Red Angel pd-6

by William Heffernan

  Red Angel

  ( Paul Devlin - 6 )

  William Heffernan

  William Heffernan

  Red Angel

  PROLOGUE

  SANTIAGO DE CUBA

  The priest stood in the center of the clearing, naked to the waist, his stomach protruding over white cotton trousers that billowed about his legs. His shaved head, a gleaming brown, rocked from side to side; eyes rolled back, mouth open, almost as if in pain. Bare feet began to stamp the ground, raising small puffs of dust. Then his eyes snapped forward, wide and glaring, fixed on the badly burned corpse that lay before him on the ground.

  “BabaluAye erikunde. BabaluAye obiapa. Bindome.”

  The sound of drums filled the clearing, low and sonorous, the resonant beat intensifying as the higher pitch of basket rattles and beating sticks joined the rhythm. Now the chanting voices came, repeating the priest’s words, over and over, the bodies of the worshipers moving in a circle about the corpse, swaying to the drums, heads rocking wildly as if unsupported by bone.

  The priest’s hands shot into the air, his grizzled, aging face resolute, eyes intent on the body. The arms caught the light of torches that illuminated the circle and cast wavering shadows that made it appear he, too, was dancing. Drums and chanting ceased. Worshipers stood frozen in place, bodies tense with anticipation.

  “BabaluAye nfumbe. BabaluAye nkise.”

  Behind the priest the circle parted and the first of the gods appeared. The drums started again as Chango began to sway, bright red robes flashing with the movement, a gleaming ax swinging in a wide arc above his head. Next came the god Oggun, machete held high, body gyrating to the drums, green robes flowing as his torso spun and dipped. Now Ochun, dressed in yellow, goddess of love, her body long and supple, each motion sensuous, seductive. Then Yemaya, blue-robed goddess of the sea, conch shell held high, her movements large and powerful like the ocean’s ebb and flow. Next Oy, encased in flowing white, goddess of wind and lightning, face rigid, eyes wide and staring, ruler of the cemetery.

  The gods spun about the corpse; each form caught in the beat of the drums. Brown and black faces glistened with sweat, then suddenly froze in place, all attention now drawn to the far end of the circle. The priest turned, raised his eyes to the distant moon.

  “BabaluAye nfumbe.”

  Again the worshipers parted, and the god all awaited entered the circle, body slithering across the ground, snakelike, arms and legs covered by festering sores. Slowly, laboriously, BabaluAye crawled toward the blackened corpse, his head twisted with pain and suffering. Again, the drums, the chanting. Bodies of worshipers swayed in the circle; voices rose to a frenzy. The one they had awaited-the god of death and sickness-was here. Tongue flicking, mouth distorted, BabaluAye moved on the corpse.

  “Angel Roja. Angel Roja. Mendez nfumbe. Mendez nfumbe. Mendez, Mendez, Mendez.”

  In the shadows, as the chanting voices rose, a figure dressed in the uniform of Cuba’s State Security Forces watched. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as Oggun passed his machete to the waiting priest. The circle fell to a hush as the priest raised the blade, paused, then sent the gleaming edge down toward the corpse. Sparks flew as the blade struck stone beneath the neck. The head rolled away. Again, drums and chanting filled the circle. Again, the gods renewed their dance.

  1

  NEW YORK CITY

  Vinnie “Big Head” Tedesco stood on the sidewalk, one hand pulling at the tight crotch of his trousers. His eyes roamed the street, as if searching for someone or something he wanted to avoid. Both were nervous affectations, which if recognized, Vinnie would have preferred to hide. Even so, there was an underlying cockiness about the man. His black silk shirt was open to mid-chest, allowing sunlight to reflect the glimmer of a heavy gold chain, and he occupied the sidewalk as if it were his private domain, forcing passersby to move around him. He was a large man, not exceptionally tall, but put together like a block of cement. His hair was long and dark and thickly curled, and it made his already large head seem enormous, almost a caricature: thus his street name, Vinnie Big Head. He was thirty-six years old, an up-and-coming member in the Rossi crime family, and in less than two minutes he would be dead.

