City of Fear

by Larry Enmon

  Levern didn’t answer. His look could best be described as hesitant.

  “Thanks for the wine,” Frank said.

  * * *

  Tabor escorted Rob and Frank back down the elevator. Rob was happy to leave. Hated guys like Levern. Guys who profited from others weaknesses.

  Walking outside, Rob glanced at the sky. Dark rolling clouds had drifted in from the west. The smell of rain was in the air. Rob said, “Think he believed you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Frank said, “it’s the truth whether he believes it or not.”

  Rob hadn’t been Frank’s partner two weeks before he’d figured out Frank was the king of the mind game. He could get inside your head and make you believe anything by his nonchalant interviewing technique. During their first interrogation, Frank had the guy crying and begging to give a confession. Benevolent Frank had granted him absolution. Rob tried the same thing the next week and got a stink eye from the suspect for his trouble.

  As they slid into the car seat, Frank said, “Levern is a drug dealer, and who knows what else. Sooner or later, the Chicago and New York bosses are going to want answers. Levern could be the fall guy whether he’s responsible or not.”

  They didn’t talk on the way to the station. Just as they pulled into the police parking garage, Rob said, “So, what now?” Rob suspected Frank had a plan, but hadn’t informed him as yet.

  “Levern uses us like we use him, to get inside information.”

  “You shared confidential investigative stuff with him. What did we get in return?”

  Frank scratched his chin. “Well, what I hoped to get was confirmation he wasn’t involved in Ricardo’s killing. But I’m still unsure on that. Thought I’d have a better feel for him than I did.”

  “He’s still our best suspect.”

  “He’s our only suspect,” Frank said. “Spooking him a little didn’t hurt.”

  “I think whoever hit Ricardo is still around. A professional job by a local.

  Frank thought about that a few seconds before answering. “As closed-mouth as the gangs are, we’ll probably never find out. In war, truth is the first casualty.”

  “Think this is the start of a war?”

  Frank opened his door. “We’ll soon find out.”

  7

  In the upscale restroom of Bob Banyan’s Steak and Chop House in Brooklyn, Jimmy Russo stood at the urinal bracing against the wall with one hand and handling business with the other. The celebration had started earlier that afternoon after he’d signed his life over to the New York U.S. Attorney’s Office. According to the plea agreement, in exchange for his cooperation he was promised protection, a new identity, and entry into the Witness Protection Program. This was his last day of freedom until after his testimony. Tomorrow morning he’d surrender himself to the U.S. Marshals and be kept in an undisclosed location.

  Old man Gambizi was going down. The state and feds had wanted a piece of old Joe’s ass for decades. Now they were going to get it, thanks to Jimmy. He’d worked for Gambizi for over twenty years. Never advanced enough in the organization to be a made-man, but worked as back-up for a good crew out of lower Brooklyn. Made nice money, but one mistake had cost him everything. He was a lover—a lover involved with a made-man crew member’s wife. Been pounding that thing for months. He’d always kept it quiet until the guy’s old lady, who must have had a psychotic episode, up and confessed to her husband about their affair. The guy came to Jimmy’s house. It was a him-or-me situation. Figured the organization would understand. They didn’t.

  Seems you needed permission to whack a made-man. Had to go before the council for discussion first. Who had time for discussion? Jimmy caught the guy slipping around his house and beat him to death with a nine iron. Never was any good at golf.

  Anyway, Jimmy heard a rumor he was getting whacked, so he ran. After disappearing for a few days, he confirmed it. After that, he had nowhere to go but the feds. Jimmy had twenty plus years of dirt on Gambizi, which gave him leverage. He could take down the entire organization. Put a couple of dozen away in the next year and cause more damage than Sammy “The Bull” Gravano. Feds like that kind of stroke. Couple of ’em probably wet their pants at the thought. Or more likely enjoyed a seldom-remembered hard on. Anyway, one last night with a few trusted friends from the old neighborhood and then off to wherever.

