Murder Takes Time (37 page)

Just like now,
Frankie thought as he turned onto Flatbush to head home
. How are we going to know who this is? But I know, Tony, you slippery fuck. I know.

F
OR THREE DAYS,
F
RANKIE
and Lou investigated the sites of the other crimes. They talked to people at diners, coffee houses, fast food joints and pizza shops. They found a few more people who felt sure they recognized Nicky, but also more who swore it was Tony. On day four, Frankie got home by nine, plopped in his chair and listened to music. But the more he relaxed, the more he thought about the case. A statement from one of the delivery drivers kept haunting him. Before he knew it, he was up from the chair and had the files and folders spread across the table, smoke curling up from the cigarette in the ashtray.

He searched for the statement then stopped, reading it in detail, though it was already imprinted on his mind. This guy had identified the picture as Nicky, and he sounded credible. He said he remembered it because it was unusual. He delivered to the diner by Nino’s house and saw the guy sitting at the table eating dinner. Half an hour later, he went to the restaurant by Donnie Amato’s work and saw him there. He remembered thinking.
Didn’t this guy just eat dinner?

Frankie put down the notes, took a long drag of his cigarette, and let the smoke drift out slowly. This meant the killer was staking out his victims long beforehand. And it meant he was probably watching somebody else right now, sitting in a diner or a coffee house and watching the next guy he was going to kill. Frankie just had to figure out who.

He wanted to believe it was Tony. That would be the easy thing, but he knew in his heart that Tony and Nicky looked a lot alike; people used to think they were brothers. And that damn picture he’d shown people was from a cell phone, not the best quality.

Frankie got up, paced the apartment, then went to the window. He pulled the curtain back just a touch and peeked out into the street.

Who are you watching, Nicky?

CHAPTER 57

THINGS IN COMMON

Current Day

F
rankie got home from another miserable day of getting nothing done. He did without wine again—he’d had too much of late—but he brewed a great cup of espresso and lit a smoke to enjoy it with. Long ago he realized he had too many vices to quit all at once, so he opted for control of them one at a time.

The “Things in Common” chart had moved to a prominent place on his living room wall, the space compliments of his ex-wife. As he stood before his ever-evolving chart, he studied the progress.

Common Links:

Shot in head and heart—All victims

Something in hands when came home—All victims

Single—All victims (Were they gay?)

Frankie paused. Four guys killed and all single. Was he missing something? Was this some sexual deviant? He went to the table and pulled the files.

Tommy Devin, the second one, was single. No sign of girls in the apartment. Nothing in his address book. Neighbors didn’t remember seeing any girls visit. He made a note.

“Could be gay.”

The next file was on Renzo Ciccarelli, the first one killed. Single. No girlfriend.

Fuck, did I screw up? Are these guys all gay?

He leafed through the folder. Copies of
Penthouse
were found in the closet. That was something, but it didn’t say much. He laid down Renzo’s file and reached for Nino’s.

Nino Tortella. Single. Engaged.

Phew.
Frankie breathed a sigh of relief.
Hope it was a girl.

As he looked deeper, all indications were that Nino was straight. He hurried to Donnie Amato’s file.

Donnie Amato. Single. Divorced.
Good.
Wife filed for reasons of infidelity.
Even better.

Donnie seemed to be anything but gay.
Thank God for small favors.

Last thing he wanted was a city in turmoil over a bunch of gay bashings.

Back to the chart.

Torture—Three were. Tommy wasn’t. (Why?)

This one baffled him. Why not Tommy? Why the others, but not him? He wasn’t even the first, so it wasn’t that the killer was escalating. Frankie put a big question mark alongside his name.

Rat shit—Found at all crime scenes—but not rats.

So far, only Nino’s had an actual dead rat. Frankie shook his head. This was weak. He was forcing it, trying to make it fit, and he knew in his heart it just didn’t feel right.

Abundance of DNA—All.

Frankie looked at the rest of the evidence. Most of it was spotty. Baseball bats used on two, but not the other two. Pictures turned down at Nino and Tommy’s house, but others had no pictures in the room.
All
were
killed in their homes, though. He wrote that in the “All” column. He stepped back and studied more. He felt sure there was a mob connection, but he couldn’t prove anything on three of them, and only suspected on two. The other two were clean.

He was hitting a stone wall, and when he did that he knew it was time to change things up. He traded in his espresso for wine. Sometimes he loved his own logic. This was psychology at its best—convince yourself you work better after, or while, drinking wine, so that you can drink wine. But that’s only after you’ve convinced yourself you can’t live without the other vices.

Thank God for giving us psychiatrists to make sense of what we do.

Frankie paced, stopping now and then to study his chart. He went to the other chart, too, looked it over. This was the one he made when he first suspected it was Nicky. Time to see what had changed. He grabbed his red pen and started in on the columns, crossing out items he felt no longer applied, making adjustments as needed to others.

