Not liking how this was going, Parker moved her jacket aside and rested her hand on her Glock. “Yes. And they were trying to kill her.”
Corelli unzipped her leather jacket and placed her hand on her gun.
The uniform’s eyes widened. He looked from Parker to Corelli and put his hands out. “Hey, we’re on your side.”
The other two uniforms approached. “Witnesses say the motorcycle was threatened and the driver of the car prevented the pickup from doing what it appeared to want to do, kill the Harley rider.” The female uniform sensed the tension and drew her weapon. “Everybody relax now. What’s going on?”
The first uniform laughed. “We have Detective Chiara Corelli on the Harley and Detective Parker from the unmarked.”
“Corelli?” The uniform stared at her. “You can stand down, detective.” She holstered her gun. “Some of us out in the hinterlands of Brooklyn think you’re a hero.”
Corelli and Parker exchanged a look. Corelli dismounted and stood with Parker as Parker described the incident, omitting Corelli’s erratic behavior.
“Detective Parker saved my life tonight.”
“We’ll write it up that way,” the female uniform said. “C’mon, we’ll escort you to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, but you’re on your own once you hit Manhattan.”
As the uniforms returned to their cars, Corelli leaned in to Parker. “You gonna run home and tell Senator Daddy how you were an action hero today and saved my ass?”
“You really are sick. I’d be too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t get rid of you when I had the opportunity.” Parker opened the door to the unmarked, wondering if that was a smirk she saw on Corelli’s face. No doubt the woman was a nut job.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Corelli locked the elevator and leaned against the door, relieved to be home. It was a mistake to try to talk to Jimmy. She was no match for someone willing to lie, steal and even kill to protect himself. And while kicking him in the balls felt great, it wasn’t such a smart move. Chances are he would have sent his dogs to kill her in any case since he thought she was alone. Lucky for her she wasn’t. Parker had saved her life. And, in return, she’d taunted Parker. It was like she was possessed. The words came out of her mouth before she even thought them. Parker and Gianna both thought she had PTSD. Were they right?
Shrugging off her jacket and holster, she went to her home gym, put on gloves, and attacked the punching bag, letting it feel the full force of her suppressed rage. At first the pain from her right hand shot through her with every punch, but then it became almost pleasurable, and after a while she didn’t feel it at all. She screamed and punched until she was exhausted. Soaked in sweat and out of breath, she hugged the bag to keep from falling. When her heart rate slowed, she dropped the gloves and trailing the rest of her clothing along the way, staggered to the bathroom. She turned up the temperature on the huge industrial vat that served as a bathtub, and while it heated, she poured herself a glass of brandy. Back in the bathroom she placed the glass on the ledge surrounding the tub, lit the candles, threw in bath salts, climbed the steps and sank into the already steaming tub with a soft moan.
Drying herself an hour later, she realized that the punching had diminished the anger but hadn’t helped her pathetic right hand, which was again extremely swollen and sore. She pressed and probed and flexed, checking for broken bones. Not finding any, she wrapped the hand as best she could. She pulled on a robe, tossed her sweaty clothing in the dry cleaning pile, and hung up the boxing gloves. After making herself a cup of mint tea, she settled down to consider the situation. Unless she rooted out the whole rat’s nest, her family would always be vulnerable.
Killing Jimmy might make her feel better, but it wouldn’t solve the problem, and, as he pointed out, cold-blooded murder wasn’t an option for her. Neither was doing nothing. Around-the-clock protection for all sixteen members of her immediate family could work, but there was no expiration date on revenge and it would be impossible to maintain protection indefinitely. She would have to do what they wanted—schedule a press conference, lose the job she loved and probably go to prison herself. A sudden surge of rage forced her to her feet. She paced the loft, thinking about the dirty cops, so many of them her friends. Their lives ruined by her actions.
