What the hell? Whose house is this?
I stayed in the car and turned my head so I could watch the door. Stewart was full of surprises.
***
Stewart convinced himself that no one had followed. If they had, they were damn good. He walked in the front door of the house.
“Anyone home?” he said, and laughed.
He walked across the sparkling marble foyer, through the sitting room and dining room with its polished hardwood floors, running his hand across the table as he passed. He looked at the dust on his fingers as he stepped into the kitchen, recently covered in Mexican terracotta tile. Bruce was not fond of carpet; it hid too much dirt. He liked surfaces where he could see the dirt. Who wanted dirt hiding in between fibers of God knows what, waiting to infect you with a new germ or virus? They were worse than computer viruses. He wondered if they could be connected, if somehow, viruses from the organic world had mutated and infected the digital electronics world. A crazy thought, but so was flying before the Wright brothers, and that was not so long ago.
Bruce stepped to the sink to wash the dust from his hands, grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and opened the door to look out back. The patio was the same and, by some miracle, his plants yet lived. A shovel leaned against the back wall of the house. Bruce used it to dig up a small patch of dirt near the back steps. He reached down and picked up a plastic bag. Inside was the gun.
Back in the house, he spread a newspaper on the table and cleaned the gun, taking the same care he did with the other: leaving no prints, no oils, or hair. Nothing that would have his DNA on it. When he finished he placed the gun in a plastic bag and zipped it shut.
He went to the sitting room, sat in his favorite chair, kicked his feet up to rest on the Ottoman, and stared at his favorite picture of Susan. She wore a midnight-blue gown cut low to expose her treasures. Her hair was tied back in a bun, accenting her strong cheekbones. A pearl necklace shone against her tanned skin. She was a beautiful woman.
And sexy. Yes, very sexy.
Bruce went to the closet and pulled a shoebox from the top shelf. He returned to the chair and looked through the photographs. Most of them were of Susan. In a few, she even wore clothes. He searched for the one he wanted, then stared for a long time. Susan was lying on the bed, her legs spread wide. A man’s head was buried in her snatch. And the look on her face was…ecstasy. He remembered how sweet she tasted. How delicious. Bruce crumpled the picture. Squeezed it until his hand hurt. Unfortunately, the man’s head in that picture was not his.
Slut.
Thinking of Susan made him think of the gun. He had to get rid of it. Had to get rid of everything. Well, maybe not everything. As he tidied up, he set the box on the table, undecided whether to take it with him. So many memories in there. Maybe he’d convert them to digital images and put them on the computer. He had time to mull that over later. For now he had to get rid of that damn gun.
He walked to the car and had the door open when he realized he’d forgotten the pictures. He started back to the house, and saw her—Cantaloupe Girl. She was right there on the sidewalk, walking toward him, sunlight dancing in her hair.
Why did she have to be here now?
He closed the door to the car and forced himself to walk toward the house.
Control. Keep control.
She was fifty feet away, her wiggling ass an invitation to heaven. Before he knew it, he passed the house.
Damn it, she’s done it now.
***
I felt certain Stewart was leaving this time, then he stopped, as if he’d forgotten something, and headed back toward the house. Before I knew it he passed the house and appeared to be following a woman. I thought about taking the car, but decided trailing him on foot would be best. I grabbed my hat and hoodie, then walked to the other side of the street, keeping back half a block. I could switch the hat and hoodie so Stewart, at first glance, would see someone different behind him. After two blocks he hadn’t looked back once. He was focused on something, and I knew what it was.
This fucker is going to kill that woman.
Thinking about Stewart not watching for a tail reminded me I wasn’t, either. Fabrizio could be walking up behind me right now. I turned, checked the street on both sides. I didn’t see anything, but I didn’t expect to. I didn’t know Fabrizio but he was no amateur. I turned the corner at the second block. It was a long block, a perfect spot to check for a tail. I ducked behind a parked car and waited for almost a minute. Then I moved around the car, keeping crouched, and crossed the street, popping up to see if anyone was behind me. With my first glance, I saw nothing, but then a guy ducked behind a delivery truck. I waited, but he didn’t come out even after five minutes. I checked the time. I had about an hour left.
Hello, Fabrizio.
Now I had a decision to make. Did I continue to follow Stewart, and risk getting killed? Or did I ditch Fabrizio and lose Stewart? Maybe there was a way to do both. I dialed Mazzetti.
When he answered, I said, “It’s Fusco.”
He must have been around people, because there was a long pause where I heard him walking, then he whispered. “What do you want? You got anything?”
“I’ve been following him all morning. We’re in Brooklyn Heights. Stewart has a house here.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Why would a guy have a house in Red Hook and another one in Brooklyn Heights?”
“You’re sure it’s his?”
“I’m not sure, but he had a key and he was in there a long time.”
“What’s he doing?”
“That’s the other thing. He came out, got distracted by a woman, and now he’s following her. You need to get on this, Mazzetti. I think he might kill her.”
“Stay on her. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
It was my turn to pause. “You need to do it. I can’t.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean I can’t. I’ve got other things to do, so you better get people on this.”
“I’m on my way to the hospital. Frankie’s awake.”
