by Gary Starta
Carter felt nauseated. He gunned the car ahead in the tiny confined amount of street space he had left to navigate. He was inches away from Jay’s vehicle at this point but it still felt like miles. As if Carter was in a time warp and time was running at a slow speed.
Carter could not breathe until Jay’s arm lowered.
He was no longer pointing at Jill—or the woman pretending to be Lucy.
He was struggling to push his car ahead.
Carter fishtailed and kept his car glued to Fishburne’s bumper.
He was close enough to hear the song blaring from the Accord.
Carter grunted. A light was about to change up ahead. A hole would open in traffic in Jay’s favor. An amber light precariously flickered, stopped in time for only a nanosecond, promising antsy Boston motorists that they would be back on their way soon, to their linear lives, perhaps on a path to find a new beginning in their lives. The scene felt all too surreal for Carter—and all too Zen. An Asian couple, hand in hand, crossed the street. Carter was not sure Jay would wait for the light. He feared Jay might rundown the couple, now that a police car has tailed him. Carter was now running on instinct, not reason. He saw the girl licking her ice cream cone. She was smiling. She was unaware of the revving Accord, lost in a moment of time, a moment of bliss. But her boyfriend did. The look of horror on the boy’s face told Carter he must act now.
He rammed his car into Jay’s.
The neon sign, which could now be seen in Carter’s rearview, flashed “Last Chance, Last Chance . . . Last Chance . . . ”
The song continued to blare from Jay’s stopped vehicle.
“Closing time. I know who I want to take me home . . . ”
Carter was up and out of his vehicle, gun in hand, he ran. He confirmed the Asian couple had crossed the street safely as he had done. And then he pointed his weapon at Jay, still inside his Accord. From the corner of his eye, he watched Jill run towards the white van.
Carter waited for Jay to exit his car and could only fathom he’d been given one last warning by fate, or perhaps, more poignantly, one last chance to save Jill Seacrest from harm’s way.
And the song played.
“I know who I want to take me home. Take me home . . . ”
Chapter 16
He swaggered; a braggadocio among the more reserved that walk along Newbury Street this night, perhaps on their way to take in the summer beauty of the public garden before dusk became nightfall. His followers—at least he would like to believe they were—walked along keeping a respectful distance from him. Everybody knew who he was. He was almost celebrity, in its most vulgar definition, the youngest spawn of reputed mob boss Johnny ‘Sin’ Cinelli. He walked with back straight, shoulders arched, taking in the sights of the sounds of the city as he went, almost kidding himself he was some kind of Roman leader, perhaps a descendant of Caesar himself, who would one day rightfully take the reign of leadership for his family.
Donald ‘Donnie’ Cinelli was the only one of ‘the family’ to keep a public profile, despite senior Cinelli’s reservations. In Donnie’s mind, he was untouchable. Perhaps even a living icon of the grandeur he assumed everybody else was envious of. If you asked him, Donnie would be the first to tell you that anybody whoever became anybody stepped on a few toes—or perhaps a few more vital body parts—along on the way. He didn’t consider being born into fortune any less becoming than those who pulled themselves through golden gates using their own perseverance. And he also liked to believe that the crowd of pedestrians—not meaning streetwalkers in the literal sense, but the huddled masses of ordinary folk around him—kept a respectful distance because he was akin to modern day royalty. Not exactly blue blood of course, more like red pasta sauce flowed through his veins, Donnie had joked on more than one occasion.
Donnie also knew all the great kings and queens lived with the knowledge their hands were stained with blood, even if they personally hadn’t committed the act themselves, but ordered minions or ‘pedestrians’ to do their bidding. The ‘family’ was not ruthless, evil, or lacking in compassion but bound to a duty of protecting their own. And because of this, the Cinelli family had amassed great wealth not only from earning the state’s contract to repair and pave all Massachusetts highways and byways but also by engaging in less civically sanctioned acts, one might say. Perhaps fencing some electronic equipment from time to time to supplement their income had occurred. Maybe someone who became privy of this had threatened to bring evidence to police and consequently met some harm. But probably all of this supposition was just hearsay and rumor by Donnie Alfred Cinelli’s definition. Every celebrity was haunted by rumor and falsities after all. Therefore, people stood back from Donnie Cinelli, he believed, because they were in awe of his power, his status. In no way did Donnie Cinelli associate them as a frightened school of fish, swimming tentatively around the large shark who garnered respect because of a bad reputation and a sharp set of teeth.
