Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  “Depends on what?”

  “I can’t trust you, Marty. You’ll have to leave town.”

  “Sure, Nicky. I’ll leave. Where you want me to go?”

  I sighed. “You don’t understand. I need you to leave for good. Go somewhere. I don’t care where. And don’t come back. Ever.”

  Marty looked at me with a confused expression. “Ever?”

  “Not ever. And that means you can’t call Rosa. You don’t write, or visit.”

  He leaned forward. “Where am I supposed to go? How am I gonna live?”

  I turned to face him, not blinking as I held his gaze. “I’ll give you time to get your shit straightened out. I’ll even give you enough money for a couple of months rent on an apartment. After that, it’s up to you.”

  “Up to me? I got—”

  “You got shit, Marty, and we both know it. What you do have is a skill. You’re a butcher which means you can get a job anywhere, and you’ll be making more than I do, so don’t give me any shit.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t. I started the car and turned around.

  “Where are we going?” he finally asked.

  “First to the bank. Then I’ll take you home. You can sell your house, settle debts, do whatever you have to do, but I expect that within a month—two at most—you’ll be packing your clothes to get out of town.”

  “Where should I go?”

  “I already told you, I don’t give a shit where you go.”

  I drove back using route Route #13 again, forsaking Delaware’s lone interstate. Interstates had no flavor, no personality. Bugs would argue that, but then again, he was always in a hurry to get somewhere, and the worst part was that he didn’t know where. It took me maybe five or ten minutes longer to get back this way, but the drive calmed my nerves so it was worth it. I stopped at the bank, withdrew some money—more than we could afford—then went back to the car. I knew Marty would be there. The shock of what I’d done was still with him. He wouldn’t dare risk running. A week from now, maybe, but not today.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up to his house. I reminded him not to call Rosa. “If she calls you—ignore her. If you see her, turn the other way. You’re dead as far as Rosa is concerned. Remember that. And once you get your composure, make sure you talk to Borelli. Call him and say you heard he was looking for you.”

  “That’s it, just—”

  “I’m not done talking.”

  “Sorry, Nicky.”

  “Here’s the deal. Listen close.” I waited until I had his complete attention. “Don’t ever think you can get free of this. If you tell Borelli what happened, I’ll find you. And the next time it will be worse.”

  “I know how to keep quiet. Don’t worry about that.” Marty started to get out of the car, then turned back to face me. “Can’t we work this out? Why are you doing this?”

  I almost hit him. Almost took him back and shoved him in that box. “Rosa.” That’s all I said. From the look in his eyes, I knew it was enough.

  He nodded, then got out of the car. I got out with him and gave him the money. “Remember everything I told you. If I have to do this again, there will be no reprieve. You’ll wither away and die in that box.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll never see me again.”

  “One last thing.”

  He looked frightened. “What?”

  “You know anything about who killed Bobby Campisi, or what he was into?”

  He started to say no, but must have thought better of it. “Ask Jack McDermott,” he said, and headed into his house.

  Jack McDermott? What the fuck? That one threw me for a loop. And the problem was that I believed him. No way was Marty lying to me today. As I drove off toward the office, I wondered what could Jack possibly have to do with Bobby? Jack had a grudge against Bobby—a big one—but I didn’t picture Jack killing him.

  Guess I need to do some talking.

  CHAPTER 18

  Call From New York

  Brooklyn, New York

  By the time Lou and Sherri got to the scene, a half a dozen reporters had gathered outside the building. A young female with an independent news group shoved a mic toward Lou’s face.

  “What can you tell us, Detective Mazzetti?”

  “It’s hot out,” Lou said, and pushed the mic aside. He wanted to shove the mic up her ass; instead, he grabbed hold of Sherri as they made their way through the crowd and inside to the elevator.

  “I imagine things are gonna get bad now,” Sherri said.

  “When somebody gets killed in a public place, there’s no stopping the reporters. They’re worse than vultures after they smell a dead body.”

