Street Justice

by Vito Zuppardo

  Mario heard her speak, but his mind was in a fog. Deep in thought creating the list of people who wanted him dead. He’d plotted out his first few suspects in no particular order; the criteria, they wanted him dead. “Yeah, chief. You stick with the broken-down system.” He wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Truman was murdered. His wife will raise their kids alone. Their lives have been altered forever.” He stood, brushed his pants, and straightened his shirt.

  “Mario! Don’t do anything stupid.” She reached for his arm.

  Mario pulled away. “This is a vendetta against me, and I’ll handle it—my way.”

  She talked words of encouragement to the back of Mario’s head as he walked away. There was no reasoning with him; he was in a zone and on a mission.

  Mario spotted Howard across the street in a limo. A nod of the head pointed at the other side of the yellow crime scene tape, and they met in the back seat.

  Howard wasted no time and detailed the half-dozen names of people so bold to put a hit out on Mario in broad daylight. They discussed the Colombia cartel but quickly ruled it out as the bombing suspect, at least for now the cartel wanted him alive. Dead, the cartel would never get its money.

  Mario narrowed the list quickly to the Savino family. Lina, Little Pete, or even Joey, back in general population at Calabar Prison, were the most likely. Possibly the Russians? They had a botched attempt on Mario’s life, after he left two of their best men dead in his apartment.

  Mario looked closer at the list Howard held. “I don’t see Julie Wong’s name.”

  Howard gave a strange look. “Why would she want to kill you?”

  Mario raised an eyebrow. “She’s a professional, knows her way around a gun and knife. We’ve both seen her in action.”

  “I don’t think explosives are her weapon of choice. Funny, you bring her up.”

  “Funny?” Mario’s eyes widened. “Nothing is funny about that woman.”

  Howard folded the name list and slipped it into his pocket. “For now, let’s handle the first problem.”

  “Cartel’s money?” Mario rested against the seat, exhaling loudly.

  Howard gave a wrinkled nose, half-ass smile. “ As soon as the cartel gets its money back, it eliminates one group wanting you dead.”

  Mario sat silently watching the chaos out the window. His partner and friend of twenty years lay dead in what he could only imagine was unrecognizable body parts. His mind drifted to the early days when Truman was a skinny, young guy, ready to take on the world and build his career to the highest level, chief of police. He was well on his way to taking over his own squad when cut down by a bomb not meant for him.

  “Until I made rank and was put in charge of the Eighth District, I’d only had two partners in my career.” Mario’s face was filled with sadness and he mumbled, “Now, both are dead.”

  Howard was surprised; he’d never heard Mario speak of his past partners. Howard knew little about Mario’s personal life.

  Mario went into the story, almost like he was talking to himself. Never looking up, he rambled about an earlier partner, fresh out of the academy. On the job, less than three months, randomly stopped at a corner convenience store to grab two sodas. Mario sat in the car, and when the partner walked through the door, he was hit with a shotgun blast at close range. He’d walked in on a robbery, and the robbers got spooked and blasted their way onto the street.

  Mario saw the whole thing go down. It happened fast. He chased them into an alley. Caught them both ready to scale a fence. With their hands off their guns, he placed his to their backs and talked them off the wall. They threw the weapons down and turned around with their hands in the air. Mario broke a slight smile. The shooter said he didn’t realize the man was a cop until after he fired. As if it made a difference—

  Howard with his back to the door, engrossed as if he was overhearing a conversation in public. He hesitated to speak, but Mario had stopped talking midsentence. “What do you mean, as if it made a difference?”

  “I don’t know. It was so stupid for the guy to say.” Mario’s hands covered his face. “Like if he wasn’t a cop or didn’t have a uniform on, it was okay to point blank shoot someone.”

  “Did they get the chair?”

  Mario’s face buried deep into his hands. “Hell, no. One guy dove to the ground for his gun. I put two bullets in him. The other guy was the shooter. He stood, hands in the air, and I emptied my clip into his body.”

