5 Bad Moon (21 page)

“This is the only picture I could get of him right now. I’m told he’s lost quite a bit of weight since he’s been at the hospital. I’ve asked them to send me a more current picture. It’s on its way.”

Gibbons tossed the photo onto the pile of papers. “What makes you so sure Emerick’s the killer?”

Cummings’s face was impassive. “Fingerprint analysis. The lab has a possible match. The partial thumbprint that was lifted off Mistretta’s watch crystal could be Emerick’s.”

Gibbons smirked and shook his head. “So what? A
possible
match won’t hold up in court. Not in a mob killing.”

“Why won’t it?” Cummings was indignant.

“Because it’s inconsistent.”

“What are you tàlking about?”

“Why would the killer be so sloppy with Mistretta, then be so careful with Bartolo? If he didn’t care about leaving his fingerprints on Mistretta’s watch, why didn’t we find any prints on the bullet casings we found in the men’s room at the track? Doesn’t make any sense. There should be prints all over those casings from when the shooter loaded the gun. Psycho killers don’t give a shit about leaving prints. They’re on a mission from God, right? But there weren’t any prints on those casings from the Bartolo murder. They were clean as could be. So whoever loaded that gun
was
worried about leaving his prints.”

“Psychotic behavior by its very nature is unpredictable—”

Gibbons waved her away. “Save it for the term paper, Doc.”

Ivers intervened before she could retaliate. “As to the matter of the weapon, we’ve finally gotten some solid information.” He glanced at Cummings, who was suddenly smug as a Siamese. Ivers opened a bound gray folder and put his glasses back on. “One cartridge was recovered intact from the scene of the Bartolo-Witherspoon killings. It seems that this bullet ricocheted off the door of the bathroom stall where Bartolo was”—he cleared his throat—“sitting, and lodged in the toilet paper roll. As a result, it was a very good specimen for analysis, and ballistics was able to determine that it came from a Browning BDA 380. We checked with Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and they informed us that a case of these handguns was stolen from a warehouse in Shreveport, Louisiana, in 1990. These guns were traced to a Mr. Richard Skinner of Bordentown, New Jersey, who operated a porno parlor there called Captain’s Paradise, and sold firearms under the counter. Mr. Skinner was convicted this past winter on weapons charges and is now serving time. ATF was kind enough to check their case file on Skinner for us, and they came up with something very interesting. Among the credit card records seized in their search of the store, there were four slips totalling five hundred and fifty dollars, all of them dated in the same week last October. The purchases were described as ‘videotapes.’ The cardholder is a Mrs. Thelma Tate of Trenton, New Jersey. Mrs. Tate is seventy-two years old and legally blind. Her son, Charles Tate, is a guard on the ward at the state mental hospital where Donald Emerick was residing until he escaped. He’s also the same guard who assaulted Madeleine earlier this week.”

The smug little Siamese looked like she’d swallowed the canary and enjoyed it.

A mean grin crossed Gibbons’s face. “You think Tate bought the gun for Emerick? You gotta be kidding.”

“How much stronger do you want the evidence to be?” she said. “I don’t think Emerick will be mailing us a signed confession, if that’s what you want.”

Tozzi’s forehead was bulging. He was ready to explode. “How do you know Tate gave the gun to Emerick? How do you know Tate isn’t Sal Immordino’s hit man? Jesus, what do
you
need? A signed confession from Immordino?”

Cummings sat there with her hands in her lap, Miss Prim and Proper. “According to the files I’ve read, Emerick has an unusually weak personality. He’s very easily influenced, even passively. For this reason, he was not allowed to have a radio, and all television programs had to be taped and screened before he could see them. In fact, he had a serious setback at the hospital due to unmonitored television viewing. After seeing a thirty-second commercial advertising the program
Twin Peaks,
he became convinced that he had murdered Laura Palmer, and he demanded to be punished accordingly.”

Gibbons gestured with his hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You’re saying that Sal Immordino could be running this guy? That Immordino played with this Emerick’s head so that he could get the kid to do his dirty work for him?”

“It’s possible.”

“You’re nuts.”

