1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  I went back to Tito. “As that water drains, the drum above you will lower. Eventually all five hundred pounds will be on that spike, driving it into your asshole. It will take a while, Tito, but it will get to where it needs to be. His eyes looked as if they would bulge out of his head. I left him, went to a folding chair and sat. Then I grabbed my cell and dialed Bugs’ number.

  FRANKIE SAT AT A booth in the coffee shop, sopping up egg yolks with his last piece of toast.

  Where would he take him?

  The waitress freshened his coffee. “Can I get you anything else?”

  He shook his head. As he was thinking What would I do if I were Nicky, the answer came to him. He remembered a time when the cops were chasing them, and Nicky double-backed, hiding in the same place they had already looked. ‘They’ll look everywhere else before they come back here,’ he said.

  Now Bugs smacked the table. “That’s it.” He jumped up, left a ten on the table, then raced out. He called Mazzetti, told him to get men to the old Brooklyn crime scenes, then called Harding. He hated to, but because of jurisdiction issues, he could get to the other sites faster this way.

  “Harding, I think he’s got Tito at one of the original scenes. We’ll take Renzo and Nino. You get Donnie and Johnny Muck.”

  “What about the other—”

  “Don’t need to worry about Tommy. That was an apartment.” Before he hung up, he yelled. “Be quick, Harding, and take a lot of men.”

  As Frankie hung up, he noticed a voice mail. He hit the button to listen to it. “Yo, Bugs. It’s Paulie. Sorry it took so long. Call me back.”

  The first smile of the day came to Frankie’s face. It was great to hear Paulie’s voice. As he started to return the call, the phone rang again, ‘caller unknown.’

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell of a way to answer, Bugs.”

  “Nicky? That you?”

  “It’s me. I don’t even know why I’m calling except maybe to say I’m sorry.” A long pause followed. “Sorry about a lot of things, but mostly I’m sorry about Tony. That was an accident. He tried coming at me.”

  Nicky’s voice sounded as if he’d been crying. “You okay, Rat?”

  “Jesus Christ, Bugs, he died in my arms.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Right in my arms and I couldn’t save him.”

  “Where are you, Nicky?”

  “I’m not coming for you, Bugs. You should have kept your mouth shut, but Tony told me you had nothing to do with it. I should have known. Sorry I thought different, just…shit, I don’t know. I’m fucked up. Been doing everything wrong.”

  “Nicky—”

  “How did it go so wrong?” Nicky’s voice faded. “Everything went so wrong…”

  “If you think it went wrong before, believe me, it hasn’t started. I’m coming to arrest you.” There was silence, and then the line went dead.

  “Fuck.” Frankie pounded the steering wheel as he cursed. “Where are you, Nicky? Which house?” He called Mazzetti. “Where are you?”

  “Jesus Christ, Donovan, I’m not down the steps yet.”

  “Call me as soon as you get something.”

  Frankie thought through the crime scenes. Replayed images of each one in his head. Imagined he was Nicky.

  Where would I go if I were Nicky? He’ll want privacy. Which house offers the most privacy?

  “Muck.” It’s Johnny Muck’s. I know it is. Frankie looked in the rearview, did a u-turn and blasted his siren.

  Frankie Donovan, the cop, was racing to catch him, hoping he got there before Nicky left. But Bugs Donovan, the gangster inside Frankie, prayed Nicky got away.

  Run, Rat. You better run fast.

  CHAPTER 73

  TRAPPED

  Current Day

  Tito passed out intermittently, but for the most part he stayed awake. I watched him squeeze his ass cheeks and wiggle, trying to get rid of that spike. As he struggled, I reminded him of his mistake. “You shouldn’t have done it, Tito. You should have left us alone.”

  He banged his head more and tried to cry out. I winced a few times, almost wishing I hadn’t done it. Almost. Despite my sudden squeamishness, I waited until the job was done, then pulled out the gun—the new one—and shot him once in the head and once in the heart. Afterwards I made the sign of the cross and repeated the words to the Trinitarian formula.

