1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Someday you two will be back together. You were made for each other. Even an old woman like me could tell that.

  It will be tough for you, Nicky. Prison does more than confine a man. It strips him of his freedom, pride and self-confidence. You must overcome all that. Don’t allow them to do to you what they do to the others. I know you, Niccolo Fusco. I held you when you were coughing blood as a baby. I bathed you in alcohol when the fever almost took you. And I watched over you and prayed when every other sickness came through and—with God’s blessing—spared you.

  You have the strength to do whatever you want to do. But you must remember, Nicky: Your life is what you want it to be. Always remember—God and Satan both have room for one more soul.

  Ti voglio bene,

  Mamma Rosa

  I folded the letter neatly. Perfectly. Then I tucked it into the envelope and slid it under my pillow.

  I swear, Mamma Rosa. I will never do you wrong again. Ever.

  CHAPTER 24

  THINGS IN COMMON

  Brooklyn—Current Day

  Five in the morning is a terrible time to get up, but when you’ve been thinking of death all night, the morning is more welcome. Frankie managed to plant a smile on his face as he walked to the kitchen for coffee. He often wondered how people survived before coffee, but knowing at the same time there must have been a substitute. Even Mamma Rosa needed coffee to be fully alert and civil.

  As he waited for it to brew, thoughts popped into his head. He jotted them down then headed to the station. Carol met him at the top of the steps with more coffee.

  “How the hell did you know I was here?”

  “Ted saw you pull into the lot. And if the coffee’s not hot, don’t bitch at me.”

  “I’d never do that. Not to your face, anyway.” He ducked her punch, then asked, “Lou here?”

  She nodded to the “war room,” as Lou called it, the place they’d set up to work on this case.

  “About time you got here, Donovan.”

  “You sleep much, Mazzetti?”

  He lifted his feet from the chair where they rested and plopped them on the floor, shoving the chair toward Frankie so he could sit. “If you ever get married—which is doubtful, but if you do, and after it’s been thirty years—you’ll know why I’m here early.”

  “You’re right. I’ll never know.”

  Lou nodded toward the files in Frankie’s hand. “What have you got?”

  “Some stuff I got thinking about this morning.” He set the notebook on the table, grabbed the files on the case, and spread them from left to right in the order the victims were killed. Frankie stuck his head out the door. “Hey, Carol, if you’re not too busy, we could use your magnificent handwriting in here.”

  Mazzetti stared at Frankie as he stretched his neck. “Anybody ever tell you that birthmark on your neck looks like Sicily?”

  “Only about a million times.”

  “No shit, though. It really does. Goddamn amazing.”

  He continued staring until Carol came in a moment later, with the slight swagger that was both sexy and don’t-you-dare-try untouchable. At slightly over five feet, and a hundred pounds tops, she wasn’t physically threatening, but she carried herself as if she were an Amazon. And if someone pissed her off, the look in her eyes was usually enough to deter any repetition of whatever set her off to begin with.

  “What do you need?”

  Frankie pointed to the posters. “We need you to fill in the details.”

  She sighed, but Frankie knew she loved doing this; she liked anything that took her away from the grind at her desk. “Okay, call them out to me,” she said. “But go slow. I don’t have a damned keyboard.”

  Frankie picked up the file. “Renzo Ciccarelli. Groceries spread all over the floor. A lot of them crushed. Brought them home in a grocery bag.”

  Lou had Devin’s file. “Tommy Devin—”

  “Whoa,” Carol said. “Spell Ciccarelli.”

  Lou spelled the name then continued. “Items at the Devin scene include a bottle of Jack Daniels, found on floor next to body, unbroken. No receipt, and it hadn’t been opened yet.”

  Frankie moved to the next file. “Nino Tortella. Pizza box on the floor.”

  Lou got up. “We’ve been through this already, remember? The pizza place said Nino stopped once a week, religiously. Devin was in that liquor store every day, and Renzo went to the grocery store at least twice a week.” He looked at Carol. “You want more coffee?” When she shook her head, he continued. “And another thing. They weren’t killed on the same days of the week. They were about three weeks apart, but not exactly.”

