She smiled again. “You fellas out east…you have such colorful names for your bad guys.”
“Oh yeah? This coming from a gal who works in the city that gave the world Juan ‘El Patan’ Padillo?”
Johnny the Slouch.
He had a point.
Her smile turned wry. “I retract the remark. So, this gun was used to kill Johnny The Rat?”
“Yeah…and we thought we even had a good candidate for it. A slick scumbag named Vinnie Ciccolini.”
“You didn’t nail him?”
“Naw. Tell ya, Calleigh, the system around here was bent as hell back then. We presented our evidence, but the judge was in some goombah’s pocket, and it all got thrown out. Ciccolini walked without so much as an indictment.”
“And the gun?”
“We never had it. Ciccolini hid it, or maybe got rid of it, before we got to him.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know—dead maybe. He’s gotta be, like, a hundred by now.”
“Really?”
“Well. Seventy-five, eighty…if he’s still above ground. Who knows?”
“You have a jacket on this guy?”
“Yeah, it’s—I don’t think it got onto the computers, but—yeah, I could round it up and shoot it your way. What’s your fax number?”
She told him, adding, “Thank you, Irv. You’re a doll.”
“Look who’s talkin’. Only, next convention you’re buyin’ the drinks.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
Calleigh rolled her head on the column of her neck, and rose, stretching. Then she got back to work. No point sitting on her hands, waiting—plenty to get done before Irv Brady got that file to her.
Horatio Caine dropped into his chair behind his desk. He didn’t even bother to take off the black sports coat he wore—he didn’t figure he’d be staying that long.
The office had all the cheer of a Holiday Inn room housekeeping hadn’t gotten around to. A green sofa (dating to the Carter administration) squatted against a blue wall. Above the couch loomed a big frame displaying painted blue spheres on a green background. Around that were crowded dozens of framed citations Caine had earned in his fifteen-plus years on the force. Against another wall stood a black chair that might have been acquired on a crackhouse raid, though frankly Caine didn’t recall its actual history. Truth was, he didn’t much care. The office was a place to receive information or decide where he was going next, not a room to be occupied for long periods of time. So it didn’t bother him that his office seemed to be the place in the building where old furniture went to die.
He had just started sifting through the mountain of paperwork on his desk when Delko strolled in, a sheaf of papers in hand, and sat on the edge of the desk. “Lessor was dismembered on that picnic table, H.”
Caine looked up. “We know this because?”
“Scraped a bloodstain from between the planks of the top. Matched Lessor’s blood.”
“Good. But I just know there’s more.”
“Found some cuts in the wood, probably where whatever they carved him up with went through. Speed’s trying to figure out what made them.”
Caine considered that, then said, “Try a machete.”
Delko gave him a sideways look. “Why a machete? I would think a portable chain saw, maybe…”
“Did you find any wood dust or shavings to indicate that?”
“Well, no.”
“Our ME says the wrists look as though they’d been severed with one blow—she thought it might be something like a machete.”
“Well, it’s a popular tool in this part of the world. I’ll tell Speed.”
“Please. Any other blood on the table?”
Small shrug. “A few drops on both benches—also Lessor’s, but nothing else on the table. I figure the killer spread out a sheet of plastic or garbage bags and did his butcher-shop bit.”
“Makes sense.”
“The benches got dripped on by the runoff. The spot on the top probably came when the killer punctured the plastic while cutting Lessor up.”
Caine nodded. “Any sign of the torso?”
“We’re still searching, but not having much luck and it is a big beach.”
“It’s probably elsewhere.”
“My thought, too. Are we wasting our time?”
“We follow every lead. Stay on it.”
“No prob.”
Delko was heading out when Caine asked, “Any luck turning up a mob connection with the hotels? I know you’ve been busy.”
The young CSI shook his head. “I only took a quick look, H, but so far everything looks legit. Soon as I finish the picnic tables, I’ll get back on it.”
“Good.” Caine’s cell phone chirped. “Good-bye, Eric.”
