Murder Has Consequences

by Giacomo Giammatteo

He planned it out, moving a little farther behind where the door would open. He’d leave them just enough room to open the door and get inside, then he’d spring from behind it and take them one at a time, each one with a swift cut to the neck, or a jab into the lungs. He felt the girl tremble. Her fear gave him comfort. She’d be no trouble.

  ***

  SHERRI PUT HER EAR to the door and listened. She nodded to Frankie then stepped back into the hall, motioning for them to come to her.

  “What’s up?” Lou asked.

  “I’m with Frankie. Somebody’s in that apartment.”

  “Are you sure it’s not just the TV?” Lou asked.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Sherri said. “I think I heard footsteps.”

  “We have to break it off,” Frankie said. “We can’t risk blowing this whole case because we don’t have a warrant.”

  “Then we need to post some uniforms outside, and we need to keep tabs on Lisa.”

  Sherri nodded. “I’ll call as soon as we’re outside.”

  ***

  LISA JACKSON GOT OFF the subway and ran most of the way home. Her pulse raced, and she felt short of breath even though this was nothing compared to her normal workouts. She raced up the steps from the subway, weaving in and out of people, then darted across the street, dodging cars and cabs while trying to stay focused.

  A bit of calm returned after she entered her building, and more after she got in the elevator, a sense of safety coming with each floor. She exited on the fourth floor and turned toward her apartment, stopping halfway to make sure of what she was doing. Her life, and her mother’s life, might hinge on what she decided to do next. She closed her eyes, thought about it, and then pulled out her cell. She pounded out a text.

  Detective Donovan, I tried reaching you today. I won’t be able to talk later, so meet me at the cafe by my house at 8:30 tomorrow morning. And do not try to contact me.

  Lisa deleted the message from the sent list, put the phone back in her purse, took a deep breath and headed for the door. Forgive me, Mom, if I’m wrong.

  “Tom?” she called as she entered. When he didn’t answer, she called again. “Tom?”

  She made her way quickly to the bedroom to ask the girl where he was, but she was gone too. “What the hell?”

  In the kitchen was a note.

  ‘I want you to go to the Monterrey Motel, room #213. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t call anyone. I decided you were right about getting out of town. I’ve got the old hag with me, but you only got two hours to see her, then she goes back. Better hurry. I have Buster.’

  Lisa closed her eyes and said a prayer. She had done the right thing. She grabbed the note, and her purse then headed out. She could be at the Monterrey Motel in half an hour.

  CHAPTER 35

  Mea Maxima Culpa

  Brooklyn, New York

  Lisa got off the subway and walked the four blocks to the motel in record time. She climbed the stairs to the second level and headed down the concrete walkway toward #213. Her heart beat fast in anticipation of seeing her mother.

  As she passed room #205, the door opened. Tom reached out and grabbed her, yanking her inside. His hand covered her mouth before she had a chance to scream. Once inside, he held a knife to her throat.

  “Are you alone?”

  Lisa nodded. “Yes! I did just what you said. Where’s Mom?” She looked around the room, heart racing. “Where’s Mom? And where’s Buster?”

  Tom pointed toward the bathroom. “Buster’s in there, but your mother’s not here. I have her across the street. I wasn’t going to trust you.”

  “Is that why you said 213?”

  Tom smiled. “In case your detective friends came with you.” He took Lisa by the arm. “Get Buster and then we’ll go see your mother.”

  ***

  FRANKIE GOT IN EARLY, got coffee, and went looking for Lou. “Mazzetti, where are you?”

  “He’s in the pisser,” Carol said. “What do you need?”

  Sherri Miller came around the corner just then. “What’s up?”

  “Do we have backup arranged?” he asked.

  “We got it,” Sherri said. “You think this is real?”

  “Hell no, it ain’t real,” Lou said as he exited the men’s room, zipping up his pants. “She’s either trying to get into Frankie’s pants, or she’s plotting something.”

  “What could she be plotting?” Sherri asked.

  Frankie’s expression said it all. “It could be anything. I don’t trust her.” He looked at Sherri. “Who do we have watching her apartment?”

