confidence and arrogant disdain. His eyes flicked to Tommy and back to Orazio. “Come in the back room. We do our business there.”
“No,” Orazio said. “Tell your father we do the deal out here. Your customers in the dining room will see and hear nothing. Unless, of course, you try to screw us.”
Killjoy frowned. “Wait here. I will speak to my father.” Moving to his right behind the counter, he went to a door in the rear wall. Orazio saw no sign of a weapon, no suspicious bulge under his shirt. Killjoy opened the door and disappeared.
Orazio said in Italian, “If they insist that we go in the back room, stay alert. Be ready to shoot.”
Tommy took a Beretta M9 .22LR out of his jacket and held it against his right thigh, out of sight.
The door of the back room opened. Killjoy came out first, followed by his father and two other men, small in stature but with menacing eyes and aggressive postures. Both had semiautomatics in their hands.
The father, a small man with short gray hair, displayed no weapon, but his eyes were cold. “Not do business out here. Come in back so I can examine your jewelry.”
Orazio knew what this meant. The gooks were going to screw them. Or so they thought.
In Italian he said to Tommy, “Let us see what they say. I will be right behind you.”
He waited as Tommy followed the father and the two armed men into the back room. Killjoy held the door open, waiting for him.
“Want to see the rest of the jewelry?” Orazio said. “I'm sure you will be impressed.”
Relaxed and confident, Killjoy said, “Sure.”
With a swiftness that belied his size, Orazio put a choke-hold on him with his left arm. The punk weighed no more than a flea, stinking of hair gel, gasping for air, flailing his arms and legs. Clamping him against his chest so his feet could not touch the floor, Orazio muscled him through the door into the back room and assessed the scene with one glance. A refrigerator-freezer on one wall, cartons of canned food stacked against the others. To his left a table with butt-filled ashtrays stood near a door marked “Kitchen.”
Ahead of him, the father stood beside the two armed men. No one else. Excellent. Three against two.
Ten feet to his right, Tommy raised his Beretta.
A sudden stillness came over the room.
The only sound came from Killjoy, gagging, clawing at his arm with both hands. Orazio tightened his grip, his left forearm pressed against the punk's throat.
The father stared at him, his eyes burning with hatred. The two armed men held their fire and looked to the father for guidance.
More gagging sounds from Killjoy as he clawed at Orazio's forearm. In Italian, he murmured to Tommy, “Be ready.”
To the father, he said in English, “You value your son's life?”
“Let him go or my men will kill you,” the father said.
“Shoot me and your boy is dead. You made a mistake. You intended to take the jewelry and pay us nothing. This is what happens when you fuck with the 'Netti brothers.”
He clenched his forearm tighter around Killjoy's throat. Using his free hand, he gripped the punk's head, gave a sharp twist and heard the punk's neck snap.
The father gasped and his face clenched in horror.
Orazio dropped Killjoy's lifeless body on the floor. Took out his weapon. Shouted, “Go!”
Tommy shot one armed man in the chest. Orazio shot the other in the head. “To the car!” he shouted in Italian. Tommy turned and ran.
Frozen in place, slack-jawed, the father raised his hands in surrender.
Orazio shot him.
The door to the kitchen opened. A man in a soiled apron looked in the room and quickly shut the door. Orazio ran to the foyer and heard frightened voices in the dining room. To keep the diners at bay, he fired two shots into the arched doorway. Chunks of plaster showered to the floor. Inside the fish tank, the tropical fish flitted to and fro, frightened by the loud reports.
He ran outside and jumped in the passenger seat of the SUV.
Tommy floored the accelerator and the SUV rocketed out of the parking lot. “Jesus Christ! I thought we were dead!”
“Slow down. You want the cops to stop us for speeding?”
“Mother of God, you're a cold one,” Tommy said, easing off the accelerator. “I don't mind taking a risk now and then, but this was crazy. Kill three guys—”
“Four. I broke the punk's neck. Did you not see me?”
Tommy mopped sweat off his forehead. “What about the jewelry? How do we get rid of it?”