  Ollie Pitts stared at the body, already outlined in chalk. He made a sucking sound as he tried to remove a bit of food from his teeth. Then he belched.

  “How do you see it?” Paul Devlin asked.

  Pitts gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “The one witness we got saw him about five minutes before it went down. Says our boy was standing here, takin’ up half the sidewalk like he was waitin’ for somebody.” A small grin flickered across his lips. “Of course it coulda been just bad luck for Vinnie. A couple of shooters from another family drivin’ around lookin’ for a target, and Vinnie just happens to be standing there scratching his ass.” Pitts paused and belched again. “But I don’t buy it. To me it smells more like a setup. Our boy here gets a call and somebody he knows says, Hey, Vinnie, meet us on the corner and we’ll go get some scungilli, or a blow job, or whatever Vinnie happens to be up for today. Then the car pulls up and Vinnie Big Head gets two in the chest before he knows what hit him.” He raised his chin, indicating the sunburst splatter of blood and bone and tissue that surrounded Vinnie’s head on the sidewalk. “Then the shooter gets out and pumps two in his head, just to make sure. Typical mob heart-and-head stuff.” He paused, dunking about that. “Looks like a heavy-caliber, though, not the twenty-two peashooters they usually use for this kind of thing.” Another shrug. “But Vinnie was a big guy with a nasty rep. Maybe they wanted to make sure the first ones knocked him down. They also didn’t have to worry about noise. Not in this fuckin’ neighborhood.”

  Devlin studied the surrounding buildings. The body lay on Broome Street, just off Mulberry in Manhattan’s Little Italy. It was one of the city’s landmark districts, an area forged more than a century ago by a continuous flow of Italian immigrants and the Mafia goons who lived in their shadow. Today, only a few Italians remained. Over the last twenty years nearby Chinatown had gradually spread across Canal Street, taking over the once fabled neighborhood so noted for its reticence with police. But that attitude of silence had not changed with the ethnicity. Pitts was right. This was still a see-no-evil kind of place, and not a single neighborhood denizen could be found among the tourists who stood gaping at Vinnie Big Head’s blood-soaked body. Those who lived and worked here knew better than to stand around where they might be asked questions they did not want to answer.

  Devlin smiled at the thought. The one “witness” they had found was a tourist, a man from Iowa who had been inside a nearby shop when the shooting took place. He had been a good citizen and had waited to tell police the little he knew, excited about a story he would now have for his friends back home. Had he known anything at all, he might have returned to those friends in a box.

  “This is number five,” Devlin said. “All of them Rossi’s people. And, so far, no retaliation. I’m starting to think John the Boss is really sick this time.”

  “It should only be cancer of the throat.” Pitts grinned at his boss. He knew Devlin shared the sentiment.

  Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi had plagued police for more than thirty years, the last twenty as head of a Mafia family whose criminal enterprises stretched from New York, to Miami, to Las Vegas. It was a fact disputed by his doctors, and one very suspect Catholic priest, all of whom swore that Rossi had developed Alzheimer’s disease more than a decade ago and was little more than a sick old man, barely capable of finding the bathroom in his Ocean Parkway home. In short, Rossi was an enigma who had kept police at bay by feigning mental enfeeblement, as he regularly went about the city, conducting mob business, dressed in pajamas, bathrob
e, and slippers, his retinue of accompanying thugs acting more like keepers than the bodyguards they were. Police attempts to question him were often met with blank, drooling stares. The media, of course, loved the act, and had even dubbed him “the Bathrobe Don.”

  Devlin had gone after Rossi on his last high-profile case, the death of socialite Natasha Winter. But the don had again proved too elusive. He had entered a private sanitarium, and had managed to wiggle free of the various crimes surrounding that death, including a near-successful attempt on Devlin’s life.

  Now Rossi seemed to be at the center of the storm. Five of his underlings had been gunned down in the past two months, all supposed victims of a gang war between Rossi and the rival Columbo crime family. The media had beaten those war drums with uncontrolled gusto, until the mayor had ordered Devlin to take over the investigation and, hopefully, calm public concern. But there was little Devlin could do. It was a one-sided war, with Rossi allegedly hiding out in his Brooklyn home, under the personal protection of his top enforcer, Mattie “the Knife” Ippolito, the don, himself, said to be too ill to direct an effective counterattack.