  “Fernandez and Troy,” Sherri said, “And I just spoke to them a few minutes ago. Nothing of interest.”

  “Where are you meeting her?” Lou asked.

  “Cafe by her house, at 8:30.”

  “Backup is supposed to be there by 8:00, so they can see anybody setting up in advance.”

  “And we’ll be set up across the street,” Sherri said.

  Frankie thought about it and nodded. “All right, sounds good. Let’s get it rolling.”

  FRANKIE SHOWED UP AT 8:15, ordered a coffee and a biscotto and took a seat at a sidewalk table farthest from the front door. From there he could see anyone coming, and, more importantly, so could the backup and Lou and Sherri. At 8:30 Frankie went to the men’s room to relieve himself. When he came out he got a cappuccino, then walked to his table, all the while eyeing the booths and tables inside the cafe. Lisa Jackson was nowhere to be found.

  He looked at his watch three times between 8:30 and 8:45, but it didn’t make matters any easier. She still hadn’t shown and he was still waiting. His cell phone chirped and he picked it up. “Donovan.”

  “What do you think? She coming or not?”

  “Mazzetti, you’ve been watching me. Have I had any communications with anyone besides you?”

  “You realize you’re a prick, right, Donovan?”

  “I know. Now if you want to do something worthwhile, see if she’s at work. Maybe she got held up.”

  A few minutes later, Frankie’s cell phone rang. He picked it up. “What do you want?”

  A female voice, or what sounded vaguely like one, came over the receiver. It was Carol.

  “I just had a call from Cindy Ellis. The nut called her again and said we should check out the Monterrey Motel, room #213.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  Carol sighed. “Yeah, Donovan. I’m shitting you. I waited all day to call you up and pull this on you. Now how about you get your ass over to the Monterrey Motel, huh?”

  “Tell your husband he’ll be in my prayers tonight, Carol. And every night thereafter.” Frankie hung up and dialed Mazzetti. “Change of plans. Cindy Ellis got a call about the Monterrey Motel. Pick me up, and let backup know. We’ll want them with us.”

  Twenty minutes later they were in the motel parking lot. Once backup arrived, Frankie deployed them and then he and Lou and Sherri went to the front desk, flashing badges. “Need the key to room #213,” Frankie said. “And we want to go in quiet.”

  The clerk handed him the key, and went back to his business as if this was a daily routine. Frankie started up the steps, but stopped about halfway up, turning toward Lou. “Mazzetti, why don’t you stay here. Sherri and I can take this.”

  Lou didn’t hesitate. “You won’t get an argument from me. Go get ‘em, Miller.”

  They finished climbing the stairs and moved quickly to the room. Frankie and Sherri drew guns, and Frankie knocked on the door. When no one answered he knocked again.

  “This the right room?” Sherri asked.

  “That’s what Carol said. Room #213.”

  “I don’t like it. We should go in.”

  “Yeah, I thought I heard something in there anyway, maybe someone in trouble.” Frankie looked at Miller. “Just in case a judge asks.”

  Frankie handed the key to Sherri and held the gun in firing position. He nodded to her and she turned the key, kicking it open.

  “Son of a bitch!�
�� Frankie said, and stopped dead about four feet in. A young girl lay naked on the bed, covered in blood. He swept the room, then headed toward the bathroom. “Cover me.”

  “Right behind you.”

  When he cleared the bathroom, Sherri stepped outside and called Lou and the others up while Frankie called Kate. Sherri leaned on the railing and took deep breaths of fresh air. “This is my third homicide but this one’s the worst. Sick son of a bitch is what this guy is.”

  Frankie put a hand on her shoulder, causing her to jump, but then she looked at him. “Who does shit like this?”

  “Try to remember they’re gone now. It doesn’t hurt them anymore. And these sick bastards do it just as much to hurt the living as they do the dead. They know it’s shocking.”

  “They’re right.”

  “Yeah,” Frankie said. “I know.”

  Just then Lou made the final climb and started the journey down the walkway. “I’m going to presume that we’ve got another stiff or you wouldn’t have dragged my ass all the way up here.”

