Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

  No one was in there, but the odor of gunpowder was strong. Empty magazines and broken glass littered the floor beside the front window.

  “They've got a fucking arsenal,” Tony said, “Uzis and plenty of ammo. What else is up here?”

  “I got no clue,” Frank said. “Let's find out.”

  The door across the hall beside the stairs was open. They approached it warily and burst inside. Utility equipment for the house filled one side of the room, but along the left-hand wall, five CCTV monitors sat on metal shelves, displaying every side of the house.

  “Jesus,” Tony muttered. “They been watching the SWAT team!”

  “Exactly,” Frank said. “Conti and the FBI got more than they bargained for. The mobsters had someone watch the monitors and warn the shooters when the SWAT team attacked. But the shooters aren't up here now. Orazio and Tomasso and the No-Name guard are downstairs.”

  “Great,” Tony said sarcastically. “Three hoods packing Uzis.”

  _____

  Orazio burst into the dining room with his Uzi, poised to shoot. The smell of gunpowder was even stronger here. Holding their Uzis, Rocco and Tommy turned away from the front windows, gaping at him. He waved them closer.

  “They are in the house. Cops. Upstairs.”

  “Jesus!” Tommy raked his fingers through his hair, agitated. “What about Catarina?”

  “What about her?” he said. “If she'd shot them, we would not have this problem.”

  Rocco stared at him, his eyes wide with fear. “What do we do now? We're surrounded!”

  “Grow some balls! We shoot our way out. I will guard the stairs. Take your Uzis and get in the rented SUV. Start the engine, Tommy, but wait for me. Don't open the garage door until I get there.”

  Tommy gave Rocco a look. Sending him a message, Orazio thought, a subversive message. Tommy wanted to play at being the leader. This he could not allow. He raised his Uzi. “Do it!”

  Without a word, Tommy took an extra magazine off the table and stuffed it in his pocket. Rocco did the same, and the two of them ran down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Orazio mopped sweat from his forehead and took stock of his situation. Catarina was upstairs, but he would get no help from her. He didn't know if she was alive or dead, and he didn't care.

  Sweeping broken glass out of the way with his foot, he crept to the front window. Like a faceless monster, the big black Hummer stood at the curb beside the fence to his right. If Tommy drove the SUV over the lawn around the cop car and turned left at the end of the driveway, away from the Hummer, they might have a fighting chance.

  But first, he had to take out the cops upstairs. There had to be at least two, maybe more, armed and dangerous, as these American cowboy-cops were so fond of saying. But not with Uzis.

  He positioned himself at one side of the arched doorway, aimed the Uzi at the stairs and waited.

  After a moment he heard stealthy footsteps creep down to the landing above him. Then, silence.

  Sweat dripped down his forehead. He heard a grinding sound from down the hall. The garage door opening.

  Merda! First Silvano had abandoned him. Now his brother was deserting him. A disappointment, but not a huge surprise. In Tomasso's world, he was the sun. Other planets revolved around him. To his brother, loyalty was an alien concept, easily abandoned. Tommy felt no loyalty to the Family, not even to his own brother. Or his wife. In a life and death situation like this, Tommy thought only about saving his own skin.

  Orazio gripped the Uzi. He was on his own.

  Soon the cops upstairs would attack. Rocco's car was in the garage. Were the keys in it?

  Even if they were, he wouldn't stand a chance. More cops were probably out there, waiting. Drive with one hand and shoot cops with the other? Impossible. They would mow him down like a common criminal.

  Fueled by the adrenaline racing through his veins, his heart was beating abnormally fast, his senses hyper-alert. The lingering smell of gunpowder. His sweat-soaked shirt damp against his skin. The creak of the stairs above him.

  Was this how he would die? Alone in this house? Abandoned by Silvano. Betrayed by Tommy.

  Perhaps not. He still had the diamonds.

  And the Smith & Wesson inside his jacket.

  He bent down and put the Uzi on the floor of the hall.

  “Truce,” he shouted. “My weapon is on the floor. Don't shoot.”

  “Raise your hands and keep them where I can see them.” A deep voice from above.

  A man in dark clothing sprang into view on the landing above him. Shocked, Orazio stared at his hands.