“Is he okay?”
“All I know is that he’s awake. I need to ask him questions. If he can ID either Stewart or Benning, we can get a warrant.”
“Tell him I said hi.”
“If Stewart kills her it’s on you, Fusco.”
“Don’t try that shit with me. Get somebody on her.” I gave Mazzetti the address of Stewart’s other house and the location where I last saw him and the woman.
“Hurry up, Detective. I don’t think Stewart is a patient man.”
CHAPTER 53
Tracking the Tracker
I hung up on Mazzetti, cursing what I had to do. I hated abandoning that woman, but if I gave Fabrizio a free hand I’d be dead. I promised Angie I wouldn’t hurt anybody, and implicit in that promise was that I’d not get myself killed. It had been almost ten minutes now and no one had emerged from behind the delivery truck. But I felt sure I had seen Fabrizio.
The best thing was to confront him. I walked toward the delivery truck. I had almost an hour left, so I had no fears about Fabrizio doing anything. He would stick to the orders down to the second. Even if I wasn’t sure about him being that kind of guy, I knew Mangini was, and he would insist on his orders being followed. I wanted to see what happened when I confronted Fabrizio. It would tell me a lot about the kind of man he was. I half-jogged across the street and approached the truck slowly. My gun was within easy reach, just in case. I reached behind me, my hand on the grip as I came around the back of the truck. He was gone.
I shot a glance inside the truck, then around me in all directions.
Jesus Christ. Am I losing it? Was he here or not?
I didn’t have time to wonder about it. I wanted to get back to the house Stewart had gone in to check it out. He would be gone for at least an hour, enough time to get in and look the place over. I made good use of my prison skills and got through the lock in less t
han a minute. It was hard to believe he didn’t have a dead bolt, but a lot of people in the old houses didn’t bother with them.
“Hello.” I felt pretty certain no one was here, but it didn’t hurt to check. Halfway through the downstairs I realized how immaculate the place was. I felt like I should take off my shoes or something. I picked up a shoebox sitting on a table, the only thing out of place in the whole house. The pictures inside were almost all of naked women. One woman, the one whose portrait hung on the wall, looked familiar, and she was in most of the photos. In one photo, the mirror reflection showed an older man holding the camera while another man screwed her, and two kids watched. I looked at the picture on the wall. It was the same man in the portrait.
What the fuck?
Then it hit me where I’d seen her face. Holy shit. What kind of freak is this guy?
I called Mazzetti again. It rang four times before someone answered, but it wasn’t Mazzetti.
“Detective Miller,” a woman’s voice said.
“Where’s Mazzetti?”
“Who is this?”
“Where’s Mazzetti, and what are you doing with his phone?”
“Mister, it’s none of your business why I have his phone.”
I decided I wouldn’t get anywhere with her playing this way. “I’m a friend of Detective Donovan. I’m calling to see how he is.”
“Is this Fusco?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does, yes. You should leave Frankie alone. If you were really his friend you’d take your sorry ass home and forget you knew him.”
“Lady, you don’t know what you’re talking about. But you have nothing to worry over, because I’m going home. Now do me a favor and tell Mazzetti to check Stewart’s house in Red Hook. If you can get a warrant, I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“What?”
“Just check it,” I said. “And you better have somebody find out about the house in Brooklyn Heights. Something isn’t right here.”
I left Stewart’s house, knowing Fabrizio would be outside. I waited for several people to pass by on the street, then walked out the door and joined them. He wouldn’t shoot me while I was with them. That would piss Dominic off. At the corner I turned and walked slowly down the street. Halfway down the block I kicked it up to a fast pace, checking to see if anyone kept the same distance. At the next corner, I turned right and jogged toward Smith Street. I knew I wouldn’t lose Fabrizio this way, but it might confuse him a little. I checked the Beretta, took the safety off.
When dealing with someone like Fabrizio every second counted. Every part of a second. If it came to a confrontation, I couldn’t be messing around with the safety on a gun. Fabrizio would be pulling the trigger while I did.
***
From a store down the street, Fabrizio watched Nicky come out of the house. He joined the people on the street, staying close for safety. Fabrizio let him have space. On a street like this, at this time of day, he could follow with ease. At the next corner, Nicky started his run. Fabrizio broke into a jog and followed him all the way to Smith Street. The lunchtime crowd had the street jammed. Nicky fell in with a few businessmen, lagging a few steps behind them, acting as if he were part of the group. Fabrizio kept to the other side of the street, shifting a casual glance now and then in Nicky’s direction. The men he pretended to be with entered a restaurant featuring Thai cuisine. Nicky followed them in. After five minutes, Fabrizio assumed Nicky was testing his patience. He decided to sit it out in a dry cleaners.
Ten minutes later, he caught sight of someone who looked like Fusco, but he wore a hat and a jacket. And he walked with a slight limp. Is he that good? Fabrizio might not have believed it was Fusco if not for the single-minded way he walked, even with the limp.
If he turns at the corner and looks back, I’ll know.
The man he presumed to be Fusco did just that. He turned at the first corner and glanced back. Signor Fusco é buono. Very good.
