Murder Takes Patience

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  “Hello.”

  “Nicky?”

  The voice was soft, with no enthusiasm in it, but to me it sounded like an angel.

  “Angie?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I just left the hospital. I’m on my way home.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She sounded upset, as if she expected to hear bad news. “Everything is fine. Bugs is getting better and they don’t think he’ll have any permanent damage.”

  “I meant with you. You’re okay? Nothing’s wrong?”

  She was breaking my heart. I despised hurting her. “Angie, I’m great. And nothing is wrong. I should be there in three hours tops.”

  That seemed to perk her up. I heard a little more spark in her voice. “Rosa is making meatballs for you. And I thought we’d invite Sister Thomas for dinner. Is that okay?”

  “Oh my God. I can’t tell you how much I’ve dreamed of meatballs. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Drive safe.”

  “You know I will.” I almost hung up, but then, “Angie…I love you.”

  “I love you too. Just get your butt home.”

  “On my way. See ya’ soon.”

  I was so damn excited I felt like doing a hundred all the way, but sure as shit I’d be picked up, so I kept it to the speed limit. Despite the boring drive I knew I was going to enjoy the ride. And meatballs for dinner. It didn’t get any better than that.

  As I thought about how good it would be to see Sister Thomas again, something gnawed at my insides. It brought to mind Sister Thomas’ rules, and the logic I used to get to the bottom of this case. I tried chasing the thoughts away, but I couldn’t stop them from swirling around in my head like a vortex.

  Stewart had an alibi for Krenshaw’s murder. Mazzetti and Miller didn’t seem to have a problem writing it off as witnesses lying for him. But that many?

  And why wasn’t that song on Stewart’s iPod? Nothing by the Young Rascals. And no “It’s a Beautiful Morning” anywhere.

  I called Kate. “Hey, I know this is a crazy question, but do you have “It’s a Beautiful Morning,” on a playlist?

  “You bet I do. I love that song. Why, do you need me to send it to you?”

  “No, just curious. Thanks.”

  I hung up. She must have thought I was crazy. If so, she wasn’t the first. I had to check my gut, though. If the guy was singing the song, it should have been on his playlist.

  Stewart was smart. He planned these murders and made them look as if Chad Benning had done them. He went to great lengths to do that—providing a disposable phone with calls to and from Chad to Krenshaw; selecting a woman Chad was supposedly having an affair with; the hair that was left at Parnell’s house, and, Chad being seen by the doorman. But if Stewart was so smart, why did he provide Chad with the perfect alibi on the joggers? That bothered me. Why not kill the joggers another night when Chad had no alibi?

  So, why were the joggers killed? It wasn’t jealousy. The other murders were obvious, and they implicated Chad. What did killing the joggers accomplish? Nothing.

  As I drove toward I-95, it hit me. Killing them did accomplish something.

  It established an alibi for Benning. A perfect alibi.

  Assuming Stewart did this—if he went to the trouble of making the connections between Debbie and Krenshaw and Benning—why would he kill the joggers while Benning was out of town, giving him a perfect alibi? How did that benefit Stewart?

  Stewart had an alibi for Krenshaw, and Benning had one for the joggers. They both had weak ones for Parnell. And wasn’t it a coincidence that Benning was having an affair with Stewart’s fiancée? That brought to mind another problem. That’s when it hit me. I dialed Bugs.

  “Donovan.”

  He still sounded weak. “Bugs, did Stewart and Benning know each other?”

  “Why?”

  “Did they?”

  There was a slight pause, then, “I don’t think so, no.” Pause again. “Why?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nicky, what’s going on? Why do you want to know?”

  If they didn’t know each other, how did Stewart know what Benning looked like when he attacked him at the station? And how convenient that the attack provided a credible reason for both of their DNA to be at Bugs’ house.

  There was only one explanation.

  They did it together.

  I’d bet fifty dollars to a doughnut that Benning has ‘It’s a Beautiful Morning’ on his iPod. He was the one who stabbed Bugs. They did all of the murders together, taking turns.

  I got off the turnpike, took a turn under it, and got back on the ramp toward the bridge. Dinner would have to wait. Chad Benning was going down.

  CHAPTER 64

  Traps are Meant to Work

  I crossed the bridge on my way to Brooklyn. It wasn’t the best time of day to be planning a murder but I had no time to fuck around. Angie had forgiven me and Rosa was cooking meatballs. I disregarded everything that Johnny Muck taught me about murder taking patience, and decided to do this guy quick. Lure him in and be done with it.

  I had to be certain beyond doubt that Benning was guilty. My logic failed me once, and when killing a guy you didn’t want to be wrong. I thought about where Sister Thomas’ rules had gone wrong. She had taught us to break a problem down to its basic form—its simplest structure. In this case that should have been each murder by itself, but I lumped the first few together as one. Doing it that way, and applying the rules made me think Benning was innocent.

  If I looked at it properly I would have never ruled Chad out for the hotel job. He was only ruled out because of stupidity. But I wasn’t counting on them working it together and playing ahead to the fact that he would have an alibi in the future to clear him once they established a pattern. So Benning did the first job. Stewart did the second and the joggers. And Benning did Frankie.

