by Steven Henry
“Thanks, big bro,” Erin said. “Go save a life.”
“Don’t end up on my table,” he replied, giving her a quick smile. Then he was gone.
“Petrucelli,” Erin said. “Italian name.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Webb said. “Not by itself. But the coincidences are really starting to pile up. Follow me.”
* * *
They found Doctor Petrucelli in his office, filling out paperwork. He was a little guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a reedy mustache that reminded Erin of Detective Spinelli, one of her old adversaries from her days working Patrol. He was scribbling what appeared to be complete gibberish on a hospital form.
“Doctor?” Webb said, knocking lightly on his door.
Petrucelli started in surprise, his pencil leaving a squiggle on the page. He adjusted his specs and blinked at them. “What’s that creature doing in here?”
“I’m Lieutenant Webb, NYPD Major Crimes,” Webb said. “This is Detective O’Reilly and her K-9.”
“I don’t know what I can do for the New York Police Department,” he said. “I’m really quite busy this evening.”
“I know,” Webb said. “I saw some of your work just a few minutes ago.” He’d gotten a copy of the medical certificate from the hospital files on the way up. Now he held up that piece of paper and leaned over Petrucelli’s desk, comparing signatures. “Yes, this definitely appears to be your handwriting.”
“Lieutenant, I really must ask you to leave,” Petrucelli said. “If you have a court order, or some other sort of documentation, I’m sure we can accommodate any reasonable request. But for now, please be about your business and let me be about mine.”
“Of course,” Webb said, stepping back. “Good evening, sir.”
Erin let them get a few yards down the hallway before asking, “What was the point of that? You just wanted to compare signatures?”
“And get a look at the guy,” Webb said. “Obviously, he wasn’t anywhere near the emergency room. He never saw Bianchi’s body.”
“And he filed a bogus report,” Erin said. “Don’t they take away your medical license for shit like that?”
Webb nodded. “I’m guessing Petrucelli’s got protection,” he said. “Unless we make a real stink, I don’t think they’ll follow through on any serious disciplinary action.”
“We’re pretty good at making a stink,” Erin said.
Webb chuckled. “We are at that. But before you go to war, it’s a good idea to know what your objectives are. Right now, Petrucelli doesn’t matter. He’s just a name on a piece of paper. But Moreno… that’s a guy worth looking into.”
“I’ll get on it, sir.”
He smiled wryly. “Okay. See what you can find out from your sources. Neshenko and I will check the files at the Eightball. This guy’s going to have a record, I’d bet my shield on it.”
So Erin found herself heading back to the Barley Corner after all, but with a different purpose in mind.
* * *
It was middle evening when Erin walked into the Corner for the second time that night. The place was even busier than before. The big-screen TVs were showing the Winter Olympics, and Erin knew a lot of money was changing hands on the outcome of the events. A crowd of raucous guys was cheering the women’s alpine skiers. She suspected the cheers had as much to do with the women as with the competition.
Carlyle was nowhere in sight. She paused, looking around the place. Rolf stuck close to her side. He was used to the Corner, but he sensed his partner’s hesitation.
“Erin, love! Over here!”
“Corky,” she said under her breath. He was at a booth by the window, accompanied by a pair of burly, scruffy-looking guys. James Corcoran waved her over.
She crossed the room. Corky stood up and made room for her next to him. The other two, less gentlemanly, remained seated and gave her an appreciative look.
“Lads, this is Erin O’Reilly,” he said, extending an arm. “She’s in with the toughest gang in the city, the boys in blue. Erin, this is Pat and Goat.”
“Pleased to meet you, boys,” Erin said. She sat down beside Corky, making sure to keep his hands in view. You never could tell with him.
“Well, aren’t you a fine ride,” Goat said with a grin and an Irish accent even thicker than Corky’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, lass. You’re a right feek and no mistake.”
