The trailer park was owned by an old high school friend of Ricky’s who had left New York decades ago. There was no way that anyone would connect the man to Ricky, who had paid the friend in cash to let him stay in the trailer. The friend was having financial problems due to a divorce. Ricky’s money was welcomed like water in the desert, especially since it could be hidden from the tax man.
After paying off the plastic surgeon and arranging to buy a new ID in Florida, Ricky would still have nearly a quarter of a million left. That wasn’t much in the states, but it would go a long way in parts of South America. Ricky wanted a new life and he had been bold enough to go for it.
A noise from outside made Ricky look away from the mirror. His neighbor was home.
She was a young good-looking blonde who kept to herself as much as Ricky did. At first, Ricky had wondered if she were a hooker, but decided against it, since no one ever visited her. He had known more than a few hookers during his working years in the Giacconi Family, and his neighbor just didn’t give off that vibe.
Ricky had never talked to her, and knew he shouldn’t talk to her, or anyone else. Still, maybe they’d hit it off, and she was damn good-looking.
The woman got out of the beater of a car she drove and gazed around warily. Ricky had seen her do that before, and figured she was just the jumpy type. He kept watching her, and this time he saw her do something new.
She squinted at the door to her trailer, at a spot above the lock, then pulled a strand of hair away from that area. Ricky understood what she was doing. The woman had left a strand of her hair lodged in the doorframe. If someone had entered her trailer during her absence, she’d know about it.
Satisfied that there were no intruders within, the woman went inside carrying a bag of groceries. After the door shut behind her, Ricky kept staring at it.
So, his neighbor was more interesting than he realized, and maybe he wasn’t the only one who was on the run.
Ricky Valente’s neighbor was a woman named Julie Ryan.
Julie was twenty-six and a former emergency room nurse from California. She was no longer a nurse because she’d been framed for stealing drugs from the hospital where she worked.
Drugs had gone missing, that was true, but Julie had no clue who had been taking them. The thefts stopped after an orderly had been killed in a mugging, and although no one wanted to speak ill of a dead colleague, the consensus of the staff was that the man had been the culprit.
Then, the police showed up at the hospital with a warrant to search Julie’s car, while other cops were searching her apartment. Drugs were discovered in both locations and Julie had been arrested and taken from the hospital in handcuffs.
She refused any plea bargaining as she swore she was innocent. In time, she was schooled in the ways of the modern legal system by her lawyer.
“This is how it works, Julie,” the lawyer said. “If you take the plea bargain you’ll do six months in the county jail and then be set free. If you force the court to hold a trial for you, you’ll do a year in county before you even see the inside of a courtroom.”
“Why would I have to spend twice as long in jail?”
“Because the judge would think you’re wasting her time. You know the evidence they have against you. The police found the drugs in your apartment, along with an envelope filled with money. A jury would find you guilty. If that happens, you’d be looking at ten years in prison. You’re a young woman. Take the plea bargain, do the six months, and move on.”
Reluctantly, Julie had taken the plea bargain, knowing that when she was released, she’d never work again as a nurse, a profession she loved.
Time inside the jail dragged while also being dangerous. Julie had been beaten twice by fellow inmates, although not badly. The family of doctors she came from all but disowned her, and while inside, her father passed away.
Finally, she was free and could start over, but she never felt safe. Someone had framed her for stealing drugs, and she still didn’t know who had done it, or why they’d chosen her life to ruin.
Julie was the recipient of at least one stroke of good luck when her father left her money in his will. It wasn’t a fortune, but neither was it a pittance. The money would allow her the time she needed to decompress from her months spent in jail, before she had to reenter the workforce.
With no chance of going back into the work she was trained for, Julie decided to do what she thought she wouldn’t get a chance to do until she had retired someday. She wanted to see the country from the road.
Julie bought an old but mechanically sound car and headed out from California. She stayed along the coastline in the beginning. The trip was peaceful, regenerative, and she began to recover from her time in jail and the undeserved disgrace that had led her there. She had even stopped obsessing over whom it was that had framed her, as she motored along and put the past in the rear view mirror.
Then, Victor Fenner appeared.
Fenner was in his forties, wealthy, and came from a family that owned an insurance company. He was also insane.
Julie had been at a park in Oregon when Fenner approached her. For company while on the road, she had picked up a mutt from the pound. The dog was small, brown, and of indeterminate parentage. Julie loved the dog and named her Missy.
Missy growled at Fenner’s approach, but that wasn’t unusual, as Missy always growled at men and distrusted them.
Julie, being a good-looking woman, thought Fenner had settled beside her on the bench because he’d come over to make a pass at her. When the first words out of his mouth were a confession that he’d framed her, Julie stood and gawked down at him.
“What did you say?”
“I said, I’m the one who framed you for the theft of the narcotics. The reason I framed you, Julie, was to give you a glimpse of the power I have. I altered your life forever, and believe me when I tell you this, you now belong to me.”
Tears sprang from Julie’s eyes as anger welled up inside her.