  Smart fuckers.

  I thought about letting the cops handle it, but they were trapped. No way in hell could they convict this guy now. They already pinned it on Stewart and he was dead. With Benning’s alibi for the joggers he was safe.

  Unless I take care of it.

  I still had the case files. I looked up Chad’s cell and dialed it from the disposable.

  “Yes?”

  “Chad Benning?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “You don’t need my name. All you need to know is I have pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  “Of you going into the hotel the night that couple was killed.”

  There was a pause, then he laughed. “I’m sure many people went in that night. Who is this? Is this a joke?”

  “I was doing a job for a jealous husband, following another guy, and just happened to get you. After that, I ‘happened’ to get you a few more times. Like when you visited that detective’s apartment the day he was stabbed.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Fine, I’m selling these to the papers…unless you want to join the bidding.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I may be out of my mind, but my camera was very much in focus both days.”

  I waited through a long pause.

  “Where can we meet?”

  “It has to be a public place. I’m not meeting you privately.” I put as much fear into my voice as I could, hoping to reassure him, make him feel in command.

  “There is a restaurant on—”

  “No thanks. I’ll pick the spot.”

  I suggested a café not far from him. The surrounding streets were busy, just like I wanted. Nobody pays attention to a person on a busy street. Get one stranger walking down a deserted street and everyone notices him, but that same man seen by fifty people will get the cops twenty different descriptions, the bad ones nullifying the ones that were spot on.

  This was not the smartest operation I ever did; in fact, it probably ranked with the worst, but it was a rush job and I had to make it work. For one thing, the
disposable I used to call him could eventually be traced to one that called Lou Mazzetti—if they looked into it. I was counting on Lou stifling that part of the investigation. If not, he’d have some explaining to do.

  I had Benning meet me down in Park Slope not far from Sette’s restaurant at Third and Seventh Avenue. I parked down by Second and Fifth Avenue, by the Laundromat, and walked to Seventh. I went down Third Street and stood with a couple of kids by a big maple tree next to a brownstone someone was renovating. This had to be quick and dirty. I had no time to mess with DNA and I couldn’t afford to be in a situation where that would matter.

  I called Benning to get an update. “Where are you?”

  “Coming down Third Street now. I should be there in two minutes. No more.”

  “Okay listen, go past Seventh Avenue. Do not stop at Sette’s. Keep the phone on, and stop when I say stop.”

  “I don’t like these games.”

  “Neither do I. But I have to know I can trust you.”

  “I am crossing Sixth now.”

  “Good. Keep coming.”

  The kids left, chasing some girl down the street. There were half a dozen people outside, and another dozen or so on the corner or walking. He crossed Seventh. “About halfway down the block you will see some construction. Go past that fifty yards, then stop.”

  He followed directions well, coming to a stop about where I told him to. As soon as the car slowed, I ran for him. I came up in his blind spot toward the right rear of the car, ducked, then popped up on the passenger side at eye level, gun in hand. I opened the door and got in.

  I started to say something, but his face stunned me.

  He’s the guy in the pictures!

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but now that I sat a few feet away from Benning it was undeniable. “You’re the kid in the picture.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he said.

  I smiled. “The pictures at the house in Brooklyn Heights. In one of them, you and Stewart are watching a lady get screwed.”

  “I told that stupid fuck to get rid of them,” he said, and shook his head. “Okay, let’s get this over with. I’ll give you $50,000 for the pictures.”

  “Not nearly enough,” I said.

  “How much?”

  “Let’s start with your life,” I said, and pointed the gun at his head. “This is for Frankie Donovan.” I fired twice. Both bullets hit his face.

  I didn’t bother checking; he was dead. No doubt. I ran down Third with the traffic. People would have to turn around to see my face, and few people were willing to do that, especially if they thought you did something wrong. I jogged all the way to the car, got in and headed for home. Now my job was done.

  I drove the speed limit all the way, stopping in the Pine Barrens to get rid of the gun. I always got rid of guns I used. It was foolish not to. I got off the beaten path, dismantled it, cleaned it, then buried it. I stopped a few miles down the road and got rid of the hoodie and the disposable phone. No sense keeping anything that could in any way connect me to a murder. After that I got back on the turnpike and punched it. I was already way too late.

  CHAPTER 65

  Tying up Loose Ends

  Frankie got moved to a regular room before the nurse’s shift changed, and for that he was eternally grateful. It was bad enough being in a hospital, but intensive care made it worse. As the nurse wheeled him down the hall, he heard Keisha call his name.

  “Hey, FD, how are you?”

  He turned to her and smiled. “Hi, Little Princess. Did you bring me any presents?”

  “You know I did.”

  She followed him into his new room, unable to sit still until the nurse got him settled. Keisha had an armful of pictures she had drawn and a pack of strawberry shortcake gum. Frankie looked through them one at a time, commenting on each one. There was a picture of her skipping rope, of Alex and her playing step ball, and of Frankie and her and Alex watching television and eating popcorn.

