Murder Takes Time (7 page)

“Our cut was four seventy each,” Tony said.

Mikey smiled. “Since it’s your first time, let’s see…how about fifty percent?”

“That’s two hundred thirty-five bucks.”

“Yeah, how about that. No wonder they call you The Brain.” Mikey’s smile disappeared so quickly, it had to have been a fake one. “Now, pay up you little fucks.”

“We don’t have it with us,” I said.

“Get me the money or Pockets tears this place up.”

I looked to Tony, then to the others. They all nodded. “All right.” I went to the sofa in the corner, lifted the cushion, reached inside a hole and pulled out a brown grocery bag.

“Nine hundred forty,” Tony said with a sigh.

“Fuck, that kid’s good,” Mikey said.

I counted it out, then handed Mikey the money and put the bag away, already thinking of where we could hide it after this.

“Good job, boys,” Mikey said, then turned to Pockets and Tucks. “Don’t leave marks where they can be seen.”

It didn’t register at first, but it didn’t take long. Tommie Tucks and Pockets pulled out two short clubs and started beating our legs and upper body. “Don’t hit the face,” Mikey said.

They only hit us a few times, probably less than a minute, but it seemed like forever. I could barely stand, and Mick was spitting blood. Tony and Frankie were holding their legs and trying to stand.

“Go get the bag,” Mikey said to Tucks.

He walked out, returning in a minute with a grocery bag. Mikey tossed it to me. “Just to show you there are no hard feelings,” he said, then they walked out.

“Cock-sucker.” Tony yelled.

“That whore will get his,” Mick said.

“What’s in the bag?” Frankie asked.

I dumped it out on the ground. “Smokes,” I said. “A lot of them.”

When we were done counting, there were thirty-two packs of Winstons. Not worth the beating we took, but something. I sat on the sofa shaking my head. “This was my fault. I should’ve paid Mikey his due.”

“We were in this together,” Tony said. “Nobody argued.”

Soon they were all nodding. “Guess so,” Frankie said.

I smiled. “The important thing is we stood together. We stood by the oath.”

“I don’t care if we have to die,” Tony said. “We’ll keep the oath.”

I stared at each of them one by one. “Somebody breaks this oath, and they
will
die.”

We put our fists together and raised our hands in the air. “Friendship and honor!” everybody hollered at once.

CHAPTER 10

MORE EVIDENCE

Brooklyn—Current Day

“O
aths.” Frankie got out of bed and thought back to his youth. Friends were all that mattered back then. Frankie hated life with his parents, and Mick’s didn’t have time for him. Tony had the best mom and dad anyone could want; he just didn’t get it. And Nicky—no mother, and a father who doted on his dead wife. The four of them were good for each other.

“Where are you, Nicky?” Frankie asked while he brushed his hair. “Are you still in Cleveland, or are you here?”

He set the brush on the vanity and went to the closet. He grabbed a pair of olive pants, matching socks, and a beige knit shirt, putting them on in that order. Next he took the shoe trees from a pair of black Moreschi lace-ups, smiling as he slipped them on. The one thing he wouldn’t compromise on was shoes. As he made his way to the kitchen, he thought again about the oath. Friendship and honor were part of the oath, but the unspoken part was betrayal.

That made him think of Nino—he did
something
to piss someone off.

Frankie drank his coffee then headed out. When he got to the station, he parked, grabbed his folder of notes, then walked inside and up the steps to the second floor. “Where’s Lou?” he asked Carol, the all-knowing receptionist perched at her desk and guarding the detectives’ room like Cerberus did Hades.

“He’s checking on leads. And he said to tell you that he won’t tolerate a partner who’s late. But Vinnie’s here.”

Frankie was already moving away when Carol’s voice caught him. “The lieutenant wants you in the office.”

Frankie knocked before entering. “Hey, Lieu. You wanted to see me?”

Morreau didn’t look up. “Where are we, Donovan?”

“Same place we were yesterday. We got nothing.”

He stopped writing and stared. “Three bodies and not a single lead.”

“Lieu, I—”

Morreau stood. Stretched seemed more like it. When he was sitting he seemed normal, but once he stood his body parts elongated, like those trick mirrors at the boardwalk. “I don’t want excuses. Find this prick and get the pressure off me.”

“Yes, sir. Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

As Frankie passed Carol, he forced a smile. “Tell Vinnie I’m looking for him. Suggest he bring coffee.”

She saluted and clicked her heels, then rounded up Vinnie.

Vinnie was a young detective who managed to get a badge through connections.

“What’s up, Donovan?”

“How were the bodies found?”

“You got all the pictures. Nobody moved them.”

He also had an attitude, Frankie now remembered.
A real smart-ass attitude.
Maybe he didn’t like that Frankie took over the case. “I meant how were they
discovered
?” Frankie leaned close to Vinnie. “If you fuck with me, I’ll make sure you get assigned to the Island.”

Vinnie must have thought Frankie really could do that. “Sorry, sir.” He shuffled through papers, searching. “Let’s see, Tommy Devin, the second vic…neighbor called it in. Said she smelled something rotten coming from the apartment.”

Frankie nodded.

“First…okay, here we go. First one is Renzo…”

“Ciccarelli.”

“Right, so Renzo was called in to 9-1-1.”

Frankie sat up straight. “What?”

Vinnie read more. “Yeah. A neighbor said they were walking by and heard a cat, or maybe a baby, crying.”

“Give me that.” Frankie reached for the report and read it through. “Why didn’t I have these files before?”