  Lou and Sherri got in the elevator with a patrolman. He pushed the button for the sixth floor, and they rode in silence until the doors opened. Two uniformed patrolmen, known as unis, guarded the hallway.

  “What have we got?” Lou asked a young patrolwoman.

  “A damn mess is what we got,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Bathroom.”

  “In the bathroom?” Sherri asked.

  “At least it’s the men’s room,” the uni said.

  Lou walked in first. A stall door was open with a note taped to it, and a pair of ass cheeks stared at him. The victim’s head was in the toilet.

  “What’s the note say?” Lou asked.

  Sherri got close. “‘This is #2. I thought I’d leave a little more flesh for you to work with this time, but don’t worry, there will be more.’”

  Lou moved up next to Sherri. “We get all the sick ones,” he said, then looked down to the body. “What’s carved on his ass?”

  “‘Mea culpa, mea culpa,’” Sherri said. It flowed off her tongue as if she spoke Latin.

  “Sounds like you’re familiar with that phrase. Catholic?”

  “All my life,” she said. “So someone is sorry for something…but is it the killer who’s saying it’s his fault or is the killer saying the victim had something to be sorry for?”

  “We didn’t see this on the first vic, did we?” Lou asked.

  “No. I’d have remembered something like this. My brother was an altar boy. He recited that stuff all the time when he practiced his prayers.”

  “Remember, there might be two killers,” Lou said. “I wonder which one did this.”

  “Whoever did this wasn’t as angry,” Sherri said, and turned to the uniform at the door. “Has the M.E. been here yet?”

  “They said she’s on her way. She should be here soon.”

  “Ah, Jesus Christ.” Lou shook his head and turned away. “I hope he was dead before they did that.”

  “Yeah, that must have hurt like hell, carving all that in his ass.”

  “I’m not talking about his ass, I’m talking about shoving his head in the toilet. The prick didn’t even flush it first.”

  Sherri was silent for a moment, looking around the scene. “You know, Lou, maybe that was on purpose. Maybe he wanted to humiliate the guy.”

  “He did a good job of that,” Lou said. “And from the little bit of blood on his ass, he was probably dead when he did the carving. My bet is drowning in the toilet.” Lou shook his head again. “Bad way to die.”

  “There’s a good way?” one of the uniforms asked.

  “A better way than this,” Lou said, turning to the cop who’d asked. “Tell me what we’ve got so far.”

  The uniform described the scenario as he flipped open his notepad. “The cones in the hall had been there since somewhere around lunchtime. After a couple of hours, somebody risked it and came in to take a leak. That’s when they saw the body and called us.” The uni pointed to his notes. “Vic’s name is Ben Davidoff, at least according to his license. From what we gathered on preliminary talks, he works down the hall, some kind of investment analyst.”

  “So either this was random, which I don’t think, or the killer waited for him to use the bathroom.” Sherri took notes as she spoke. “We
need to think about this, Lou. He might have been watching this guy.”

  Lou looked at Sherri. “I wonder what the other guy did, the John Doe. Maybe this is about somebody’s investments gone bad, and whoever did it is taking revenge.”

  “Could be,” Sherri said. “I wish we knew who John Doe was.”

  Kate Burns, the M.E., pushed through the door into the men’s room, and whistled. “Just what I’ve always dreamed of—meeting Lou Mazzetti in a men’s room. If only we were alone.”

  Lou thought of something smart to say, but he was laughing too hard. “Okay, you got me on that one.” He walked over and shook her hand. “Good to see you again, Kate, though I didn’t want it to be so soon.”

  “This guy—or these guys—aren’t wasting any time are they?”

  “You still think it’s two of them?”

  “No question in my mind.” She turned to Sherri and held out her hand. “Kate Burns. I figured I had to introduce myself since your partner lacks manners.”

  “Here comes that prejudice you warned me about, Mazzetti. Next she’s gonna be saying we all look alike.”

