Murder Takes Time (36 page)

RULE NUMBER THREE:

MURDER TAKES PATIENCE

8 Months Ago

F
rankie Donovan sat at his table, sipping coffee and staring at the log from the phone company. It had been almost two weeks since Nicky called and still no package. Something had gone wrong, and he intended to find out what.

Should have done this sooner.
He checked the phone bill and saw he only had a few calls the week Nicky called, and only one from out of town—Cleveland.
What the hell are you doing in Cleveland?

He drained his cup and called Carol. “Get me the numbers for whoever we need to talk to in Cleveland about a missing person.” Frankie shook his head and rephrased. “No, not a missing person, a material witness. They’ll look harder for that.”

He finished dressing and headed in to work, giving Carol a picture of Nicky to send to the detective she spoke to. “Did you tell them it’s urgent?”

“I told him, Detective.” She handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s his name and number.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

T
ONY
S
ANNULLO WAITED FOR
the nod from the four guys guarding the door to Cataldi’s, then looked both ways before getting out of the car. He went to his table and sat down but ignored the crossword waiting for him, focusing on the door instead; Tito would be there any minute.

Anna brought espresso when Tito arrived. He sat across from Tony. “Anything?”

“Nothing yet. We know they’re in Cleveland, but we haven’t found them.”

Tito’s eyes darted back and forth. He signaled the waiter, who took orders for breakfast. “Cleveland is a big city.”

“Yeah. Lot of places to hide.”

“Remember, Tony, when she was in Hershey we found her at church?”

“We’re checking, but there are a lot of churches in Cleveland.”

Tito cracked his knuckles while he talked. “What else do we know about her? What does she do? What does she like?”

Tony sipped the last of his espresso, staring off into nothing. Two sips later, he burst out, “Sfogliatelle.”

Tito shook his head. “Don’t serve it here. You know that.”

“Not me. Nicky.”

“What?”

“Nicky loves sfogliatelle. He can’t go a week without it. He told us that’s the thing he missed most in prison. There can’t be more than a few places in Cleveland that sell it—half a dozen at best.”

Tito stood, walked over and kissed him. “You’re a genius.”

After a second espresso, Tito paid the bill, and they prepared to leave. “If you need more men let me know, but find every place in Cleveland that sells sfogliatelle, and have them watched.”

As Tony walked away, Tito grabbed his arm. “Make sure you tell them that if they have a chance to take her out, do it. She has to go at all costs. We can get him later.”

“I don’t know about that, Tito. I wouldn’t piss Nicky off like that.”

Tito stopped and looked at him. “I’d rather they get them both, but she’s the more important one; besides, what’s he gonna do?”

“All I’m saying is, we don’t want to piss Nicky off. I’d wait until we can get them both.”

“You’re not running this show,” he said, and headed for the door.

CHAPTER 56

WHO IS WATCHING?

Current Day

F
rankie’s head pounded as he drove home. He’d been on this case for months and had gotten nowhere. Now Morreau was telling him that the captain put him on the case. Why the hell would the captain want
him
on it? He turned the music off so he could focus. The captain didn’t know him, so why?

More than a few miles went by in traffic that looked like a beach weekend, and he still didn’t have answers. He approached the question from another angle. Why would
anyone
want him on the case?

To solve it. That was the easy answer, but—and this was important—there was no reason for anyone to think Frankie would make a difference in solving this case when they already had a seasoned homicide detective on it.
So why?

It suddenly hit him.
They want me on it, not to solve it, but to keep it unsolved.
He thought through the case as his foot switched continually from gas to brake pedals.

Was Tony behind it? Did something go wrong and Tito was cleaning up loose ends, planting evidence to make Bugs think it was Nicky.
Jesus Christ, did they kill him? Is that why I never heard from Nicky after the Cleveland call? It’s been nine months.

The logic solidified as he drove home and as he climbed the steps to his apartment, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief to soak up sweat. For June it was unseasonably hot. When he got inside, he poured some iced tea, then turned the fan on and let it blow across his face.

The killer had to watch from somewhere. Each victim had something in their hands when they came home, and that couldn’t be a coincidence. He and Lou had already checked the obvious places and turned nothing up. Of course, back then he only half-wanted to solve this crime.

After thinking about it for a while, he realized that plugging Tony into the equation made more sense. These were mob killings, straight and simple. Tito and Tony were just making them look like something else.

Frankie lit a cigarette. The only question now was whether to bring Mazzetti in or not. Lou was a good cop, damn good, but Frankie didn’t know what he’d find. And he wasn’t sure how much he was willing to share, even with his partner. By the time he got to the end of his smoke, he made up his mind. He dialed Lou.

“How about meeting me over by Renzo’s in the morning? Maybe six-thirty or seven.”

“What are we going to find that we didn’t before?”

Frankie paused. He knew this would cause a shit storm. “This time I’m bringing pictures.” He cringed, waiting for the berating.

“You mean pictures of your friends? So you finally decided to be a cop?”

Frankie hadn’t thought of it like that, but Lou was right. “Yeah, Lou. I guess I did.”

F
RANKIE ROSE EARLY, DRESSED
in a hurry, and took Flatbush Avenue toward Prospect Park, then cut across Washington to Atlantic and out to Renzo Ciccarelli’s address. Renzo had lived in a nice, older neighborhood. It bordered trash, but somehow maintained its integrity. He parked in front of Renzo’s, got out and stretched. Lou was already there.

“There’s a McDonald’s, a small diner, and a Dunkin Donuts. It
has
to be one of them,” Lou said.

Frankie lit a smoke and started across the street. “Let’s do Dunkin Donuts first.”

The place was busy, maybe eight or ten people sitting in booths, another half dozen at the counter, and three in line. He ordered a plain coffee and a cinnamon roll for himself and a coffee for Lou.