“I don’t know, sir. But—”

“But nothing, look at this.” He tapped the folder with his finger. “Cat found in the bathroom with door locked. Food and litter box inside. Toilet bowl open.”

“Guess he kept the cat in the bathroom. So what?”

“You remember that house? Do you think someone could hear a cat crying if they were passing by on the sidewalk? With the cat in the bathroom?”

Vinnie took the report back and frantically went through it.

“Forget about that for now,” Frankie said. “How about Nino?”

“When he didn’t show up for work and they couldn’t reach him at home, somebody called the cops.”

“Somebody?”

“Guy he worked with.” Vinnie scrambled for the name. “John Hixon.”

“And that’s all? You sure there are no other calls?”

“No, sir.” He sat rigid after he said it.

Frankie thought about the cat, lit a cigarette, then laughed like hell. In fifth grade, Nicky found a cat at lunch and kept him in the coat closet all afternoon. He gave it a bowl of water and some food. Every time it meowed, the nun threw a fit trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. Several kids got beaten that day because she thought they were making the noise.

Judging by the look on Vinnie’s face, the laughter must have taken him by surprise. “Something funny, sir?”

“Nothing,” Frankie said, but chuckled to himself. Nicky always liked cats. Frankie’s smile disappeared as those nagging thoughts returned.
Rat shit. Dead rats. Winstons. Now this.

More proof as far as he was concerned. No way Nicky the Rat was going to let that cat suffer, or be left alone with its dead master. Still, all this was circumstantial.

But
someone
called this in, and that someone was probably the killer. Time to see if it was anyone he knew. He poked his head out the door. “Carol, can you get me the 9-1-1 call from the Ciccarelli case? Not the transcript. I need the voice.”

“Might take a while, but I’ll get it.”

“Thanks,” Frankie said, and returned to his files. He called Mazzetti, got another cup of coffee, finished that, then grabbed his coat. “Carol, I’m going to meet Lou. If you get that tape let me know.”

As Frankie drove to meet Mazzetti, another thought hit him. He had been leaning toward Nicky because no one had seen him in months, or even heard from him.
Not since he called and said he was in trouble. But what if Nicky’s dead and someone is trying to make me think it’s him?
He said a silent prayer, and, as he did, another question arose. When Nicky called he mentioned a girl.
Where does she fit in?

CHAPTER 11

ANGELA

Wilmington—21 Years Ago

S
everal months passed with little of importance. During late November, Angela Catrino started coming by Tony’s house to learn how to cook from Rosa. Angela’s mother died the month before and the responsibility fell on her to take care of her father. He asked Rosa to teach her.

Rosa had been blessed—or, as some said, cursed—with five boys, when all her life she dreamed of having a girl. When this opportunity came along, she welcomed Angela into her home.

Angela came by almost every day. She was a quick learner and a diligent worker. If Rosa said go to the store and get something, Angela ran. And when Rosa gave instructions, Angela memorized them as if they were a history lesson. She had the uncanny ability to watch Rosa do something once and, like a machine, copy it. That wasn’t as easy as it might seem. In Italian families, recipes were an ever-changing process; what was written down was seldom adhered to. During the cooking process, pinches of garlic, or cheese, or drops of olive oil…anything, were added. And all dependent upon the continual tasting that went on.

Angela was more than sharp; she was respectful. And because of that, Rosa taught her everything. Didn’t hold back like some of the old Italians. Angela even wore the same kind of apron Mamma did, with a pocket to hold the wooden spoon on the right. The only difference was Angela wore a white-and-green checkered apron; Rosa’s was white-and-red.

She soon became one of the guys. She was around so much we gave her a name—Angela “No Tits” Catrino—though no one would dare say it in front of Mamma Rosa. Angela had become “off limits” with Mamma. She was as protected as Paulie Shoes was from Doggs.

Everyone called her “No Tits” for the obvious reasons. Aside from missing the two lumps on her chest most teenage boys found a necessity before striking up a conversation with a girl, and besides the fact that her father would have killed anyone who touched her, she was a nice kid. Cute, too. As the months rolled by, I grew accustomed to seeing Angela at Tony’s house. Pretty soon her name went from No Tits to Angela, then to Angie. Before long, I was getting pissed at the other guys for teasing her.

On the first hot Saturday in late spring, we went swimming then headed to Tony’s house. Being wet, we had to use the back door, so we rounded the corner and headed up the alley, a two-and-a-half foot wide strip of concrete between Mr. Ciotti’s ever-present stone wall and the back side of chain-link fences. The wall was five feet high but loomed above us like the Iron Curtain. On the left, the fences ran back-to-back, clotheslines strung from the houses to steel poles buried in a lump of concrete at the end. Occasionally there was a young kid tied to the pole to keep them from running away while their mother draped laundry over the line, giving it that fresher-than-heaven smell. The houses were only seventeen feet wide, so it didn’t take long to get to Tony’s house. His was the fifth on the block.

We popped open the gate and raced up the sidewalk, the whole backyard filled with the wonderful aroma of Mamma Rosa’s sauce and meatballs. A smile covered my face long before we burst through the back door, still in our swimsuits.

“Hey, Angie, you cooking meatballs?” I reached into the pot and grabbed one. It was hot as hell, so I had to bounce it from hand to hand to keep from burning.

“Get out of there, Nicky.” Angela swung the spoon at me. She must have missed on purpose, because the kitchen was so small I could barely squeeze by without bumping into her, which wasn’t bad.