  “I can’t believe how great these are,” Frankie said. “I mean these are unbelievable. You must have gotten that talent from your mom.”

  “Mom can’t draw a stick,” Keisha said. “It had to be from my dad.”

  Frankie laughed. “Come give me a hug.”

  She moved to the side of the bed and gave him a hug and a kiss.

  “Thanks for coming Keisha, and thanks for the pictures.”

  “You really like them?”

  “I love them. They’re going into my special folder as soon as I get home.”

  Lou and Sherri came in, followed by Kate and Alex.

  “Damn, the whole gang is here now,” Frankie said.

  “I’m just glad I can go back to work,” Kate said. “Nothing against you, Frankie, but I was tired of hanging out here all day.”

  Alex sat on the edge of the bed. “You hear that, FD? Kate don’t like spending time with me.”

  Frankie slapped the side of his head playfully. “Maybe she should have given grammar lessons while you waited. ‘Kate don’t like.’ What the hell is that?”

  Alex sighed. “Kate doesn’t like.”

  Frankie smiled and rubbed his head. “Much better.”

  A phone rang. Lou flipped his open. “Mazzetti,” he said, then walked out of the room into the hall.

  “Did they say when you’d be getting out?” Sherri asked.

  Frankie shook his head. “No word on that. You know how they work, Miller. They won’t tell me until the day I’m getting discharged.”

  “I remember.”

  After a few minutes, Lou came back. “Hey, Miller. Let’s go.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “We have to leave.”

  Frankie grew suspicious. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Nobody. Go to sleep or something. Let us real detectives work.”

  “Mazzetti, who was on the phone?”

  Lou looked at Sherri, then back at Frankie. “Morreau. We have a body.”

  Frankie could tell that something was up. “What’s different about this body?”

  Mazzetti sighed. “Chad Benning is dead.”

  Frankie tried sitting up. “Benning?”

  “Shot twice in the head, right in the middle of Third Street down by Seventh Avenue.”

  “Did they get the guy who did it?”

  “Nobody saw anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We’ll find out more when we get there, but from what Morreau said, there were dozens of people around, and all we got for ID is a jogger in a gray hoodie. They said he capped him and jogged away as if nothing happened.”

  “Goddamn,” Frankie said. “Goddamn.”

  “Hey, we gotta go,” Lou said. “I’ll call.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Lou waved as he and Sherri left.

  Frankie got a sick feeling in his gut. An invisible assailant shot one of Frankie’s original suspects in the head, twice, in broad daylight, in the middle of Third Street, and jogged away as if nothing happened. And nobody can ID him. Nicky’s signature was all over it. He turned to Linda and Kate.

  “Would you mind if I take a quick nap? I’m tired.”

  Kate shot him a look, but she said nothing. “Sure, Frankie. Call me when you get up.”

  After they left, Frankie dialed Nicky’s phone. “Hey, Rat.”

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you. Everything okay?”

  “Great. They moved me to a regular room, and I’ve got more visitors than I can stand.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “Where are you? You home yet?”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost, huh? Like where?”

  “Just crossing the bridge. Why?”

  “Which bridge, Nicky? Would that be the Delaware Memorial, the Commodore Barry, or the fucking Verrazano?”

  “What the hell is up your ass? And why all the questions about bridges?”

  “I just want to know where you are.”

>   “If you have to know, the Delaware Memorial.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “How about you do me a favor? Snap a picture with your phone of the river right now and send it to me.”

  “I don’t do that shit when I’m driving.”

  “Bullshit. Snap the picture, then pull over when you get off the bridge and send it to me. I’m dying to see the river again. It’s been a long time.”

  “How about you do me a favor, Bugs? Fuck yourself.”

  Frankie sat silent for a moment. “Why did you do it, Nicky?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about Benning. You could have told Lou or Sherri, or me, if you thought you had something.”

  “I’m late for dinner. Rosa is cooking and Sister Thomas is coming over. I gotta go.”

  “Okay. Yeah, you do that. Pretend everything is fine. Pretend you didn’t just come up here and kill two people. Tell Sister Thomas I said hi. And tell Father Tom I said hi when you see him at confession.”

  The line went dead. Frankie threw the phone at the door. It shattered.

  ***

  Frankie lay in bed, seething. He blamed himself as much as Nicky. If he’d been smart enough to recognize Stewart as the killer earlier, Nicky would have never had to come to New York. And Benning…I hope he was really guilty.

  A nurse walked into Frankie’s room. She handed him a phone. “Detective Mazzetti is on the line. He said he couldn’t get through to your number. Call me when you’re finished, and I’ll come back,” she said.

  Frankie took the phone. “Thanks,” he said, and then, “What’s up, Lou?”

  “We hit pay dirt.”

  “Tell me. I need good news.”

  “That house in Brooklyn Heights was a gold mine. Not only did it confirm Stewart to be the sick son of a bitch he was, but it tied him to Benning.”

  “How?”

  “I know you’re sitting, so I won’t tell you to sit down. Stewart’s mother was the second wife of Leo Caruthers, but Caruthers had a third wife. A young one. And guess who her son was?”