  Lou and Sherri started laughing just as Lieutenant Morreau walked in. “I hope somebody fills me in on the humor, because when the Chief of D’s sees the news tonight, I don’t think he’ll find it funny.”

  Morreau nodded at Kate, then focused his anger on Sherri and Lou. “Reporters are already talking about a serial killer, a butcher, a maniac on the loose, and those are only the headlines leading up to the live news at six.”

  Sherri stared at Morreau. “I’m sorry to say, Lieu, but they’re not wrong. And until we figure out why these people are being killed, nobody’s safe. As far as we know these could still be random.”

  “Don’t let me hear that quoted on the news, Miller.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What have we got?” Morreau asked, but then he must have looked at the body. “Don’t tell me we’ve got some kind of Catholic connection.”

  “Not saying we do, Lieu, but ‘mea culpa’ does indicate at least a rudimentary knowledge of Latin prayers.”

  “Who made you an expert, Miller?”

  “My brother was an altar boy.”

  “You think he had anything to do with it?” Morreau asked.

  “We’re looking into it,” Lou said.

  Sherri held back a chuckle.

  Morreau looked around the men’s room. “Nobody saw anything I guess.”

  “Not that we know of. Unis did some prelim work, but we’ll go through it again. Once we have Kate’s report, we’ll know for sure if it’s the same people, but with that note on the stall door we gotta figure it’s him—or them.”

  “People?” Morreau said. “Did I hear ‘people,’ as in plural?”

  “We told you before,” Mazzetti said. “Kate thinks the first vic was done by two people.”

  Morreau slammed his hand into one of the closed stalls. “Damnit. Don’t tell the reporters that, either; in fact, don’t tell them anything.”

  “I have my ‘no comment’ line down pat,” Lou said.

  “Me too,” Sherri said. “And I’m good at it.”

  Morreau started to leave, then popped his head back into the bathroom. “Where the hell is Donovan? Hasn’t he been gone long enough to bury his father?”

  “I’ll call him tonight,” Lou said.

  “Do that. And tell him to get his ass back up here.” Once again Morreau started to leave, and once again he came back. “That’s no reflection on you, Miller. Don’t think I’m being biased or anything.”

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  Kate waited a few seconds, making sure Morreau was gone before speaking. “Lou, have you heard from Frankie?”

  “He hasn’t called. I planned on calling him tonight.” Lou pulled Kate aside. “I’m sure he’d love to hear from you instead of me.”

  Kate nodded. “Maybe so. I’ll see.”

  “You damn Irish people! You know how to fight but not make up. Just call him, for God’s sake.”

  “Thanks, Lou,” Kate said, and turned as Sherri approached.

  “Kate, please tell me this killer carved his name and address alongside the mea culpa’s.”

  “If he did, I haven’t found them yet. But I did find some interesting coincidences.”

  Lou moved in beside her. “Like what?”

  “Like there is once again no DNA evidence that I can see. There might be some when we process everything, but this guy is careful, if nothing else.”

  “You’re a barrel of laughs, Kate.” Lou headed for the door. “We’re going to ask questions. Call me if you get anything interesting.”

  Lou and Sherri made the rounds all afternoon, questioning the victim’s coworkers and anyone else who could give them a clue as to who might want the guy dead. Sherri got his address and particulars from human resources. From his secretary they found out that he was divorced, but not seeing anyone.

  “You want to check his place out tonight?” Sherri asked. “He lived in White Plains.”

  “No way I’m going up there tonight. Give me the address and I’ll meet you there in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  Lou frowned. “You an early bird, or a sleeper?”

  “I like to get it done, boy.”

  He laughed. “See you at seven. How’s that?”

  “That’s good. It’ll give me time to get a workout in.”

  Lou waved his hand and walked away, muttering. “Goddamn young kids.”

  Lou parked his car at the house, and dragged his feet across the few feet of sidewalk to his apartment. “Buona sera, baby, I’m home.”

