A Bullet for Carlos Page 6

  Just as I was about to say something, he started up again. “Gianelli, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Before you go inviting me to lunch or asking me home to see your mother, I need to tell you that I’m working your case.”

  A pain started in my chest. “What do you mean working my case? What’s there to work?”

  Donovan raised his eyes and sighed. “I know you don’t like it, and I don’t either, but we got eight dead drug dealers and two dead cops. We can’t brush that under the rug.”

  “So you’re investigating my…incident, and you’re charged with getting to the bottom of it. That it, Donovan?”

  “Pretty much. Yeah.”

  I got a pissed-off feeling in me. I don’t know why; I knew they’d investigate. In any case I decided to test Frankie. “I don’t know if I like you, Donovan.”

  “If you’re clean, you’ll love me. If not…” He shrugged. “Right now you’re just another suspect in a homicide, and if I find out you stink, you’ll wish you had taken the retirement the captain tried forcing on you.”

  I didn’t know if I wanted to hit him or take him home, but I managed to compose myself. I even managed a smile. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I hope you didn’t, but I’ll let you know when Lou and I finish.”

  Lou Mazzetti held up his hands in surrender. “Count me out. I don’t investigate cops.”

  I found my focus shifting to the birthmark on Frankie’s neck, a dark blotch below his jawline.

  “Looks like Sicily doesn’t it?” Mazzetti said.

  I turned to Mazzetti. “What?”

  “Frankie’s birthmark. It looks like a map of Sicily. He denies it, but it does.”

  I smiled. It did look like Sicily.

  “Enough with Sicily,” Frankie said, then, “I’ll let you know when I get something, Gianelli.”

  I held out my hand. “Thanks, Frankie. And sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I wasn’t trying to be an ass, it’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I heard rumors, that’s all.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “I checked you out. People say that the real killer from your big homicide case is still out there and that you’re the one who let him go. And then there’s all that stuff with Manny Rosso. Some people say you had him dead to rights, now he’s a boss in Brooklyn. The street talks.”

  “Glad you do your homework. Some of those guys were like brothers to me, maybe more. You can’t just drop that—even if one goes bad. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a line. If they’d have crossed that line…”

  “I’ve got one line, Donovan. It doesn’t move.”

  Frankie laughed. “Some day it will move. Trust me. It might not move far, but it will move.” He reached in his pocket, took out a smoke and popped it in his mouth. “Don’t worry, I’m not smoking in here,” he said. “And by the way, about those rumors, remember that rumors are everywhere, Mangini…I mean, Gianelli.”

  My first reaction was to get pissed at the Mangini taunt, but then I saw the gleam in his eyes and the smirk on his face. It was fair play. “Dominic Mangini is just a guy who helped my mother when she was sick. That’s all there is. I don’t owe him anything and I don’t do anything for him.”

  “Okay, truce.” Frankie offered his hand. “But you know if they want to bust you, they’ll find a way.”

  I shook his hand and said, “Thanks.”

  I walked away, knowing Frankie was right. If they wanted to get me off the force, they would.

  ***

  Frankie stared. Eyes glued to Connie’s butt as she walked away. “She’s a feisty one, isn’t she, Lou?”

  Mazzetti nudged him. “Stop staring, Donovan. You’ll get a hard on.”

  “Way too late for that.”

  ***

  I knocked on Lieutenant Morreau’s door, opening it after he signaled. His office wasn’t much different than Chamber’s, though it was a little bigger. Morreau had three chairs and a small sofa. Even had a plant in the corner next to a file cabinet.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.” I extended my hand to shake. “Connie Gianelli.”

  Morreau gave me a busy-man’s handshake, then sat back down. “Gotta tell you, Gianelli. The last thing I wanted was another hero.”

  I shrugged. “You talking about Frankie Donovan?”

  “I’ve been putting up with Donovan for a long time. I’m talking about you. I don’t need the trouble you bring.”

