1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Frankie and Lou went to the McDonald’s, not expecting anything and that’s exactly what they got. They went back to the station, worked some files, and returned to the restaurant about five. Cindy vaguely remembered a guy who came in once in a while, but she struggled with the photo. When Frankie pressed her, she picked out Tony.

  “And you don’t remember anything else?” Frankie asked.

  “You know how many people I get in here? Look around. Would you remember one customer?”

  “You’re certain it’s the guy you pointed to?”

  She stared at it again. “If you’re asking me if it could possibly, maybe, be this guy—okay, yeah. But if you’re asking me to go to court and swear on it, no.”

  Frankie thanked her, but silently cursed. Waitress who wants to be a lawyer. Just what I need.

  He found Pete, Patti’s short-lived partner, but Pete didn’t recognize anyone. Frankie left the restaurant, went back to Dunkin Donuts and questioned the night crowd, but got nothing new, so he packed it in for the day and went home.

  On the way home, thoughts raced through his mind. A lot of the DNA evidence collected at the scenes turned out to be from cops. Where would a killer get that? From a restaurant where cops hung out, that’s where.

  All he would have to do is sit in that booth and collect DNA. And wasn’t there gum at one of the scenes? He remembered how, in fourth grade, Tony used to wait until Sister Theresa’s back was turned, then he’d yell. She’d whip around, ready to whack someone, but she could never tell who it was, and no one would say. Tony used to tell us, “With forty kids in the class, how’s she going to know who did it?”

  Just like now, Frankie thought as he turned onto Flatbush to head home. How are we going to know who this is? But I know, Tony, you slippery fuck. I know.

  FOR THREE DAYS, FRANKIE and Lou investigated the sites of the other crimes. They talked to people at diners, coffee houses, fast food joints and pizza shops. They found a few more people who felt sure they recognized Nicky, but also more who swore it was Tony. On day four, Frankie got home by nine, plopped in his chair and listened to music. But the more he relaxed, the more he thought about the case. A statement from one of the delivery drivers kept haunting him. Before he knew it, he was up from the chair and had the files and folders spread across the table, smoke curling up from the cigarette in the ashtray.

  He searched for the statement then stopped, reading it in detail, though it was already imprinted on his mind. This guy had identified the picture as Nicky, and he sounded credible. He said he remembered it because it was unusual. He delivered to the diner by Nino’s house and saw the guy sitting at the table eating dinner. Half an hour later, he went to the restaurant by Donnie Amato’s work and saw him there. He remembered thinking. Didn’t this guy just eat dinner?

  Frankie put down the notes, took a long drag of his cigarette, and let the smoke drift out slowly. This meant the killer was staking out his victims long beforehand. And it meant he was probably watching somebody else right now, sitting in a diner or a coffee house and watching the next guy he was going to kill. Frankie just had to figure out who.

  He wanted to believe it was Tony. That would be the easy thing, but he knew in his heart that Tony and Nicky looked a lot alike; people used to think they were brothers. And that damn picture he’d shown people was from a cell phone, not the best quality.

  Frankie got up, paced the apartment, then went to the window. He pulled the curtain back just a touch and peeked out into the street.

  Who are you watching, Nicky?

  CHAPTER 57

  THINGS IN COMMON

  Current Day

  Frankie got home from another miserable day of getting nothing done. He did without wine again—he’d had too much of late—but he brewed a great cup of espresso and lit a smoke to enjoy it with. Long ago he realized he had too many vices to quit all at once, so he opted for control of them one at a time.

  The “Things in Common” chart had moved to a prominent place on his living room wall, the space compliments of his ex-wife. As he stood before his ever-evolving chart, he studied the progress.

  Common Links:

  Shot in head and heart—All victims

  Something in hands when came home—All victims

  Single—All victims (Were they gay?)

  Frankie paused. Four guys killed and all single. Was he missing something? Was this some sexual deviant? He went to the table and pulled the files.

