by Joseph Badal
While O’Neil drove cross-town to the courthouse, he pushed all thoughts of his testimony in the homicide trial to the back of his mind, and focused on his new mystery. Three former Marines had been killed in the previous few weeks. All apparent executions. Then he’d learned from Pentagon records each of the three murdered men served in Afghanistan in a unit called the Special Logistical Support Detachment. And he’d just found out the next CIA Deputy Director had commanded the Special Logistical Support Detachment. O’Neil briefly considered the possibility all of this might be pure coincidence. But he quickly discarded the thought.
Montrose Toney had cased the Hoods’ street several times and come to the conclusion that an attack on his target here was not his best alternative. He ticked off the problems in his mind: too restrictive a physical environment, limited parking close to the house, and being on foot in this neighborhood could be suicidal. He felt like an Albanian Muslim in a Christian Serb neighborhood. But he knew this street like it was his own. He’d grown up in an all-black neighborhood that looked just like it. The row houses served as bleachers for the residents, with the street as their arena. Toney knew he fell into the category of “troublemaker” as far as these people were concerned. He knew the residents had probably already spotted him.
He could tell someone was at home at the Hoods’. He’d seen movement through the sheer front window drapes. But he had no idea if David Hood was in there. He pondered the problem for a few minutes and then remembered the name of the detective in charge of the Hood murder investigation: Roger Cromwell. He’d read all the accounts in the Baltimore and D.C. papers about the case. He called 4-1-1 on his cellphone and got the number for Peter Hood on Rosemont Street in South Philadelphia. He called and when a man answered, Toney said, “This is Detective Cromwell with the Bethesda Police Department. Is Mr. David Hood there? I need to speak with him.”
“He’s out right now,” a man said. “Can I help you? I’m his father. Can I have him call you back?”
“That’s all right, I’ll call later,” Toney replied, and hung up.
After Toney’s most recent swing down Rosemont Street, Carmine Santori again called Gino, who immediately telephoned Bobby Galupo, the man he’d picked years ago to take over the Philadelphia organization. Galupo, in turn, called one of his men, Rocco Fortunato, stationed in a car at the end of the Hoods’ block, and told him to follow the white Acura and report back every fifteen minutes.
Rocco Fortunato, a beefy young hoodlum in his twenties, tailed Toney. He followed him from South Philadelphia all the way past the Philadelphia sports complex, out past the oil refineries on the south side of the city, and finally to a motel near the Philadelphia International Airport. After he watched Toney take a small suitcase from the trunk of the Acura and enter room 157, Fortunato called Bobby Galupo.
Toney had been on the move for nearly sixteen hours, most of it in the driver’s seats of the stolen Camaro and his own Acura. He was exhausted and needed sleep before he went after Hood. He had to come up with a way to hit the man and get away clean, and he knew he’d be able to think more clearly after he’d had some rest.
Jennifer Ramsey rapped on the side of the doorjamb of Lieutenant Croken’s office. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, take a seat.”
She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of Croken’s desk.
Croken picked up a piece of paper from his blotter and waved it at Jennifer. “This is Detective Cromwell’s request for reassignment.”
Jennifer said nothing. She was thrilled that she might be rid of Cromwell, but she was surprised the man had requested the personnel action. Things had to be pretty bad between partners for one to ask for a reassignment. Her relationship with Cromwell obviously qualified. A request for reassignment by one partner, however, could leave a black mark on the other partner’s record. She wondered what reason for reassignment Cromwell had put in the official request.
As though he read her mind, Croken said, “Detective Cromwell claims you were insubordinate, didn’t back him up in a dangerous situation, and”—here Croken paused—“that you have a substance abuse problem.”
Jennifer knew these charges made by an experienced detective with years of service with the Bethesda Police Department could ruin her career. Even if she rebutted the charges and won in a hearing, she would be tainted forever within the good old boy network. “I . . . that’s all nonsense. You can’t believe I—”
Croken raised a hand to stop her. “You’re right, Ramsey. I don’t believe a word of it. I’ll make this paperwork disappear. But I’ll give Cromwell another partner. He’s off the Hood investigation. I want you to take it over. I’ll assign you another partner as soon as I can. But for now, you’re on your own. You’re doing a great job. Don’t let assholes like Cromwell affect your attitude about a career in law enforcement.” Croken gave her a brief smile and added, “Now get out there and find the killer.”
Jennifer said, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and backed out the door. Croken’s nose was already buried in some report.
APRIL 18
CHAPTER 18
The shrill ring of his cellphone brought Toney out of an erotic dream. Not quite sure where he was and still half asleep, he rubbed his eyes and glanced at the bedside clock: 6:17 a.m. He picked up the phone and said, “Hello,” in a voice thick with fatigue.
“You’d better have something good to report,” Rolf Bishop said.
The man had a way about him that caused Toney to produce massive quantities of adrenaline and stomach acid every time he spoke to him—or whenever he just thought about him.
Toney took a deep breath. “I got everything under control,” he said.