  Jimmy shook the last few drops of dew off the rose and zipped up. He meandered to the sink and washed his hands. The attendant was new. He lifted a fine linen hand towel from the rack and waited for Jimmy to finish. Going to miss this kind of service.

  “How are you this evening, sir?” the attendant asked. “Mouthwash?”

  A man who wants a good tip. “Sure why not,” Jimmy said, as the attendant passed a small plastic cup of green liquid to him.

  Jimmy freshened his breath, spit into the sink, and patted his lips dry. “You new here? Where’s the regular guy?”

  The attendant smiled. “I work the nights Fred’s off.”

  “Yeah, right, Fred’s the other guy.”

  Jimmy sprinkled on a little aftershave and studied himself in the mirror. He raked the hair back into place on the sides and cinched his tie. Nice.

  The attendant held a coat brush. “You have a sprinkle of dandruff back here, sir. Shall I get it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Jimmy leaned toward the mirror to pick something black from between a front tooth. The movement from behind was so smooth and swift it looked like one motion. Before Jimmy could react, a strong grip yanked his hair and jerked him backward. A glint of silver flashed in the light, and he watched with horror in the mirror as a straight razor sliced open his neck. Must have been the shock, but he didn’t feel a thing as bright red blood cascaded down the front of his blue shirt. The last sound he heard was the attendant whisper, “Joe Gambizi says bye-bye, rat!”

  * * *

  Joseph Gambizi had always been lucky. He’d survived being an infantry man in Korea in ’52, two assassination attempts in ’77 and ’84, and a federal racketeering indictment in ’99. Last month his doctor had declared him cancer free, and he maintained the reputation as the last “old-time Don” of the northeast crime families not dead or in prison. And all that at the young age of only eighty-six.

  He gazed out his dining room window as darkness absorbed the fall foliage of the Adirondacks. Just a scarlet line on the horizon was all that was left of the day. God, I love this place. He’d come here for a week or two each year since buying the cabin in ’63. Air always had a clean, sweet smell. He loved the leaf change—an autumn tradition.

  The Gambizi family held on to traditions like most families do old silverware. Passing down crooked politicians, cops, and judges to buy favors or repay old debts. Gambizi had a lot to be thankful for. His health and his wife. His kids, not so much. Hadn’t been so lucky with them—four girls and a boy. After the son was born, his wife developed an ovarian tumor. The operation was successful, but they’d had their last child. Just Joe’s luck, the brat grew up stupid. Managed to get himself killed in a bar room brawl over thirty years ago. Shit. Still pissed him off.

  The family would probably dissolve after Joe’s death. None of his sons-in-law wanted anything to do with the business—all professionals—embarrassed by Joe’s success. The family would likely be taken over by another one, unless his under-boss could show enough strength. Anthony Palazzo might just pull it off.

  Palazzo threw another split log on the fire, closed the screen in front of the fireplace, and dusted his hands. He tugged up his charcoal gray trousers and smoothed his black turtleneck as he strolled back into the dining room. Always dressed to the nines. Palazzo rejoined Gambizi at the table and took a sip of coffee.

  “I miss the old days, Tony,” Gambizi said.

  “The good old days or the bad old days?”

  Gambizi grunted. “Both. It was simpler then, you know? We had the whole world by the tail and were too stupid to know it. Not like today. Now we ha
ve the darkies doing drive-bys and killing children. Children, Tony!” Gambizi finished his coffee. “I mean we had a better handle on things back then. We had the city cut up and each family kept to their areas. The Teamsters, the garment district, the building trades—we all knew where we stood. Not like now. Nothing but thugs trying to out-kill each other—no respect anymore. Killing causes problems.”

  Palazzo nodded but remained quiet. He took another sip of coffee, his eyes on Gambizi.

  “What happened in Dallas? Does anyone know?”

  Palazzo settled back in the chair and exhaled. “I haven’t been able to get a straight answer. Ricardo got hit. That’s all we know for sure. Cops are staying quiet about the details.”