“Take it back to Venice, put it in my safe and let it sit there a while.”
“But that means we gotta take it through customs again.”
“Catarina got away with it in New York, she can do it here.”
“She won't like it, I can tell you that.”
“Make her like it,” Orazio said. “If you don't, I will.”
_____
5:35 PM
Frank let the hot water in Kelly's shower beat on his body. It soothed the tense knots in his muscles, but questions buzzed in his mind like angry bees at a hive. The scariest one being: What if he'd shot the girl?
It had been an exhausting day. Capturing King Rock was only the beginning. Vobitch was thrilled when he called and told him King Rock was in custody, but he'd warned, “When you get to the station, Internal Affairs will interview you and the video cameras will be running.” Vobitch said he'd back him to the hilt—King Rock had shot first—but he didn't want any lingering questions about why Frank shot the fucker.
Before he went to the station he'd called Kelly, told her King Rock was in the lockup and said he'd give her the blow-by-blow after the IAD interview. The grueling interrogation lasted more than two hours, starting with his visit to Ella Hughes, his stakeout of the B-n-L crash pad, and the minute-by-minute details of what followed. After the interview, he called Kenyon. By then it was one o'clock. Kenyon wanted him to come over and tell him about it, so he'd called Kelly back and asked her to meet him at Kenyon's house.
Why tell the story twice? Already he was sick of dealing with it.
He shut off the water, got out of the shower and toweled off. He felt better now that he'd washed the sweat and grime off his body, but now he had to deal with Kelly. She hadn't said much at Kenyon's house. The four of them sat around the kitchen table drinking beer while he described what happened. Lots of questions from Kenyon, none from Kelly. She knew better than to yell at him in front of Kenyon and Tanya, but he'd caught the angry vibes she gave off, knowing she was pissed.
Tanya had insisted they stay for dinner. Now it was time to face the music. But he didn't want to. He wanted to sleep for a week.
No, he wanted to make love to Kelly, then sleep for a week.
When he went in the living room, she was sitting on the sofa, sipping red wine. An empty wineglass stood beside a wine bottle on the coffee table. “Why didn't you call me after you got the tip?”
Let the shit-storm begin. He sank onto the couch, poured himself some wine and took a big swallow. “No time. I wanted to grab him fast.”
“You had time to call me while you waited outside the crash pad.”
“He could have come out any second.”
“You didn't even call for backup!”
He locked eyes with her. “That's not why you're pissed. You think I should have killed him.”
“Why didn't you? I would have.”
“That's why I didn't call you. Think about it. You know what would have happened then? You'd be sitting in the station with IAD, trying to justify why you kille
d him.”
“Frank, he shot at you! If I'd been there, the bastard would have tried to kill me, too!”
“You think an IAD interrogation is fun?” he snapped. “It isn't. I've been there, more than once. You haven't. I had to make a lot of quick decisions today. What happened, happened. I don't feel like arguing. I've got enough problems as it is. IAD took my SIG and I'll be riding a desk until they complete the investigation.”
Kelly put her wineglass on the table and gave him a hug. “Okay, Frank. Truce. You got the bastard, that's what's important.”
Mollified, he said, “Yes, it is. Now Angelique will get the justice she deserves.”
Kelly picked up the TV remote and said, “Let's see if it made the six o'clock news.”
His take-down of King Rock was the top story. Worse, they ran clips from the press conference leaders of the African-American community had held at five o'clock.
First up, King Rock's attorney, an older Caucasian man with ruddy cheeks and a wimpy mustache. “Homicide Detective Frank Renzi acted with reckless disregard for my client's life. Rufus Barrett, an innocent man, is lying in a hospital bed because Detective Renzi shot him twice. Meanwhile, the real criminal, who murdered the mother of my client's child, is still at large.”
Frank clenched his jaw. A white cop had shot a black man, hadn't killed him, but no matter. Let's hang the cop from the nearest tree. Forget about King Rock murdering the mother of his son.