  Frankie headed back to the room. “Take a look.”

  The body lay on the bed, face up and naked. A note was pinned to her face.

  ‘Guess I won’t be talking too much today, Mr. Donovan.’

  And beneath it, on her chest was carved ‘mea maxima culpa,’ ending at a spot just above her vagina.

  “That’s not her,” Lou said.

  “Right. It’s not,” Frankie said. “So who is it?”

  Sherri shook her head. “Can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. My God, her life was just starting.”

  Sherri shook her head while she stared at the body. She thought about her own life and how she’d been lost and alone at seventeen, on drugs, damn near a prostitute. She’d have ended up like this one if not for one caring cop, but that was just luck. Not everybody got those breaks.

  She looked at the body again. This girl sure didn’t. Sherri said a silent prayer and tried to control the anger rising in her, but she wasn’t very successful. This anger was too deep rooted. “You know what I’m going to do, Mazzetti? I’m gonna kill this fucker, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Monroe

  Wilmington, Delaware

  I didn’t like what was happening to me. All of this time, since getting out of prison, I managed to stay out of trouble and keep my temper under control. Suddenly things were getting away from me. Three times today I thought about calling Knuckles and telling him “yes,” then have him give me the name of that scum in Philly. And though I managed to fight off the feeling, I worried whether I could do it again tomorrow and the next day.

  A passing thought came to me about something Rosa said the other day, about another shooting on Harrison Street, in the Presidents’ District. That made me think of Monroe. I hadn’t seen him since prison, and though the relationship we had there had endured for more than a few years it was still a tentative one, founded on mistrust and glued together by connections and smuggling cigarettes. I wondered what his reaction would be to seeing me now.

  Despite my reservations, I decided I had to see Monroe. From what I remembered he usually kept to his part of town, but Bobby had fifty large in the bank. To me that screamed drugs. If drugs were involved Monroe might know something. It was worth a shot. That night after supper I prepared for my venture to the dark side—the President’s District was the meanest, most dangerous part of town. I put a Beretta in my waistband and another Beretta behind my back. I also wore my special hat, rigged to hold a derringer. A long gray shirt draped over my jeans and the cap said “Phillies.”

  I got in the car and headed out, carefully plotting how to do this. It had to be just right, or I’d never see my new baby. Monroe was not the kind of guy who played games. He’d either shoot me as I stood, or we’d do business. It was a risk, but one worth taking.

  MONROE WASN’T HIS REAL name; it was the street he grew up on, the south side of it just below Seventh. Willie Parker was the name his mamma had given him at birth, but by the time he was six, kids were calling him Monroe, mostly because he ran up and down that street as if he owned it. He would race down the hill to Fourth Street and then back up again to Seventh, though he never ventured farther than that either way.

  All cities had territories, and there were always bigger kids, and meaner ones, on the other side of the boundaries. Sometimes those territories had noticeable boundaries—a four-lane busy street, a city park, a creek or river. Monroe Street had numbered cross streets, and the area between Fourth and Seventh belonged to Monroe even at that young age.

  Willie “Monroe” Parker never got very big, and he was cursed with a face that made him look as if he hadn’t matured. He had a smile that complemented that look, but underneath it lurked a vicious man. He’d cut half a dozen boys with knives before he was ten, and had taken a slice or two of his own—two of them still shining white against his ebony skin—one on the left side of his neck and one across his lip. The lip-one gave him a funny way of talking, and that whole package—youthful looks, funny voice, and friendly smile—could be deceiving as hell. Many a tough guy had gone to the hospital after mistaking him for an easy mark. A few went straight to the morgue. At times he reminded me of Don Cheadle in that movie with Denzel Washington, Devil in a Blue Dress, laughing one minute and cutting you or blowing your head off the next.

  Prison is supposed to rehabilitate a person, give them a fresh start on life. When Monroe got out he started fresh, forced to reclaim his old territory. By the time he was done with it, the boundaries had expanded. And from what I heard, he now controlled from Third to Eighth on Monroe Street, and all of the cross streets from Washington to Harrison. He had all the presidents locked up, which is why it was now called the President’s District, and Monroe owned all of it.

