by A. C. Fuller
His face was pleading, earnest. She recognized that look. It was the one thing they had in common—that indefinable, relentless need to learn the truth. If they could, it would be the biggest story of her life. She nodded at the bartender. “Can we settle up, please?”
“So we’re going?”
“We’re going, but I need to make a quick stop on the way out of town. Gotta meet a source.”
“Who?”
Cole exhaled sharply and pressed her hand across her forehead.
“You okay?” Warren asked.
Cole sent a quick text, agreeing to meet with Mazzalano, then said, “Pick me up outside Antonio’s in Little Italy in an hour.”
2
Antonio’s was an old-school Italian restaurant in the English basement of a brownstone just off Mulberry Street. She’d met Mazzalano there five years ago and since learned that it was the last of a dying breed of restaurants—family owned, with the same menu for nearly seventy years. The night they’d met, he’d called it, “Real red-sauce Italian. None of that frou-frou Northern garbage.”
Every time she went to Antonio’s, it was half-empty. The owners seemed to go out of their way not to publicize its existence. Restaurants with few customers were sometimes used as money-laundering operations for owners with other sources of income, and Mazzalano had hinted at those other sources of income. But he’d never come out and named them.
Cole descended the five stairs down from street level and peeled off her coat as she entered the dimly lit restaurant. A handful of people looked up from dark wood tables lit by large candles that flickered dark gold light across their faces. Mazzalano stood behind the bar, helping himself to a glass of grappa, a grape-based brandy she loathed. He waved her over and she sat on a stool, setting her bag on the one next to her. She hoped the move would discourage Mazzalano from sitting within arm’s reach.
She flashed the snarky smile she knew he loved. “You work here now?”
“Antonio is back in the kitchen. He lets me help myself. You know, time was, you could find similar joints all over Little Italy. Now, it’s mostly tourist spots. Sixteen bucks for a bowl of weeds.”
She smiled politely as he poured her a glass of grappa. She’d heard his spiel before.
Mazzalano shuffled around the bar and moved her purse, then flopped down right next to her. A wet smile dripped from his face.
Cole pretended to be unfazed. “And what do you provide him in exchange for his hospitality?”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief and pressed it into his nose, inhaling deeply. “I can always tell what I drank last night from the way my sweat smells the next day. You ever notice that?”
“Gross, and no. I only drink tequila, so I imagine it’s the same every day.” She pushed the grappa away.
“It’s impolite to refuse a drink from a friend.”
“If I drink, will you get to the point? I have somewhere to be, and you said this was important.”
He smiled. “Would I lie to you?”
“Yes, but I’ll take my chances.” She shot the grappa. The liquor seared her throat and cleared her sinuses all at once. “There. Done.” The empty glass clacked loudly as she placed it back on the bar. “By the way, what happened with the hair sample from Ambani’s killer?”
Mazzalano mumbled something inaudible, then said, “You hear about Meyers? Course you did, you’re a news junkie, always on your phone.” Fundamentally, Mazzalano was a bully, so instead of lying he often just changed the subject when he got a question he didn’t like. But it was odd that he didn’t want to discuss the DNA test. Normally he’d have taken the question as an opportunity to brag about his clout within the lab.
“Saw it on the news,” Cole said. “Hearing anything?”
“A second high-profile murder in a week, sniper-style? Got me thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
He waved her off with a grunt, as though he’d decided to change the subject. He was drunker than usual, which was dangerous, but also useful. Useful because the drunker he got, the more he talked. Dangerous because the booze hyper-charged his piggish behavior.
“Not relevant any more, is it?” His voice was biting, sarcastic, a tone he usually concealed under a facade of pseudo-charm.
“The hair sample, you mean?”
“Wragg is dead. You really fucked me, you know. I showed you the video, you gave me the hair sample, but before I had time to do anything with it, you find Wragg and he’s dead. No glory for the Italian Stallion.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I held up my end of the bargain. You were my first and only call when I was attacked. There was no way I could have predicted how that went. It’s not nothing, the hair. Once you get the results back, it’ll at least help fill out the file.”
Mazzalano looked away.
“You did submit the hair, right?”
His cheeks, already red, flushed. “Sure I did.” A drop of sweat dripped onto the bar. He dabbed it with a napkin, spilling his drink in the process. She studied him as he walked around the bar to pour himself another shot.
People often sweat when they’re nervous or lying, but sweat alone isn’t a tell. You have to establish a baseline during normal conversation. Booze made Mazzalano red and sweaty even under normal circumstances, but tonight something was different. The one thing she liked about him was that he’d always told her the truth. He wanted to be liked, wanted to come across as important so deeply, that he’d never tried to spin her.
Not this time. He was lying. She was sure of it.
3
Warren arrived early in his ’69 Ford Cougar and took a spot across the street from Antonio’s. He’d purchased the car for $2,000 the week he got back from Afghanistan, and spent a year and another $12,000 whipping it into shape. Everything had been restored to its original splendor, except the radio, which he’d updated to an MP3-compatible system. His drinking and temper had cost him his family, and now his job. Blue Lightning, as he called his beloved car, was the only thing he’d had through it all.