Erin blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Cop on, lad,” Corky said. “Stop being a bloody gobshite.” To Erin, he added, “He’s a jackeen just over from the old country. Even I can’t understand him half the time. If he gives you trouble, just puck him one in the gob.”
“Corky,” she replied, “I don’t know half the words you just used either.”
He grinned. “It’s talking to these lads from back home gets me that way. A jackeen’s a fellow from Dublin.”
“So, you’re one of the Garda, like?” Goat asked. “I tell you, Corks, even the coppers are prettier over here. I bloody love America.”
Pat was looking at Rolf with interest. He offered his hand. Rolf, unimpressed, gave him a cursory sniff and a cool look. The Shepherd settled at Erin’s feet.
“Guinness, love, or something harder?” Corky asked.
“Guinness,” she said. Corky signaled Caitlin, holding up four fingers. Four pints of stout quickly appeared.
“So, what do you lads do?” Erin asked, taking a sip of her drink.
“Dockyards,” Goat said. “Loading the great ships, love. Me and my sham here,” he elbowed Pat, “we’re just over on a visit, seeing where the ships come in. Seems they all come to New York. Say, you sure you’re a Guard? You’re a right deadly beour, and I could stall you for bloody hours.”
“Goat,” Corky said, “those lines don’t even work on a lass who knows what the devil you’re talking about. Over here, you’ve no chance at all. Give it up, lad. You’re embarrassing yourself. Besides, she’s spoken for.”
“American colleens like a bit of Irish,” Goat protested.
Corky smiled. “Well, Erin? Do you like Goat?”
She gave it a minute, playing along, looking him over. Then she cocked an eyebrow and shook her head. Goat wiped away an imaginary tear and took a big gulp of Guinness.
“Carlyle isn’t back yet?” Erin asked Corky.
He shook his head. “He should be here soon. Something you’re needing him for?”
“I ran into a guy earlier this evening, thought he might know him.”
“Who was he?” Corky asked.
“An Italian. Called himself Vincenzo Moreno.”
“Oh, that’d be Vinnie the Oil Man,” Corky said, nodding.
“You know him?”
“Aye, we’ve run into each other time and again.”
“How big a fish is he?”
“You don’t worry about the size of the fish,” Corky said. “You worry about the size of its teeth. The blue whale’s the biggest bloody fish in the ocean, but it’s got no teeth at all and lives on wee shrimps and suchlike.”
“A whale’s not a fish, Corky,” she said.
He waved her objection away. “That’s not the point. Vinnie’s no fish either. He’s a squid.”
“Corky?”
“Aye, love?”
“How drunk are you?”
He gave her a charmingly lopsided smile. “I’ll be much drunker later.”
“How is Vinnie like a squid?”
“You know how they squirt a great cloud of ink on you when you scare them?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s like that. He’s all smooth manners and handshakes, then next thing you know, you’re left with nothing but a black, slimy cloud in the water and he’s gone. That’s why they call him the Oil Man. He’s slippery like you’d not believe.”
“Who’s he work for?”
“Acerbo.”
Erin recognized the name immediately. Vittorio Acerbo was head of the Lucarelli Family, one of the notorious Mafia clans o
f New York. Acerbo was in prison, had been for two solid decades, but was still nominally in charge of the family. “You mean he works directly for Acerbo, or are there layers?”
Corky shrugged. “You’d have to ask the Italians, love. But we’re not here for business tonight, Erin. I’m here to watch young lasses in skintight Spandex swing their hips on their way down the ski slopes.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
He grinned. “I hope so.” He slipped a hand under the table and squeezed her leg just above the knee.
Erin slapped his hand away. He didn’t mean anything by it. He’d stopped actively trying to seduce her when she’d gotten involved with Carlyle. Now it was just a game, and she knew the rules as well as he did. It was plain Corky didn’t want to talk more about the underworld, particularly in front of the two Irishmen, who were almost certainly smuggling contacts of the O’Malleys. She settled back and watched the skiing instead, trying not to be too impatient.