  Gambizi watched the last traces of sun as it slipped out of sight. He folded his hands across his stomach and exhaled. “We had too much of our business tied up in him. Should have diversified years ago. What will this do to our supply?”

  “Ricardo shipped about 10 percent,” Palazzo said. “Some months 15. It’s going to hurt until we get another supplier. He had a lot of connections. Smart enough not to share them all. Could be a while before we get them reestablished.”

  “How much?” Gambizi asked.

  “Quarter million a month.”

  Gambizi nodded, looking out the window again. “If we get into the habit of letting people hit our suppliers without penalty, we’re sending the wrong message. It needs to be understood that if you screw with us, you pay. Let’s find out what happened down there and who’s responsible.”

  “Old school, huh?”

  Gambizi lifted his chin and nodded. “Yeah, old school.”

  8

  Frank sat on his balcony with a glass of red and enjoyed the evening. The mid-October days grew shorter and cooler. Just enough chill in the air to make it nice to sit outside again after another scorching Dallas summer. The aroma of a neighbor grilling made his mouth water.

  A redbird perched somewhere in Frank’s jungle of patio plants. Its song relaxed him.

  Frank didn’t look back too often. His life had so many twists and turns, it didn’t make any sense to try and figure them out. But something a crook told him once popped back into his head. Guy was suspected of selling porn to minors. Frank utilized an old interviewing trick he’d used dozens of times to get the guy to give it up—shifting the blame to the kids who bought the porn, rather than directly accusing the porn broker of selling it. After an hour convincing the guy he was only fulfilling what the minors really wanted, the suspect gave a full confession to the crime, and Frank filed charges on him.

  Weeks later in court, the guy eyed Frank and said, “You’re a bad man.” Frank didn’t care at the time—he’d been called a lot worse. He knew the guy had done it, and the guy knew he had done it. Tricking him into giving the confession was just good interrogating. But something about the way he said it and the look in his eyes stayed with Frank. Ever so often, something triggered the memory.

  Frank didn’t necessarily believe he was a bad man. He seldom swore. Considered vulgar language to be the last bastion of the uncouth, uneducated, and lazy—the ones who didn’t have the intelligence to use a more descriptive word. He called his parents once a week. And he always played fair with everyone. Except crooks. After the loss and injustice he’d suffered in New York, he would never play fair with them.

  When Frank gave up being a chef and entered police work, he never dreamed that there would be so many rules. Everything was stacked in the crook’s favor. Of course there had to be rules to stem police misconduct, but they had become so onerous it got harder to make a case every year. And that’s why he didn’t play fair. When Frank believed he had someone dead to right, he went in for the kill. Sometimes he skipped a few steps of acceptable investigative procedure, but he never crossed the line enough to let them get off on a technicality.

  He and Rob were of the same mindset: never let the rules get in the way of a good investigation. This had landed them on Edna’s lecture couch more than once. The police brass and politicians all gave lip service to the “follow the rules” mantra, but there were guys like him and Rob in every big city department. And when one of their own was in a jam, or the thing looked like a political shit bomb about to explode, they all turned to the guys who they knew would get fast results. He and Rob both had more than one official reprimand in their personal files. Higher-ups often described their method of policing with terms like “rogue” and “outlaw.” Funny how no one ever suggested breaking them up or having them reassigned to other units.

  Frank lived with so many regrets he cared little about whether crooks thought he was a bad man. He never tried to blackmail, frame, or intimidate anyone. That would be wrong. So why did the bad man thing keep popping back into his head?

  Maybe he was a bad man.

  The redbird flew off—probably a sign. Time to call it a day. Frank downed the last of the wine and fixed a light dinner of spinach salad, whole grain crackers and goat cheese, with spiced red peppers and olives on the side. His experience as a chef seemed wasted on such a meal. But he only really cooked when he had a friend over—they appreciated it. Just before taking his first bite, his cell rang. Paul Sims from Homicide.