  “I just thought of this last night,” Frankie said. “If we look at the case like we have been, it doesn’t seem like anything—liquor, pizza, and groceries—nothing in common. Different days of the week. Different parts of town.” Frankie walked to the charts. “Look at where everything was found. Liquor bottle next to body, groceries spread all over floor—next to body, pizza box on floor—next to body. If we look at that from the killer’s perspective, every one of them had something in their hands when they came home. He wanted them to have their hands full, to make it easier to take them.”

  Lou moved by the charts. “And that means he was watching them. Probably for a long time, so he could tell exactly when they’d have their hands full.”

  “Which explains the three weeks or so between killings. This isn’t some nut bag killing random people; this is a serious-as-shit killer taking his time to do it right.”

  Lou scratched his chin as he stared at the charts. “So this guy sits in the house waiting for them to come home, knowing their hands will be full.”

  “Exactly.” Frankie said, and slapped Lou’s extended hand.

  “Good work, Donovan. Let’s find out where this guy watched from. We might get a lead to break this case.”

  As they left the building, heading toward Lou’s car, Frankie’s adrenaline was pumping. At the same time, though, he was scared. A lead might point to the wrong people.

  CHAPTER 25

  REFORMATION

  Delaware Department of Correction, Smyrna, Delaware—13 Years Ago

  When Mamma Rosa died, it devastated me. Each day pushed me beyond limits I thought were impassable. There were days when I felt great, dreamt of a getting out and starting a new life with Angie. But they tended to be overshadowed by the concerns that she wouldn’t be waiting for me, or—even worse—that the baby wasn’t mine. On the good days I clung to the words she wrote in her letter. ‘Find me, Niccolo Fusco. Damnit, you better.’ But on other days, I hated her, cursed her for leaving me here, so lonely.

  I fought it every day, but I was losing the battle. Two weeks after the funeral, I got into a fight in the yard and almost killed a guy. After that, I did begin a new life. Trained every day. Boxed. Ran. Practiced martial arts. Lifted weights. Ran some more. I met a Chinese guy who taught me mental training—Qigong, it was called—a set of breathing exercises that he swore had powers to heal. My goal was to learn, so I followed him, focusing on the exercises at night when I was alone in my cell. After a lot of practice, I got to the point where I could feel the essence of the qi flow through me, or at least, he said that’s what it was. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t care. It helped me relax and sleep. I had nothing better to do with my time.

  By the end of year two, I could run ten miles at a good clip. Smokes were long gone from my daily routine; they went with my first month of serious running. Funny thing was I still missed them, every day, all day.

  Just as I was getting to accept my new life, Tank Moresco got released, taking my protection with him. I had settled into a habit of taking a shower after my evening run. One day three white guys tried to backdoor me. It was probably a good thing it happened in the shower; the soap prevented them from getting a good grip. Once I slipped away, it gave me all the time I needed. I ran, letting them build momentum, and then I stopped, did a quick spin, and charged t
hem. I hit the first one in the throat. When he went down, face first, I jammed my heel into the back of his head, slamming him into the tile floor. At the same time, I threw a bar of soap at the one nearest me. He tried to protect his face. I used the opportunity to punch him in the balls. Then I grabbed hold of them and yanked him off his feet. The back of his head hit with a thud, blood mixing with the water running toward the drain. The last guy ran, but I caught him and took him down. I grabbed a fresh bar of soap from the ledge and jammed it up his ass. He screamed when it went in. Guess it was bigger than it looked. I kicked him in the face as I stepped over him, then turned to them as I left the shower.

  “Try anything again, and I’ll kill every one of you.”

