Murder Takes Time (5 page)

I walked down the hall, careful not to attract attention. When I saw Sister Mary Thomas I turned my head.

“Niccolo Fusco.”

The words echoed off the walls. Her voice demanded a response. Ignoring a call from Sister Thomas was like ignoring a call from God.

“Yes, Sister?” I said, framing a smile.

She waved her pointer. “I was fortunate enough to get you in my class this year. Room 118. Class starts at 7:50.”

“Yes, Sister.” I gave her my I’m-so-lucky smile, but inside, I cried.

“Shit,” I whispered. “I got the witch.”

Before Frankie or Tony could answer, another command came from behind us. “Oh, and you, Mr. Sannullo, and Mr. Donovan. You were fortunate enough to get the witch too.”

Tony gulped. Frankie’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. And I damn near fell down.

“Yes, Sister,” Tony said. “We’ll be there at 7:50 sharp.”

Sister Thomas wore a smile, but her voice carried a threat. “You do that.”

As she walked away, we looked at each other with raised eyebrows. We’d heard about nuns having eyes in the back of their heads, but did they have some kind of God-enhanced hearing, too?

T
HE YEAR FLEW BY,
and before spring arrived, Tony earned his nickname. “The Brain” he became known as, and for good reason. There wasn’t a math problem or question asked in any class that he didn’t get right.

The First Communion celebration was near the end of second grade. Prior to that, all kids did their first confession—it was the day we’d dreaded since last summer. The nuns taught us how the priest was God’s representative on earth, and how he couldn’t tell anyone what was said in the confessional.

“So it’s all right to tell your sins to him,” the nuns told us. “No one will know.”

On Saturday afternoon we met at the church. I got put in Father Dimitri’s line, tenth from the front. I felt sorry for the first one to go. Must have been scary. My stomach churned as I stepped inside, closed the curtains and knelt. It was dark in there, and the infamous “divider” separated me from Father Dimitri, but I recognized him. That made me think he could recognize me too. I didn’t like that, but it was too late to ditch out, so I took a deep breath and repeated the ritual. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.”

Father Dimitri mumbled some nonsense in Latin, made the sign of the cross, then told me to confess my sins. Twice I almost started, but then I said, “Father, I’ve done a lot, but I don’t think I can tell you.”

“It is all right to be afraid, my son. This is just between you and me. No one else will know but God.”

“See, now you’re already bringing somebody else in on it,” I said, getting ready to stand. “I think I’ll just keep it to myself.”

“If you do not confess, I cannot absolve you of your sins. You will not be able to receive First Communion.”

I was in a jam. If I didn’t get First Communion, everyone would know something terrible was wrong.
What would Pops say?
What would Mamma Rosa say?

“Listen, Father, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell God what I’ve done, and He can absorb me, or absolve me, or whatever it is He does. That way, it’ll be between me and God. I
know
He ain’t telling nobody.”

A long sigh followed. “But you have to do penance, and I have to administer that based on your sins.”

Shit. Another problem.

“How much for someone who’s been really bad? I mean, I didn’t kill anybody or anything.”

“I cannot—”

“How about I do a rosary? That should cover it. Jimmy Borelli was in here before me, and I saw how fast he finished his prayers. You couldn’t have given him much.” I laughed, but in a low voice, then whispered, “I
know
what Jimmy Borelli has done, Father. If he finished with a few Hail Mary’s, a rosary from me is plenty. Trust me.”

A pause followed. I thought I heard Father Dimitri laugh. Finally, he said, “All right, my son. Say a complete rosary, and may the Lord go with you.”

As I walked out, I realized he hadn’t actually said my sins were forgiven. Now what could I do? I couldn’t go back in there. Sister Mary Thomas stood at the front of the church, making sure all the kids were in line and well-behaved. I walked up and got her attention.

“Sister, suppose for some reason a kid has sins and can’t get to a priest. Suppose he says his sins to God instead. Will that work? Does it have to go through a priest?”

Sister Mary Thomas rubbed my head and put on her friendly smile. “If this…child was sorry for his sins and told God, I’m sure it would be all right.”

“So if another kid maybe forgets a few sins while he’s in the confessional, but remembers them later and tells God about them, he can maybe just say a few extra prayers to make up for it?”

She stopped rubbing my head and looked down. Her face had that almost-mean look to it. “This…kid…better be really sorry. And he better remember all of his sins the next time. But I’m sure God would forgive this kid.” She whacked me lightly on the butt with her ever-present pointer. “Go say your penance.”

I smiled as I sat in the pew, saying the rosary. Sister Mary Thomas had just made my day brighter. It was almost summer, and now I had a clean soul. That left a lot of room for fun. I got to thinking about religion and how it worked. Decided the Catholics had it right. The Jewish kid on Third Street didn’t get his sins forgiven like this. If he did something wrong he had to live with it, or go talk to the person, or settle it all up when he died. I wasn’t sure how it worked for him, but it wasn’t like this.

Nah, the Catholics have it down pat. Do something bad, tell God about it, then start all over.
I liked that.

CHAPTER 7

INVESTIGATION

Brooklyn—Current Day

F
rankie finished his wine, sat back in the chair and relaxed. He thought about what Nicky used to say about confession.
Do something bad, tell God about it, then start all over.
That defined Nicky’s whole life. He was the one who bought into that confession bullshit, but he would do it himself, with God. And it was always on a Saturday, as if it were a magical day for confessing.