Nicky:

Friends—Who are friends? Me, Tony, Suit. Anyone else?

Yes, the mystery girl.

Honor—Don’t ever run. If this is Nicky, he definitely isn’t running.

But he did run from Tito. What does that tell me?

Girls—?

The girl has something on Tito. Who is she, and how did Nicky meet her?

Nuns—Sister Mary Thomas, does she know anything? Would Nicky tell her?

Prison—Have no idea what he did in there.

Fearless—No shit.

Smart—Definitely.

Rosa—Her teachings affected him. Respect for women.

Pictures turned down. Protection of the girl. What else?

Tito—Tito is after Nicky. Did he kill him?

Cleveland—He called from there, but never sent package. Why?

Frankie finished his first glass of wine, lit a smoke and walked. He liked to walk about the apartment, stare out the window, then come back to the chart. That helped him focus.

Betrayal,
he thought,
that definitely belongs on the list.
He added it to the bottom.

Betrayal—Someone betrayed Nicky.

When he finished with his editing, he stepped back and lit another smoke, contemplating. Now it was time to look at Tony’s chart.

Tony:

Friends—Me, Nicky, Suit, Tito, Manny.

Have to question me and Nicky.

Honor—Not sure if it still means anything to him.

Never did. Remember Woodside.

Girls—Has wife, Celia. Others.

Tony was never faithful. What does that tell me?

Nuns—Never had the respect Nicky did.

Mob—Seems to be in tight.

Rising fast and ambitious.

Conniving—Can no longer trust Tony. DO NOT TRUST HIM.

Smart—Smartest guy I know.

Rosa—His mother, but did he listen to her?

Tito—Does Tony obey him? Or just work for him?

How far would he go for Tito?

Brooklyn—If something mob-related happens in Brooklyn, Tito knows, which means Tony knows.

This was becoming more than a worry. This was a wart on Frankie’s ass now. The captain was reaming out Morreau, and Morreau turned it on Frankie. And Frankie was out of ideas about where to go with this. Plus, he was pissed. He knew one of them did it, but he couldn’t prove it.

Even worse
,
I don’t want to prove it.

After another cigarette, Frankie’s motivation cranked up, and he vowed to find out
why
these guys were killed. He stepped back to analyze the charts one more time. The night was getting old, and he was past tired. Smoke curled up from the ashtray, stung his eye. He reviewed everything again. Played it over in his mind. A few things stuck out.

If he assumed the killer was Tony, there could be a lot of reasons behind the killings, all mob-connected. But if it was Nicky, there was only one reason for him to be so brutal—someone betrayed him or hurt someone he loved.

Frankie thought about the girl, how Nicky was protecting her. Risking his life to help her get away from Tito. How Nicky had called him and said he was sending the evidence but never did. Based on that alone, something had clearly gone wrong. He went to the chart and scribbled in, ‘Someone must have hurt girl.’

As soon as he wrote it he knew it felt right. He would run with that line of reasoning—for now, at least. If someone had hurt the girl, that explained why the killings were so brutal—Nicky was getting even for killing the person he loved. Frankie thought about it and nodded. He could see Nicky doing that. He
would
hurt you if you did him wrong.

Frankie went back to pacing; no way he could go to sleep now. He was closing in on solving the puzzle.

Someone hurt the girl. That explain why the killings were brutal, but not why Nicky didn’t torture Tommy Devin.
Frankie went back to his chair, turned it so he faced the chart and scrutinized it some more.
Why not Tommy?

After ten minutes, maybe more, the answer hit him. The secret was in what the killer
did
to Tommy, not in what he
didn’t
do. Tommy was shot once in the head and once in the heart.

Like everybody else.
Frankie jumped up, grabbed his red pen, and raced to the chart.

‘Girl was killed. Shot in head and heart.’

Satisfied for now, Frankie poured more wine and settled in to watch a movie. Before he went to bed, he wrote down things he had to do the next day:

‘Search databases for female shooting victim. Head and heart.’

I
N THE MORNING HE
went straight to the office, not stopping to chat with Ted, but opting to climb the stairs and get to Carol before anyone else gave her work to do. “Hey, good-looking,” he said when he reached her desk. “I need a favor.”

“That’s redundant, Detective. If you call me good-looking, you always need a favor.”

“Yeah, but this is a big one.”

Carol smiled, cooing. “Now
that
I’ll take.”

Frankie blushed. “All right, cut the shit.” He leaned over her desk. “I need reports on any unsolved murders where there was a female victim shot in both the head and the chest.”

“Where? Brooklyn? Bronx?”

“Anywhere. Whole goddamn country. Tap into the FBI database. Those bastards have data on everything.”

“How far back you want me to go?”

“I don’t know, five or six months, I guess.”

“Anything else?”

Frankie shook his head. “Use your imagination, but head and chest shots are what I’m looking for. And not one or the other—it has to be both.”

CHAPTER 58