Cummings ignored the comment. “However, given Mr. Immordino’s condition, I don’t believe that he could be controlling Donald Emerick. My hunch is that Emerick overheard Immordino complaining about his perceived enemies when they were on the ward together, and that’s how he became fixated on Mistretta and Bartolo. Emerick, being so impressionable, adopted Imrnordino’s burden. Thus, Immordino’s vendetta became Emerick’s vendetta. Now, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me yet, Charles Tate procured the weapon and facilitated Emerick’s escape. My gut feeling is that Tate has a sadistic personality and
he
likes to control people. Giving Emerick a gun may have temporarily satisfied some deviant psychosexual need that this man has. In other words, Charles Tate got a thrill out of turning Emerick into Sal Immordino’s guided missile.”

Gibbons shook his head. “You don’t expect anybody to believe this, do you? If you do, then you’ve really got your head up your—”

“Gibbons!” Ivers’s nostrils flared.

Gibbons flared his back. “Look, maybe you can swallow this horseshit, but I can’t.”

Tozzi piped up then. “We know Sal Immordino is a fake, and we know what he’s capable of. He’s the one behind all this, not some hospital guard.”

Cummings raised one eyebrow. “How can you know?”

Tozzi pounded his fist on the coffee table. “Christ Almighty, I know how the guy thinks. I’ve seen how he operates. He wants me dead, but he ends up killing an innocent guy. It’s him. I know it.”

Tozzi’s face was red, and his neck was tight and strained. He looked like he was ready for the nuthouse himself.

Gibbons decided to intervene before Tozzi said anymore. “Look, we know that Immordino is staying with his sister in Jersey City. Why don’t we go pick him up and squeeze him for a while. Maybe he knows where we can find Emerick.”

“You mean, ‘squeeze’ him the same way you’ve successfully ‘squeezed’ him in the past?” The doctor’s sarcasm had surgical precision.

Ivers folded his glasses and put them in his pocket. “She’s right, Gibbons. Immordino hasn’t opened up for anyone in over twenty-five years. He’s not about to start now.” He stood up and buttoned his suit coat. “For the time being I’m shifting the focus of this investigation away from Immordino and onto Donald Emerick. Our first priority is to find Emerick before he strikes again. The New Jersey State Police are looking for Charles Tate as we speak. As soon as they have him in custody, they’ll let us know.”

Tozzi bounced out of his seat. “But Immordino is out on the street, too, for chrissake. He’s the one we should be concentrating on.”

“There are local agencies keeping their eye on him, and we just don’t have the manpower to spare. They’ll keep us apprised of his activities. Emerick is the more immediate threat as far as I’m concerned, and so far we’re the only ones who know about him.”

Gibbons’s upper lip exposed an eyetooth as he watched the assistant director’s small, benevolent smile beam down on Cummings. This was all political. Ivers liked exclusives. There were mobsters in the papers evety other day. The general public couldn’t tell one from another. But if Ivers could bring in a serial killer before the guy hit the papers and got a nifty nickname, Ivers would pick up a few nice brownie points down in Washington for sparing the Bureau the inevitable embarrassment of having to tell reporters day after day that no, they haven’t caught Donald the Ripper yet. It would be a great coup for Ivers, and when you came right down to it, boosting the man’s career was what they were all there for. At least, that was how Ivers saw it. Asshole.

Ivers buttoned his shirt collar and pulled up his tie. “Given Madeleine’s expertise in these matters, I’m making her coordinating agent in this case. Until Emerick is apprehended, Gibbons, you answer to her.”

“What!”

“You heard me. And as for you, Tozzi, I want you to go home and rest. You’re on sick leave, so get busy being sick. If I find out you’ve been sticking your nose in this investigation again, I’ll arrange for a more permanent leave of absence. Do you read me?”

Tozzi glowered at him. “Yes, sir.” The two syllables sounded like something else.

Ivers went to his desk, and Tozzi got up and stomped to the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs, Gib.” He was gonna be climbing the walls tonight.

Cummings started gathering up her precious printouts and files. “Gibbons, I’m going to be busy here putting together a complete profile of Emerick. I think it would be helpful if you went down to the hospital tomorrow morning. See if you can find anyone on staff who remembers hearing Sal Immordino talking to Emerick. Find out what Sal said to him if you can. Maybe the other guards on that ward can be of some help.”

Gibbons glared at her. His gut was roasting. The “coordinating agent” was up on her high horse again.