  If true, it was a plus as far as Devlin was concerned. In the past Rossi would have had the backing of the powerful Gambino crime family, headed by his nephew, Donatello Torelli. This time, however, the Gambino soldiers had remained on the sidelines, either unwilling or unable to help. Devlin took personal satisfaction in Rossi’s “family” problems. Two years ago he had put Rossi’s nephew behind bars, helping to weaken the ties between the Rossi and Gambino factions. At the time Rossi had sworn vengeance for that arrest, and Devlin was certain the attempt on his life had been the result of that oath. Now, despite Mayor Howie Silver’s interest in ending the war, Devlin was privately rooting for the Columbo family, hoping its thugs would find a way to send the Bathrobe Don to that great cannoli factory in the sky.

  “Don’t count Rossi out yet,” Pitts said.

  Devlin wondered if Pitts was reading his mind. He took Pitts by the arm and led him away from the body. “It’s been a long time since we paid John the Boss a call,” he said.

  Pitts nodded. “Not very respectful of us. You thinking about a ride out to Brooklyn?”

  Devlin looked back at the body of Vinnie Big Head and pursed his lips. “This thing isn’t going anywhere. Not unless we find ourselves a suicidal witness who can ID the shooters.” He turned back to Pitts. “Tell the other guys to canvas the area, just in case. Then you and I will make a little house call on the Bathrobe Don.”

  “Maybe we should take an enema bottle in case the old fuck really is sick.” Pitts grinned at him. “Besides, it’s a lovely day to visit Brooklyn, and there’s nothing I like better than an afternoon drive to a grease factory.” He watched Devlin narrow one eye at the ethnic slur and laughed. “Hey, I’ll be good. I promise. I just wanna detect and solve, just like Hizzoner told us.”

  Devlin looked away and shook his head. Pitts was incorrigible. And the mayor was living a pipe dream. Detect and solve-the actual words the mayor had used at his press conference announcing that Devlin’s special unit would investigate the latest mob bloodbath. It sounded wonderful. In newsprint. But right now the mayor would have to settle for half a loaf. Detection was the best Devlin could offer. The solution the mayor wanted-or the resolution-wouldn’t come for another month or two … when the wiseguys got tired of killing each other. He jerked a thumb toward their unmarked car.

  “Let’s go detect,” he said.

  Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi’s home was a stately, three-story pile of bricks situated behind a high, thick hedge on Brooklyn’s Ocean Parkway. The house was only three miles from Coney Island, and Pitts had already put in a request that they drive to Nathan’s and “scarf down a couple of hot dogs” before returning to Manhattan.

  Pitts was an enormous man who ate like there were two of him. He was six-two, and an easy two hundred and thirty pounds, and despite a protruding gut, everything about him was solid and formidable. He had a bristling crew cut and a square, flat street fighter’s face, and the largest pair of hands Devlin had ever seen. They were the kind of hands that would look comfortable holding nothing less than a leg of lamb.

  He also had one of the worst personnel jackets Devlin had ever read. A twenty-seven-year man who had specialized in homicide most of his career, Pitts had a long list of brutality complaints-none ever proven-to go with an equally impressive record of arrests and convictions. He was forty-eight years old, three years shy of a three-quarter-pay pension, and most of the other bosses in the department believed he would be bounced off the force before he ever reached it. Devlin thought he was the best working street detective on his squad.

  Pitts parked their unmarked car in front of Rossi’s driveway, effectively blocking any exit, and smiled at the two goons guarding the entrance. They were both in their early thirties, and despite the July heat, each of their wide bodies was covered by a windbreaker. Pitts had no doubt about what the jackets were concealing.

  One of the goons took two steps forward. “Move the fuckin’ car,” he snapped.

  Pitts turned to Devlin and shook his head. “Do you believe this shit? Every fucking garbanzo street punk in this city can spot an unmarked car three blocks away. These two ‘Mafia killers’ “-he made quotes in the air to surround the words-“they think we’re here to visit our fucking guinea aunt, who lives across the street.”

  “Disabuse them of the notion,” Devlin said.