  I finished spreading the evidence. I put Tito’s old gun in his coat—after making sure I got his prints on it—then went upstairs and washed off. The odor from Tito stuck to me. I scrubbed hard, changed clothes, then, as I was putting things back in the bag, I heard cars coming to a fast stop. I ran to the window and peeked out. Three cars had the street blocked. Guys were getting out.

  Feds.

  I ran to the back door, opened it, and raced across the yard, through a breezeway, then across another street. Two more cars were turning my way. A garage door in front of me was open. I ducked in and closed it. The yards were small and all connected to similar yards that also had garages, trees and bushes. I needed to get to the subway or to my car before they closed me off.

  HARDING JUMPED OUT OF the car, screaming orders into a radio as he hit the street. “Front and back. Block all side streets. Form a perimeter.”

  Harding had three agents with him. They burst through Johnny Muck’s door without knocking. Guns drawn, they cleared each room on the first level within thirty seconds.

  “Basement,” Harding said. Two agents opened the door and started down.

  “Something’s here, sir.”

  “Careful,” Harding said, but in less than half a minute, one of the agents called up.

  “Got a body, sir. Good God, what a mess.”

  “Call it in,” Harding said. “I’m going after him.”

  FROM THE SIDE DOOR, I watched out the window. A car screamed by the street north of me, then stopped.

  Fuck me.

  I looked around for something—anything—that would help. Three garages stood within a hundred feet or so, offering good places to duck into, and there were a lot of thick shrubs to hide behind. The Feds would secure the perimeter first, but once they got enough men they’d start checking house by house. I had to get out before they sealed the area.

  I looked at the bag and thought about what was in it—in case I was caught.

  Everything. The gun I’d shot Tito with, the tools, the clothes

  The clothes. They’ll have my DNA. What to do?

  They had at least the four surrounding streets blocked, and they would check anyone leaving the area. Crowds were always the best way to escape, but I had no crowd.

  So how do I get one?

  I pushed myself to think in a new direction. What drew crowds? Fires. If anything got people out of their houses, it was fire trucks.

  In less than a minute, I’d found a can of gasoline. I changed clothes and shoes, then took anything that could incriminate me from the bag and soaked it in gas. I spread gas about the garage. I hated doing this to some poor soul, but I had no choice. I took the gun, cleaned it again, and left it there. Then I dialed 9-1-1 and reported a fire, giving Johnny Muck’s address. I waited about two minutes, struck a match and got out, dashing about forty or fifty yards to hide behind a shrub near the next street. It wasn’t big enough to hide me for long, but it would do until the trucks arrived.

  In a few minutes, I heard sirens. The trucks passed, and people flocked out of their houses. I waited until enough were passing by, then stepped out and joined the crowd. Everyone seemed chatty, talking about the fire, casting blame on an assortment of children in the neighborhood and talking about how something must be done about it. An older couple broke off from the crowd and headed in the opposite direction, toward the subway—just what I was waiting for. I joined them on the sidewalk.

  “What was that all about?” I asked them. “Did someone start it on purpose?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said, “but it scared the daylights out of me.”<
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  The Feds were checking some people, but they let me pass. They were looking for single men walking alone. I wanted to run, but I forced myself into a slow, steady pace. When my patrons left me at the next block, I switched gears and went faster. Another Fed car raced by on its way to Muck’s house, but I kept walking. Just as I was about to descend into the glorious New York City subway system, where a person can get lost in seconds—right when I about to breathe a sigh of relief—three Feds ran in. I gulped instead. Time to change plans.

  FRANKIE RACED THROUGH BROOKLYN, siren blaring. He was on the phone the whole time. Mazzetti had already cleared Renzo and Nino’s house, so that only left Donnie’s and Muck’s. Frankie felt certain it was Muck’s. He called Harding again. He answered on the third ring.

  “What?” Harding said.

  “What have you got?”

  “Tito’s dead. He was here. We’ve lost him, but we’re searching the entire area.”

  “Where’s the subway?”

  “Few blocks north of here.”

  “I’m almost there,” Frankie said, “but send a couple of your men to the subway.”