  A practiced response came from the kitchen. “Buona sera, Luigi. Did you have a good day?”

  “One less citizen in the great state of New York. You tell me, good day or not.” He walked across the kitchen and kissed his wife.

  She continued working at the stove. “I guess it depends on who the citizen was.”

  Lou dipped his finger into her sauce and tasted it. “Investment analyst.”

  She smacked him with a spoon. “It was a good day.”

  “How long before dinner?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “I’ve got to call Frankie. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “You want coffee?”

  Lou had his cell phone out and was already dialing. “I could use it.”

  ***

  Frankie’s phone rang five times before he picked up, and when he did, his tone was an impatient one.

  “Donovan.”

  “Donovan, it’s Mazzetti. How’s it going down there?”

  A big sigh followed. “Hey, Lou. Sorry about how I answered. Got a lot of shit going on.”

  “How’s the family?”

  “Not good. My sister’s husband got killed the night of my father’s wake. Murdered.”

  “What the fuck! Did you piss off the angels or something?”

  “I’m sure I did. And you know what’s worse, these asshole cops down here like me for it.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Long story, and one I don’t want to go into right now.” Frankie waited but when Lou didn’t say anything, he spoke up. “So what’s up? Why’d you call?”

  “Hate to give you more to worry over but Morreau is raising holy hell and wants you back. We got a second one, and I don’t think it’s stopping with two.”

  “I assume the reporters are having a field day?”

  “You got it.” Lou paused to light a smoke. “I understand what you’re going through, but if I were you, I’d do what I could to get back.”

  “Yeah, well you ain’t me, so tell Morreau I need more time.”

  “All I’m saying is he’s not going to like it.”

  “Fuck him. I’ve got people to bury down here.”

  Lou took a while before responding. “I know you’ve got people to bury, and I’m not saying drive back tonight. Take a couple of days, do what you’ve got to do, but th
en get up here before Morreau loses it. I’ll cover for you as long as I can.”

  “How are you going to cover? What the hell can you do?”

  “I don’t know, I guess I’ll just tell him that you’re stuck in Wilmington, or whatever piss-hole-in-the-snow city you’re in, and they got you pegged for a murder. That ought to shut him up for a while. Besides, I got a new partner, and she’s a whole lot better than you. A lot prettier, too.”

  Frankie laughed. “Now I know you’re shitting me. She might be better but no way she’s prettier than me.”

  “All right, I’m hanging up. I’ve had all I can stand. Get your ass home before they put you in jail.”

  “I need to work on that. How about asking Morreau to call down here and make sure I don’t get any grief about leaving?”

  “I’ll do it. And by the way, Kate was asking for you.”

  “Kate? She was?”

  “Yeah, I saw her at the scene today. Give her a call. You two micks deserve each other.”

  “Maybe I will. See you soon, Lou. And thanks, I appreciate what you’re doing.” As Lou hung up, Frankie slammed his phone on the table. “Goddamnit, everything’s happening at once.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Follow the Leads

  Brooklyn, New York

  Lou got to Ben’s place at quarter to seven. Sherri was already there, running up and down the block at a fast clip. He got out of the car, lit a smoke, and watched her, waiting until she got close. “Hey, Miller, if you’ve got that much energy come to my place after work; it needs cleaning.”

  “You don’t want me at your place, Mazzetti. I might end up telling your wife how you hit on me all day.”

  Lou laughed. “She wouldn’t believe you. I can barely climb into bed, let alone do anything once I get there.”

  “Remember that little blue pill…”

  “Forget that. I’m not taking anything that’s going to give me a hard-on for four hours. That’s just plain wrong.”

  “All right, I’m not arguing with you. Let’s check this place out.” Sherri headed up the walk a few steps ahead of Lou. The house was a small bungalow on a nice street in a nice neighborhood. Nothing fancy about it, but it was clean and tidy. Lawn mowed, edges trimmed, walk swept clean, trees groomed.