  Merda! The cop had taken the Uzi he'd given to Catarina.

  Orazio raised his hands, palms out, evaluating the cop as he slowly descended the stairs step by step. Mid-forties, just over six-feet, rangy and fit, black hair and a Roman nose. Italian, Orazio believed. But his eyes were the main draw, relentless and angry.

  The eyes and the Uzi in his hands.

  “Get on the floor,” the cop said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Orazio raised his chin. “No. I am Orazio Antonetti and I have a proposal for you. What is your name, please?”

  “Homicide Detective Frank Renzi, NOPD. Get on the floor.”

  “Please hear me out, Detective Renzi. You will not regret it.”

  The cop went still and a look of fury appeared on his face, a don't-fuck-with-me-expression. Orazio knew that look. He'd used it himself, many times. This did not bode well for his plan.

  “I'll tell you one thing I regret,” Renzi said. “You shot Natalie in the back.”

  “Natalie.” Orazio grimaced. “She calls herself Laura. Another lie. But never mind. Upstairs in my room are diamonds worth three million dollars. I will give you half of them.”

  “How generous. In exchange for what?”

  “You take me to the garage. We get in my SUV and you drive us past the police cars. I will hold a gun to your head to make it look like I will shoot you. It will not be loaded, of course.”

  A tight smile from Renzi. “Of course not. Then what?”

  “You drive around the corner and I let you out. You take the diamonds, I keep going.”

  “Nice try,” Renzi said, “no cigar.”

  Was this an American saying? If so, he was not familiar with it.

  But the message in Renzi's eyes was crystal clear. No deal. And his finger was on the trigger of the Uzi.

  Errant thoughts flitted through his mind. Would the whore in Venice miss him? He tried to remember her name. Ah yes, Rosalie, who never asked questions and did whatever he wanted. If he had sent Rosalie to the SUV and told her not to open the garage door until he got there, she would have waited for him until hell froze over.

  But Rosalie was in Venice, and Tommy and Rocco were gone.

  Faced with a cop holding an Uzi, he didn't have many choices. Should he try to convince Renzi to take the diamonds in exchange for giving him his freedom? No. He wasn't going to beg.

  A profound sadness swept over him. As Father had told him many years ago, “We come into this world alone and that is how we leave it.” As usual, Father was right.

  What he needed right now was a cigar. Fortunately, there was one in his shirt pocket.

  He reached for it with his right hand.

  An explosion of sound hit him, then agonizing pain. Fighting it, he clutched his chest, felt the warmth of his own blood seep through his fingers. Now the NOPD cop was standing over him, his face blurry and indistinct. His mouth was moving but Orazio couldn't hear what he said. His ears were ringing and his vision was fading.

  He tried to take a breath and couldn't.

  Then the pain slipped away and everything faded to black.

  _____

  Shaking with fury, Frank stood over Orazio. The mobster thought he could bribe his way to freedom, but he didn't know Frank Renzi. All the money in the world couldn't deter him from his mission. Catch the criminals and make them pay for their crimes.
/>   And Orazio's crimes were worse than most.

  He imagined Bianca, an innocent little girl, watching Orazio murder her mother. Pictured Natalie, his longtime adversary who had become … not a friend exactly, but no longer an enemy, lying on a blood-soaked blanket, struggling to breathe, her face ashen.

  Shot in the back by Orazio.

  Now Orazio was dead, or soon would be, his eyes closed, his mouth twisted in a grimace. Good riddance to a vicious killer.

  When he realized Frank wasn't going to take the bribe, he had reached into his jacket. For a gun, no doubt.

  “Frank, are you okay?” Tony thundered down the stairs, gripping his Glock in both hands, poised to shoot. Then he saw Orazio. “I can see you're okay, but he don't look so hot.”

  “He went for a weapon, so I shot him.”

  They squatted on either side of Orazio's body. With hands encased in latex gloves, they opened Orazio's jacket. His white shirt was drenched with blood. A cigar was in the shirt pocket. Inside the pocket of the jacket was a Smith & Wesson revolver.

  “The miserable fuck,” Tony said. “Puts down his Uzi, but he's got a fucking peashooter in his pocket. I heard him try to bribe you. If you hadn't shot him, you'd be dead. Four slugs in the chest, I'd say he's a goner. But where are the others?”

