Murder Takes Time (24 page)

4. Murder is invisible—To be good at this, you need to be invisible. And since you can’t really be invisible, you have to practice not being noticed. There is a difference between being
seen
and being
noticed
. If you have to break rule number three, make sure you adhere to rule number four.

5. Murder is a promise—If you enter into a deal to murder someone, that is a promise, a secret pact. Once you take the assignment, you need to finish the job, or it could come back to haunt you.

6. Murder is immaculate—Don’t leave any clues, and make sure you clean up loose ends.

I took all the rules to heart, but I especially practiced number one. When we saw Tito the next time, Johnny told him I was ready.

“He’ll be teaching me pretty soon,” he said.

Tito turned to me. “Remember, Nicky. Nobody knows what you do. Just Johnny, Manny and me.”

“That’s the way I like it.” As I left, I wondered what to tell Bugs and them about what I did. They’d already been asking. I worried about Bugs, too. I felt I could trust him, but…he
was
a cop—not a good person for me to be associating with. One day he’d wake up and realize he really
was
a cop.

CHAPTER 36

DONNIE AMATO

Brooklyn—Current Day

W
hen he found Donnie Amato, his heart raced. He couldn’t wait to keep
this
promise. It’s not that he liked killing people, but if it had to be done—and this did—then killing Donnie Amato would not keep him up at nights. Rushing these things was never good, though, so he settled in and did it right.

He sat in a booth at the diner—a red booth with tears in the seat and white fluff poking out—and sipped coffee and mopped up egg yolks with the last bite of a garlic bagel. The sausage links and fried potatoes were long gone, the plates disappearing with the first ritual cleansing by the very obtrusive and not-so-quiet waitress. As he contemplated dessert, his eyes shifted to the building across the street, a ramshackle, two-story house converted into half a dozen office spaces.

“More coffee?” the waitress asked.

He always seemed to end up in diners, perhaps because they were as anonymous as any place can get. He knew he was breaking rule number three, but at diners rule number four kicked in automatically—no one noticed anyone in a diner. He set his cup down, nodded as he looked up at her. Not a typical diner waitress, this one was both young and pretty with a pleasant demeanor.

“Thank you,” he said, and made a mental note to tip her more. Not so much she’d remember him, but enough to let her know he appreciated the service. Silently, he chided himself. He shouldn’t have stared.

Like clockwork, the door across the street opened, and out stepped Donnie Amato, sporting a three-quarter-length leather coat. As he checked both ways on the street his head bounced about like a hockey puck at a Ranger’s game. He went a few steps, checked the street again, then walked toward his car. He’d be going home now, but not before stopping at Grant’s fruit stand. After all, this
was
Wednesday. Donnie walked down the concrete pavement, eyes shifting one way, then another.

The man in the diner signaled the waitress, who hurried over with a check. He paid the bill, then left, climbing into an older model blue Chevy. Common car. Common color. Nothing anyone would take note of. He waited until Donnie started his car, then followed him the eight blocks to the fruit stand. He took it slow, never exceeding the speed limit. When he got to Donnie’s house, he drove half a block past it, parking behind a donut shop on the next street. Walking back at a quick pace, he entered through the back door and waited. He had come earlier in the day to prepare, but he made a final check to ensure things were ready. The holes were drilled in the wall. He had the rope. Bag on the counter in the kitchen. He nodded, pulled out his bat and the three-pronged fork, then the gag and the lighter fluid. After that he went to the living room to wait.

D
ONNIE
A
MATO RODE HOME
from the fruit stand with a huge smile on his face. They didn’t have Jersey tomatoes—they weren’t out yet—but he got some great looking melons from down South. Wasn’t much better than prosciutto and melons. He also got enough mangos to last till next week.

He took a right onto a narrow street then one more right turn before pulling into his driveway. He walked the few steps to the house, stepped into the living room and shut the door behind him.

The first things Donnie noticed were the holes in the wall. They looked to be about two inches round and about two feet apart, chest high.

“What the hell?” he said, just before the bat smashed his ribs. He gasped for breath, and, as his head hit the floor, he noticed two more holes, ankle-high. The next hit knocked him out.

D
ONNIE LAY ON THE
floor, unconscious. He dragged Donnie to the wall, stood him up, and secured him with a rope he pushed through the holes in the wall. Donnie’s body sagged, but he was secure, upright, with his arms tight against his body. He took two plastic bags from the counter, opened the one containing sand, and poured it into a pitcher he took from Donnie’s cabinet. A final check to make sure everything was ready, then he spread the evidence and waited for Donnie to wake up. With the first moan, he went to him.

“I need a name.”

“Fuck you, who do you—”

He took the gag, which was actually a baby diaper, and tied it to a long three-pronged fork, the kind used for lifting turkeys or large roasts. When it was just right—nice and fluffy at the end—he jammed it into Donnie’s mouth, breaking a few teeth. Donnie’s head rammed against the wall. He tried to scream, eyes agape. Tried kicking him too.

“Do that again and I’ll shoot you. Understand?”

Donnie nodded vigorously.

He cut the clothes from Donnie’s body. A few times the knife cut into skin, drawing a little blood. Donnie tried talking, and he banged his head to draw his attention. The man got the can of lighter fluid and a box of matches. He squirted it between Donnie’s toes, letting it pool just a little. Afterwards, he removed the gag.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“A name.”

