Table of Contents
Street Justice
What Readers Are Saying
Also by Vito Zuppardo
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Author’s Notes
About the Author
Voodoo Lucy Series Book 2 - Revenge
Street Justice
Copyright © 2019 Vito Zuppardo
All rights reserved.
This book is for your personal enjoyment only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.
No part of the book might be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission.
Published by Vito Zuppardo.
What Readers Are Saying
True Blue Detective Series
Five Stars: Super Book
I enjoyed this book. I am not usually into this mystery book, but the blurb on this one caught my attention. It is well worth the time to read. It is well written and has lots of action and adventure.
Five Stars: Intriguing, keeps you on the edge of your seat
Very good read. This keeps you nearly at your seat. Plus it describes various parts of the city of New Orleans, which is wonderful if you’ve never been.
Five Stars: A Wonderful Book!
This was a great book. I loved the plot and the characters. I read this book in one sitting. I enjoyed the plot. It was full of excitement and intrigue.
ALSO BY
VITO ZUPPARDO
True Blue Detective Series
True Blue Detective
Crescent City Detective
Vieux Carré Detective
Street Justice
Voodoo Lucy Series
Tupelo Gypsy
Revenge
Lady Luck Series
Alluring Lady Luck
Tales of Lady Luck
At the end of this book, read two chapters of Revenge, book two in the Voodoo Lucy series, and get Tupelo Gypsy, book one in the Voodoo Lucy series, FREE.
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Chapter 1
Good detectives keep a keen eye on their surroundings. Mario DeLuca is that detective.
Mario’s morning run took him deep into the French Quarter. A coffee break at the three-mile mark, he’d sit his sweaty body on the patio of the Roasted Bean Café, a courtesy to the early morning work crowd neatly dressed, getting their caffeine to go.
His break, never over fifteen minutes, was just long enough for his muscles and body to cool down. Even with the occasional glance from an attractive woman two tables down, it was still time to go. She’d glance and look away as a high school teenager would, but she wasn’t. She checked all the boxes for Mario. Tall, lean body, fair complexion, blue eyes, and reddish hair. Her top, shorts, and shoes identified her as a runner. By his calculations, it would be an easy score for a phone number. Striking up a conversation about her jogging routine would have opened the door for dialog and the possibility of a lunch date, if he only had the time.
She glanced again, this time with a smile, then a flirtatious grin. Mario had no one in his life. He and Olivia were too much into their jobs to be anything other than buddies to have drinks with, although they had been intimate discreetly—both being cops.
Taking out four, one-dollar bills, rolled tightly in his sock, and placing them on the table, he gave the signal of a hand wave to the waitress.
She acknowledged with a smile. “Thank you, Mario.”
He’d continued to the door, questioning himself, at forty-two-years old, if he needed to make use of every opportunity to meet a woman, especially a knockout like her. How else would he ever settle down with a wife, have kids, a house, and maybe a dog?
Before he could get to the iron gate exiting to the street, a tap on his shoulder got his attention. Mario, speechless when he turned around, gazed into the blue eyes of the female jogger.
“Hi, I’m Adrianna.” A beautiful smile and shiny white teeth greeted him.
Mario introduced himself and shook her hand. “Can I help you?”
“Possibly.” Tossing a small workout bag on a table, she took a seat. “I see you’re a runner.”
Mario followed like a puppy dog, sat across from her, and snickered. She’d used the same line he would have if he’d taken a shot at striking up a conversation.
“What kind of work do you do?”
Mario dodged being a homicide cop and said, “I’m an investment banker.”
“What about you?”
“Before we go into me,” she said and tossed her head, letting her hair flop from side to side. Mario’s eyes and mind fixated on the words across her shirt, “Run Hard.”
She directed him to look into her eyes. “Let’s talk about you. You’re a cop in charge of the Eighth District, Homicide Division. Your right-hand man is Truman, and you’re the love interest of Olivia.”
Mario’s thoughts flipped in his mind, rapidly. Was she a witness in a case, the wife of a murdered husband, or a first-rate starker? “Have we met?”
“No.” She unzipped the tote bag and rummaged. “Carefully, I want you to look inside.”
Mario bent over the table and peeked in the bag. Her hand was wrapped around a handgun with a silencer suppressor. It was pointed at him. He abruptly sat down. His mind went into cop mode, eyes canvassing a way out. With no one getting hurt.
“While you were engrossed, watching my hair flop around, gawking at my chest, I could have put two bullets in your head.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m a messenger. Helena Acosta wants the cartel’s money, all twelve million dollars.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” His training, keep her talking, was the only defense.
“You have forty-eight hours.” The bag tossed over her shoulder, she left a business card. “I got the drop on you once. Next time it won’t be pleasant.”