Yet one of the pedestrians tonight was not in awe in Donnie, or humbled by his family’s power. One of the street goers was not even the slightest bit envious of Donnie’s impeccably tailored clothes, his fleet of high performance vehicles or his legendary conquests of Boston’s most elite models and actresses.
The one person, who walked behind Donnie at a measured pace, cloaked in an oversized blue raincoat, seemed more prepared to deal with the shark than the other city goers who unwittingly walked along in short sleeves and shorts, oblivious not only to the danger Donnie symbolized but the evenings forecast which called for a fast moving storm to brush across the city.
The person in the poncho nearly snickered from disgust, observing Donnie walk along full of pretentiousness in a three-piece suit, replete with gold accessories including necklace and bracelet, not to mention a three hundred dollar haircut.
The weather began to behave like forecasted. Maybe the one time out of hundred it had. Rain began to fall and the pace of the pedestrians quickened. But Donnie still moved along, unhurried, unthreatened, feeling his reputation was enough to protect him from any harm—even an unexpected summer storm. And as he pranced with a swank gait reserved for those who lived in the public eye, the person in the poncho began to seethe at his arrogance. Even a rumble of thunder could not fluster the mobster. Donnie, ever the one to make a grand gesture, stretched out his arms, feigning disbelief at the audacity of the weather. He even muttered aloud. “And let the Gods reign down their wrath upon the masses.” He laughed cruelly at his cruel joke, no remorse for the mother who ran ahead of him pushing a baby carriage to shelter.
Rain turned to hail in an instant.
“Ah, you try to punish us, but some of us are above reproach,” Donnie again commented.
***
Go on and put on the show for the masses, the person in the blue poncho thought. It will be your last.
***
Hail bounced off sidewalks, pounded off rooftops and smashed against the windshields of cars paralyzed in traffic. Its aggressiveness even caused Donnie to pull up the collar of his suit jacket even though it provided weak resistance against the force that hovered above.
Many fled from the sidewalk to take haven under awnings.
But not Donnie, Donnie had a reputation to uphold. He must be on time for his nightly dinner at his favorite Newbury Street ristorante, Alfredo’s. He might even get his photograph taken by some ambitious paparazzo. No doubt the restaurant appreciated the free publicity. And Donnie, unwittingly, believed the attention would do wonders for his future, the very future where he finally became boss of the family, to lead with an iron fist but compassionate heart just like his hero Caesar did.
He wanted to expand the family’s operations. The Cinelli’s currently lived in the shadows of a rival crime family, Donnie thought, purely because Johnnie Cinelli never allowed risk.
Donnie was so self-absorbed in his future, his impending dinner date and his ego itself he couldn’t even feel the hail. He didn’t even notice the people anymor
e, especially the one in the blue poncho behind him who strangely resembled the grim reaper, a hood masking their identity, but not their passion.
It was because Donnie always ate at Alfredo’s, the person walking directly behind him was given the opportunity to change the course of the future, to dole out justice the courts could never do, to take vengeance for something that happened to them a long time ago.
A hand emerged from the poncho. In its grip was a .22 automatic with a silencer.
The bullet released simultaneously with a crash of thunder and a streak of lightning. The shell bounced off the sidewalk once before it was swept away into a gutter by swelling rainfall.
Donnie Alfred Cinelli knew at this moment, the gods had vented their wrath upon him and him alone. He stumbled, his knees giving out beneath him, wondering who the Brutus was behind him who wielded the weapon of the gods.