“Uh, ‘bye, H,” Delko said and walked out.
Caine picked up the phone on the third ring. “Horatio.”
“It’s Alexx.”
“Make me happy.”
“That’s kind of a tall order, Horatio.”
“Give it a try.”
“Okay. I rushed the tox screen. There wasn’t much blood left, but enough.”
“And?”
“Alcohol level was .075. Lessor was tipsy, but not drunk, at least by state law. Probably just taking advantage of flying first class and having a few cocktails.”
“Any other drugs in his system?”
“Not so much as an antacid or an aspirin.”
“All right, Alexx. Thanks.”
“Are you happy now, Horatio?”
“Ecstatic.” He said good-bye and clicked off.
Half a moment later, Detective Adele Sevilla knocked on the doorjamb and Caine waved her in as he laid the cell phone on his desk. His office—the one place in this building he didn’t care to be—was turning into Pro Player Stadium. At a Dolphins home game. On Sunday.
“Adele. Are we making progress?”
“Some. Starting with, I did some checking on Daniel Boyle.”
“Did you find out something wonderful?”
“Moderately wonderful. Thomas Lessor’s stepson knows a few mob guys—Gino Forlani and the Cappelletti brothers.”
“Knows?”
Sevilla shrugged. “Gladhands with them in the lounge, seen playing golf with them once.”
Caine saw where she was going. “But he’s got no real ties to them.”
“Not anything really solid…but that doesn’t mean Boyle didn’t get them to do him a favor.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Caine shifted in his seat. “This town has had a mob presence since the 1920s; a guy in the hotel and entertainment business knowing mob guys ‘a little’ is hardly a stop-the-presses event.”
Sevilla’s eyes tightened. “But he does know them.”
“It’s not evidence.”
From the door a soft but businesslike female voice said, “This might be.”
Caine smiled wearily. “Come in, Calleigh. As a great detective once said, make my day.”
Calleigh walked briskly in, a stack of papers held tightly in hand.
“You hold those like they’re precious,” Caine said.
“They are,” she said, with a tiny satisfied smile. “They’re the case file for a murder committed by the same gun that killed Thomas Lessor.”
He sat forward now, waving her nearer the desk. “Where and when?”
“Trenton, 1987.”
Sevilla did a double-take. “Trenton? New Jersey?”
Caine said, slowly, “1987?”
Calleigh nodded. “NIBIN made the match and I talked to the firearms expert who worked the case—Irv Brady?”
“Heard of him,” Caine said with a nod.
“He faxed me the file on the case that our bullets match.”
“And what does the file have to say?”
“Irv never found the gun, but bullets matching ours were used in a hit on a wiseguy named Johnny ‘The Rat’ Guzzoli.”
“In 1987,” Sevilla sai
d, frowning.
“Yes,” Calleigh said.
Caine asked, “Conviction?”
“No. Not even an arrest.”
Sevilla’s eyebrows went up. “That’s not a lot of help.”
“This might be,” Calleigh said, holding up a page from the file. “Brady had a guy he liked for the hit—Vincent Ciccolini.”
Sevilla, frowning again, said, “I thought you said no arrests?”
Calleigh’s eyes widened, just a little. “Brady says a connected DA ignored the evidence—called it too circumstantial to justify going to court. Anyway, this Ciccolini—he hung out with a couple of other guys, Abraham Lipnick and Anthony Rosselli. Trenton cops thought they had their own little independent Murder, Incorporated.”
“Amplify,” Caine said.
“They supposedly were doing freelance hits for various mob families all over the East Coast, and sometimes in the Midwest and even in California. They had no known affiliation with any family. Again—strictly freelance.”
“Any of them ever busted?” Caine asked.
Shaking her head, Calleigh said, “Closest call these boys ever had was Brady going after Ciccolini. Other than that, none of them ever did so much as a night in the tank.”
“Is it worth going up to Jersey to talk to them?” Sevilla asked, finally seeming interested.