“I don’t know what kind of freak you are, but I got friends.”

“I only want the name of one of them.”

“I told you—”

He shoved the gag into Donnie’s mouth, struck the match and dropped it to the floor, just beside Donnie’s left foot. Flames spread across both feet and onto the floor. Donnie screamed, though nothing came out; the gag prevented that. Donnie kicked his feet and stomped, but his feet were tied to the wall. The man let the fire burn for about ten seconds, and then doused it with the sand from the pitcher. When Donnie calmed down, he removed the gag.

Donnie appeared dazed, but not enough to prevent his protestations. “What the fuck? Are you nuts? Jesus Christ.” Blood oozed from his mouth.

“Don’t make me put the gag back in.”

“Okay. What do you want?” It seemed difficult for Donnie to talk now, with all the blood and the missing teeth.

“I already told you, the name. Who planned it?”

“All right. All right.” Donnie looked right into his eyes. “Nino Tortella.”

He jammed the gag so hard the prongs of the fork struck the back of Donnie’s throat. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.” He squirted the lighter fluid on Donnie’s balls and dick. It drizzled down his legs.

Donnie pleaded with his eyes, groaned, begged. His head bobbed up and down like a puppet.

He removed the gag. “The name.”

“Johnny Muck. It was Johnny Muck. That’s all I know.” He breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Now let me go. Please?”

He nodded, repeating, “Johnny Muck,” as he soaked the rag in lighter fluid. When it was drenched, he shoved it into Donnie’s mouth, then lit the match and threw it on his balls. “I’ll set your soul free, Donnie. How about that?”

Donnie tried screaming. Banged his head against the wall. Stomped his feet, but the fire kept burning.

He squirted a few more shots onto his hair, letting it drip down, then stood back to watch. When the fire hit his chest hair, it raced up, swarming his face. He waited until the gag caught on fire, smothering Donnie’s face in flames and engulfing his mouth. Surely it went down his throat too.

After Donnie died, he used a blanket to smother the flames then spread the remainder of the evidence. He was careful not to step in Donnie’s mess—the urine or feces. Blood was bad enough; he didn’t want that other stuff on his shoes. He went back to the kitchen, changed clothes, put the plastic on his shoes, then grabbed his bag and returned to the living room. He made the sign of the cross as he repeated the Trinitarian formula, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” When he was done, he took his gun and shot Donnie Amato. Once in the head. Once in the heart.

An eye for an eye,
he thought,
and then some.

As he left the house, he removed the plastic from his shoes and placed it in the bag. He made the short walk to his car without encountering anyone. A good sign. It was just now getting dark; perhaps he had time yet for dinner. He didn’t ask forgiveness for this one. Maybe it was because Donnie needed killing so bad. Maybe that was a bad sign. But he had no time to worry about it. Johnny Muck was still out there. And he
surely
needed killing.

CHAPTER 37

AN UNEXPECTED CALL

Brooklyn—2 Years Ago

T
he Fed-Ex truck took a right on Sixth Street and pulled up to #115. It was a big, three-story house built in the early part of the century. The driver jumped out, envelope in hand, and walked up the steps to the front door. Manny Rosso stepped out of the house and onto the stoop.

“Package for Mr. Martelli,” the driver said.

Manny accepted the envelope, examined it as if it might be a bomb, then inked his name on the delivery slip before disappearing into the house. “Tito.” His voice echoed off the hardwood floors. The kitchen was in the back, and it had a huge eating area surrounded by bay windows.

Tito sipped cappuccino while he read the paper. It was well past the acceptable hour for cappuccino—at least, that’s what his father would have said, adhering to old Italian traditions—but Tito had grown to like it at any time of day, particularly late morning.

“Coming in,” Manny said.

Tito held out his hand without looking up. “What have we got, Manny?”

“Fed-Ex package.”

“Who sent it?”

Manny squinted as he tried to read the handwriting. “Says Giuseppe…something. Can’t make it out.”

Tito turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Don’t know any Giuseppe. Open it.”

Manny unzipped the package, reached inside and pulled out a small box and an envelope, which he handed to Tito. Tito looked up at Manny, a question on his face, then he opened the envelope and read the letter:

Mr. Martelli:

You probably don’t remember me, but we met many times before. You used to come to my house as an honored guest of my father. You used to share his coffee and his wine. And you ate my mother’s cooking. Thank the good Lord she died before she saw what happened. But enough of that. I am sure you will be happy to know that you made my father’s life miserable. He cursed you with his last breath. So, yes, Carlo is dead, and you are happy. The problem is, Mr. Martelli, with a few of those breaths before he died, he told me everything. He gave me the gun you used to kill Danny Zenkowski. The gun my father never disposed of. The one with your prints on it.

I am tired of hiding. Tired of looking over my shoulder and wondering when one of your goons will show up and kill me. I want $400,000. And I want it in small, untraceable bills with non-sequential serial numbers. If I find tracers, or dyes, or anything fishy about the transaction—or if I even think I’m being watched, I’ll go to the FBI. I’m sure they will find my story interesting. But if you keep your end of the deal, I will disappear, and you will never hear from me again.