He was on his knees, on the sidewalk, upright for the last time, his hands thrust forward as if asking ‘why’ as rain cascaded down upon him (he thought they were tears shed for his benefit). Yet the poncho clad person would give no details, passing by without taking any revelation in their deed. And even as seconds passed, no one was privy that a gun had been fired. They simply saw a man, not a future king, lying face down on concrete in trouble.
A man in a red polo shirt ran from the cover of an awning to check upon the man, fearing a heart attack until a brazen crimson stain betrayed the charcoal neutrality of an Armani suit. The man yelled through pelting rain for someone to call 911. “This man’s been shot!” Someone acknowledged and curiosity compelled the man to turn the victim over. Horrified, the man recoiled as if he has just seen a snake. He realized with a mixture of fascination and fear that somebody had just whacked Donnie Cinelli.
With no fear for his safety or oncoming traffic, the man in the red polo dashed across the street with only one thought in mind—the mob silences witnesses.
As brakes squealed and horns blared, the man continued running, screaming the same line over and over again.
“I didn’t see a fucking thing. I didn’t see a fucking thing!”
Chapter 17
Jay Fishburne rapped his knuckles on the table in between questions. Above, white-hot lights invited the most incendiary rapport, words burning hot on a July night. The PI squinted from the glare, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He appeared full blown flustered. His pallor, light salmon pink. His anger barely contained by that rapping of knuckles. He is burning as hot as any interrogation light or summer sun, Carter thought. Fishburne pursed his lips in response to the same question the lieutenant detective had asked over and over again in the span of the last five minutes. Got you where I want you.
“I told you, Detective Carter, I was just driving along Arlington Street, I had no intentions of stopping much less picking up a hooker. And that’s all I’m going to say for the fifteenth time.”
Carter bowed his head, surmising either the PI was completely delusional or one very adamant liar. As a consequence, he would pull a trump card. It was against his better judgment to do so but he must; the plan to arrest Jay Fishburne for solicitation failed miserably. He had no other recourse, no right to detain Fishburne for anything else but questioning. And if he didn’t get Fishburne talking soon, he was sure the PI was either simply going to get up and leave or seek legal consultation.
“Be right back,” Carter said, contempt eating away at the last vestige of his Zen metal jacket.
***
The last few days had changed Carter, emotionally and physically. Unshaven face, uncharacteristically unkempt clothing signaled strong danger signs for Jill Seacrest. The CSI knew he had been unsuccessful at masking his anger, trying too hard to allay her concerns by making light of the media’s full out assault on BIS, attempting to make that concern a priority when she knew he was more upset about the Dan Collins murder going cold coupled with the failure to definitively place a suspect at the Cheryl Thomas murder scene. Yet most important of all, his continual effort to downplay their impending separation at the bureau nagged Jill the most. She was convinced Carter’s stoicism was a mere act; it had to be, because she loved him more than the job, although she had never told him this, and possibly never would out of her stubbornness. This angered her. She wondered why she hadn’t told Carter this, why she wasn’t capable. She should have made it clear that her love for Carter was in no way comparable to her love for the job. And then she considered their caseload, including two top priority murders and found she had answered her own question. Arms folded, one foot tapping lightly upon the linoleum-tiled floor, Jill greeted Carter as he stepped outside of the interrogation room. She smiled at him, but Carter didn’t seem to see any joy in her greeting.
“Do you have something, Jill?” he asked.
“It’s more about what I—we—don’t have.”
He nodded.
She began, face solemn, eyes focused away from his.
“I couldn’t convince Lucy to accept protective custody. She all but bolted from the van when she saw you collar Fishburne.”
“So, she’s on the streets.”
“So to speak...” Jill arched an eyebrow.
“We can have officers keep a watch on her, Jill.”
“I don’t know if that’s what’s bugging me. I do think Lucy is in danger from Fishburne but another part of me wonders if she isn’t in collusion with him.”
“We’ll have to await the DNA tests. Gelder promised a result by the morning.”