He had a few minutes to kill and needed to hear a friendly voice, so he called Gabriela Rojas. “Gabby, it’s War Dog. I assume you’ve heard?”
“That you’re out, or are gonna be? I heard. Sorry, man.”
“I’m not gonna ask you to try to intervene, but—”
“I couldn’t get it done. Way above my pay grade.”
She’d been promoted from beat cop to sergeant and from sergeant to detective in near record time. Since then she’d been assigned to the elite Joint Terrorism Task Force, so she often had intel none of Warren’s other friends in the department had. “What are you hearing?”
She sighed. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it goes high up. Judge assigned to the pedo case—the guy you roughed up—has clout, that’s all I know.”
“But why would a judge want to see me gone for roughing up a…” He didn’t finish the question. If a judge wanted him fired for roughing up a suspect, especially this suspect, it could only mean one thing.
“Yeah,” Gabby said, as though reading his mind. “Actually I was gonna call you. Rumors on this judge are bad. I mean, bad. Has a history of going easy on sex offenders. Positions himself to get the cases on his docket. I hear he’s already under investigation but, for whatever reason, he has clout with the right people at IAB.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m saying back away. Quietly. If this judge is what I think he is, he’s gonna get got. But not by you. I’ll do what I can.”
Warren rolled down his window and leaned out. The thought of a judge protecting pedophiles made his blood boil, and the cool air calmed him. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll back off. But if the judge is what you’re saying, promise you’ll get the word out.”
“I’ll try, but you gotta do something for me.” There was silence on the line before she continued. “What happened with Wragg? You know no one buys the whole Superm
an story that you just happened to hear a woman screaming from below and badassed your way up the fire escape. And it just happened to be the reporter who broke the story about you?”
“We were looking into the Ambani thing together. I had a couple hunches that turned out to be right.”
“War Dog, c’mon.”
“I don’t want to say too much, alright?”
“You don’t trust me?”
He grunted. “You might be the only person in law enforcement I do trust. But you still got a job. You don’t want any piece of what I’m getting involved in.”
“Involved? Present tense? It’s still happening?”
A young couple emerged from the restaurant and shared a vape pen on the sidewalk. He was impatient for Cole to show, but he did trust Gabby, and he had time to kill. “You hear about Meyers?”
“Yeah, but I asked about Wragg, Ambani.”
He let her statement hang in the air.
“There’s a connection?”
Warren let out a long sigh. “I can trust you, right?”
Gabby’s voice was hushed. “I swear on Saint Gabriel.”
Warren didn’t know who that was, but Gabriela had said it once soon after they’d met. Three officers had been ambushed and killed execution-style one precinct over in Brooklyn on his second day in training. The department was shaken. Warren was shaken. She’d sworn to Saint Gabriel the killers would be brought to justice. And they had been.
For the next few minutes, he talked her through the day he’d seen the post about the gun purchase on the dark web, how he’d connected with Cole, and their investigation into the townhouse that led them to Margaret and Chandler Price, then to Wragg. “I don’t suppose you can get me anything on Meyers?” he concluded.
She laughed. “The FBI and the Secret Service aren’t famous for sharing their cases.”
“You can’t play the JTTF card? A terrorist connection?”
“No.”
“Wragg, then. Can you help me with Wragg?”
She ignored the question. “You’ve been a busy beaver, haven’t you? Still can’t believe you partnered with a reporter. I just can’t see it.”
Neither could he. “Gabby, can you help me?”
“I should say no, but—and not to flatter you—you’re one of the only people in law enforcement I trust, too.”
“I’m no longer in law enforcement, remember?”
“You’re not a cop any more. Doesn’t mean you can’t enforce some laws.”
It wasn’t like her to say that, but she seemed to be agreeing to help him. “Michael Wragg. He doesn’t have any other addresses in the public record, already looked, but maybe he’s got a registration with the state, or an old address through the DMV. Can you check?”
“I’ll let you know.”
4
She wasn’t sure why Mazzalano lied, but she wanted to draw him out. “Can I get the DNA results when you do get them?” she asked casually.
He lumbered around the bar and sat back down. “What for?”
“Just to be sure, y’know. He held a knife to my back. I know it’s the same guy, but it’d be nice to have the DNA back me up.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Sure, but you know how backed up the labs are. Could be weeks. Months.”
“Still, I’d appreciate it. Shit, Mazzalano. Why’d you drag me here?”
“First let’s talk about Michael Wragg, how’d you find him, anyway?”
“Reporting.”
“C’mon, Jane, give daddy some sugar.” He leaned in close and continued in a heavy whisper. “What kind of reporting?”
She walked behind the bar and poured two more shots of grappa. The first shot had warmed her just enough to allow her to tolerate this goon. Despite her better judgment, she wanted another.