  “You won’t get any trouble from me. I’m here to do what I can until I get back on the streets.”

  Morreau gave me a hard look for almost five seconds, which seemed like forever. “Close the door and have a seat.” Morreau had a long drawn-out face, too long to look right, and yet, on him it did.

  The way he said ‘have a seat’ had me worried. “What’s up? I know I didn’t do anything wrong yet.”

  “I have nothing against you, Gianelli. And I know you must be good because whatever you did to piss off the captain was top notch.”

  I resisted the urge to smile. “I didn’t try to piss him off.”

  Morreau shook his head. “You might not have tried, but you did. Now I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t. My orders are to bury you. Burn you. Hammer you. Frustrate you so much you’ll quit.” He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, waiting for a response.

  Hearing that rankled the hell out of me. I scooted my chair forward and sat up straight. “Lieutenant, help me understand this,” I said, trying to keep ‘pissed-off’ from dominating my tone. “I was doing my job and got caught up in something gone wrong, so why am I getting the blame?”

  Morreau gave me a quick look, the “once over” we called it at the old station. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I figure the captain will keep you out of sight until the press wears off and people forget about you, then…” Morreau shook his head. “Then you’re history.” He shuffled a few papers on his desk, pulled out a folder. “I’m not forming judgments yet. And if you’re wondering why I’m telling you, it’s because I hate to be told what to do, especially when it comes to my department. Whether I like it or not, you’re now in my department.”

  Morreau handed me the folder. “These are cold-case homicides. Review the files, look at the reports, photos, write-ups…study them. I don’t expect you to find anything. Just keep your head down and don’t piss anyone else off until I figure out what to do.”

  I opened the folder and stared at a list of maybe ten to twelve case numbers. “So where do I find—”

  “Carol will show you anything you need. She knows more about this department than I do; in fact, she’s the only one who knows where anything is. I’ve tried to make her a detective but she’s too smart for that.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “For what?”

  “Giving me a chance.”

  Morreau pointed his finger. “Your best chance is Donovan telling me you’re clean.” He leaned forward and looked right through me. “He tells me otherwise, you’ll wish you were back with Captain Kyrokous. Or in that alley with your old partners sucking wind through a hole in your lungs.”

  “If Donovan’s as good as they say, he’ll find out soon enough.”

  Morreau’s eyes registered doubt, but he shook my hand. “All right, Gianelli. Consider yourself one of mine unless I hear different.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then got up and walked out, heading toward Carol’s desk.

  “Carol, I’m Connie Gianelli. We met a few minutes ago.”

  Carol looked up from over the rims of her Prada glasses, wearing a rare, but genuine, happy-to-meet-you Brooklyn smile and chewing a mouthful of gum. “I see you survived the first meeting. Always a good sign.”

  “Lieutenant Morreau said you might be kind enough to show me around.”

  Somehow she managed to snort while standing up and chewing that wad in her mouth. From the smell of it, it was watermelon gum and that made me want to ask for a piec
e. “What he probably said was, Carol’s the only one who knows where anything is, so ask her.”

  I laughed. Carol was easy to like. “Might have been something like that.”

  “C’mon, let’s get some coffee. I’ll give you the tour and fill you in on a few things.”

  As we walked, Carol gave me the background on key personnel. She had a mixed-message swagger that seemed designed to attract stares and warn men off at the same time. “Morreau is a good guy,” she said. “He can be a horse’s ass sometimes, but if it comes down to fighting the captain or the Chief of D’s, he’s the guy you want on your side. And once you get in the lieutenant’s good graces, he’s like a mother pig protecting her young.” She turned and looked me in the eye. “No nonsense about him, girl, he’ll protect you. So stay on his good side.”

  We went through a door into the coffee room, where Carol grabbed two cups and headed for the machine. “How do you take it?”

  “Black.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Carol poured one for herself then started on the second cup. “Connie, grab me a bagel from the table will you?”

  I grabbed two, then followed Carol out the back door.