She had felt guilty the entire time she was undercover, as if she was the dirty one. Once it was over she’d welcomed the attacks and the anger of other cops. Even the ostracism had felt right. Now for the first time, she felt angry, not guilty. They had stolen, maimed and killed for money. They were worse than the worst criminal and they deserved to be in jail. Exposing them was the right thing, a good thing. Jimmy and the others already identified had nothing to gain by killing her—except revenge. But the ones she hadn’t identified, the brains behind the operation, had everything to lose. So far none of those arrested were talking, but only a few, like Jimmy, knew the names of the police at the top of the pyramid. Jimmy seemed confident he’d be protected but the leaders seemed to think she could expose them.
What had the chief said? “Someone living in fear, waiting for the doorbell or the telephone to ring, someone afraid that she would remember something that would implicate them.”
Was that someone the cop trying to get her off the Winter case? She was the target and they were only threatening her family because she continued to outsmart them. She hadn’t thought life worth living just a few months ago, so perhaps the way to keep her family safe was to let them kill her. But before doing that she would try to find the bastards.
She went to her desk and flipped through the computer printouts stacked there. Every night while undercover she’d downloaded the conversations recorded on her barrette to the FBI server and her own computer. Her nephew Nicky had printed as much as would fit on the ten reams of paper she had in the apartment. She sat with a stack on her lap but didn’t read.
The beginning, that first day, was still so vivid. She could have been watching a movie. She and Jimmy had stood in Battery Park in that freak April sleet storm watching a man in a red jacket, who turned out to be Jimmy’s favorite snitch, slipping and sliding toward them. Redman, as she’d thought of him, handed her a soggy brown paper bag overflowing with thousands of dollars in hundred dollar bills. Aware that Jimmy was taking pictures with his phone, she hesitated to give him a good view before tossing the bag into the slush and punching out Redman. Jimmy’s phone was pointed at her until he scrambled to his knees in the slush and retrieved the money. She shivered, remembering the icy shards biting her face, her freezing hands and feet. Then later, in the car, she’d asked Jimmy why he’d set her up. She could hear his voice. “Because you’re too smart not to notice what’s going on and too honest to trust.” She’d asked what would happen if she didn’t join the ring of dirty cops. “Maybe the pictures I took will send you to jail, or, maybe, you’ll be dead,” her friend said.
Of course, Jimmy hadn’t known she was the one doing the setting up, or that she was working with the FBI, the NYPD Chief of Police, Chief of Detectives, and Chief of Internal Affairs. He gave her an hour and fifteen minutes to think about it, and as she’d trudged through the sleet to the subway, she turned and saw him slide into a black Mercedes parked behind his car.
He’d been elated when she said yes. He was cautious about giving her too much information, but he needed her to know how important he was, so he introduced her to some of the others, low-level people like her. And a day or so later, when she’d asked about the guy in the black Mercedes in the park, he’d said, “Oh, that was cow…um, the big guy came to make sure I was still alive after you left.” He’d laughed. “Actually, he came to congratulate me. Said I was the only one could get you to join up.”
She picked up the pages for day two but gave up after less than an hour. Reading the printouts was a long-term effort and she didn’t have the long term. She made another cup of tea and moved to the window. Jimmy was vindictive. He knew that losing the job would hurt her but she doubted he
really understood. So even if she resigned, he would want her to suffer. He’d make sure she felt his pain by having Simone killed. And maybe others in her family.
So killing Jimmy wouldn’t solve the problem, nor would round the clock protection for her family. She had no choice but to do what they wanted, resign and go to jail where they’d probably kill her. She struggled to find a fourth solution, but nothing came to mind.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Corelli was cradling her hand the next morning. Parker could see it looked worse than yesterday. Had she gone out and gotten herself ambushed again? How the hell was she supposed to protect this woman? Parker slid Corelli’s gun into the holster and held her jacket for her. Corelli eased her arm into the sleeve and gasped as her hand caught. She tried again and her badly bruised hand appeared. “I beat the hell out of my punching bag last night…or maybe it beat me.”
Corelli must have read the disbelief on her face. “Trust me, Parker. I haven’t been out since you dropped me off last night.”