  Tommy Devin, the second one, was single. No sign of girls in the apartment. Nothing in his address book. Neighbors didn’t remember seeing any girls visit. He made a note.

  “Could be gay.”

  The next file was on Renzo Ciccarelli, the first one killed. Single. No girlfriend.

  Fuck, did I screw up? Are these guys all gay?

  He leafed through the folder. Copies of Penthouse were found in the closet. That was something, but it didn’t say much. He laid down Renzo’s file and reached for Nino’s.

  Nino Tortella. Single. Engaged.

  Phew. Frankie breathed a sigh of relief. Hope it was a girl.

  As he looked deeper, all indications were that Nino was straight. He hurried to Donnie Amato’s file.

  Donnie Amato. Single. Divorced. Good. Wife filed for reasons of infidelity. Even better.

  Donnie seemed to be anything but gay. Thank God for small favors.

  Last thing he wanted was a city in turmoil over a bunch of gay bashings.

  Back to the chart.

  Torture—Three were. Tommy wasn’t. (Why?)

  This one baffled him. Why not Tommy? Why the others, but not him? He wasn’t even the first, so it wasn’t that the killer was escalating. Frankie put a big question mark alongside his name.

  Rat shit—Found at all crime scenes—but not rats.

  So far, only Nino’s had an actual dead rat. Frankie shook his head. This was weak. He was forcing it, trying to make it fit, and he knew in his heart it just didn’t feel right.

  Abundance of DNA—All.

  Frankie looked at the rest of the evidence. Most of it was spotty. Baseball bats used on two, but not the other two. Pictures turned down at Nino and Tommy’s house, but others had no pictures in the room. All were killed in their homes, though. He wrote that in the “All” column. He stepped back and studied more. He felt sure there was a mob connection, but he couldn’t prove anything on three of them, and only suspected on two. The other two were clean.

  He was hitting a stone wall, and when he did that he knew it was time to change things up. He traded in his espresso for wine. Sometimes he loved his own logic. This was psychology at its best—convince yourself you work better after, or while, drinking wine, so that you can drink wine. But that’s only after you’ve convinced yourself you can’t live without the other vices.

  Thank God for giving us psychiatrists to make sense of what we do.

  Frankie paced, stopping now and then to study his chart. He went to the other chart, too, looked it over. This was the one he made when he first suspected it was Nicky. Time to see what had changed. He grabbed his red pen and started in on the columns, crossing out items he felt no longer applied, making adjustments as needed to others.

  Nicky:

  Friends—Who are friends? Me, Tony, Suit. Anyone else?

  Yes, the mystery girl.

  Honor—Don’t ever run. If this is Nicky, he definitely isn’t running.

  But he did run from Tito. What does that tell me?

  Girls—?

  The girl has something on Tito. Who is she, and how did Nicky meet her?

  Nuns—Sister Mary Thomas, does she know anything? Would Nicky tell her?

  Prison—Have no idea what he did in there.

  Fearless—No shit.

  Smart—Definitely.

  Rosa—Her teachings affected him. Respect for women.

  Pictures turned down. Protection of the girl. What else?

  Tito—Tito is after Nicky. Did he kill him?


  Cleveland—He called from there, but never sent package. Why?

  Frankie finished his first glass of wine, lit a smoke and walked. He liked to walk about the apartment, stare out the window, then come back to the chart. That helped him focus.

  Betrayal, he thought, that definitely belongs on the list. He added it to the bottom.

  Betrayal—Someone betrayed Nicky.

  When he finished with his editing, he stepped back and lit another smoke, contemplating. Now it was time to look at Tony’s chart.

  Tony:

  Friends—Me, Nicky, Suit, Tito, Manny.

  Have to question me and Nicky.

  Honor—Not sure if it still means anything to him.

  Never did. Remember Woodside.

  Girls—Has wife, Celia. Others.

  Tony was never faithful. What does that tell me?

  Nuns—Never had the respect Nicky did.

  Mob—Seems to be in tight.

  Rising fast and ambitious.

  Conniving—Can no longer trust Tony. DO NOT TRUST HIM.