“Who are you?”
“My name doesn’t matter, and soon, you’ll be calling me Master.”
Julie stared at the stranger in disbelief, and saw the madness glittering in his eyes.
“Why would you do something like that to me? I don’t even know you.”
Fenner smiled.
“I was always your destiny, and now, you’ll belong to me forever.”
Julie scooped up Missy in her arms and sprinted from the park. Her car was parked where she was staying, at a cheap motel only three blocks away. After gathering her belongings from the room, she was back on the road and fighting to hold the wheel steady.
Whoever that man was, if he was telling the truth it meant he was crazy. Julie had sometimes fantasized about clearing her name and being reinstated at the hospital. Having met her tormentor, she knew that would never happen.
It wasn’t until she had stopped for the night at a motel in Washington State that she’d found the note from Fenner. It had been typed out in large bold letters.
Julie had discovered it after flipping down her sun visor to check her face in the attached mirror.
YOU NOW BELONG TO ME, JULIE. SEE YOU SOON.
That was over a week ago. Julie had been on the run ever since.
8
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Alicino’s Bakery on 28th Street was known for its apple turnovers, it was also a money drop for the Giacconi Family.
Over forty percent of the drug money collected each day in the city wound up in the basement of the bakery. Once there, the money was counted, banded, and packed in cake boxes. From there, the money was placed on a bakery truck that was armored and escorted by a group of six guards to a different location for money laundering.
The bakery had eight guards on duty inside the basement, while another four pretended to be bakers or customers. It was a real customer, an older woman in a faux fur coat, who first noticed that something was wrong.
While rubbing her eyes, she
whispered, “Why am I so tired?” and then she collapsed to the floor. Before the guards could react, they too were overcome by the gas, as were the workers in the basement.
Three men entered the bakery wearing inconspicuous looking gas masks, while a fourth man, sans gas mask, stood outside the entrance munching on an apple turnover. There was a fifth man, their driver, who sat at the curb with the motor running. His partners were in the bakery for only eleven minutes and returned carrying five large garbage bags stuffed with cash.
The gas masks were removed, the men climbed into the car, and just as the driver was about to pull away from the curb, he heard someone call his name in a booming voice.
“Sean! Hey, Sean O’Doyle! How you doin’ buddy?”
The driver stared at the man shouting his name as a curse escaped his lips. The man calling his name out in the street for anybody to hear was an old friend from the neighborhood he’d grown up in, back in Boston.
The driver rolled his window down as the man came around to talk to him.
From the back seat, one of the men asked the driver a question.
“You got this, or you want one of us to do it?”
“I got it,” Sean said, even as he was taking out his gun.
The old friend from the neighborhood was named John Flynn. Flynn leaned his elbows on the window frame and smiled in at the group.
“Hey guys, me and Sean here go way back.”
“Yeah,” Sean said. “About that, I’m sorry, Johnny. I really am.”
Flynn looked confused.
“You’re sorry about what?”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” Sean said, as he shot Flynn twice in the head. As the body was settling upon the street, Sean used his sleeve to wipe blood from his face. He then pulled away from the curb and headed back towards Boston.
The following morning, Joe Pullo paced about his office at Johnny R’s, which wouldn’t be open for hours. With him were Sammy and Bosco. Bosco, Joe’s right-hand man and Underboss of the Family, was confused by the way the robbery went down.
“That homemade knockout gas made sure they didn’t have to kill anyone, so why shoot a civilian on the way out? I’m thinking that there might be a connection between the thieves and the dead guy.”
“We got a name on the dead guy yet?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, John Flynn.”
“Flynn? That sounds Irish. Could he be from Boston?”
“I got one of our cops looking into it,” Bosco said. “But Flynn had an apartment on Staten Island.”
The phone on Joe’s desk rang and he saw that the call was coming from downstairs in the club. He looked out of the one-way glass as he picked up the phone and saw an old woman standing in the doorway of the club with Tamir Ivanov, the club’s manager.
“What’s up, Fed?”
Ivanov stared up at the office as he spoke on the house phone the bouncers normally used. Although he only saw the club mirrored back at him, Ivanov guessed that Joe would be looking down at him.
“Joe, this woman is named Mrs. Carrera. She’s asking to speak to you. She says it concerns the trouble at the bakery. Does that make sense to you?”
“Oh yeah, tell her I’ll be right down.”
Joe relayed Ivanov’s call to Sammy and Bosco and the three of them took the elevator down to club level. Ivanov had the old woman settled at a table and one of the kitchen staff brought out a carafe of coffee.
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Ivanov said. Tamir Ivanov was in his forties, stood about six-feet tall and had ice-blue eyes. A former federal agent, Ivanov had aligned himself with the Giacconi Family, after a cartel murder squad acting for the Russian mob killed his partner and lover, Justina Moretti.
Once they were alone at the table, with Sammy and Bosco watching from the bar, the old woman talked with Joe. She was white-haired and wizened, and when she spoke, her raspy voice betrayed her decades of cigarette smoking.