When he didn’t say anything, she looked up from her papers. “Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.” He headed for the door.

“When can I expect your report?”

“When it’s ready.”

“When do you think that will be?”

He turned around and just stared at her. When I fucking feel like it.

Ivers was standing behind his desk, waiting to hear Gibbons’s answer. “We’d like it as soon as you get back from the hospital,” he said.

Gibbons grumbled. “Right.”

The Siamese smiled. “Good.”

Right. As soon as I get back. Whenever the hell that is.

Gibbons left Ivers’s office and passed into the waiting room, a crooked grin on his face. He had to catch up with Tozzi so they could figure out how they were going to handle Immordino.

“And, Gibbons,” the assistant director called through the doorway, “if you or Tozzi go anywhere near Sal Immordino, you can consider yourselves dismissed.”

Don’t do me any favors, asshole.

Gibbons kept walking. His gut was on fire. He was afraid to open his mouth for what he might say.

“Did you hear me, Gibbons? Gibbons?”

“I heard you.”

The outer door slammed.

Sal pulled the car over to the curb next to a dark loading dock, took it out of gear, and turned off the engine. He’d already switched the headlights off before he turned onto the street. It was one of those deserted blocks in the West Thirties, no apartments, just factories and warehouses from one end to the other. Sal ran his fingers along the bottom half of the steering wheel as he peered out the windshield at the red taillights moving slowly down the block. “A real freakin’ stud, this guy,” he muttered to himself.

He shook his head at Charles’s shitty little Chevy as it crawled in and out of the streetlights. Mr. Badass Stud was checking out the meat. Hookers came out of the shadows as the Chevy approached, then disappeared just as fast when it passed them by. Charles was a fussy bastard. He didn’t want any black chicks, and brunettes didn’t seem to interest him very much either. It was the blondes he braked for. But he was being very picky with them, too.

Sal shook his head. A real freakin’ stud. And a made man, too. A made man with a mouth to match his big
moolinyam
pecker. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking?

Sal rolled down the window all the way and stuck his head out to get some air. He hated this fucking car. A goddamn Datsun, for chrissake. They didn’t even call them Datsuns anymore. The thing belonged to Lucy, the old lady who helped Cil out at the home, and it was a real piece of shit. For one thing, it was too small for him, and for another, it stunk of her perfume. He only hoped Lucy didn’t notice that it wasn’t parked where she’d left it in the alley out back of the home. Cil probably wouldn’t let her call the cops, though, because she’d figure he was the one who took it. But then who the hell wanted to hear Cil when he got back? She’d be all over him, screaming about how he should stay in and not risk being seen. She was getting to be a real pain in the ass with that. You’d think she’d just be happy that he was out of the nuthouse. She didn’t act happy, though, and she was getting a little too bossy with him. He was gonna have to set her straight. Not right now, later. There were a few other people he had to set straight first.

The brake lights flashed on Charles’s Chevy as it passed under another streetlight. Two pros came out from the shadows. A couple of blondes.

One girl could hardly walk, her heels were so high. She was wearing a long fur coat that went down to her ankles, and her hair was done up high on her head, sort of a moussed-up Bride of Frankenstein do, except that it also hung down long over one shoulder. When Charles came to a full stop, she opened her coat and showed her booty. She wasn’t wearing a thing underneath. Sal wasn’t impressed. She was long, tall, and bony. Nice tits, but too bony.

The other pro had a perkier look to her. A punky haircut on a round face, a little more meat on the bone than the other one. She was wearing red spike heels, but she could navigate a lot better than her girlfriend could. She opened her white rabbit jacket for the customer and showed him some very nice cleavage under a skintight red halter top. Sal had to squint to see what she was wearing on the bottom. It looked like a red Ace bandage coming up under her crotch, barely covering the essentials. Sal wondered what the hell that thing was. He’d never seen anything like that before.

The two blondes moseyed on over to the Chevy. The perky one leaned into the passenger-side window. The bony one hung back and stayed up on the curb. She looked like she wouldn’t be able to get back up on her stilts if she leaned over too far. The negotiations didn’t take long, but Sal was surprised when the perky one stepped aside and the bony one got into the Chevy. Sal would’ve bet money that Charles was gonna take the other one. Sal would’ve. Hands down.