“When you’ve completed your assignment, then I’ll know everything’s under control,” Bishop snapped. “Until that happens, nothing’s under control, and your assurances are nothing but bullshit. I’m sick and tired of excuses. If you don’t solve the problem by noon today, I’ll have it solved some other way. Understand?”
Toney was wide-awake now, and frightened. Bishop had just told him he was about to be fired. The thought of losing his meal ticket panicked him.
Elderly female shoppers know that if they don’t get to the market early, all the best fresh produce and choicest cuts of meat will already be sold. So, early most mornings a gang of old, gray-haired women, many of them widows dressed in black, marched into Bartolucci’s Market. While they shopped, they caught up on gossip—complained about lazy daughters-in-law who spent their beloved sons’ hard-earned money; or how no good sons-in-law treated their innocent, kind-hearted, virginal daughters. And of course, they boasted of their beautiful, brilliant, and athletic grandchildren who loved their grandmothers more than anyone else.
David Hood entered that stage at 7 a.m.
“Ciao,” Gino said from his office doorway.
David walked over to Gino and they hugged. Gino turned and led the way into his office. David sat down. Gino closed the door and moved to his desk chair.
“They were killed because of me,” David blurted. “I’ve got to find out why.”
“You don’t know that,” Gino said. “It could have been something else.” He thought, Maybe it was retaliation for something I did. Although he didn’t believe it.
“I’ve got to destroy the people who did this.”
Gino was worried. The last thing he wanted David to do was sacrifice his own life in pursuit of revenge. “You let me handle this, David!” Gino said. “Your hands never have to get dirty.”
“I want to get my hands dirty.”
Gino needed to keep David out of the revenge business. It was only a matter of time before he got his hands on the mulanyan who had cruised past Peter’s home. This Montrose Toney character. Peter had told him about the guy in the Camaro who’d chased them. Gino guessed that guy was Toney, or someone associated with him. When he got hi
s hands on the bastard, he’d find out what was going on.
Gino opened his mouth to tell David it would be foolhardy for him to get involved, but stopped himself when he saw the cold, determined look in his son-in-law’s eyes. He knew at that instant there was nothing he could say to dissuade him. And it was better that he brought David in with him than have David running around on his own. “All right, David, we’ll work together,” Gino agreed. “But you gotta stay calm and professional. No cowboy tactics, you understand?”
“I understand, Gino. This is business.”
“Bene!” Gino exclaimed. But he didn’t believe a word of it.
David told Gino everything he knew about the explosion, which unfortunately wasn’t much. He then answered questions Gino threw at him. These questions took him back to the military, through the birth and growth of his company, who his friends, associates, and competitors were. Gino asked if he had any enemies, not just competitors, but David couldn’t think of any—except for whoever was behind the wheel of the red Camaro that had chased him and his father after the funeral.
Gino’s desk telephone rang. He glanced at the screen on the phone, recognized the number, and said, “I need to take this.”
Gino snatched up the receiver and said, “Ciao, Roberto.”
“The mulanyan from D.C. is on the move,” Bobby Galupo said. “He left the motel and drove out to the area around 45th and Spruce. You know, out past the Penn campus. He stopped at the drive-in at a Mickey Ds. Now he’s kinda driving around, like he can’t make up his friggin’ mind what he wants to do next. But I can tell you one thing . . . he’s heading to South Philly.”
“Bene, Roberto, grazie,” Gino said. “I think we both know where he’s headed.” “My boys are ready to go,” Galupo said. “Everything’s set up.”
“Thanks. But tell your boys we sure as hell want this done real quiet. And I want the guy alive.”
“Capisco.”
As soon as Gino put down the telephone receiver, David demanded in a strained voice, “What’s going on?”
“Whoa, calm down,” Gino said. “Remember, no emotion. This is business. I’ve had guys watching your father’s place since yesterday. We spotted a white Acura cruise the street. If someone goes to the trouble to blow up an entire house and kill people, and if they’re after you, as you think they are, then they ain’t gonna quit. We’ve been on this mulanyan in the Acura since last night and it looks like he’s on his way back to your dad’s place.”
“Maybe the same guy that was in the red Camaro.”
“Maybe.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
Gino stared at David. “We’re going to wait here until we hear from my friends.” He thought again about what Peter had told him about the man in a red Camaro. He was now convinced the explosion had nothing to do with anything he’d done. This was about David. Suddenly the love and affection he held for David grew thin. If his son-in-law had done something wrong, committed a crime that got his family murdered, he would make him pay.
Montrose Toney wasn’t an educated man; but he wasn’t stupid. He’d never taken action without proper planning. But he was about to put himself at great risk with no planning at all. He had a choice. He could point the car in any direction that would take him as far away as possible from Philadelphia, D.C., and Bishop. Or he could take a chance and go after Hood. But he was no more able to walk away from Bishop than a junkie would be able to walk away from a free fix. He’d become accustomed to the good life made possible by Bishop’s money. Besides, if he ran, how the hell would he ever be able to hide from a top guy at the CIA?