Once again, they’d arrived early enough to avoid the morning gauntlet, but as they stepped into the precinct, Parker steeled herself for the hostile vibes. Instead, the atmosphere seemed friendlier than a few days ago. Backs were still turned but there were a few smiles.
A female voice called out, “Good job with the kid.”
Corelli nodded. Parker smiled. Nothing cops liked better than saving kids.
A man yelled. “Just Corelli grandstanding again.”
Parker whirled toward the voice, but everyone seemed absorbed in work. She trailed Corelli up to the squad. Watkins was reading the paper. The coffee was ready.
The coffee at Corelli’s house had roused her somewhat, but Parker still felt as if she was walking underwater, so she took a cup and listened as Corelli told Watkins about the threat to her family.
By the end of the story Watkins’s hands were fisted. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m open to suggestions. The only thing I can think of is putting feelers out on the street and in the department to see if we can figure out who’s still out there. Could you do that, Ron?”
“Sure thing. As soon as we finish up.”
“Other than that, I don’t know. The chief offered protection for my whole family, but that won’t last long, with budgets and all.”
She glanced down at her swollen hand. “Right now, it seems as if I’m going to have to do what they want.”
“You know I—”
“Yes, I know, Ron. I appreciate you both for offering. If I come up with a plan, you two will be the first to know. And speaking of knowing, Ron, you should know that I was bringing the Harley home from Brooklyn last night when a pickup tried to run me off the road. When that didn’t work, they started shooting. Luckily, Parker was following me in the unmarked and ran them off.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope, the intrepid Detective Parker saved my life and I am eternally grateful.”
Parker flushed. “Just doing my job.” With no help from you, crazy lady.
“Yeah, that’s why you get the big bucks.” Corelli flashed her Mona Lisa smile. “I might as well enjoy the work while I have it. Let’s get started.”
Parker described their trip to West Virginia, laughing about how Detective Stephanie Brown had terrorized John Broslawski. “We learned a lot about Winter, but we still have questions about her brother. He was hiding something.”
Corelli nodded. “We’ll see how the investigation goes. We may make another visit. You’re up Watkins.”
“The cleaning woman’s ten-year-old daughter translated for me. She cleaned the restrooms a little after nine. The girl said her mother always wears a gold cross, and the woman showed me a small gold cross on a chain around her neck. And by the way, she’s a lefty. Since we know the killer was a righty, we can clear her as a suspect.
“Chip Roberts, the bartender, left a message, said a guy wearing a green shirt walked into the bar last night, and he remembered somebody in a bright green shirt running out of Winter’s building the night of the murder when he was putting Rino in the limo. Said he totally forgot about it.”
“Man or woman?” Corelli asked.
“He didn’t remember,” Watkins said.
Parker made a note. “Guess we should have asked what everybody was wearing.”
“Something to check out. Go on, Watkins.”
“I talked to Brett Cummings at her apartment in Battery Park City. She said she leaves the crosses to her brother, the priest. Claimed she didn’t mention the argument with Winter because it was a business matter. Winter was planning to steal business from a small brokerage house. Cummings argued for going after the big guys because the loss could put the small firm out of business. She said she was furious because Winter seemed…” He referred to his notes again. “…devoid of compassion.” So she jogged up to 79th Street in the rain to cool off. According to her, she was going to resign on Monday and go back to her old company.”
“Did you verify her story about a standing offer?” Corelli asked.
“The president of the firm, Fred Barley, said he made the offer himself. He didn’t think Cummings would last with Winter because their values were so different.”
“Did he see Cummings as a killer?” Corelli said, determined that her intense attraction to Brett wouldn’t keep her from seeking the truth.
He shook his head. “According to Barley she’s brilliant and aggressive in business, but not cutthroat, not a killer. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t see her as the killer. You?”
Parker shook her head. “She seemed genuinely shocked when we told her Winter had been murdered. And I don’t think being angry over a business plan is a motive for murder.”