The question was posed as much to Caine as Calleigh, though it was the latter who answered.
“We don’t have to—they all retired and moved…right here in Miami.”
Half a smile dug a hole in one of Sevilla’s cheeks. “Retired? How the hell old are they?”
Calleigh smiled a little. “Ciccolini and Rosselli are in their mid-seventies; Lipnick’ll turn eighty later this year.”
Sevilla’s eyes were wide. “An assassination squad in their seventies? I don’t think so. That’s just a gun that’s got around—passed from one dirty hand to another, over a lot of years.”
Caine shook his head. “It’s too big a coincidence not to look into.”
Calleigh said, “Back in their heyday, they were suspected of a couple dozen different crime-related hits—and not just for the mob. They allegedly popped drug dealers, pimps, and even the odd lawyer here and there. Anybody who met the price could have whoever they chose meet their maker.”
Sevilla was shaking her head. “A geriatric hit team?”
Caine was not so skeptical; and certain stray facts were forming a bigger picture in his mind. He asked Sevilla, “What happened to ‘El Patan’ Padillo?”
The detective shrugged. “Disappeared. The way bad guys who get on other bad guys’ bad side do.”
“Who had a motive to get rid of him?”
“Haitians, Jamaicans—they both hated his Cuban ass.”
Caine was nodding; a faintly mocking smile was starting to form. “What about that pimp, Jimmy Martin?”
“Gone, and who cares where? The Cubans hated him for trying to recruit in Little Havana.” Again Sevilla shrugged. “Everybody wanted Jimmy out of here—including us.”
“How much time have we spent looking into it?”
“None. Nobody reported either of those stellar citizens missing. We had no crime scene to hand you and your team to process…. Why?”
“As in…as long as they only kill each other, what do we care?”
“Now, Horatio, I didn’t say that.”
“Or I should say, as long as they only kill each other discreetly, what do we care?”
“You may have a point. Don’t quote me.”
Caine said, “I’m seeing a pattern.”
Calleigh jumped in. “I saw it too…and I checked. There’s been a total of five crime-related disappearances in the last nine months, with no serious evidence of foul play.”
This information hung in the air for several seconds while everyone contemplated it.
Then Caine asked, “How long have the Trenton boys been here?”
“Fifteen years.”
Sevilla gave them both a sideways look. “They’ve been here for fifteen years…and now you think they’ve suddenly gone back into business?”
“What if,” Caine said, twitching little smiles, “—and this is only ‘what if’—a retired team of hit men got bored with retirement and resumed their business practices, taking on occasional freelance hits? Meds are expensive, after all.”
“Guns and walkers?” Sevilla asked.
“Don’t stereotype, Adele,” Caine said, raising a gently lecturing forefinger. “Besides, you ever see any of these old boys play shuffleboard? Stay out of their way, when it’s their turn.”
Sevilla was shaking her head. “How can you even think it? It’s absurd.”
Caine shrugged. “I don’t think anything…but the bullets from our murder match the bullets to a murder allegedly committed by someone now living in Miami. Adele—are we not going to look into it?”
“Of course we will,” she said, cracking a smile. “We have local addresses for these guys?”
Calleigh referred to her notes. “Ciccolini and Lipnick live together. House on Granada Boulevard in Coral Gables.”
“Nice digs,” Sevilla said, rolling her eyes. “And Rosselli?”
“He and his wife, whose name is”—Calleigh checked the notes—“Rebecca, live around the corner on Palermo.”
“Not far from the Biltmore,” Caine noted.
Sevilla half-smiled. “You suppose they go over there every day—play golf and talk about the good old bad old days?”
They all knew that the Biltmore Hotel—built in the twenties, with two hundred eighty rooms—had served America’s elite, including the Roosevelts, Vanderbilts, and dozens of entertainers; but it had also been Al Capone’s favorite hotel.
“I wonder if reminiscing is all they’ve been doing,” Caine said.