As he watched the Chevy’s taillights, Sal rotated his head and hunched his shoulders. He was tense. These broads out here were all Juicy Vacarini’s. If Charles opened his big yap and bragged to his pro that Sal Immordino had just made him, it could get back to Juicy, and the bastard could have a field day with that. Juicy would make a big stink about it, take it to the friggin’ commission. Sal could hear him now:
Sal Immordino made a freakin’ nigger!
Christ, there’d be an open contract on his head. Every family member around the world would be obligated to whack him if they got the chance. And there were always those ass-kissing go-getters who’d want to make their mark by hunting him down and bringing in his head. He wouldn’t be safe anywhere.

Sal stared at the Chevy’s taillights as he rubbed the muscles between his neck and shoulder. They were like rock. The brake lights went out then, and the Chevy pulled away from the curb.

Sal turned the key in the ignition and hit the gas pedal. The Datsun’s starter spun, but the goddamn engine wouldn’t turn over. He pumped the accelerator, but it didn’t do any good. Sal let go of the key and cursed under his breath. The friggin’ engine was flooded again. He’d have to give it a minute before it’d start now. Son of a fuckin’ bitch. The Chevy was already at the end of the block. He was gonna lose the bastard.

Sal turned the key again. The starter whirred, but the engine wouldn’t fire. The Chevy was waiting at the light, the left signal blinking. Charles was gonna turn down Ninth Avenue. Shit! Sal would never find him once he got into the flow of traffic on Ninth. Charles could hit it up on the avenue, then disappear down another side street, which was exactly what he was gonna do, find some nice dark side street where he could get his money’s worth from the pro. Shit!

Sal put his hand on the key again. He wanted to try it again, see if he’d get lucky, but he knew it wouldn’t start. You had to wait longer with this thing. At least a minute. But he didn’t have a fucking minute. The red light turned green. Charles was gonna be gone in a second. Sal’s neck muscles cramped. Shit!

But as the traffic light turned and Sal was about to turn the key and try it again, the white backup lights on the Chevy’s tail flashed on.

The Chevy went into reverse and rolled back down the block. Sal could hear the transmission whining. The car jerked to a stop under the streetlight where Charles had picked up the bony blonde.

They were yelling, the two of them. Sal could hear them, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The passenger door whipped open then, and the bony blonde got out in a huff.

“Kiss my ass, you cheap son of a bitch!”

She slammed the door and hammered the roof with her purse a few times before she clicked back into the shadows on her stilts.

The perky blonde with the Ace bandage on her crotch peeked out of the shadows like an alley cat. She slipped over to the car and hopped in next to Charles. Sal could see their silhouettes in the front seat. A little talk, then two heads nodding. They were in agreement. As the Chevy took off again, the pro’s cigarette butt sailed out of the passenger window and hit the pavement in a spray of orange sparks.

Sal tried the ignition again. The starter whirred. Sal kept his foot off the gas. It kept whirring, wouldn’t turn over. Fuck!

He stopped, counted to five, and tried it again, foot off the gas. It spun and spun. Nothing.

C’mon, dammit all!

Suddenly the engine coughed and sputtered to life. Sal gave her gas and gunned it, afraid that if she died out on him again, that would be it. The Chevy was waiting at the corner. The light was red again. Sal pulled out into the street and drove slow.

“Hey! Over here, honey!”

The bony blonde was waving to him, her coat open, shaking her bush. He got a good look at her face. It was brutal. Too damn skinny. She looked like a goddamn skeleton with tits.

“Hey, baby! C’mere! Wanna party?”

Sal waved her off and kept going.

She had one of those voices, too. Like steel wool and Ajax. Cil’s voice was sort of like that sometimes.

The light changed and the Chevy turned left onto Ninth. Sal sped up to make the light. Charles was already cruising downtown in the right lane when Sal got to the corner, not too fast, not too slow. The girl was probably telling him where they could go park to do the deed.

Sal veered around a double-parked cab and wondered why Charles had changed his mind about the bony blonde. It couldn’t have been the price. Juicy’s street girls all charge the same—or at least they’re supposed to. Maybe Charles got a good look at her face in the car and realized that all blondes are not beautiful. A lot of black guys must think that because you see an awful lot of doggy blondes walking down the street, holding hands with black guys. Maybe Charles was smartening up and developing some taste. It comes with being a made man—you get taste all of a sudden. Yeah, right. Sal stared at the Chevy’s taillights and tried to grin. It really wasn’t funny. The
moolinyam
could be bragging to the girl right now.