  In prison, Monroe ran the black gang, and I’d needed to make deals, so I approached him first, offering the sweetest deal on smuggling smokes into the prison. It was a smart move for me. I had the best connections and could guarantee the smokes got past the guards, but I left the distribution to Monroe, letting him make any deal he wanted with the other inmates. I took very little of a cut too. Money wasn’t that important, but staying safe was. And making connections. This did both for me. Nobody wanted to fuck with the dude bringing the smokes in.

  I pulled into a space by St. Francis’ Hospital, parking on the Dupont Street side, at the edge of Little Italy. I walked down Seventh Street, past Tilton Park, planning out what I’d say when the time came. It didn’t take long to attract attention. Before I got halfway down the next block, three young toughs were following me. At the corner of Seventh and Franklin, I turned around, hands in my pockets.

  “Here to see Monroe.”

  They stopped about twenty feet from me. “What’s a white boy got to see Monroe about?”

  “He’ll want to see me. Why don’t you let him decide?”

  One of them lifted his shirt, showing me he was packing. “How about you move on down, and take your hands out.”

  I opened my coat, lifting my shirt to let them see. “Easy, guys. I’m showing you my gun, so don’t get nervous. Like I said, I’m here to see Monroe.”

  The guy in front took my gun, a sneer on his face. “What the fuck’s a white boy like you want with Monroe?”

  “Already told you, he’ll want to see me. We’re old friends.” I fixed him with the hawk eyes I inherited from my father.

  The man stared at me for a few seconds before turning away. “You follow me, bitch, and don’t even think of trying anything.”

  I slowly let my hands drop, then turned and walked even slower, taking a right on Monroe Street. Music blared from a stereo about halfway down the block. From the sound I could tell it was a good stereo. I could almost feel the street vibrate from the heavy bass. One of the guys behind me was talking on his cell, audible even over the beat of the music. Just before we got to the house where all the music was, Monroe came out to the sidewalk, th
in leather coat over jeans and sporting the newest fashion in shades.

  He removed the shades, then laughed, heading toward me with his hand extended. “If it ain’t my white brother. I thought you’d be dead by now.”

  I smiled and took his hand. It was the reaction I’d hoped for, but I wasn’t sure I’d get it; it had been a long time. “Been a while, Monroe.”

  “That ain’t no shit, brother. Come on in.” He waved to his boys behind me. “It’s all right. Go on about your business.”

  The man who had taken my gun handed it to Monroe, who smiled real wide. “My man, Nicky. What are you here for?”

  “Here to talk.”

  “Let’s go talk then.” He grabbed my shoulder and led me toward the door where music blared from the windows. “Let’s find us a place to relax.”

  I stopped. “Before we go, I need to tell you—I have two more guns on me. One in the back and one under my hat.”

  Monroe turned quickly, and stared at me.

  I stared back. “Didn’t know what I’d find.”

  “Same old fuckin’ Nicky. What, you were gonna come in here and shoot up my whole place?”

  “Didn’t want to.”

  Monroe’s face lost all expression. He still held my gun. Quick as lightning, he jammed it against his man’s head, shoving him into the brick wall. “I ought to goddamn kill you, nigger. Lettin’ a man in here with three fuckin’ guns. You tryin’ to get me killed, nigger? Are you?” Monroe yanked the man’s head back and slammed it into the wall, then prepared to shoot him.

  I watched but said nothing.

  “Please, Monroe? Man, I didn’t check him ’cause I thought you knew him.”

  Monroe looked to me. “What do you think? Should I kill him?”

  “I’d keep him. From what I hear, you’re going to need all the soldiers you can get.”

  Monroe handed the gun to me, but kept staring at the guy against the wall. “Better thank this white boy, Dupree. He owns your ass now.”

  He smacked Dupree on the side of the face, then walked up the steps into the house. He had taken three of the row houses and knocked out walls to make it all one unit, and he had redone the entire inside. We sat in a living room three times the size of the original.