  “We’ll find you a desk in a minute. Right now I’ll show you where the files are.” She turned back to me. “You got your list?”

  “Right here,” I said, then we went down a hall and into a small room filled with file cabinets, a copier, and a few tables with folding chairs on each side.

  Carol set her coffee down and closed the door. “Okay, now for the rest of the crew.”

  I assumed I was about to get the gossip. “What crew?”

  “If you’re gonna survive here, you need to know who you can trust.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Carol nodded, like a teacher who just noticed she got through to her student for the first time. “You haven’t met them yet, but Pete Fallini and Teddy Kranz are two long-timers. Been around since before the bricks in this building I think. Don’t trust them. I mean with nothing. If they ask you a question, lie. Don’t even tell them your name. Story is, Fallini’s brother is in the mob and Kranz is in bed with drug dealers.”

  When she mentioned the mob I thought I’d die. What will they think of me? “They can’t be that bad.”

  “Trust me. Every precinct’s got crooked cops, but they get weeded in time.” Carol picked up her coffee. Slurped it. “Then there’s Mazzetti, you met him.”

  “The older guy, right?”

  Carol leaned against the file cabinet. “Yeah, Donovan’s partner. He’s about the nicest guy you’d want to work with. Not territorial. You can trust him with your life. Won’t talk about you.”

  “Sounds ideal.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Lou can be a pain in the ass. He’ll make sexist comments, he’ll taunt, and he’ll push you hard, but you can trust him. Around here that’s more important than anything.” She grabbed the folder from the top of a cabinet, where I had set it. “Might as well start looking these up while we talk.”

  “What about Donovan?”

  Carol stopped with the top drawer half open, leaned on it. “About half the young women in the department have been to bed with him and the other half want to.”

  “One of them, huh?”

  “Not what you think. He doesn’t chase, but he doesn’t run either. And from what I’ve heard…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “I think so.”

  I eyed her. Carol was young enough. “And which half do you fall into?”

  She laughed, then laughed more. “The half that wants to, but I’m a married woman.”

  “Just checking. I need to see how biased this information is.”

  Carol pulled out a thick file, set it on the cabinet. “Got the Adamcek case. Who else you looking for?”

  “Mason,” I said and gave her the case number.

  Carol bent to her knees, opened the bottom drawer and shuffled through some files. “Got it.”

  She kept talking while we finished gathering files, then she showed me to a desk and got me everything I’d need to get started. For the rest of the day I put my desk in order and set up the computer. Around six o’clock I tucked the files into a briefcase and headed home.

  Home was a small apartment, 800 square feet of joy that was close enough to Prospect Park to make jogging in the morning a pleasure—well, as much a pleasure as jogging can be—yet I remained just on the far reaches of the Jamaican music that boomed off Flatbush Avenue by what some referred to as “Little Jamaica” or “Little Kingston.” I had a ground-floor apartment which meant I didn’t have to climb stairs, but was more susceptible to robberies. The neighbors knew I was a cop, though, so even when I wasn’t home they kept an eye on the place, hoping to earn a look in the other direction when I saw them doing something wrong. It was a symbiotic relationship that worked. Best of all, they kept a parking spot open for me at all times, which damn near constituted a bribe. In Manhattan it would be.

  I pulled into my space and got out of the car. Tariq and Marley stood on the corner, smoking dope and making no attempt to hide it.

  “Well if it ain’t the queen of Brooklyn,” Tariq said.

  Tariq was a tall skinny guy with an easy laugh and three gold teeth nestled in among a mouthful of beautiful white. “Hey, Tariq, pay respect and hide that shit when I show up. You do that in front of the kids and I’ll bust your ass.”

  He eyed me, but dropped it to the ground. “Keep that up and you might need a new parking spot.”

  I stopped and glared. “Keep your shit up and I’ll take your ass downtown. And trust me, where I put you they’ll do things with your dreadlocks that you don’t want to even think about.”