Chapter 2
The run back was usually a slow jog, but this morning Mario was in full sprint to his condo. Straight across Canal Street, running around an oncoming streetcar to keep his pace. His mind raced faster than his feet were moving.
Transferring the Savino family money to an offshore account was meant to cripple Lorenzo Savino’s drug empire. Mario and Howard Blitz, an undercover cop, intended to turn the twelve million over to the FBI. The delay was a plausible reason it was in their possession.
Mario arrived at his building short-winded. He stood at the entrance to catch his breath, when a man walked down the steps, turned the corner, and was quickly out of sight.
Such a well-dressed man, Mario noticed first, suit and tie, thin mustache, slick hair, and he had a skip in his step. He’d never seen him in the building before,
but with seventy-five apartments over three floors, he didn’t know everyone, he convinced himself. Could be a boyfriend of one of the single women living on the top floor, rushing to get home to his wife. He didn’t put it past those women to romance a married man.
Jimmy Wells, the doorman who preferred to be called Junior, wasn’t in the lobby, odd for that time of the morning. Chatty Junior, Mario nicknamed him after he was hired. He talked entirely too much. Just good morning or afternoon was all Mario wanted to hear out of a doorman.
The elevator door opened. Mario stepped in, when a thought hit him. He’d not seen Junior on his way out for his run.
Mario caught the doors before they closed, exited the elevator, and walked the lobby. He gave out a shout for Junior a few times. Checked the men’s restroom and knocked on the ladies restroom before checking inside it too. From the storage room, a muffled sound and a kick at the door got Mario’s attention.
Carefully, he tried to turn the door handle. It was locked, so he forced it open to find Junior sitting on a mop bucket, gagged, and hands tied behind his back.
A few minutes later, Junior sat on a couch in the lobby gathering his thoughts, while Mario fetched him coffee from the concierge lounge. A few sips were allowed before Mario bombarded him with questions, his cop mode was in full bloom.
“Start from the beginning, Junior.”
His morning started the same every day. Placing newspapers in the stand next to the elevator. The bakery delivered doughnuts and pastries, and he set them up in the concierge lounge. Then he made fresh coffee. When he exited the lounge, he was taken from behind by what felt like a gun to his back. Then gagged, tied up, and locked in the storage room. He couldn’t tell if it was one or more people involved and never saw a face nor did anyone speak.
Mario called it in, and within seconds, three police cars were on the scene. There was nothing more to the report, but there had to be a reason for the attack on Junior. A police lieutenant arrived and took charge. In consideration for a fellow officer and resident of the building, the lieutenant called for cops to go floor by floor and knock on every door, making sure everyone was safe.
Mario headed to his apartment. A quick shower was needed. The lieutenant kept Mario informed by radio. Everyone was accounted for on the first floor. Apartments where no one was home, Junior let the cops in with his master key. Under extreme circumstances, it was allowable for him to open an apartment for the police. This was one such time.
Mario joined the police on his floor to continue the search, and still there were no problems. It became puzzling to Mario why Junior was accosted. Now, the detective focused on Junior. He had a list of questions, maybe he had gambling debts or drug problems. Mario flashed back to the security check on Jimmy Wells; he ran it himself. It came up clean, unless Junior was using an alias.
An officer informed Mario that every room was accounted for except apartment 221; there was no answer. Mario knew Dale, he’d lived in the building for two years with his girlfriend. He wasn’t sure of Dale’s last name but knew he was the manager of a fancy Italian restaurant in the French Quarter.
Mario gave a knock at the door and shouted for Dale; there was no response. He called for Junior with the master key. Mario gave it another shot, banging and shouting Dale’s name, then Junior opened the door.
Two officers roamed the apartment. Mario stood in the living room, admiring either Dale or his girlfriend’s painting of famous buildings in the French Quarter. “Someone is a good artist.”
“Detective,” an officer shouted from the bedroom, “in here!”
Mario heard the officer make a radio call for paramedics. “Female alive. Male dead.”
Things moved quickly, and the room was soon flooded with police. There were police in the street to flag down the paramedics and a cop at the elevator holding the door open on the ground floor.
Mario, on his knees, pulled the woman’s hair back from her face. She was pressing on a gunshot wound to her stomach. She whispered, but Mario couldn’t make out what she said.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“Mario?”
“I’m here.” He stroked her hand to keep her calm.
Mario heard the elevator bell when the doors opened on the floor. The clanging sound of a gurney and people rushing toward them.
The woman pulled Mario by the shirt. “I told the guy Dale wasn’t Mario, but he shot him anyway.”
Chapter 3
Roberto Ferrari tipped his hat to people when he entered his place of business. Roberto was popular among women as the fellow with a boyish smile and devilish eyes. Always dressed impressively in a brimmed, straw fedora in the summer, down to his shiny wingtip shoes. Years had passed and Roberto, a handsome man of sixty, still got attention from the ladies. The women who were ten years younger, he’d call “girls”—and they loved it. Some said it was his good looks, others said it was his power since he took over as head of the family business.