“You idiot!” Kelly screamed at the TV. “These gangs are the scourge of the city, selling dope and killing anybody who gets in their way.” Turning to Frank, she said, “Doesn't he know that?”
He didn't bother to answer. Potshots from lawyers and reporters were nothing new to him. He'd been through it before when he worked for Boston PD. Resigned to it, he watched two black ministers and a black councilwoman condemn Frank Renzi for his despicable act.
They didn't want to hear his side of the story. The scumbag had shot at him, with a clear intent to kill. But these days, white cops who shot black men were pariahs.
“What about Angelique?” Kelly said. “Why don't they talk about the innocent victim, instead of defending her killer?”
King Rock's attorney took the microphone again. “An NOPD officer tried to circumvent the justice system by shooting my client. Homicide Detective Frank Renzi should be fired!”
Unable to stop himself, Frank shouted, “He tried to kill me!”
“... my client is not the first person of color Detective Renzi has shot. Six months ago he shot a young Vietnamese-American. Fortunately, the man survived.”
“Jesus,” Frank muttered. “The guy beat a ten-year-old boy to death with a baseball bat.”
“Exactly,” Kelly said. “And kidnapped the boy's mother and sister.”
But the attorney saved his best shot for last. “Detective Renzi has a history of violence involving minorities. Ten years ago when he worked for the Boston police department, he shot and killed a young black girl.” The lawyer shook his head. “She was only nine years old.”
Frank sagged back against the couch, devastated by the cruelty of the statement. What the hell did this ambulance-chasing lawyer know? Had he ever faced a gangbanger with a gun?
Kelly said, “He's an asshole, Frank. Don't let him get to you.”
Soon after they got involved, he'd told her about it, the bare bones, but not the details. Not that he still woke up at night, clammy with sweat, seeing nine-year-old Janelle Robinson's face. Not that it had been, other than the death of his mother, the most painful day of his life.
What followed was equally painful, an acrimonious divorce that had poisoned his relationship with his daughter and driven him out of Boston. But what the hell. Never complain. Never explain.
He gulped some wine as the feeding frenzy continued, reporters shouting questions at King Rock's lawyer, who never mentioned the girl. Of course not. That would make his client look bad, the mother of his son dead less than two weeks and he already had a new girlfriend.
Frank had a hard time believing that King Rock's lawyer thought he was innocent. In his experience, people could spin stories and rationalize to themselves, but most of the time, it came down to What’s in it for me?
Cui bono? as Judge Salvatore Renzi often said in his courtroom. Who benefits? King Rock's attorney, for one. King Rock's murder trial would get reams of publicity and bring him more clients. The reporters, for another. After chasing the Angelique murder for a week, frustration had set in. Given a new angle, they flocked to it like flies to fresh blood.
He set his wineglass on the coffee table and rose to his feet. “I'm going home.”
Kelly gazed at him, somber-eyed. “You can sleep here, Frank. You know that.”
“I doubt I'll be sleeping much tonight.” Making love to Kelly would ease his pain, inhaling her intoxicating scent, hearing her throaty voice urging him on, feeling her bare skin beneath his hand.
But she deserved his full attention and she wouldn't get it tonight.
CHAPTER 27
MONDAY December 20 – 9:20 AM
“Christ on a crutch!” Vobitch said. “We take a vicious killer off the street and everybody's up in arms because you shot him.”
Frank poured himself a cup of coffee and wearily sank onto the chair beside Vobitch's desk. Last night Vobitch had watched King Rock's lawyer spout off at the press conference, which infuriated him. This morning at 8:00 AM Vobitch had held his own press conference. Frank stayed in the D-8 break room and watched it live on TV.
Vobitch issued an emphatic statement of support. Homicide Detective Renzi had worked under his command for nine years and had always acted in a professional manner. But Sunday morning, when Detective Renzi tried to serve a warrant on Rufus Barrett, a convicted felon, Barrett pulled out a gun and shot at him. NOPD had since determined that Barrett's gun was unregistered and the serial numbers had been obliterated.