  Smart—Smartest guy I know.

  Rosa—His mother, but did he listen to her?

  Tito—Does Tony obey him? Or just work for him?

  How far would he go for Tito?

  Brooklyn—If something mob-related happens in Brooklyn, Tito knows, which means Tony knows.

  This was becoming more than a worry. This was a wart on Frankie’s ass now. The captain was reaming out Morreau, and Morreau turned it on Frankie. And Frankie was out of ideas about where to go with this. Plus, he was pissed. He knew one of them did it, but he couldn’t prove it.

  Even worse, I don’t want to prove it.

  After another cigarette, Frankie’s motivation cranked up, and he vowed to find out why these guys were killed. He stepped back to analyze the charts one more time. The night was getting old, and he was past tired. Smoke curled up from the ashtray, stung his eye. He reviewed everything again. Played it over in his mind. A few things stuck out.

  If he assumed the killer was Tony, there could be a lot of reasons behind the killings, all mob-connected. But if it was Nicky, there was only one reason for him to be so brutal—someone betrayed him or hurt someone he loved.

  Frankie thought about the girl, how Nicky was protecting her. Risking his life to help her get away from Tito. How Nicky had called him and said he was sending the evidence but never did. Based on that alone, something had clearly gone wrong. He went to the chart and scribbled in, ‘Someone must have hurt girl.’

  As soon as he wrote it he knew it felt right. He would run with that line of reasoning—for now, at least. If someone had hurt the girl, that explained why the killings were so brutal—Nicky was getting even for killing the person he loved. Frankie thought about it and nodded. He could see Nicky doing that. He would hurt you if you did him wrong.

  Frankie went back to pacing; no way he could go to sleep now. He was closing in on solving the puzzle.

  Someone hurt the girl. That explain why the killings were brutal, but not why Nicky didn’t torture Tommy Devin. Frankie went back to his chair, turned it so he faced the chart and scrutinized it some more. Why not Tommy?

  After ten minutes, maybe more, the answer hit him. The secret was in what the killer did to Tommy, not in what he didn’t do. Tommy was shot once in the head and once in the heart.

  Like everybody else. Frankie jumped up, grabbed his red pen, and raced to the chart.

  ‘Girl was killed. Shot in head and heart.’

  Satisfied for now, Frankie poured more wine and settled in to watch a movie. Before he went to bed, he wrote down things he had to do the next day:

  ‘Search databases for female shooting victim. Head and heart.’

  IN THE MORNING HE went straight to the office, not stopping to chat with Ted, but opting to climb the stairs and get to Carol before anyone else gave her work to do. “Hey, good-looking,” he said when he reached her desk. “I need a favor.”

  “That’s redundant, Detective. If you call me good-looking, you always need a favor.”

  “Yeah, but this is a big one.”

  Carol smiled, cooing. “Now that I’ll take.”

  Frankie blushed. “All right, cut the shit.” He leaned over her desk. “I need reports on any unsolved murders where there was a female victim shot in both the head and the chest.”

  “Where? Brooklyn? Bronx?”

  “Anywhere. Whole goddamn country. Tap into the FBI database. Those bastards have data on everything.”

  “How far back you want me to go?”

  “I don’t know, five or six months, I guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  Frankie shook his head. “Use your imagination, but head and chest shots are what I’m looking for. And not one or the other—it has to be both.”

  CHAPTER 58

  YOU CAN’T HIDE FOREVER

  8 Months Ago

  It was Friday, and I was up early again. For some reason, I never slept on Fridays. I always seemed to pop up by six, and for no good reason. I planned on going to Chicago today to mail the gun off to Bugs, but Gina had me running errands—and when a woman is planning a wedding, a man better go along with it. I did.

  Ever since the fiasco with Angie’s letter, we had enjoyed ourselves, falling right back into old ways of laughing and having fun. Once or twice, Gina even mentioned kids. I told her I’d love to have some, but I worried about her; mid-thirties was tough for a first-time mother. I wanted her to do what was right for her, but secretly I prayed she would decide to have at least one child. We even got to the point of discussing names. The wedding was two weeks away, and we had a lot left to do.