Still behind the bar, she said, “I looked into the townhouse where the shooting took place.”
“Maggie Price?”
“Yes, but no.”
“Chandler Price?”
Cole nodded slowly, then shot the grappa.
Mazzalano stood and threw back the shot, slamming the glass down then dropping into his stool. He was sloshed. “Well I’ll be damned.” He shook his head slowly. “You sure?”
Cole nodded. “You’re the only person I’ve told. It wasn’t something I had solidly enough to write. My editor doesn’t even know.”
“Why not?”
“The way I got the information was, well…” She shrugged. “But anyway, it lead to Wragg. I still don’t know exactly what Price did, but he told his wife to be out of town the day Ambani was killed. He set it up so Wragg could shoot Ambani from the roof of a vacant townhouse. I don’t know where Price leads, or if you can get to him, but promise me if you do, you’ll let me break the story.”
He rested his wide arms on the bar. “Thought you were out of a job?”
“News travels fast. How’d you hear?”
He smacked his lips. “You’re not the only person I know at The Sun.”
“I’ll be freelancing for a bit. Promise me, though, you find Price, you give me a heads up.”
“I will.”
“So, what was the tip you dangled to get my ass to Little Italy. If you haven’t heard, a former VP just got shot. I’m eager to get back to the news.”
“Speaking of your ass…” More quickly than she thought he could move, Mazzalano heaved his heavy body around the bar and stood next to her. Too close for comfort. She leaned away, but the other side of the bar was blocked by a tall table covered in menus. His massive body pressed her into the table, which scraped along the floor.
“Get off me.” She said it firmly, and just loud enough to cause a couple at a nearby table to look up.
He squeezed her arms tightly. Something thick and wet touched her ear. His tongue. He let out a low moan. “I told you I had a tip for you,” he grunted, breathing heavily. In a boozy whisper, he continued. “You know you want this as bad as I do.”
She lifted a leg and brought her heel down violently on the top of his foot. He grunted in pain and let go, then cackled with laughter, stumbling backwards. Dropping to her knees, she slid under the table at the end of the bar and hurried out of the restaurant.
She spotted Warren in the driver’s side of a dark-blue muscle car across the street. She darted through a gap in the traffic, looking back as Mazzalano staggered through the door.
She slid into the passenger seat. “Drive.”
Warren glanced toward Mazzalano.
“Drive,” she said again.
5
As the Ford Cougar pulled away, Mazzalano inhaled deeply. He still smelled her perfume. When he’d licked her ear, it had rubbed off on his upper lip. Roses, he thought, mixed with some spice.
The Cougar turned right at the end of the block. On his cell phone, Mazzalano dialed Officer William Bowman, who picked up on the first ring.
“Stallion, what’s up?”
“WB, I need you to tail someone. You still at the end of the block?”
“Like you said to be.”
“She’s in a muscle car, heading south on Mulberry, likely to turn on Canal. Couldn’t get the plates but it’s dark blue, late sixties or early seventies. She’s in the passenger seat, driver was a black male.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just tail them for now. I’ll be around. I want to know where they stop, and when. Right away. And if you can get an ID on the guy she’s with.”
“I’ll try.”
He inhaled again, then stumbled back into Antonio’s.
6
They were waiting to pay the toll at the Holland Tunnel when a police siren broke the silence. Cole looked out the angled back window, but saw no flashing lights.
Warren reached for his phone and Cole exhaled. The siren was his ringtone. “Why the hell would you make that your ringtone?”
“It’s a specialty ringtone and text alert I assigned to only one person. And…” He trailed off, ey
es on his phone.
“What?”
He handed her the phone and Cole read the text. It was from “Gabby”—no last name—and was an address in Nutley, New Jersey. “What’s this?”
Warren fumbled in his pocket for cash. “I asked her to help us with Wragg.”
“Who’s ‘her’?”
“Old friend, like I said.”
The wailing siren announced another text. Cole read it aloud as Warren paid the toll.
“Text says, ‘Address is Ship, Store, and More. Came up in an address search for Wragg. His business, apparently.’ Nutley is about twenty miles north. D.C. is south. Worth the detour?”
“Ask if police have been there yet. She might not know, but—”
“On it.”
Cole sent the question and stared at the screen as they entered the tunnel. “Won’t get a reply while we’re down here.”
“What is this, 2011? Reception is actually better in the tunnel. Eight thousand feet of leaky coax.”
Cole had no idea what he was talking about. “Huh?”
“Coaxial cable with holes that leak cell reception into the tunnels.”
“Since when?”
“Five years or so,” Warren said. “What are you, some kind of anti-tech dinosaur?”
“No, but do we really need to be sending tweets and texts a hundred feet under the Hudson River?”
The siren blared again and Cole quickly muted it.
“What’s she say?” Warren asked.
Cole read the text.
Gabby: Can’t promise some enterprising detective didn’t find it, but I got it from NYS DOS. Wragg registered the company in 2009. Since he’s dead, probably wasn’t high priority to get out there.