Murder Takes Time (41 page)

RULE NUMBER FOUR:

MURDER IS INVISIBLE

Current Day

I
got up early, drove to the park and let the car sit, then walked the rest of the way. All through the morning, I thought about how to kill Johnny Muck. He deserved something special. But he wouldn’t be easy. Johnny Muck was in a constant state of tension, ever-ready to strike out at someone. And if he struck, it was to kill. He had been a good teacher. Competent. Thorough. But everyone had a weakness. What was his?

I thought about it. He lived his life on alert. Never did anything as routine. Didn’t shop on the same days, not even in the same places. Went to different gas stations, laundries, fruit stands. He seldom took the same routes anywhere he went, even if it meant going miles out of the way. He always suspected tails, so he was nearly impossible to follow. He would slow down, wait until a light turned yellow, then run it, all the while checking to see if anyone followed.

I tried to think of what Johnny liked. He ate almost any kind of food, so he didn’t frequent one restaurant. He never went to the movies, not that I knew. As I pondered the situation, it finally hit me. Johnny loved his windshield to be clean. He always complained about dirty windshields, and was one of the few people who liked the window-washers who used to assault people at the streetlights. After Giuliani cracked down on them, it was tough to get your windows cleaned. Johnny used to look for guys who still did it. That could be my ticket. I just had to think of a plan.

It took me a while to figure it out, but after having no luck trying to follow Johnny, I narrowed my scope down to a few streets where I knew that sooner or later, he would go by. One of them was Flatbush Avenue by Prospect Park. Johnny loved to drive by the park, though I don’t think he knew it was a habit. Once I remembered that, I used Johnny’s own rules to catch him. I disguised myself as one of the homeless window washers with old clothes from Goodwill, let my beard grow out to be scruffy, and pulled a dirty cap down far enough to cover my forehead. Dirt smudges on my face combined to round out the effect. I waited on the corner of one of the routes he’d probably take to get out of Brooklyn from Tito’s place, one that took him by the park. Had to wait eight days to finally catch him coming that way, and to get him at a red light. When I saw his car coming, I got up, made sure to use my best limp, and moved toward his car.

“Window washed, mister?” I asked as I pointed toward his windshield.

“If you can hurry.”

I washed as fast as I could while faking the limp, and all the while, making sure my face was above his range of view. I pretended to drop something, and as I fumbled, I slipped a magnetic GPS under the wheel rim. By then the light was changing. I grabbed a few bucks from him and beat a hasty retreat.

Three hours later, I found the car, removed the GPS, then waited until morning to see him come out of his house. It was a nice little neighborhood in Valley Stream about fifteen miles from Tito’s place. Single home with a well-kept yard and a detached garage out back.

You’re mine now, Johnny.

That weekend I went to the hardware store just off Interstate 87 in New Jersey. It was a Saturday morning. No one would remember a face from a busy day like this. Aisle four had some of what I needed. I picked up one pound of sixteen-penny nails, four one-inch eye hooks, and a small drill, and put them all in the basket. The tool section had a nice twenty-two ounce claw hammer. Good grip on it too. Duct tape, superglue and rope rounded out the shopping list, which I paid for in the longest line, then loaded it in the trunk and returned to New York.

I prepared things meticulously. One of my prison contacts had hooked me up with a guy who worked at Animal Control, and through a simple exchange using P.O. boxes, he got me a handgun with tranquilizer darts, ones guaranteed to put down a two-hundred pound animal within seconds. I figured it would work on humans, too.

I
WATCHED FOR A
week. Johnny didn’t seem to have any particular routine when he got home. No traps seemed to be set, no alarms needed to be turned off. He simply parked the car, got out and walked in. When he got there, he used a key to get in. Nothing unusual. I went to the house twice during the day when he wasn’t home and knocked on the door—no dogs, and no one else answered. I risked going in. It might be safer to take him somewhere else, I figured, but I wanted it done here.

I checked the neighborhood for escape routes—always good to know the area. The whole neighborhood was full of single-family houses with detached garages and open yards—perfect for getting out easy. Six blocks away was a subway station, and maybe twelve or thirteen blocks in the other direction was a mall. Either would be good for what I had in mind. With my preparation done, I decided to move ahead.

The next afternoon, I went into his house. I didn’t get things ready like I usually did. I thought I’d wait for that. I tidied up a bit and turned down a picture that might have been his mother—even an ex-wife. For the next hour or so, I did a lot of thinking. Why had God been so harsh with me? I kept trying to straighten my life out, but circumstances had forced me onto paths I didn’t want to take. And now, with Gina gone…

When his car pulled up, I crouched behind the door and waited. I held the tranquilizer gun in my right hand and a .38 in my left, in case the drugs didn’t work. Footsteps sounded on the walk, then up the steps. Slow and steady. The storm door opened, the key turned in the lock, and in stepped Johnny Muck. I had my .38 aimed at him, just in case. As he turned to shut the door, I shot him in the neck.

He stumbled backwards and dropped his keys. He reached for his gun, but I shoved him, and he fell into a chair. He struggled a little, trying to stand, but never mustered the ability. After a minute or so, he was out. The tranquilizer had taken a bit longer than the “few seconds” the guy had claimed, but it was pretty damn good. I made sure Johnny was really out, and then I got things ready.

I set my bag on the kitchen counter, took out the evidence and spread it around. I fastened one-inch hooks to the four corners of the dining room walls. I picked up Johnny’s fedora, dusted it off and set in on the counter next to his gloves. Then I dragged Johnny to the dining room, and laid him on the hardwood floor, on his back. I tied each of his wrists and ankles to the hooks, then pulled the slack from them so he couldn’t move. I had a nice gag prepared, but opted for plain old duct tape to start with. Depending on how aware Johnny was, I might have to switch.