  “I have to get to Chicago,” I said. “Bugs expected that package last week.”

  “Why not mail it from here and be done with it?”

  “No. I trust Bugs, but I want to be careful. Mailing it from Chicago means it really could have come from anywhere. We’ll do it at the airport Fed-Ex so anyone is a suspect, even people with connecting flights.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “Of course. We’ll make a day of it.”

  “Then what do we do with what’s left of this magnificent day?” She danced across the living room as if she were waltzing.

  “I’ll make a deal. You pick up some shrimp and pasta, and I’ll get fresh bread. If you’re a good girl, and promise me favors tonight, I’ll get you cannoli.”

  She undid a button or two on her blouse, looked at me with sultry eyes. “The favors I’ll promise, but don’t act like this is for me. You’re only going to get the sfogliatelle. Sometimes I think you like eating that more than other things.”

  “Goddamn. That hurt.”

  “Because I might be right?”

  I hesitated long enough to draw a kick from her beautiful bare foot, which I grabbed and kissed. “I guess it’s you, but the sfogliatelle comes in a close second.”

  “I’ll remember that tonight, sweet Nicky,” she said, as she slipped on her shoes. “I’ll be back before you. You know where to find me.”

  I laughed as I left the house. “Now you’re going to make me run.”

  She threw a kiss to me. “Bye.”

  I walked, didn’t run, the few blocks to the bakery. Once inside, I savored the aromas that took me back to childhood. There wasn’t much in life as good as this. I ordered the loaf of bread, two cannoli, and two sfogliatelle. I could have eaten four, but if I kept that up, I’d end up looking like Patsy the Whale. They bagged the bread, put the others in a box, and stuffed both inside a nice bag with handles.

  “See you next week, Richie.”

  I almost didn’t respond. It was tough to remember my fake name. “Okay, see you then,” I said, and headed out the door. It was a beautiful day, and I had a beautiful life. I whistled and sang songs all the way home, while thoughts of Mamma Rosa’s humming kept a smile on my face.

  NINO TORTELLA SAT IN the back seat of a car across the street, halfway down the block from the bakery.
He stared, then did a double take, then leaned forward and tapped Tommy Devin on the shoulder. “Hey, Tommy, what’s your take? Is that him?”

  Tommy looked at the picture on the seat beside him, then back at the man walking down the sidewalk with a bag from the bakery. “No doubt. It’s him.”

  Nino punched some numbers on his phone and waited for an answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Where?”

  “Bakery, just like you said. We’re following him now.”

  “Don’t let him spot you.”

  “Don’t worry, he—”

  “And don’t try anything with this guy. If he suspects something, he could kill you ten times before you even think of what to do. And believe me, you don’t want him on your ass. He once told me what he’d do to anyone who betrayed him.”

  “Okay. We’ll just follow.”

  “That’s right. Follow. I want to know where he lives. And I need to find that girl.”

  CHAPTER 59

  CAUGHT

  8 Months Ago

  Johnny Muck sat in the back seat of the car, checking his gun while Tommy Devin drove. Muck wore thin leather gloves lined with Cashmere, and his favorite fedora sat on his head, cocked slightly to the left. “Park around the corner. And keep the car out of sight.”

  They got out of the car and went in the side door of a laundromat about a block and a half from Nicky and Gina’s house. Tony Sannullo had issued orders to watch them and wait until they could get them both. Johnny had other orders, though, and Tito had sent him to make sure those orders got carried out: The girl goes no matter what.

  Besides Johnny, there was Tommy Devin, Renzo Ciccarelli, Nino Tortella and Donnie Amato. Johnny looked at each of them, held them fixed with his hard-eyed glare. “Tito’s holding me responsible, so I’m holding each of you responsible. Got it?”

  They nodded.

  “Okay, now we wait till he comes out, then we follow. Two cars. Very carefully.”