Frankie wanted to sleep but couldn’t get that dead rat off his mind. He headed to his desk, spread the files, and sorted them by date. Renzo was killed nearly two months ago. The second murder, Devin, followed three weeks later and had as many differences as it did similarities. Devin was Irish, not Italian. Lived in an apartment, not a house. And most puzzling of all, he wasn’t tortured, just shot—once in the head, once in the heart. But the preponderance of evidence at the scene was the same. Frankie felt certain both murders were mob-related. It was a shame that people thought that way, but if two guys named Tortella and Ciccarelli got shot in Brooklyn, people assumed they were connected even if they were wearing priests’ collars and carrying chalices.

Whoever did this had powerful motivation. Frankie just had to figure out why.
Why kill a person like this?
Why make them suffer? Why shoot them after they are already dead? Why shoot them in the head and heart?

A new thought occurred. Based on Mazzetti’s statement, Frankie had assumed they were already dead, but he needed confirmation. Frankie scrolled through his contact file until he found the listing for Kate Burns. He dialed her number, recalling the days when she was on his speed-dial list, back when he thought he might finally have a relationship that would last. At least they still got along.

The phone rang a few times before she picked up.

“Hello.”

“Kate, it’s Frankie.”

“And I mistook you for the shy type.”

“I need to know if these guys were already dead when he shot them.”

A pause followed. “You mean Mazzetti’s murders?”

“Yeah, there were three.”

“I know how many there were, but the first two weren’t the same. The second guy was just shot. But the first one…”

“Renzo,” Frankie said.

“Thanks, the names are always a blur to me. I remember wounds.”

“That’s what makes you so attractive, Doctor.”

“Screw you,” Kate said. “Anyway, the first guy, Renzo, he got it bad. He was definitely dead before he was shot.”

“And Nino?”

“I haven’t confirmed it, but I’d bet on it.”

“Thanks. Sorry I bothered you at night.”

“Before you go, I thought you’d like to know that the actual murder weapon was a Louisville Slugger. I’m guessing we’ll find the same with Nino.”

“Yeah, me too. Thanks again.”

“Goodnight,
Detective
Donovan.” She cooed the title.

“I love you, too,” he said, and hung up. He regretted saying that to her—didn’t want to make her think…
Nah, she won’t.

As he went through Tommy Devin’s file, he saw something in the inventory that stopped him cold—thirty-two packs of Winstons.

Thirty-two packs.
Another link to the past.

If he assumed the murderer was Nicky or Tony, that still left a big question—how did they know the victims? To figure that out, Frankie had to know the victims. After picking up his favorite fine-point marker, he started making a chart. “Who are you, Nino? And what did you do to piss someone off so bad?”

There was no doubt that someone was sending Frankie a message, but were they warning him off, or giving him clues? Was this
really
tied to the old neighborhood, or was he reading too much into it? Maybe the guy bought four cartons and happened to have thirty-two packs left.

Frankie pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table. He lit it and sucked hard on that first drag. A memory brought laughter along with the smoke, damn near choking him. Nicky hated it when Frankie strained the cigarette. But that was back when cigs were important. Hell, back then they were
everything
.

CHAPTER 8

THE OATH

Wilmington—21 Years Ago

M
y eleventh birthday was the best of my life. Pops took off from work and invited Tony and Frankie to see the Phillies play. We smoked a whole pack of cigarettes before noon, knowing we’d be dry the rest of the day. An hour later we piled into the car with Pops. It was August-hot, but despite that, and the fact that our team didn’t win, we had a great time. Not only did we get to go to the ball game, but we celebrated my birthday dinner the next night at Tony’s house. Mamma Rosa made my favorite meal of meatballs and spaghetti. Nothing fancy, just the most delicious damn meatballs in the world and homemade pasta. When I thought I’d died from pleasure, Rosa brought out a plate of sfogliatelle—shell-shaped pastries stuffed with ricotta cheese. The sfogliatelle took this from the best meal to one made in heaven. I stuffed until my stomach hurt. It was a great way to kick off August.

I was no longer just Nicky; I was “Nicky the Rat.” The name Doggs gave me stuck, much to my dismay. Names were like that; they either stuck, or they didn’t. Frankie was hanging out more at Tony’s house, swearing he couldn’t stand to be in the same block with his father. He never told us about the beatings, but we saw the marks on his back when we went swimming. We spent most nights in Tony’s basement playing pool. The table was nice, but the basement floor wasn’t level, front and back sloping toward a drain in the middle. And the steps were always in the way, forcing the use of a short cue that made us feel like dwarfs.

Tony was kicking Frankie’s ass at nine-ball, winning all his cigarettes. While he did that, I played with a spider that lived in the rafter supports just above the old oil tank, a 250-gallon metal behemoth that sat in the corner, covered in soot and stinking like a factory. The other guys teased me about the spider, but they knew better than to kill it. She was mine.

By early March we’d saved enough money to make a deal with old-man Burczinski to rent his garage down off Broom Street. There was a line of row-houses with a hill behind them and a string of detached garages below. Must have been thirty garages, all covered by a flat roof. We sealed the deal with Burczinski then collected junk furniture to put in our hangout.