  Pitts displayed his detective’s shield from the breast pocket of his suit coat, then pushed open the door. He emerged from the car like a bull entering a Spanish bullring, took three quick steps to the man who had spoken, grabbed him with one ham-sized hand, and propelled him toward the trunk of the car.

  “Spread ‘em, asshole,” he growled. He turned to the second man. “Join him, you piece of dog shit, before I put my foot halfway up your ass.”

  When Devlin reached the back of the car, Pitts had already relieved the pair of matching Browning nine-millimeter automatics. Devlin handed Pitts his pair of cuffs and inclined his head toward the center of the car. Pitts grinned and quickly lowered the driver and passenger windows, then used his cuffs and Devlin’s to manacle the men hand to hand so their arms were encircling the centerpost of the car.

  “We got fuckin’ licenses for them pieces,” one of the men shouted.

  Pitts reached out and pinched his cheek. “That’s good, Cheech. You show ‘em to us when we come out.”

  “Hey, you can’t leave us here like sittin’ fuckin’ ducks.” It was the second man. His voice sounded like gravel rolling around in a dryer.

  Pitts gave him a cold grin. “Quack, quack,” he said.

  Rossi’s front door was opened by a woman so frail and ancient that her skin seemed nearly transparent. There was no smile or hint of welcome on her weathered face, and her soft brown eyes turned hard and glaring as she took in the inspector’s shield that Devlin held out to her.

  “Don Giovanni is sick. Go away,” she snapped.

  Devlin tried a smile, but it only caused the woman to step forward, further blocking their way. “I can’t just go away,” he said softly. “Please tell Mr. Rossi that Inspector Devlin and Detective Pitts are here to see him.”

  “It’s all right, Anna.”

  The voice came from behind the woman. Devlin looked past her into the foyer and saw Mattie “the Knife” Ippolito standing in the doorway of an adjoining room.

  Ippolito didn’t look like a mob enforcer, especially one whose personal body count would supposedly fill a small warehouse. He was tall and slender, with thin, ascetic features, and Devlin had always thought he could pass for a Catholic priest if you dressed him in a Roman collar. Only his weasel’s eyes gave him away. He’d be a priest who’d happily steal the congregation’s bingo money.

  Devlin approached the man and found that he was now blocking the way to the next room. At six-one, Ippolito stood fairly even with Devlin, but gave away a good twe
nty pounds.

  “You want to take us to the Bathrobe, Mattie?” Devlin made the suggestion with a small, hard-eyed smile. “Or should I just toss you out of the way and find him myself?”

  Ippolito shook his head with mock sadness. “Hey, we could be nice about this, you know? Don Giovanni, he’s sick, just like the old lady tol’ you. All I’m asking here is a little respect.”

  “Hey, Mattie, we could respectfully drag his ass down to headquarters. How about that?” Pitts had come up beside Devlin, hovering like some intimidating specter ready to be unleashed.

  “All right. All right. Let them in. We’ll have the place fumigated later.”

  Devlin smiled at the sound of Rossi’s crackling, rasping voice. Pitts’s suggestion mat they drag him down to headquarters had momentary merit. It would be a waste of time, of course. It would prove useful only if Columbo-family hit men were waiting when he left One Police Plaza. But the mayor would not be amused by a mob shoot-out one block away from City Hall.

  Rossi was seated in a wingback chair when they entered the room. His small, frail body was covered by a silk bathrobe over silk pajamas, his rattier, moth-eaten attire being reserved for public appearances. His feet were clad in slippers, revealing bony, painfully white ankles.

  “So, the New York Police Department’s inspector of detectives. Such an honor.” Rossi’s chin was elevated and seemed to point at Devlin. The pose was a replica of the portrait that hung above the mantel behind him-Rossi’s hero, II Duce, at the height of his power, when all the trains in Italy ran on time.

  “How old are you now, Devlin?” he continued. “Thirty-eight?” He shook his head. “Amazing. I never thought you’d live past thirty-six. God has been good to you.”

  Devlin glared at him. It was two years ago that Rossi tried to have him killed. “You did your best, Bathrobe. It just wasn’t good enough.”