“And if we get a match.”
“Then we take Lucy in for questioning . . . ”
“But if she’s been set up by Fishburne . . . ?”
“Questioning, CSI Seacrest. That’s all. I’ll try to keep Mr. Fishburne in detainment as long as possible.”
“How?”
“I,” he stopped to let his eyes fall to the floor, “by stretching the truth a bit.”
Jill stared until his eyes met hers.
Carter held out his hands as if exasperated. “I will tell him that Lucy is in our custody, and that she is in fear for her life from him. It’s the only card I’ve got to stop Fishburne from hightailing it out of here. Maybe it will break him.”
“Lying, huh?” Jill tightened her arms about her. “That’s not like you, Stanford. And neither was your behavior at the stakeout.”
“I couldn’t let him hurt . . . ”
She cut him off.
“I was fine. We both knew I had to possibly enter his car to get a bust, or at the most approach it. But your knight in white armor routine blew our plan. I thought we had an agreement. I thought you had confidence in me. And what’s more, look how you behaved. Did you really have cause to ram the suspect’s car like that?” And before he could answer, she said. “This is so surreal. I can’t believe you behaved like that.” She let her eyes bore into him, hurtful, questioning eyes. Eyes, she believed, he couldn’t bear to face. He looked away, it confirmed her supposition. There was no one down the hallway for him to focus on.
“I will explain my actions in full detail to you. But I don’t have time now. I will only say that you weren’t the only one I was protecting.”
Jill’s face reddened. Now she was really unsure about how much Carter cared for her. She was also embarrassed a bit by accusing him of much. Still, she was angry that he jumped the gun. If he hadn’t rammed his car into Fishburne’s, the plan would have worked. Fishburne would be in a holding cell. And although Carter would likely drop the solicitation charge in trade for Fishburne’s confession to two murders, Jill felt she earned the bust. She felt she played a convincing part for a first time undercover operation. It would have gone a long way to convince her supervisor, Walter Wojdag, that she could lend future support to short-staffed homicide unit. That’s if I’m not transferred.
“Yeah. I agree we need to talk about this tonight.”
“I suggest you clock out and I’ll finish up with Fishburne.”
She nodded, half accepting Carte
r’s peace offering. She knew he was again attempting to mask his true feelings. She could literally picture him, hands wrapped around Fishburne’s neck, demanding a confession. His behavior in the last few days invited some kind of breakdown if not a complete meltdown. She didn’t know how his Zen meditation techniques had been able to keep years of job stress at bay, but she feared the events of the last week had conspired to break down Carter’s walls. And she thought maybe if Carter did break and confronted Fishburne with physical harm, perhaps it could be justified morally, perhaps only a dire act would finish things with Fishburne after all. If he was indeed the murderer, he had forensically managed to keep all traces of his person from the crime scene. And maybe his skill at deception is what really irked her. Carter had told her that Jay appeared anything but a competent detective, so how could he be savvy enough to leave both crime scenes so neat? She had observed Fishburne from outside the interrogation room herself thanks to the mirrored wall. She saw the PI like Carter did, an overgrown kid trying to play cop. A jellyfish. Yet even jellyfish could sting. And maybe a less ethical cop might try to beat a confession out of Fishburne. They might even get him to sign his confession out of desperation. But that desperation usually ended up being fought in court. A suspect couldn’t be forced to confess under duress, Jill knew. So it was more likely, Jill felt, Carter would again bury his emotions, observe Fishburne’s rights, and allow a possible murderer to kill again in respect to the justice system. She sighed heavily as she walked down the hall away from Carter, fighting a compulsion to keep a tail on Lucy herself. A part of her didn’t want to believe the hair found on Cheryl Thomas’ clothing was Lucy’s. Lucy could be saved. She tightened her fist around the folder she was carrying. Her relationship could be saved.
Back in the interrogation room, Fishburne still seated before a table sipped water, his eyes followed Carter as he paced back and forth.
“Something on your mind, Detective Carter?”