It took about half an hour for him to come to his senses. When he did, I saw that look in his eyes I’d been waiting for. The same look he had seen himself many times. He rolled his eyes, and shook his head from side to side, squirmed what little he could. I could tell from his expression he wanted to talk, so I undid the tape.

“Nicky, you know it was just business.”

I wanted to punish him right then, but I held my temper. “I know, Johnny, and I understand. But I need names.”

“What do I get out of it? You let me go?”

I laughed. He did too. “You know that’s not happening.”

He gulped. I saw the Adam’s apple dance in his throat. “I heard about Donnie.”

“Shame about him,” I said. “But he lied to me. I need to know all the shooters and who ordered it.”

Johnny didn’t hesitate with the truth; he knew he was going to die. “No other shooters. You got us all. Tony ordered the hit on you and the girl.”

Tony. But how did he find me?
Did Bugs tell him?
I had to find out.

“You did good, Johnny.” I paused. What I wanted to do was find Tony and rip his fuckin’ head off. Tear his heart out. But I had to finish this. Johnny deserved my time now, even if it was to kill him. “How did Tony find me?”

“I don’t know.” Johnny looked up. “How’d you find
me
?”

“You taught me too well. I used rule number four—murder is invisible.” I saw the puzzled look on his face. “I was the window washer who did your car last week.”

As he nodded miserably in recognition, I knelt next to him, took the tube of superglue, and squirted it between his lips, put the tape back over his mouth, then used more tape to secure him. He struggled, trying his best, but very quickly, more quickly than I’d imagined, the superglue sealed his mouth. I had gloves on, so no prints would be left. I’d worn the gloves since I came in. Johnny seemed worried about what to expect. He was right to be worried.

I didn’t want to do this to Johnny, especially after he’d been straight with me. But he was the one in charge of the shoot. He killed Gina, and he would have killed me.

After testing the ropes, I double-checked the tape. Didn’t want his screams disturbing my work. And there
would
be screams. As Johnny lay there, I got the claw hammer and nails. He went wild-eyed when he saw the nails. Year ago during one of our talks, I told him what I’d do to someone who betrayed me. His hands were stretched to the side, as if he were being crucified, which seemed appropriate. I grabbed a nail the length of my finger, placed it on his palm, drew back the hammer and struck.

The vibrations rocked through him, spasms fighting against me even though he couldn’t move. I hammered again, driving the nail halfway into the floor. Three more swings, and it was fastened tight. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much blood. As I moved to his other hand, I met his gaze. His eyes were open as wide as they could go, and his face was stretched from trying to scream.

“Sorry this is taking so long, but I’m not a carpenter. Imagine how Jesus must have felt, Johnny. Remember, his friends betrayed him too.”

The next hand only required three swings to finish. By the time I stood, he had passed out. I checked his pulse, afraid he might have had a heart attack, but he was just unconscious. I waited a few minutes for him to recover. His eyes were so sad. Pleading. Begging.

“I know, Johnny. It won’t be long now.”

I stepped over his body; he had pissed himself. Probably shit his pants too. If not, he would soon. I grabbed another nail, got close to him and whispered. “This is for Gina.” I positioned the nail just to the right of his nose and drove it into his face. His head jerked up and down, bouncing off the floor. I think he was trying to kill himself. I couldn’t have that. I rushed to the bedroom, got a pillow and pushed it under his head. Blood ran out of his nose and over his mouth. I placed another nail at the same spot on the left side, but then stopped. Despite what he had done, I still liked Johnny, and he had suffered enough. I stood and finished the job. Shot him once in the head and once in the heart. Then I repeated the Trinitarian formula as I made the sign of the cross.

Cleaning up this mess was easier than with the last two. I spread the remaining evidence, did the rest of my chores, then changed clothes before leaving through the front door. I stopped on my way home and called the Brooklyn precinct where Bugs worked and told them there was a body in Valley Stream they might be interested in. They told me it wasn’t their jurisdiction. I insisted that they pass the message to Detective Donovan. “He’ll want to know,” I said, then hung up.

CHAPTER 65

MARTYRS AND SAINTS

Current Day

F
rankie was lost in thought as he drove into the station. It had been over a week and he had nothing, not even a hint that Nicky was watching Tito. Now he was losing Higgins and Sapperstein. When he pulled into the lot, Mazzetti was waiting. “What’s up, Lou?”

“We’re visiting the wonderful community of Valley Stream today. Got another one.”

“Valley Stream? How did
we
get the call?”

“Special invitation from the shooter. He said you’d want to know.” He lit a smoke then cracked the window a bit, enough to let the smoke drift out. “So tell me again who this Rat guy is.”

Frankie refreshed him on what he knew, but all the while he hoped this wasn’t Nicky. That this was some kind of bad, horrible coincidence. When they got to the scene, the street was filled with cop cars, the crime scene unit, and a handful of reporters. Lou and Frankie flashed their badges and walked in.

A small crowd had gathered in the kitchen. A tall, black deputy eyed Frankie as he approached, holding his hand out. “You Donovan?”

Frankie nodded. “Yeah. And this is Lou Mazzetti, my partner.”

“Bobby Tilton,” he said, then moved toward the dining room. “Let me introduce you to Gianni Mucchiatto. Don’t know him, but he must have pissed somebody off real bad.”

The deputy cleared a path, and when Frankie stepped into the dining room, he damn near threw up. They had left Gianni as they found him, tied to the walls, hands nailed to the floor, and a nail hammered into his face. The look on his face was an expression no one should see. Frankie forced himself to take in the scene.

Did you do this, Nicky?

“Some friend you got there, Donovan.” Mazzetti lit a smoke, but the crime scene guys stopped him.