Toney parked the Acura in the block south of Rosemont Street. He walked casually, as though he belonged in the neighborhood, and approached the Hood house. There was no one out on the street. He assumed that by this hour of the morning, 9:15, the working stiffs had gone off to their jobs and the local kids were in school. But it surprised him there were no women pushing baby strollers, or old men and women ambling along the sidewalk. Especially on a warm, sunny morning.
He climbed to the top of the Hood stoop and walked the two paces across the shallow porch to the front door. A sixty-something man sat next to the front window, newspaper in hand. It was the man who’d been with Hood at the cemetery in Bethesda. He’d have to do him, too.
Toney rang the bell. The man inside dropped his newspaper and got out of the chair.
The door opened and the man said, “Come in; I’ve been expecting you. My son isn’t here right now, Mr. Toney. Why don’t you sit down and relax? He should be back soon.”
Toney developed an instant pain in his chest while he mechanically followed the man into a small living room. “What the . . . how do you know my name?” he asked as he reached for his pistol.
“Please excuse my rudeness. I haven’t told you my name. It’s Peter Hood.” The man smiled and added, “I’m not the only one who knows your name, Mr. Toney. Actually, for someone who’s been in Philadelphia for just one day, you’re quite well known. Why don’t I introduce you to some of my friends?”
Toney backed away as though Hood had a contagious disease. He’d fucked up. He backed toward the front door, but before he could reach it, three men stepped into the living room—one with a large pistol in hand and two with shotguns. All their weapons pointed directly at his chest.
The man with the pistol shouted, “You got one second to drop that pistol or we’re gonna blow your ass all over the wallpaper.”
When Toney’s pistol hit the carpet, the older man kicked it out of the way, and the man with the pistol took three steps toward Toney and cold-cocked him.
Toney felt like he had the mother of all hangovers. Even before he opened his eyes, he remembered he’d messed up in a big way. For a moment, he considered not opening his eyes, hoping blindness would protect him from reality.
He drew a huge breath and slowly opened his eyes. He was in an unfinished basement with one small boarded-up window. A light bulb hung from the ceiling on an electric cord. He couldn’t see the entire room because he was tied at the wrists and ankles to a metal chair and his head was strapped to the high back of the chair with tape. He could only look straight ahead and a bit to the left and right. He shuddered when he realized he was naked and the chair had been placed inside a shallow metal tub with a couple inches of water in the bottom.
Gino watched through a one-way window and saw Toney had a “deer in the headlights” look. Now that the man was conscious, he would let him sweat it out in the basement. An hour passed before he sent in two of Galupo’s enforcers. Gino watched Marco Siracusa approach the killer and take his head in both of his hands.
Marco bent over, almost nose-to-nose with Toney, and said, “Monty . . . you don’t mind if I call you Monty, do you?”
Toney seemed confused, as though he wasn’t sure if the man expected an answer, but was too scared to say anything anyway. He just stared back at him.
Marco stepped back from the chair, looked at his sidekick, Vinnie Rosario, and said, “Vinnie, I don’t think Monty likes me.”
Vinnie stepped on a floor switch next to the metal tub, which delivered an electric current into the water at the bottom of the tub. The electric charge shocked Toney and caused his body to spasm. Gino knew from previous such sessions with traitors and enemies, the pain that shot through the man’s body was horrific and would cause his body to go rigid, his jaws to clench. After a few seconds, Vinnie released the switch. Toney’s gasps for breath sounded like a bull moose in rut.
He seemed to gather his senses and screamed, “Monty’s good! Call me Monty!”
Marco looked at Vinnie. “See, sometimes you just gotta remind them that good manners are important.”
Vinnie grunted.
“Now that we got your attention, Monty, I want you to know how bad you screwed up this time. When you messed with the Hood family, you made
some of their closest friends very angry. You understand?”
There was no hesitation this time. Toney quickly tried to nod his head. When that didn’t work, he yelled, “Yes.”
“Good,” Marco said. “Now, I’m gonna to ask you some very easy questions. You gonna answer each question and you gonna tell me exactly what I want to hear. You hesitate or give me an answer I don’t like, Vinnie here hits the juice.”
Toney answered one question after another. Gino didn’t believe he held anything back.
When David returned to his father’s home, Peter told him about a guy named Montrose Toney who’d showed up there and wanted to see him.
“What happened?” David asked.
“A few of Gino’s friends were here. They took the guy away.”
“Where to?”
Peter shrugged.
“When did all this go down?”
“While you were with Gino at the market.”
“You were here when this happened?”
Peter shrugged again.
“Sonofabitch!”
David called Gino’s cellphone.
“Yeah, David,” Gino answered.
“What’s going on?”
“Maybe you should come by my house.”
One of Gino’s bodyguards met David at the front door of Gino’s row house and escorted him to a basement office. He sat down for a minute, but became too antsy and paced.
The bodyguard stood in a corner and stared.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anything,” David said to the man.