  As I walked by, I high-fived Marley. He wore a Yankees cap turned backwards and a jersey with the #7 on the back. I punched his arm. “You even know who Mickey Mantle is?”

  Marley’s laugh had kind of a hiccup to it, and it was so damn weird it made me laugh every time I heard it. “I live in New York, don’t I?”

  I was still laughing at them when I opened the door and walked in, listening to Marley ride Tariq—and to the silence that greeted me as I entered. I was thirty years old and as alone as a person could get. No husband to say “hello, dear, how was your day?” and no kids to drop their toys and run to jump in my arms and say how much they missed me. I dropped the files on a table that sat in the living room, then went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Hotshot attacked me from his hiding place beside the trash can. That was his way of telling me he was hungry. “Join the club, boy. I’m always hungry.”

  I fed him, then on my way back to the living room I stopped to feed the fish—three Leporinus, big torpedo-looking fish with the color and stripes of a yellow jacket. After dropping a few pellets into the opposite end of a 200 gallon tank, I watched them race to get it. I loved these fish—sleek and fast. But they didn’t interact much and that left me wondering if I should get a dog. I pondered that as I waited for the fish to eat, finally deciding that the inevitable piss on the carpet wasn’t worth the sloppy kisses I’d get when I got home. Same reason I didn’t get a guy. I closed the aquarium lid then crossed the room and plopped on the sofa. Hotshot was man enough for me.

  The sofa was an old three-cushioned one I got at a yard sale for fifty bucks, but it had already lasted five years and showed little signs of wear. I kicked off my shoes, propped tired feet on the table and sat back, files now on the cushion next to me. Adamcek lay on top.

  Kathy Adamcek was a young girl, only nineteen. Caucasian. Found in a dumpster this side of Queens. No signs of rape, but plenty of abuse. I read the notes, squinting my eyes and wishing I’d gotten the glasses the doctor recommended last year. Detectives Miller and Tomkins had worked this one. Said they questioned the father and mother, an older brother, too. Nothing, though. No family problems and no boyfriends in the file. I stared at the pictures, took a sip of water and moved to the next fil
e. Carlisle. Betty Carlisle.

  Another young one, eighteen. African American girl. Knife wounds to the side and stomach. The autopsy report listed her as pregnant. I gasped, closed my eyes, trying to quell the sick feeling in my gut. How the hell could somebody do that? Detective Garcia was the lead on Carlisle, and the notes say he suspected the boyfriend, but he had solid alibis from his friends. I squinted and gritted teeth.

  I’d like to get that bastard.

  Next file was Comte, then Edwards and Farzad. All of them were young girls.

  Is that all anybody kills nowadays?

  The few files following Farzad were males and most appeared to be homeless. None of them had generated interest in the original investigation. I pulled the Carlisle file aside, the pregnant girl.

  Then I hit Shannon Mason. When I opened the folder, my head reared back. A mouthful of teeth covered in blood jumped out at me. It looked as if she were smiling, but closer examination showed that her lips had been cut off—from below the nose all the way round to her chin. “Oh my God.”

  I closed my eyes and turned my head. This reminded me too much of when Sherri Ferrieri disappeared in ninth grade. Everyone figured she ran away, but two months later they found her mutilated body in a plastic container under a bridge. Somebody at school had gotten hold of pictures and passed them around. I almost puked that day, and didn’t go back to school until two days later.

  I flipped the picture over, hoping not to find another. There were no more pictures, but there were references to another file that contained them, and to a cop the investigating officer had spoken to in Houston, where Mason had moved from. After reading the gruesome reports and Miller’s notes, I put that file with Carlisle’s.

  Nance came next—Terri Nance—and it, too, proved to be brutal, another one to check out. The rest of them weren’t as interesting, and by nine o’clock I finished. A light supper followed—a salad with some tortellini in a tomato-basil sauce. After that I tried my first attempt at bed. At eleven o’clock I was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The image of Shannon Mason’s face had been burned in my memory.