  Two minutes later, he double-parked on the street and ran down the steps, flashing his badge to the guy at the bottom. Maddox and two more Feds arrived at almost the same time. When they hit the bottom, they started working the crowd. Frankie looked around.

  Where are you, Nicky?

  After twenty minutes of searching, Frankie realized he wasn’t there.

  What would Nicky do? Frankie recalled things from their youth and one more thing stuck out—the time they were running from the cops and Nicky had them hide out at the school dance. They’d stayed until the dance ended then walked some girls home for added protection. Convinced the subway was a dead end, Bugs talked Maddox and his men into coming with him. Once outside, he stood, staring around and thinking until it hit him. Green Acres Mall half a mile away.

  “Come on, Maddox. We’re going shopping.”

  Five minutes later they entered the mall. “You guys take the lower level,” Bugs said. “I’ll go up.”

  I WAS IN THE food court, seated at a table with two older ladies I’d helped with their trays. I was reading a book when Frankie came. He stood on his tiptoes, searching. Probably looking for a lone man. Someone trying not to be noticed. He must have figured out that I’d use a crowd, because no sooner did he start looking than he moved toward people bunched together. He started at one end and worked his way toward the middle. His right hand was in his pocket, no doubt gripping a gun. I risked a quick glance to the escalator, then decided to duck into the bathroom—try to hide out until they gave up.

  BUGS MADE HIS WAY through the crowd, slowly. Methodically. Nicky was here; he knew it. A guy headed toward the men’s room. From the back it looked like Nicky. Bugs followed but took his time, staying alert. He couldn’t afford mistakes. When he got there, he grabbed orange cones from a janitor’s closet and an ‘out of order’ sign and put them at the entrance. He went in, gun drawn.

  Half a dozen guys were inside, none of them Nicky. But two stall doors were closed. Bugs held up his ID and pointed his gun. “Get out. Everyone.” He kept his eyes on the stalls. “This is the police. Everyone out.”

  One of the doors popped open. A guy zipped up his pants and rushed out. The other door remained closed. Bugs kept his eyes moving from the floor to the space above the stall door. “Come on out, Nicky. It’s over.”

  The sound of feet hitting the floor echoed lightly off the tile walls. The door opened. Nicky walked out, hands raised. “I’m unarmed.”

  “I ought to shoot you right here,” Bugs said. He shoved Nicky against the wall, frisking him with one hand.

  “You won’t find anything.”

  “But I’ll find gunshot residue. Washing your hands won’t get it off your clothes.”

  Nicky laughed. “Maybe.”

  “Fuck your maybe, Rat. You’re caught.”

  “Caught? For shooting a gun? If you can even prove that.”

  “What gun?” Bugs stepped back. “Turn around, asshole.”

  “The gun I lost.”

  Bugs dragged him to the sink and pressed his head against it. Shoved the gun into Nicky’s temple. “You fuck. Killing Tony like you did.”

  “Don’t push this, Bugs. You don’t want to push it.”

  “I’m the one with the gun. I know you don’t have one. Why would you? You’re not a shooter, are you? If you had a gun, I might think you killed Tito.” He eased the gun back, then stepped away, to be safe.

  “I don’t need a gun to kill you.” Nicky brushed dirt from his clothes, straightened his shirt and hair. He focused on Bugs, held him with those hawk eyes. “Go ahead and shoot me if that’s what you want. You already ruined my life.”

  “Ruined your life? Don’t try to put that shit on me. You’re the one who turned into scum. It was your choice, Nicky.”

  “My choice?” Nicky moved closer, and he had that look in his eyes, just like his father. “Nino, Renzo, Tommy, Donnie, even Johnny Muck…all those heads are on you, Bugs. I wouldn’t have killed them if they didn’t get to Gina. Who led them there?” Nicky glared. “You did, Bugs. You’re to blame. Just like everything else.”

  That hit Bugs hard. No matter what else, Nicky was right about that. It was his fault that Tony found out and betrayed Nicky. He was about to speak when something else Nicky said made him rethink things. “What do you mean, ‘everything else’?”