Sevilla stood. “Let’s find out.”
Caine tilted his head. “Sure, Adele—it’s your lead, after all.”
The detective smirked. “Don’t be a smart-ass, Horatio. Doesn’t become you.”
He turned to Calleigh. “What do you have on your plate?”
“Right now,” she said, “just Lessor.”
“Come along. You’re the one most familiar with the file.”
Founded by George Merrick during the Florida land boom of the twenties, Coral Gables was still known as “The City Beautiful.” Merrick had envisioned an affluent, mostly residential city with gardens and wide boulevards; he founded the University of Miami and partnered with hotel tycoon John McEntee Bowman to build the nearby Biltmore. His dream remained realized on the Miami scene in the form of upscale houses, banyan-shaded streets, and whitestone street signs that huddled on each corner instead of unsightly metal poles. The business district was now served by over one hundred fifty multinational companies, the community still thriving.
Turning off the Dixie Highway and driving past the modern facilities of the University of Miami, Caine might have been fooled into thinking he was entering a high-tech, modern subdivision. The farther he went, though, the distinct street signs, tropical foliage in front of mostly Mediterranean homes, and narrow streets reminded him of an older, slower time when Miami was more stately, more elegant.
Caine drove the Hummer through the time tunnel of a neighborhood, sticking to Granada Boulevard until he pulled into the driveway of a two-story antebellum mansion that looked out of place among all the Mediterranean homes. White, with an attached two-car garage, the house looked gray in the half-light of the yard shaded by two large banyans.
Sevilla got out of the passenger seat; Calleigh came from the backseat, her light blue lab coat now replaced by the jacket of her navy blue suit. A soft breeze carried the promise of a surprisingly cool evening to come.
After leading the way to the door, Sevilla rang the bell. No answer. After a minute, she rang it again.
“Nobody home, you think?” she asked Caine, who was trying to look through the small windows that framed the double oak doors.
&n
bsp; “Maybe they’re out to dinner,” Calleigh offered.
“Looks quiet in there,” Caine said, still peering inside. He trotted over to the double garage, but the windows were opaque. Returning, he checked his watch.
“You know these seniors and their early bird specials,” Caine said. “Let’s try Rosselli. Then we’ll stop back.”
“It’s a plan,” Sevilla said.
Caine drove to the next corner and turned onto Palermo. He pulled to a stop in front of the two-story stucco home of Anthony and Rebecca Rosselli. Tangerine-colored, with an orange tile roof and two-car garage, the house looked like an oversize Orange Crush stand dropped onto a massive green yard. The sun was setting and lights were on in the house as Caine, Calleigh, and Sevilla walked up the driveway to a sidewalk that curved to mahogany double front doors.
Sevilla rang the doorbell, badge already in hand. They heard movement almost immediately and the door opened to reveal a slender woman, five four or five five, with the slightly exaggerated look of an actress or showgirl after too many years and too much plastic surgery.
Nonetheless, this woman—all in black, a long-sleeved silk blouse and flared slacks—was still attractive. Her short, curly red hair was an obvious dye job, latterday Lucille Ball, and her bright brown eyes were large and heavily mascaraed. Those eyes were filigreed red, however, and some smear in the mascara told Caine she’d been crying. He didn’t have to be a CSI to figure that out.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her smile was friendly, if forced, and she held the door only half-open.
Sevilla displayed her badge. “Rebecca Rosselli?”
The friendly smile vanished. “Doesn’t it ever end?” their hostess asked rhetorically. “Cops,” she added, with a headshake, the single word coming out like an epithet. “What do you want?”
Sevilla continued to press. “Are you Rebecca Rosselli?”
“Yes. Now, I’ve answered your question. Answer mine: what do you want?”
“Is your husband home?”
“He is not. He’d have slammed the door in your face by now.”
Not convinced, Sevilla tried to look past the woman, and Mrs. Rosselli pulled the door closed a little more. Caine glanced at Calleigh, who shrugged a little.
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