The Atlantic City Boardwalk was full of tourists this time of year, and they flocked to Ferrari’s Italian Restaurant. Established by his Sicilian grandparents sixty-five years ago, it was now owned by the third generation. Roberto used the place for his office. A round table that seated ten acted as a desk in the rear of the restaurant where most business decisions were made. Extortion, drug deals, who lived, who died, and plans for the future. Roberto Ferrari, the head of a New Jersey crime family, had many responsibilities and someone had to answer for the death of one of his top earners, Lorenzo Savino.
A black Lincoln Town Car waited outside the baggage claim area of the Philadelphia airport. The driver spotted his passenger, Michael Ferrari, a known member of Roberto’s crew.
Michael sat in the front seat, and before saying a word, he pulled the vanity mirror down, checked his hair, and smoothed his mustache.
“Good flight?”
“Yes, in and out quickly.” Michael eyes, still glued to the mirror, were more engrossed in his hair than conversation.
Nothing more was said during the hour drive to Atlantic City. Michael was dropped off as close to the Boardwalk as possible and walked the short distance to the restaurant. He spotted Roberto at his table with his right-hand man, Bobby G. Only a crew member like Michael would notice the three bodyguards dressed as waiters who hung around the rear of the room. They had one job, and that was keeping Roberto safe.
“Boss?” They hugged it out, and Michael took a seat.
“You’re done?” Bobby G. always got to the point, never small talk.
“Yep.” Michael showed a proud grin. “A girl got in the way. But I handled her.”
“No witnesses?” Bobby G. watched to see if he flinched at the question. He didn’t.
Roberto made a hand gesture, and a waiter poured coffee and placed a platter of Italian cookies on the table. “Have some.”
“Grandma’s fig cookies.” Michael put two on a plate. “She always made the best.”
Roberto’s smile showed his white capped teeth. “Yes, she did. So everything went as planned?”
“Sure, boss.” Michael tugged at his belt and moved it up an inch or two.
“Then, why is Mario DeLuca still alive?” A hand slammed the table. His voice elevated and a vein puffed on his forehead just below where the rim of his hat sat.
“What are you talking about?” Michael watched from the corner of his eye, expecting them to go into a roaring laugh, as they often did with their sick jokes. “No way he’s alive. I took the doorman by surprise, climbed the steps, and knocked on apartment 221. A woman answered; I expected a love interest for that time of the morning. With my gun to her back, we walked to the bedroom, and I put three in Mario’s chest and two in the girl.” He rocked on the back legs of his chair. “Come on, guys, a little praise for a job well done.”
“Did you leave the evidence?”
“Yes, in the trash can, the bedroom, and on the dining room table.”
“One problem.” Roberto’s face wa
s beet red, the vein doubled in size. “Mario DeLuca lives in apartment 212. You dyslexic bastard.”
Michael pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He looked twice, but it was clear he’d hit the wrong apartment. “I’ll go back. I can make this right.”
Roberto shook his head in a downward position and reached for another cookie. Taking a bite, slowly chewing, like he was savoring the taste. His eyes peered into space; one could almost see the devil dancing in his eyes.
Michael had seen this look before, and it didn’t end well. He didn’t want to be that person. “Boss, I’ll handle this. I promise!”
Roberto chewing, at times spitting crumbs, went into a vocal fury. Two bodyguards closed the glass doors. His voice had carried into the restaurant and heads turned.
The plan had been to kill Mario in his apartment. Make it look like a hit, a bookmaker or a drug deal gone bad.
Michael continued to plead his case and went into detail about how he could fix the problem. His mouth rattled out crap it couldn’t back up, but he’d say anything to convince the boss he was worthy of making good on his promise.
“This was carefully planned.” Roberto slowly crept around the table, but his eyes fixed on Michael. “In the apartment, Mario is a resident of the community. Everyone would question his death, but the evidence would indicate he was a dirty cop. Kill him on the street, he’s a brother in blue, and every police officer in New Orleans will come down on us.”
Michael didn’t make eye contact. His only thought was how to get out of the room alive. His gun was someplace at the bottom of the Mississippi River. The sole purpose of taking a ferry ride across the river from New Orleans to Algiers. Wouldn’t matter anyway; he couldn’t shoot his way out of this problem.
Roberto sat and calmed himself, taking a sip of coffee, which was once hot. “Okay, call that gal Lorenzo was so high on.” Pointing a finger at Bobby G.
“Julie Wong?” Bobby G’s eyebrow raised. “She’s expensive. Fifty thousand, last I checked.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not paying.” Roberto turned to Michael with a look of evil. It would scare anyone. “You’ll pay.” His arms wrapped around Michael’s neck.
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