Nicky would probably circle the block and come up behind Fabrizio, so he ran quickly, two blocks back, and positioned himself under the awning of a club. People were milling about and delivery men were coming and going. He blended in. Five minutes later Nicky came up the street. He moved slowly, keeping balanced. His hand stayed close to his gun, and he moved to a position where he would be approaching Fabrizio from a blind spot. At least from where Fabrizio had been.
Nicky’s hand moved into the pocket of his jacket. He must have moved the gun there. Unless Fabrizio wanted a shootout on the street, he’d have to wait for a better time. That was all right. He was a patient man. As St. Augustine said, “Patience is the companion of wisdom.”
Fabrizio liked this Niccolo Fusco. He might have even enjoyed working with him—if Signor Mangini didn’t want him dead.
CHAPTER 54
A Dinner Guest
Stewart followed Cantaloupe Girl for several blocks. She stopped at a small natural food center, well known for their good fruit. He waited a while then followed her inside. She was putting figs in her basket. Bruce loved the sweet taste of figs. He walked up beside her and noticed her phone peeking out of a pocket on the side of her purse. It wasn’t strapped in like most women kept theirs. Cantaloupe Girl must be the trusting type. Bruce bumped against her lightly, taking the phone as he did.
“Have you ever tried baking the figs with gorgonzola cheese on top?” he asked.
She turned, startled. A hint of recognition came to her face, but it wasn’t quite there.
“Remember? You taught me how to select a ripe cantaloupe.”
Her face broke into a big smile. “Oh yes. I do remember. Did it work?”
Bruce put on his most harmless expression. “Haven’t had a bad melon since. I owe you.”
She wrinkled her brow. “What was it you said about the figs?”
“Figs and gorgonzola. You split the figs, put gorgonzola on top, then bake them until the cheese melts. Oh God, it is heavenly.”
“I’ll have to try that,” she said. “Thanks.”
“You won’t regret it. Promise.”
He placed a few figs in his basket, walked down the aisle, grabbed some grapes and a mango, then wasted time while she finished shopping. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should get rid of the gun and quit while he’s ahead, but…he wouldn’t. His mind was made up the moment he saw her again. No, she made up his mind. The nerve of her taunting him like that. Wiggling her ass like she had a right to. She might as well have given him a key to her house with a written invitation.
Damn her.
It was all right, though. He’d do this one last job, then quit. Her ass was so pretty and soooo tight. He couldn’t wait to see it. Rub it. Squeeze it. Maybe even sniff it, to see if she was ripe—like she suggested he do with the cantaloupes. Yes, he had to do Cantaloupe Girl.
And this one I’ll take my time with.
He checked out a couple of minutes after her, then followed her to her house. He gave her time to get inside, get settled, then he walked to the front door and buzzed her. Jan Morris. Cute name.
She answered quickly. “Yes?”
“Ms. Morris, this is Bruce…God, that was stupid. I’m the guy you just bumped into at the market. Figs and gorgonzola, remember?”
Her voice was hesitant. “What can I do for you?”
“You dropped your phone at the market. I tried catching you but you got inside before I could.”
She paused, probably looking in her purse. “Dear God. I did. Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll just set it on the front steps.”
“No. For heaven’s sake, someone will steal it. Wait there, please. I’ll be right down.”
Bruce juggled his bag of groceries from one arm to the other while he practiced his spiel. He was certain she would be thinking of questions on her way down.
She opened the door, but only partially, as if afraid to let him in. She blushed. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s the least I can
do after your cantaloupe lesson.” He handed her the phone.
She looked up at him. “How did you know where I lived?”
“I was in line behind you and saw you drop the phone. I tried catching up but was a little slow.”
“But how did you know my name to buzz me?”
“That was easy. I called my phone from yours and saw it on caller ID.”
She blushed again and laughed. “That was smart.”
“I’m just glad you got it back. Listen, I hate to run but I am dying for a cup of coffee.”
She grabbed his arm. “Don’t even think about it. The least I can do is make you coffee. I just bought some Kona at the store. Come up and try it.”
Once inside, Bruce was impressed with her clean apartment. It wasn’t like his, but far better than most. He could train her to be good if…no, her fate was sealed. Cast in stone, so to speak. He looked the place over while she made coffee. A picture of her and who he assumed to be her husband was prominently displayed on top the end table. It made him think they hadn’t been married long. After five years or so, those pictures usually went into a storage chest. Or the garbage.
“I don’t ordinarily do the shopping but my fiancée is out of town. I’m stuck bacheloring it.”
“Oh, poor you. Men are such babies.”
Bruce laughed. “We are babies, aren’t we?”
Jan served coffee, offered him a piece of cake, then sat at the table to join him. “You must live nearby.”
“A few blocks west. Whenever my fiancée is out of town I stalk the grocery stores for lonely women.”
She laughed. “I love this neighborhood. I can walk to get most anything I need.”
“And we get the added benefit of staying in shape.”
Bruce made small talk for a few minutes, finished his coffee, then rinsed the cup and placed it in the sink.
Jan walked toward the door. “Well, thanks again for bringing the phone by. I don’t know what I’d have done without it.”
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