Corelli didn’t comment so he went on. “Rieger, the head of finance, assured me there’s no problem with the company’s financials and said he would go over the books with anyone we bring in to audit them. I asked whether he saw or heard anyone go in after he left Winter with Cummings, and he said he was concentrating on what he was doing and didn’t hear a thing. But he was evasive about what he was doing. Also, his assistant said he’s been secretive and jumpy for the last month or so. Like he was worried about something.”
He turned to the next page in his notebook. “The guest list for the awards dinner Tuesday night was a bust. Apparently the mayor gave the police chief tickets to fill two tables and the tickets dribbled down the line. There’s no record of who got them or who attended. And the videos I was able to get focused mainly on Winter’s table and on the stage during the award. Funny thing, she almost dropped the pyramid when the governor handed it to her. I guess he didn’t warn her that it was heavy.”
“We’ll have to find the mystery cop some other way.” Corelli looked at her notes. “Anything on the security tapes?”
“Dietz says there were no tapes in the cameras. The security company replaces the tapes twice a year. The last time was three months ago.”
“So, either they forgot to put in new tapes or our guy removed them,” Corelli said.
“The cameras are mounted high and would require a ladder to get to them. There’s one in the basement but would the killer know it was there? Would he take a chance on being caught? My guess is they never replaced the tapes.”
“The ladder was in the lobby Friday night,” Parker said. “The guard told us he carried it downstairs Saturday morning.”
Watkins shook his head. “It’s still a stretch for the killer to stop to remove the tapes. But if he did, someone shrewd enough to take the tapes would be unlikely to leave prints. So it’s no surprise we had no hits on the full or partial prints we found.”
“Now, the good news.” Watkins put his briefcase on the table. “We found the safe deposit box. Winter opened it about fifteen years ago and hasn’t been back since. There’s some interesting stuff.”
He reached into his briefcase, enumerating the items as he placed them on the desk. “One very old child’
s notebook. One dog-eared copy of Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. Some papers about the library in Hope Falls. Papers about a gift to a Clara Lipkin; a contract with the publisher of the Hill book to print a special edition; a birth certificate for Constance Broslawski, born 1954; a high school diploma for same; papers legally changing her name to Winter; and, a faded picture of a woman in a bridal gown, the groom cut out.”
“Great work Watkins.”
“Not me.” He smiled. “Kim and Filleti deserve the credit.” He handed Corelli the notebook. “Winter was ten-years-old when she wrote the first entry. I’ve already read it. Why don’t you and Parker take a look.”
“Move over Parker.” Except for agreeing when to turn the page, they read in silence.
April 13, 1964. Today is the wurst day of my life an everything is bad. I burn his breakfas an he hit me and give me a bloodie nose and a big cut on my top lip and the blood wont stop for a wile He curse like always and call me a worth less pece of shit an says he shoulda made ma get a aborshun. Peet an jon run after me an they scream the same thin, I hate them. Then melisa she sees I ware her old dress and the girls call me whit trash. Mis scermhorn she makes me say sam thin over an over an all the kids laff at me.
I go to library an my fren Mis lebken is nice to me lik always then I find the book about geting rich and I feel better so I tak it. I never stealed but I need it. Mis lebken didn see. It is better then cinderela caus it is real. its hard som places but it says I can be rich if I want.
May 1, 1964 no body can make me cry now. Ever morn an nite I say the magic word that some day I be rich an I wil show them an they wil be sorrie an I feel hapy. I mak plan to tak som monie ever week and go a way.
Corelli made eye contact with Parker and Watkins. “We’ve heard most of this. You can almost understand her becoming so cruel. Your family sets the pattern for your life, and whether you live according to that pattern or in opposition to it, it’s the filter through which you see the world.” She refilled her cup and began to pace. “Still, we all make choices about our humanity. At some point, you move on from your childhood experiences and forgive or at least forget. It sounds like Connie Winter held that childhood hurt and rage close, like a precious jewel, so she never got past it.”
A Matter of Blood Page 22