“Did you like the part when I said Divine intervention saved you?” Vobitch chortled. “I figured that would impress all the Catholics. The motherfucker shot at you, and the citizens of New Orleans are fortunate to have a detective who puts his life on the line to protect them from violent criminals like Barrett.” Vobitch flashed his evil smile. “I phrased it a little nicer, left out the F-bomb to make sure the TV stations and the fucking local rag would run it.”
Despite his bad mood, Frank had to smile. Sometimes working for Vobitch could almost be entertaining. Almost. “But I still have to go through an Internal Affairs investigation.”
“I wouldn't worry about it too much if I were you. Every cop in town knows the sonofabitch shot Kenyon.” Vobitch paused to sip his coffee. “The Assistant Superintendent might give us grief though. He called me at home last night.”
That sounded ominous. Wendell Hicks was African-American, eager to maintain a cordial relationship with the black ministers and city council members. “What did he say?”
Vobitch smiled. “Nothing. I saw his name on the Caller-ID and didn't pick up.” His phone rang and the smile disappeared. “That's probably good old Wendell now.” He picked up and barked, “Vobitch.” Gazing at Frank, he listened, then held up his hand, fingers crossed. “My wife and I were at a concert last night.”
Unwilling to hear the conversation, Frank took his coffee in the hall, leaned against the wall and massaged his temples, trying to ease a pounding headache. After he left Kelly last night, he'd gone home and sat in his condo, brooding over the shooting, rerunning it like a video. Freeze-frame: King Rock's girlfriend aiming a gun at him, her finger on the trigger. Thinking about it made him shudder. Thinking about how close he'd come to shooting her was worse. Thinking that if someone shot his fifteen-year-old daughter, he'd be devastated, picturing her on her favorite horse when he’d taken her to her riding lesson. Which had caused him to pick up the phone and call Maureen, who lived in Baltimore.
He sipped some coffee, replaying the conversation in his mind.
“Hey, Dad, gr
eat to hear from you. How are things in New Orleans?”
“Same old, same old. How are you doing? How's Jeremy?”
Maureen lived with her boyfriend. She was an orthopedic surgeon. Jeremy was a dentist. They worked long hours, but still found time for their mutual passion: their love of horses and show jumping. No hints of wedding bells yet. Fine by him. He was in no hurry to walk her down the aisle and give her away to someone else.
“Jeremy's great. We're about to hit the sack and get ready for another long week. This working for a living isn't all it's cracked up to be.”
Enjoying her dry humor, he smiled. Maureen had green eyes and auburn hair like her mother, had inherited her lean and lanky physique from her dad. And his sense of humor.
“Mom's coming down to spend Christmas with us. What are you doing?”
“Probably fly to Boston and spend some time with your grandfather. I haven't booked the fight yet. At this late date it'll probably cost me an arm and a leg.”
“Check Priceline and Expedia. You might get a good deal.”
When it came to online shopping, his daughter was an expert. “Good idea. Tell Jeremy I said hello. I'll call you on Christmas.”
“Okay, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you too,” he'd said and ended the call. But his emotional high from talking to Maureen hadn't lasted long. Dark thoughts intruded. Accusations of professional misconduct. King Rock's lawyer digging up his past. Devastating images of nine-year-old Janelle Robinson, dead on the floor in a dingy Boston apartment. Unable to sit still, he put on his running gear and went for a run beside the Mississippi. An hour later, hot and sweaty, he took a shower, walked over to Frenchman's street and hit the clubs. The music calmed him, but when he got home he still couldn't sleep, had tossed and turned until dawn.
He massaged his bleary eyes, heard Vobitch call to him. “Frank, I'm off the phone.”
When he went back in the office, Vobitch was shuffling papers around his desk. A bad sign.
“Okay,” Frank said. “Lay it on me. What's the bad news?”
Vobitch gazed at him, expressionless. “Wendell wants me to fire you, but I told him to put that idea where the sun don't shine. I told him IAD had taken your service weapon and you're restricted to desk duty until the IA board renders a verdict.”