  The guards put me in solitary for a week. That was all right; it allowed me time for meditations. I became more aware when I meditated, things suddenly coming to me as realities. One of them was how fighting worked. You didn’t have to be the best boxer or the best martial artist or the best shot with a gun to win. Fact is, during the heat of the moment—and I’m not talking competitions here, but when life is on the line, or more importantly when death is on the line—that’s when it shows who has what. I realized that any one of the guys in the shower should have taken me, same as that night against the Woodside guys. I just wanted it more. Willing to risk more to get it. That night of meditation changed my life yet again. Gave me new insight.

  A few days later the guards let me out. I saw the fear in their eyes when they looked at me. After that day I saw it in everybody’s eyes.

  For the next few years, I trained in everything. Not just the physical, and not meditation, but books. I learned history, math, science, law, English. Even geography. Sister Thomas sent me books, and I absorbed everything I could. I’ll have to say that, of everyone I came in contact with, she was the only one who could stare me down. Must have been a psychological thing from childhood, but regardless, she managed it. I guess Sigmund Freud would have something to say about that. Probably say I wanted to fuck Sister Thomas—Freud’s answer to everything.

  By year six, my physical presence and appearance had changed, and my knowledge base had grown tenfold, so I focused on developing social skills. “Connections” we called it in the streets. I decided if I was going to make any headway, I had to make a deal with the blacks. They were the second biggest group in the prison, but they stuck together better than the whites.

  I waited for a sunny day then walked up to the blacks. The circle of beefy bodyguards parted to let me through then closed around me like hyenas circling a lion. The leader was a guy named Monroe. He wasn’t big, but word was that he was as tough as anyone. As tough as me, some people whispered.

  Monroe was sucking the last bit of life from a cigarette when I approached. “You got balls coming in here like this.”

  “Yeah, well I figured you’d want to know why I came before you barked orders to your dogs.”

  I thought that pissed him off, but he laughed. I was counting on that.

  “You’re the Rat?”

  “That’s what they call me.”

  “I hear your protection left. That what you coming to me for?”

  I shook my head. “Cigarettes,” I said, and stared. Looked right through him. “I can get all the cigarettes you—or anyone else in here—needs.”

  Monroe had been sitting on a bench. He stood now, face to face with me. “Why you bringing this to me? White boys want your pretty ass? Who knows, maybe I like white-boy ass too. Been in here a long time.”

  I smiled, got closer, our faces almost touching. “You’ve got ears, Monroe. I know you heard what happened to the last ones who tried that.”

  He seemed to want to back up, but he held his ground. “Yeah, I heard.” He laughed again, and when he did, several of his men joined him. “So tell me about this deal,” Monroe said, and motioned for me to sit next to him on the bench.

  It only took half an hour to hammer out a deal. I would arrange delivery of cigarettes, smuggling them in through visitations and guards. He would handle distribution. I got twenty percent and didn’t have to touch anything.

  After we completed negotiations, we shook hands. He called to me as I walked away.

  “I thought you would have asked for protection.”

  I turned, letting my eyes hold him. “Don’t need it.”

  Monroe laughed louder than I have ever heard him. “You’re one crazy fuck, Rat. I like you.”

  “You, too, Monroe. Nice doing business with you.”

  I walked across the yard with a huge smile on my face. Not only had I made a deal that would bring me money, but it would be invaluable for connections. And as far as protection…I didn’t have to ask. That would have weakened my position. Besides, they knew if something happened to me, the cigarettes dried up. That was far more important than a piece of white ass.

  News traveled fast about my status. After that I made contacts with everyone—Hispanic, Italian, Jew, Irish—didn’t matter. I figured that when I got out, all of my contacts would be valuable. Early on these deals caused me trouble. Prisons are gang—and territory—oriented. Freud would have probably said it was because we all wanted to fuck each other. The way I figured it, some of the guys in there must have read his books and taken the message to heart.

  After a particularly troublesome negotiation with another group, two guys attacked me. I killed one, blinded the other. I had to send a message. The attacks stopped, but the fight earned me three more years on my sentence. I did the time easy enough, counting the days until I could see Angela and start a new life.