  “Frank, just thought I give you a head’s up. I got a look at the M.E.’s report on Ricardo’s autopsy. Guy had a bad ticker. Probably just one taco away from a major coronary event.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not why he died,” Sims said. “You remember that straight pin through the head of the doll in the closet?”

  Frank picked a piece of goat cheese off the salad and popped it into his mouth. “Uh-huh.”

  “According to the report, Ricardo died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Had an artery pop in the brain just about where that pin was.”

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, Frank meandered through his building’s underground garage to his car. Lots of old money and yuppies—and a few nouveau riche like him—lived there. A clicking noise drifted through the air. He swiveled his head and discovered Mrs. Silverstein behind the wheel of her vintage Lincoln, staring at the gauges and grinding away at the starter.

  He liked her. Most of the wealthy people in the building seemed snooty—not Mrs. Silverstein. The old girl had almost adopted him last year while he spent six weeks on medical leave after being shot, bringing food several times a week until he could manage. As thanks, he had her over about once a month for one of his gourmet meals. She enjoyed the company. Frank found value in older people—especially women. Old men had better stories, but older women had more wisdom.

  Frank opened her car’s passenger door and she jumped. Her expression relaxed after recognizing him.

  “Having car trouble?”

  “Thing won’t start. I’ll have to call the dealership.”

  “Let’s see what we can do first.”

  Ten minutes later, after jump-starting the battery, he sent her on her way. Even with the delay, Frank still got to work before Rob. His partner usually hit the police gym about seven o’clock for weights and a round of boxing before strolling in around nine. Frank’s exercise schedule took less time—a half hour of yoga at home before breakfast. Frank started the coffee pot and powered up his computer.

  Terry shuffled in a few minutes later. “Did you guys talk to Ben yesterday?”

  “Yeah.” Frank kept typing a request into RMS, a DPD in-house search index. Five reports popped up in which a Voodoo doll had been mentioned as part of an investigation. He scanned the synopsis of each case as Terry talked.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not great, but getting by.”

  Terry leaned closer and stared at the monitor. “What are you checking?”

  Frank’s fingers raced across the keyboard. “I’m running ‘Voodoo doll’ through the system. Nothing promising. According to the query log, Sims ran the same thing last night.”

  Frank’s office phone rang. Kelly from the lab.

/>   “Frank, just sent the forensic results of the stuff we found on the two gansters’ clothes and sofa to Paul Sims. Copied you too.”

  “Thanks. What kind of stuff?”

  “A fine white powder. Tested out as plant-based material. Could be some kind of bio-toxin. Won’t know for sure till we have it fully tested.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Well, if this were frigging CSI Miami, about ten minutes. But since we’re still in the real world … could be weeks. Depends on their backlog.”

  “You’re still my hero, Kelly.”

  “Thanks. I’ll cash that in for what it’s worth,” Kelly said before hanging up.

  Frank looked at Terry. “Residue of some plant at the scene. All over the two guys downstairs.”

  Terry pursed his lips. “Umm. Say, try and play nice with Edna today. She went to bat for you guys with the sixth floor yesterday. Put herself out there—know what I mean?”

  Frank nodded. “I promise. Whatever she wants, I just say, yes, ma’am.”

  Terry headed for his office.

  A drop of blood pooled on Frank’s keyboard. Crap, wrist leaking again. Might need a stitch after all.

  Edna strolled past, still not looking too happy.

  Frank patched his wrist with a Band-Aid, watching Edna through the glass wall of her office as she settled in. She could be a pain in the butt but always stood up for “her guys.” He poured a cup of coffee and added two cream packs, stirred it, and walked in just as she took a seat. As she finished putting away her briefcase, he sat the cup on her desk.

  “Looked like you could use this,” he said.

  She nodded and picked up the cup. “Thanks, Frank.”

  “By the way, Rob and I paid a visit to Antoine Levern yesterday.”

  Edna blew on her coffee and took a sip. She sat back in her chair. “The guy who’s related to Carlos Marcello?”