  “Everything.” Nicky lowered his head, looked dejected. “Woodside. Prison. Me being a shooter.” Nicky shook his head and stared at the floor. “I was clean, Bugs. Me and Angie, we—”

  Bugs hadn’t seen Nicky this way in a long time. He felt his pain. “What are you talking about with Woodside?”

  Nicky raised his head and looked at him, the danger gone from his eyes. “Guess you don’t know. Donna came to me that night when I was going to pick up Angie. She told me you were going after Woodside and that they had guns. She begged me to help you.”

  Bugs lowered the gun. His knees felt ready to buckle. His shoulders slumped and he leaned against the door. “Donna? How did she know they’d have guns?” He thought about the scum Donna ended up marrying from Woodside; he’d been there that night. Bugs shook his head. “Jesus Christ, why didn’t you tell me? All this time…”

  “When was I gonna tell you? When you didn’t visit me in prison? Or in answer to the letters you didn’t write?”

  Bugs was silent. There was no defending this.

  “Besides, it was over. I was in prison.”

  “You should have told me, Nicky.”

  “So you could feel bad?” Nicky shook his head. “We weren’t raised like that, Bugs.”

  Now all kinds of shit ran through Frankie’s head. Woodside—his fault. Nicky’s time in prison—his fault. Everything could be blamed on him. And Nicky’s wife getting killed—his fault for sure. And here he was trying to take Nicky into custody.

  Nicky slowly shook his head. “Besides, you’ve got nothing on me. There’s more of your DNA at those crime scenes than mine. And don’t forget Tony, Paulie, and good old Tito.” Nicky stared. “All of them have ties to the scenes.”

  A million thoughts ran through Bugs’ head. Nicky was right. Frankie had no real evidence on him, nothing that would hold up in court. He stared at Nicky, wishing he could take back the things he’d done. “Are you done with it?”

  Nicky spread his arms and turned his palms up. “There’s nobody left.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Frankie said. “I’m making a judgment call here. I don’t think we have enough evidence to do anything anyway, so get the fuck out of here. If I were you, I’d give it a couple of hours after the Feds leave, then I’d head out. And if I were you, I’d disappear for good this time.” Frankie opened the door and they both walked out.

  “Might be hard to disappear with Feds all over the place.”

  “Only if the Feds see you.”

 
“A friend might help me. I used to have friends I could count on.”

  “Me too, Nicky.” Bugs pulled out a smoke, put it in his mouth.

  “You can’t smoke here.”

  “Yeah, well…let me worry about that.”

  Nicky pulled out a pack of matches. He struck the match, cupped it, and offered the light to Frankie. “This is the way it should be, you know.”

  Frankie sucked deep on that first drag, the best-tasting one of all. “What’s that?”

  “Friendship. Honor. It should last forever.”

  Frankie nodded, took two more quick drags, then crushed out the butt on the ground. “It does. You just have to trust it.”

  He did another quick take to see if Maddox was anywhere near. “You know you’re leaving me in a rough spot. I’ve got no one to pin these murders on.”

  “How about Tito?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Suppose you had Tito’s gun, with Tito’s prints on it?”

  “That would be nice…but I don’t have it. Do you?”

  He shrugged. “Not me. But I bet when they search Tito’s coat they’ll find it.”

  “Another of those damn coincidences.”

  “Yeah, and to top it off, I’d bet this gun was the one that killed a guy named Danny Zenkowski.”

  “So who killed Tito?”

  “Must have been a grieving family member of one of the ones he killed. Who knows?” Nicky stared past Frankie’s shoulder. “You’re the detective.”

  “Yeah. I’m curious, though—how did you know I’d get assigned the cases?”

  “I didn’t, but I knew Tito and Tony would be paying attention, since it was their guys getting whacked. And I knew as soon as Tony saw the clues, he’d tell you.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what Sister Thomas used to say—the Lord works in mysterious ways. Besides, I never counted on Tony being the one who betrayed me.”

  Frankie nodded. “Just a suggestion, but you should leave here, maybe go on a vacation. Or better yet, go find Angela.”