She was doing her best not to worry about Carlyle, but her heart jumped every time the door opened. Customers came and went. Time passed. She chatted with Corky and his two colleagues about things that didn’t matter. She had a second Guinness.
The door opened yet again, and Carlyle came in. He made his way to the bar, smiling at everyone, clapping a few of his lads on the shoulder as he went, but he looked tired to Erin. She saw the lines around his eyes and the rigidity in his posture. Whatever he’d been talking to O’Malley about, it hadn’t been an easy conversation.
“There’s your lad,” Corky said. “It’s been a rare treat, love. Do try to enjoy the rest of your evening.” He winked.
“I’ll do that,” she said, standing up. “Don’t get in more trouble than usual.”
“No promises.”
Carlyle had already seen Erin. He gave her a small nod. If he was surprised to see her there, he didn’t show it. As she approached, Danny handed him a glass of Guinness. He took about a third of it down in a long, steady drink.
“Rough night?” she asked in an undertone, leaning her elbows on the bar beside him. Rolf padded over and sat squarely between them.
“Better than some,” he replied.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He looked at her. “Ought I to be worrying?”
“I don’t think so. I just need to pick your brain.”
“Very well. I’m at your disposal.”
“Vincenzo Moreno. Vinnie the Oil Man.”
Carlyle glanced around the bar. Erin reflected, not for the first time, on the strange privacy of being in a noisy, semi-public place. There was so much background noise, between the television and all the side conversations, that they could be discussing just about anything without fear of being overheard.
“He’s a colleague of Lorenzo Bianchi,” he said. “But you know that already, I’ve no doubt.”
“And they’re with the Lucarellis,” she added.
“Aye,” he agreed. “And with the family boss incarcerated, thanks to your lot, the Oil Man runs their business in Manhattan.”
“Really?” Erin was surprised a guy so high up the ladder would get involved with street-level operations.
“Aye,” Carlyle said again. He drained half of what was left in his glass. “He’s a dangerous lad. I can tell you a great deal you’ll already find in your files, but suffice to say, he’s likely second-in-command of his organization.”
“What’s he doing messing around the morgue?” she wondered aloud.
“You met him?” Carlyle asked. “Face to face?”
“Yeah. Smooth-talking son of a bitch. Good-looking guy, but uses too much hair gel.”
“Aye, that sounds like him. What did he want?”
“He collected Bianchi’s body. Probably so we couldn’t run forensics.”
“You’re not the only one thinking Sewer Pipe might have been murdered, it seems.”
She nodded. “Would he have a reason to take Bianchi out?”
“There’s always a reason if you look for it.”
Erin glanced sharply at him. “Was there trouble?” she asked in a lower voice. “At your meeting?”
Carlyle shook his head. “He wanted to discuss the altercation between Corky and Mickey at the game. I think he was primarily concerned that I keep a tight leash on Corks. Evan doesn’t want the two of them at one another’s throats.”
“Why does Corky hate Mickey so much?”
He shrugged. “They’ve very different philosophies of life. Corky’s a happy-go-lucky type, as you’re well aware. He’s never happier than when everyone’s having a grand time of it. Mickey’s the sort of lad who gets his pleasure from inflicting pain. If he’s happy, it’s a fair bet no one else in the room is.”
“He’s a sadist, you mean?”
“Oh, aye. Steer clear of him, Erin.” Carlyle’s face was deadly serious. “He’s not a safe lad to be around, no matter what. This isn’t admissible in court, but I’ll tell you, he’s personally ended more lives than everyone else who was in that room, put together. I’ve reason to believe he’s killed at least one woman, a girl Corky was interested in. Corky knows it, too. And to my knowledge, Mickey’s never used a gun to kill.”
“What does he use?”
He hesitated. She was coming right up against the line they kept to separate her work from his.
“Come on,” she said. “This bastard ever comes after me, I’m gonna need to know.”