  Frank had been so focused on Orazio, he'd forgotten about them. “I don't know.”

  “Nobody came running to help this guy, but we better check the rooms down here.” Tony rose to his feet and crossed the hall, his Glock at the ready. He opened a door below the staircase, took a look and said, “Nobody in the powder room.”

  Frank picked up Catarina's Uzi, and they advanced down the hall to the kitchen. No one was in there, but doors on opposite sides of the room were open. “Garage,” Tony whispered, jerking his head to the right.

  Weapons drawn, they crept into the garage. One bay was vacant, a brown sedan sat in the other bay, empty.

  “The garage doors are open,” Tony said. “Maybe they split in another car.”

  “They won't get far. The neighborhood is surrounded by cops.”

  “And FBI agents could bust down the door any minute. We better get outta here.”

  “Let's check the other room first,” Frank said.

  They cautiously approached the door on the opposite side of the kitchen. The room was empty.

  “Man,” Tony said, gesturing at the big screen, “this place looks like a movie theater. Without the popcorn.”

  Frank went to an open door, looked into a walk-in closet and said, “No popcorn, but it's got an arsenal. Check this out.”

  Tony took a quick look and said, “Time to split. The feds will take charge of Catarina. Leave her Uzi here. Let the feds figure out who killed Orazio. They won’t find your prints on it. You were wearing latex gloves.”

  “Thanks to you,” Frank said. “Thinking ahead like a chess player.”

  “No problem.” Tony grinned. “Us goombas gotta look out for each other.”

  CHAPTER 46

  SATURDAY, December 25, 2010 – 11:00 AM – Swampscott, MA

  Frank sat beside his father in a pew six rows back from the altar. The church smelled like Christmas, the odor of spruce trees permeating the air. Red and white poinsettia plants and green wreaths decorated the altar. “Red, white and green,” Judge Salvatore Renzi had cheerfully pointed out moments ago, “the colors of the Italian flag.”

  Frank hadn't attended church in years, but his father was seventy-seven and as Art Blakey said, Tomorrow's not guaranteed. After the chaos in New Orleans, he hoped a peaceful environment and a dose of holiday cheer would ease his emotional turmoil.

  On his way to the hospital after the shootout Tuesday night, Vobitch had called him and said, “Natalie's gone.”

  “Gone?” he said. “Gone where?”

  “The doctors couldn't save her. The slug hit her lung, nicked her liver and spleen. After three hours on the table, her heart gave out.”

  Stunned, he said nothing.

  “Frank,” Vobitch said, “you still there?”

  Unable to deal with it, he'd said, “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  For hours he had sat in his condo, drinking scotch on the rocks, overwhelmed by a deep sense of loss. Unable to imagine the pain Natalie had endured, he replayed their final conversation in his head. Pictured her in the hospital valiantly fighting for her life. Alone.

  For years, Natalie had never been far from his thoughts. Now she was dead.

  And four days later, he still wasn't over it.

  The organist finished playing “Joy To the World,” and a white-robed pastor rose from his chair to begin the service.

  Frank tuned him out and stared into space, reviewing what had happened since Tuesday.

  A major battle had erupted over who would run the investigation. The mob house was in Jefferson Parish, but NOPD and an FBI SWAT team had been involved. The Jefferson Parish Sheriff, the NOPD Super and the FBI Special Agent In Charge were still fighting over it.

  In their escape attempt, armed with Uzis, Tomasso and the mob guard had fired on officers in an NOPD cruiser. They escaped but ran into a roadblock four blocks later. Surrounded, they kept shooting. Two minutes later they were dead.

  When FBI agents entered the house, they found Orazio, but they still couldn't figure out who killed him. The only prints on one Uzi were Orazio's. The prints on the other one matched those of Tomasso, now deceased, and Catarina Antonetti. And Catarina wasn't talking.

  When Conti questioned her, she said the magic words, “I want a lawyer.” Reluctantly, Conti dialed the number she gave him. Catarina spoke to her lawyer, in Italian, of course. Ten minutes later, Attorney Silvano Tucci arrived. Tucci wanted her freed on bail, but Conti played his trump card. Catarina faced accessory to murder charges in Venice.