  During the final years of my sentence, Nicky the Rat—the guy they beat up when I first came in here—ruled this little kingdom. Even the guards chipped in to throw me a party for my release. I didn’t hold any delusions that it was out of love—from the guards or the inmates. They just wanted me out of there.

  As for me, all I dreamed of was getting back with Angie. Maybe get married. Live together forever.

  CHAPTER 26

  MARRIAGE LASTS FOREVER

  Brooklyn—Current Day

  Frankie “Bugs” Donovan stared at the blank walls of his apartment, cracking his knuckles while a cigarette dangled from the left side of his mouth. He kept his eye closed so the smoke curling around it didn’t sting.

  Marriage lasts forever. That’s what his mother always told him. And he figured she should know, having put up with his father all of those years. When he was little, he used to ask why she stayed, but the only thing she said was “marriage lasts forever.” He could still hear the way her voice trembled, as if “forever” was penance for her sins.

  Penance, my ass. No priest would have been so lenient. Even Mary Magdalene was a repentant sinner. Bugs slugged the last of his wine. If he could muster the energy, he intended to pour himself more.

  The refrigerator hummed a steady beat from the kitchen, and the fan in the living room dragged a breeze he was grateful for, even if it did carry the stink of the city streets. He looked around at what his wife had left him: a picture of Humphrey Bogart from a Casablanca poster; his wine rack and a few bottles of Chianti; the fridge—thank God for small favors—and the chair he sat in.

  Fuckin’ whore.

  Even as he said it, he knew he was wrong. She was no more to blame than he was. She was pregnant at nineteen, and he asked her to marry him, promising to take care of her and what would be his offspring—another new Donovan. Not that the world needed any more Donovans, but…duty was duty. They got married, but in the eighth month, misfortune took the baby, leaving them together, alone. Some kids made it marrying young, but usually they were kept together by the babies. When that was taken away there wasn’t much left. Not at nineteen. After all, what did an Irish/Italian kid from the streets have in common with an upper-crust girl whose family could trace their English roots back a few centuries? Nothing. Less than nothing. Might have been different if she had been Irish, Polish—hell, even Jewish. Kids of immigrants understood each ot
her. The old, established ones didn’t. Even worse, their families didn’t.

  This line of thinking provided enough energy to get his lazy ass up and into the kitchen, where he poured more wine. As he came back into the room, he lifted the glass to Ingrid Bergman, staring at Bogie with those sorrowful eyes. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” And once more he slugged it down. He didn’t like his job right now; in fact, sometimes he hated his job. Bunch of idiots in suits trying to act like God. He didn’t mind putting away the bad guys, but they could stuff that pretentious bullshit up their asses. Half of the cops he worked with acted like they were in the manger with Joseph and Mary. Sister Mary Thomas would have beaten their asses for implied blasphemy.

  When he succumbed to moods like this, he felt like quitting, screw being a cop with the rules and bullshit. It would be nice to be back on the streets with Tony and Paulie…and Nicky. Damn, they had fun together. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like he had when Nicky came back. Frankie sucked hard on his cigarette, recalling the excitement—and the danger—of the old days. He hadn’t felt whole since then, and it all worked because of Nicky. He was the glue who held it together.

  Goddamn, I miss him.

  He meandered back to the kitchen—it was easy to meander in an empty apartment—and poured another glass of vino. He laughed. Knowledge was king, and he knew when he started referring to the wine as vino that he’d had too much. He punched the cork in tight, realizing too late that the bottle was empty, then went to recapture his throne.

  As he plopped down in the seat, he looked at the plaque on the wall—a forgotten treasure when he took inventory moments ago—and said his name aloud. “Detective First Class, Mario F. Donovan.”

  Frankie was as screwed up as his name, but he’d known that all his life. He’d been screwed since birth. Italian first name with Irish last name. Olive skin with eyes that only sometimes matched. Loved to eat, but couldn’t cook. Worst of all though, on the outside he was a cop, but inside he was still a gangster trying to get out. That’s what bothered him the most.