“His hands,” Carlyle said.
“His bare hands? You’re shitting me. So, what, he strangles them?”
He shook his head. “He carries twenty dollars at all times.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Two rolls of quarters, one in each pocket.”
Then she did understand. “Fist loads,” she said. Some street fighters liked to use a roll of coins, clenched in the hand, to add extra weight to a punch.
“More legal than brass knuckles, and less suspicious,” he said.
“Nice guy,” she said.
“But we were discussing Mr. Moreno,” Carlyle said. “From the sound of it, he doesn’t want a thorough police investigation into Bianchi’s death. Do you know what he’s doing with the body?”
“Cremation, probably.”
He nodded. “Stands to reason. That’ll neatly dispose of most of the evidence. Are you investigating his death now?”
“We are. It’s pretty suspicious.”
“I’ll be glad to assist.” He smiled wearily. “Anything that causes mischief for the Italians will only make us look better in Evan’s eyes. And he is watching, Erin.”
She returned the smile. “You know, there’s plenty of girls nervous about getting along with their man’s family, but you take the damn cake.” She looked him over again. “You look tired.”
“I’m a trifle worn, darling.”
“Then I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll see you soon.”
“Take care of yourself, Erin.”
“Back at you.”
Chapter 10
Despite her run-in with the Mafia, her worries about the O’Malleys, and the accumulating bodies on their case, Erin slept well and woke up refreshed. She’d been feeling better ever since she and Carlyle had gotten together. There were any number of reasons for it, but she figured it mostly boiled down to not feeling alone. It felt so damn good to have someone who understood her, someone she could talk to about anything. It was completely crazy that the guy in question was a gangster, but that didn’t bother her as much as she knew it should.
After her early-morning run with Rolf, she grabbed a croissant from a bakery on her way in to the precinct. Not for the first time, she blessed the coffee machine in the Major Crimes office. It’d been an anonymous gift, but it was an open secret on her team that it’d come from Carlyle, a thank-you for protecting his establishment. Erin poured herself a cup and sat down at her desk. Webb and Vic weren’t in yet, and the place was quiet.
The first thing she
saw on her computer was a message from Levine. Lorenzo Bianchi’s bloodwork was done. She bounced right back out of her chair and hurried downstairs to the morgue.
Levine was staring at her computer screen. She was wearing the same clothes as the previous evening. She didn’t look up.
“Morning,” Erin said. “Did you go home last night?”
“No point,” Levine said. “The bloodwork took most of the night. I took the blood sample from the heart. Ideally, I would have liked to have samples from various parts of the body, since drugs have different concentrations in different organs and tissues, but I only had time to collect the one sample. Urine would have been useful as well, along with tissue samples from the liver, kidneys, and vitreous humor. It only takes fifteen minutes to get all the samples. It would have been convenient if the man last night had been willing to wait for me to collect all of them.”
“I think that was the point,” Erin said. “He didn’t want you to have any samples at all. But I’m surprised you’re done already.”
“I’m a qualified toxicologist,” Levine reminded her. “That means I didn’t have to outsource the testing. I have a two-week backlog, but Lieutenant Webb said this one was a priority. The lack of sample diversity is a problem, but it also reduced processing time. I hope you aren’t expecting this rapid a turnaround on all samples. Four to six weeks is standard.”
“Yeah, I know.” That was yet another thing TV shows got wrong about detective work. “But you have answers?”
“Preliminary,” Levine said. “I would appreciate confirmation from an independent toxicologist, and further analysis of the blood sample. That will take—”
“—four to six weeks,” Erin finished for her.
“Correct.”
“You’d better give me the preliminary report, then.”
“Cardiac arrest,” Levine said, handing her a sheaf of papers.
Erin glanced down at them. She understood maybe two-thirds of the words on the first page.
“What caused the heart attack?”
“The only foreign substance in the deceased’s blood was a significant concentration of propranolol,” Levine said.