The Chevy hung a right onto Twenty-fifth Street without signaling. Sal stepped on the accelerator and raced down to Twenty-fourth, then Twenty-third, hung a right, went to the end of the block, hung another right on Tenth Avenue, then raced back up to Twenty-fifth. Cruising past the intersection, he looked up the block and saw a set of headlights going out. Charles was parked between the streetlights in the middle of the block in front of a loading dock. It was another dark factory street. Sal pulled into a parking space out of sight on Tenth and cut the engine. Charles and the pro needed their privacy.

He sat there for a minute, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror, trying to figure out what he should do. Charles didn’t have much money so he probably wasn’t going for the deluxe job, not in the front seat of the car. He’d want to do it in a room if he were going for the deluxe job. He was a made man, after all. Sal looked at his watch. He wondered how long it took to get a little head. He wasn’t sure, but knowing that horny son of a bitch, it probably wouldn’t take that long.

Sal got out of the car and started walking toward the corner, the oncoming headlights on the avenue shining in his face. There was a big mother of a pro hanging out on the next block, one of those Amazon girls. Sal spit into the gutter. Probably a guy in girl’s clothes looking to roll the horny assholes who come in from Jersey.

As Sal turned the corner, he was suddenly startled by something moving in the shadows on the sidewalk next to a brick wall. He hit the pavement and scrambled to the next loading dock, thinking it was the shooter Juicy had hired to get him. But when he didn’t hear any shots, he peeked around the edge of the loading dock and saw what looked like a giant cocoon wrapped in plastic garbage bags. It was some homeless guy trying to get some sleep. Sal stared at the plastic cocoon for a second, waiting to see if the big moth inside was waking up or settling down or what. It shifted around, rustling the plastic, but it didn’t look like it had the energy to do anything more than that. Sal stood up slowly and moved on. His chest was pounding.

He crossed the street and headed toward the Chevy, looking all around just to make sure. He didn’t think he’d been followed, but you could never tell. It was darker down this end of the block, and Sal’s eye kept darting into the shadows up on the loading docks, expecting to see a muzzle flash, ready to hit the pavement again.

As he came up to the car, Sal could just barely make out Charles’s face. His eyes must’ve been closed because he didn’t react as Sal approached. His head was lolled back against the headrest. Sal looked in through the driver’s side window. The perky blonde’s head was in his lap. Charles was in ecstasy.

Sal knocked on the window, and Charles jumped. “What the—”

“Hey, calm down, Charles. It’s just me.”

The blonde lifted her head and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as Charles rolled down the window. “You scared me, man. Whattaya doin’ here, Sal?”

Sal smiled at the pro. She was cute. In a hard sort of way.

“I be wit’ you in five minutes, Sal. Just go wait over there—”

“Open up, Charles. It’s cold out here.” Sal pointed to the lock on the back door.

Charles tried to cover his dong with the flap of his jacket, but he was too big. “But, Sal, can’t you see I’m busy here? I’m sorta in the middle—”

Sal hunkered down and stuck his face in the window. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be made, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So now you’re a made guy. You forget who your boss is already?”

“No, Sal, I didn’t forget. You’re the boss—”

“Oh, so you do remember. Good. So what’s that mean, me being the boss?”

“It means whatever you say goes.”

“That’s right. What I say goes. So I’m telling you to open the friggin’ door.” Sal pointed at the lock.

“No, no, bay-bee.” The blonde had a thick accent. She started jabbering then. It sounded like Polish or Russian or something. She sat up and shook out her hair, and Sal could see that she really was very nice. He wondered why Juicy had her working the street. She should be in a house, not out here. Too bad. She was nice.

“Open the friggin’ door, will ya, Charles? I told you, I’m cold.”

Charles twisted around and unlocked it.

The pro started to complain. Sal could tell from the way she was jabbering.

Sal got in back and shut the door. “Don’t worry about me, honey bun. Finish up what you were doing. I can wait.”

“She don’t speak no English, Sal.”

“Whattaya mean she don’t speak English?” He’d seen her and Charles negotiating in the Chevy.

“All she knows is money.”