  On Wednesday, Conti and Catarina had boarded a plane bound for Venice. That night Frank got a phone call from Venice. Generale Cesare Valenti told him that Sophia's sister would fly to New Orleans and take Bianca home to live with her and her husband and their children. On Thursday, Frank drove Kelly and Bianca to the airport.

  When Bianca's aunt came up the ramp to the arrivals area, Bianca seemed happy to see her. Before they left to board a flight to Venice, Bianca said, “Thank you for helping me, Mr. Frank.” He didn't mention Natalie. Kelly didn't either. They kissed Bianca goodbye and handed her off to her aunt. Kelly boarded a flight to Chicago to spend Christmas with her extended family. Frank had called Tony Coppola.

  He smiled, recalling Tony's reaction when he told him about the mystery regarding who killed Orazio. “Great news, Frank. Let the feds puzzle over it. You know me. Omerta to the max.”

  After the holidays he would face an IAD hearing for shooting King Rock, but not for killing Orazio. He figured Vobitch and Kelly suspected he was the shooter, but they didn't ask, and he didn't tell.

  He hadn't mentioned these issues to his father. Why spoil the holiday?

  Last night he'd taken his father to their favorite seafood restaurant. Before dinner they had a glass of wine at the bar overlooking the water, chatting as they often did about the Boston Celtics and the recent death of legendary coach Red Auerbach. Like everyone else in Boston, they also speculated on the whereabouts of Whitey Bulger and his girlfriend. The infamous Boston mobster was now on the FBI's most wanted list.

  Organ music jolted him out of his reverie. The Mass was over. Now he and his father would visit his mother's grave and decorate it with red poinsettias, her favorite. After they had brunch at a local restaurant, his father would take a nap.

  Frank would keep his promise to Natalie. Go to Chinatown and talk to Pak Lam. He wasn't looking forward to it.

  _____

  2:00 PM Chinatown

  Following the directions Pak Lam had given him, Frank strolled through an open air food market past tubs of live eels, catfish and squid, and carcasses of rabbits and chickens dangling from hooks. It was unseasonably warm, and the market was busy, Asian f
amilies mostly. A little girl in a plaid skirt and a white sweater ran toward him, laughing. Her younger brother was chasing her, clearly enjoying the game.

  Beyond the market he walked past four elderly Chinese men shooting craps on an inverted cardboard box. Crumpled dollar bills lay on the sidewalk. The men ignored him, cigarettes dangling from their lips, sipping tea from Styrofoam cups after they rolled the dice.

  One block later he entered a narrow brick-paved alley. No sunlight here. Ahead of him, the alley dead-ended at a brick wall. He felt a sudden chill. Dark and shadowy, the alley gave off a sinister vibe. If he'd brought a gun, his hand would be on it. But he hadn't.

  At the end of the alley, twin pagoda lanterns illuminated a flame-red door. On the door were three Chinese characters and, in yellow letters, ROYAL DRAGON. His destination.

  A white-haired man with a wrinkled face opened the door and led him through a dim-lit room that smelled of incense. Faint music was playing, a haunting Chinese melody based on the pentatonic scale. Again, he felt a chill. The interior felt more sinister than the alley.

  The white-haired man stopped at a door and tapped once. A slender man in black silk trousers and a white shirt opened the door. Pak Lam was taller than most Chinese men, five-foot-ten, and his dignified bearing made him seem taller.

  But this was not his most striking feature. An angry scar bisected his left cheek from his eyebrow to his jaw.

  “Thank you for coming,” Lam said, “It is a pleasure to meet you at last. Please, take a seat.”

  Frank settled into an easy chair beside a black-lacquered coffee table. Lam sat opposite him, shrouded in stillness, his expression unreadable, his black eyes distant. A confident man, bordering on arrogant.

  “Natalie asked me to call you. She said you would be worried about her.”

  Lam put his palms together and bowed his head, a gesture Frank recognized as an Asian thank-you. “I am glad you did. When she lived in Venice, we spoke once a week on the phone. She was happy there, working at a shelter for domestic violence victims, teaching children to speak English. She thought she had found the perfect sanctuary. But a man betrayed her.”