“That’ll be seven thirty-four,” the man behind the counter said.

Frankie paid with a ten, placed the change in the tip jar, then asked the question he came for. “You ever see any of these men?” He showed them a picture, taken maybe a year ago of Nicky, Tony, Paulie, and himself seated around a table at Cataldi’s.

The guy looked at him with suspicious eyes. Frankie flashed a badge. “Police business.”

Now his eyes seemed more suspicious, but all he said was, “No.”

Frankie nodded toward the other worker, showed her the photo. “Ever see any of these guys?”

She shook her head. “Other than you, none that I remember.”

A rail-thin Pakistani or Indian guy, stared at him over a pair of glasses with a bent frame. “I told you. We saw no one.”

Frankie grabbed the cinnamon roll and coffee, said “Thanks” then followed Lou out the door. Next stop was the restaurant. He hoped this would pay off, because there was no way the McDonald’s would. As he approached, his hopes skyrocketed. Four cop cars were parked on the side of the building. If cops frequented this place, they might have noticed something.

The four patrol cars translated into six cops. Frankie approached the closest table, where two patrolmen were just finishing breakfast. He showed them his ID, then pulled out the picture.

“I’ve got reason to believe that one of these guys frequented this place for at least a few weeks while he prepared for a murder. Ever seen him?”

They looked at Frankie with doubtful eyes. “Never saw him,” one guy said, and both shook their heads.

Frankie pressed it. “Take a look, goddamnit. One of these guys was here. I know it.”

The older cop slapped a ten on the table as he stood. “Hey, buddy. Like we said. Never saw him. Make your case somewhere else.”

No wonder people hated cops. “Have a nice fuckin’ day while you’re at it, okay?”

He talked to the hostess and got a seat with a good view of Renzo’s place. A perfect view. It was too far away for Renzo to have noticed anyone watching him, but it offered a clear shot of his house.

“So what do you think, Donovan?”

“I think he was here, Maybe right at this table.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Lou, order me coffee when she comes. I’m gonna talk to the other cops.”

The next guy was helpful, said he thought he recognized the picture of Nicky, but couldn’t swear to it. Frankie moved on to the next three, all sharing a table. Two guys and one female. “Hate to interrupt a good breakfast, but I’m working a tough case and could use help. Ever seen any of these guys, maybe right in this diner?” Frankie laid the picture on the table and waited.

The first guy said no, but the lady, while chewing, poked at the picture with her finger as if she were nailing it to the table. “I think I know this guy.”

Frankie’s pulse quickened. She pointed to Tony. “From where?”

She swallowed, took a sip of water, then continued. “I don’t mean I
know
him, just that I’ve seen him here.” She turned, pointing to the table next to where Lou was. “Used to sit right over there.” She paused then pointed to the next booth. “Maybe the one next to it.”

The other cop looked at the picture. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

She shook her head again. “That’s because you guys weren’t here. Besides, I noticed the guy because he was hot. This was when I was on the afternoon rounds with Pete. He stopped here almost every night for dinner, and every once in a while that guy—” Again she pointed at the photo “—was sitting at that table, reading the paper.”

Reading the paper,
Frankie thought,
or doing crosswords. Goddamnit, it’s Tony.
Frankie grabbed his coffee and brought it back to the table. “Mind if I sit?”

She slid over, extended her hand. “Patti,” she said, prompting the other two to introduce themselves.

“Ted,” the one who spoke first said, and, “Clarence,” from the other.

“Anything else you can tell me about this guy?” Frankie asked.

“This about that guy across the street getting killed?”

Frankie nodded. “Not just him. Three others, too. That we know of.” He gulped the rest of his coffee. It was getting warm, and he hated coffee to be anything but piping hot. “I’m catching more shit than you can imagine.”

All three heads nodded at that statement. “You might check with the afternoon waitress crew. They come on about two. Girl named Cindy usually works the rotation where he sat, and she’s a talkative one. Maybe she chatted him up.” Patti finished her coffee, took a sip of water, then nudged Frankie to slide over and let her out. “Tell you one thing. Your guy’s got balls if he sat here with cops every day, plotting a murder. Big brass ones.”

As they said goodbye, Frankie nodded.
Yep, big brass ones.
Although that described either one of them.

Frankie and Lou went to the McDonald’s, not expecting anything and that’s exactly what they got. They went back to the station, worked some files, and returned to the restaurant about five. Cindy vaguely remembered a guy who came in once in a while, but she struggled with the photo. When Frankie pressed her, she picked out Tony.

“And you don’t remember anything else?” Frankie asked.

“You know how many people I get in here? Look around. Would you remember one customer?”

“You’re certain it’s the guy you pointed to?”

She stared at it again. “If you’re asking me if it could possibly, maybe, be this guy—okay, yeah. But if you’re asking me to go to court and swear on it, no.”

Frankie thanked her, but silently cursed.
Waitress who wants to be a lawyer. Just what I need.

He found Pete, Patti’s short-lived partner, but Pete didn’t recognize anyone. Frankie left the restaurant, went back to Dunkin Donuts and questioned the night crowd, but got nothing new, so he packed it in for the day and went home.

On the way home, thoughts raced through his mind. A lot of the DNA evidence collected at the scenes turned out to be from cops. Where would a killer get that?
From a restaurant where cops hung out, that’s where.

All he would have to do is sit in that booth and collect DNA. And wasn’t there gum at one of the scenes? He remembered how, in fourth grade, Tony used to wait until Sister Theresa’s back was turned, then he’d yell. She’d whip around, ready to whack someone, but she could never tell who it was, and no one would say. Tony used to tell us, “With forty kids in the class, how’s she going to know who did it?”