“Don Pullo, I have information about the trouble that went on at the bakery last night.”
“Your name is Mrs. Carrera? Are you related to Carmine Carrera?”
“Yes, Don Pullo, Carmine was my son.”
“He was a good man.”
“He said the same about you, as do others.”
“Tell me what you know.”
Mrs. Carrera explained that she had been walking home from the store on the corner when she passed an alleyway beside the bakery and heard whispered voices. Just moments later, two men came out of the alley and walked toward the bakery’s front door. They were joined by two more men, one of whom stayed out front while the other three put something on their faces and entered the bakery.
“I’ve been around a while now. I know trouble when I see it, so I ducked inside the doorway of a camera store and stayed in the shadows. When the men came out, that man who was killed called out to the driver of the car. He called the man Sean O’Doyle.”
“You’re certain of that name?”
Mrs. Carrera smiled as she tapped her forehead, then her ears.
“I forget things now and then, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“No, Don Pullo, and I hope I have been helpful.”
“You have been, Mrs. Carrera.”
Joe called Bosco over. Bosco was a large man who was much smarter than his appearance would lead you to believe.
“Have Red drive Mrs. Carrera home in the limo.”
“You got it, boss.”
Joe smiled at the old woman.
“I take it you live near the bakery. Do you like it there?”
“Oh yes, I raised Carmine in that apartment.”
“As a show of gratitude, your rent will be taken care of.”
The old woman lit up in a grin that displayed her tobacco-stained teeth.
“You’re paying my rent next month?”
“No, we’ll be paying your rent forever. The information you gave us was valuable.”
The old woman took Joe’s hand and kissed it.
“Bless you, Don Pullo. My Carmine was right about you.”
Bosco had texted Red, the chauffeur, and told him to bring the limo around to the front of the club. Red came in through the front entrance and stood near Joe waiting for orders. Red’s real name was Andre. He was only nineteen, had an average build, dark hair, and looked as naïve as he was.
“You’ll be taking Mrs. Carrera home, Red, then come straight back here.”
“Yes sir,” Red said, before sending Mrs. Carrera a smile.
After Mrs. Carrera left, Joe filled Sammy and Bosco in on what the old woman had told him.
“It’s sounding more and more like there’s a Boston connection here,” Bosco said.
Sammy nodded in agreement, but pointed out something.
“Even if a crew from Boston pulled the heist, I still think they needed inside information. Up until the point they killed Flynn, the operation was smooth as silk.”
“You might be right, so we’ll work that angle too, but I want to talk to this Sean O’Doyle.”
“Should I have Rico and his crew make that happen?” Bosco asked.
“Or send me up there to Boston,” Sammy said.
Joe shook his head.
“If anyone from the Family handles this, there’s a chance we could be going to war. I don’t want to push that button yet, not until I know more.”
“So what, we hire an outside crew?” Bosco asked.
“I’ll ask Tanner to handle it, if he’ll do it. It’s not a hit, but it might need finesse.”
“What about his busted wing,” Bosco said.
“I talked to him yesterday and that splint is history. The arm is a little weak, but it works fine.”
“All right then, I’ll get our people on finding out if Moss Murphy even has a Sean O’Doyle working for him.”
“Good, once you confirm it I’ll give Tanner a call.”
Sammy tapped the top o
f the table as he thought about the situation. When he stopped tapping, he asked Joe a question.
“Uncle Joe, you know Moss Murphy, is he crazy enough to think he can come in here and shove us out?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, but maybe when his son moved into Killburry without any trouble he decided to push his luck.”
“We are taking back Killburry, yeah?”
“When the time is right, Sammy. There’s just too damn much going on right now that I have no answers for.”
“We know one thing for certain,” Bosco said. “Someone is out to get us.”
Joe barked out a laugh.
“Everybody wants what they can’t have.”
9
We Meet At Last
Ricky Valente studied his face in the mirror again. It had become an obsession as he tried to imagine what he would look like after he had plastic surgery.
Ricky always thought he was okay looking, but with a tweak here and there, he might be a handsome guy. The dyed blond hair already gave him a beach boy look, while the running regimen he’d begun, combined with a fat-free diet and ban on beer had taken twelve pounds off him.
Ricky stayed inside the trailer most of the time, but had kept himself occupied by spying on his neighbor, Julie Ryan. Julie fascinated Ricky. The woman was either paranoid or on the run from someone.
Ricky had a New York Crime Family looking for him and he wasn’t as cautious as Julie Ryan. Not only did the woman do the hair trick with the door every time she left her trailer, but for a while, she had worn a dark wig whenever she went out, as well as sunglasses and a floppy hat.
Late one night, when she thought no one was around to see, Ricky had watched Julie switch the license plates on her car. She had exchanged her California plates for a Louisiana license plate.
Ricky was sure of two things when it came to Julie Ryan. She was someone he’d like to spend time with, and the girl was running from somebody.
Manhattan Hit Man (A Tanner Novel Book 18) Page 4