  A hand tapped on the glass and shocked Mario to the present time. He opened the window. The chief invited Mario to join her for a ride to Truman’s house. The bombing was all over the news, and she had to contact his wife before Truman’s name was leaked.

  Mario mentioned Truman had small children.

  “Their school was notified.” The chief wrestled with her emotions. “Two female officers will pick the kids up and get them home. It’s best we break the bad news to the wife and kids at the same time.”

  Mario stepped out the car. “Oh, my god. This part of the job never gets easier.”

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Mario arrived at a riverfront warehouse, protected by an armed guard, a ten-foot barbed wire fence, and cameras. Military-grade surveillance with a live feed to a control room of all movement in and out was watched by a two-man team. If not invited, no one was getting in unless they dug under by tunnel or dropped from a helicopter, and even then they wouldn’t get inside. It was called the large room. A twelve-thousand-square-foot open area where the FBI stored extensive evidence. Cars, boats, file cabinets, and most of all computers confiscated from organized crime, drug dealers, and serial killers.

  Mario showed his badge and identification. The guard looked at a clipboard, checked Mario’s name off a list, and the electric gate opened.

  Mario parked his temporary police car in an area labeled visitors. He walked through another checkpoint and was escorted to a glass room. Given a face mask and plastic gloves, he entered.

  “Good morning, chief,” his voice muffled, like a sound heard in an alien movie. Twenty-four hours later, even with the mask, one could still smell the scorched vehicle. The car had been taken apart and labeled on the ground next to a camera on a tripod—everything was recorded. Three men in white coveralls did all the lifting, with another person at a high-top table on a computer. The only people Mario knew were the chief and Olivia, who perched herself over the woman at the table staring at a laptop.

  Mario pulled the chief to the side. “This is my case.” In a whisper. “Why is the FBI involved?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a ruffle, detective.” She pulled him farther away from the group of workers. “The FBI wants the first crack at the car. I agreed. It has resources and talent we could never get. They want to identify the type of bomb, how it was detonated, and possible fingerprints.”

  “Rule out a terrorist?” Mario said.

  “Now, we’re on the same page.” She pointed at Olivia sitting at the table. “She’s learning from the best explosive engineer. It could help our department in the future.”

  The street scene took fourteen hours to investigate before the intersection was reopened. A black bag with “New Orleans Coroner’s Office” in white letters stamped down the front of the zipper sat on the floor. Mario was sure it was Truman’s remains found in the car but asked anyway. Unfortunately, he was correct when a technician responded.

  “There, see this?” the woman at the computer said to Olivia.

  Mario and the chief looked over their shoulders to get a peek. The engineer moved the mouse and circled around. “See that connection?” Then she switched to a split screen. “Now, that one. There is no doubt whoever made this bomb was in the United States military.”

  “I see the wire connection.” Olivia noticed it was clean with a double loop; the other one was sloppy.

  The engineer rolled the chair back and turned to the chief. “Either connection would have blown the car up, but your bomb wa
s made by a person with experience, and the technique used is only taught by our government.”

  The chief pulled a seat closer. “Was there a timer?”

  “No, I think they were cautious. Might not have wanted anyone else to get hurt. Definitely cell phone activated.” The engineer pulled pictures from a street camera. “The bomber focused on the umbrella moving toward the car. Truman’s face was hidden and with dark-tinted windows, the bomber couldn’t tell who was driving.”

  Emotionally, Olivia still shook and added her thoughts. “Whoever did this focused on your car. When it crossed the intersection, the bomb was detonated.”

  The FBI wrapped up its investigation and promised to have a full report turned over to the Eighth District by the next day. A copy of the report, showing a military-built bomb and all the pictures, would be recorded and kept with the New Orleans FBI division. It was classified as a murder for hire.

  The meeting broke, and Mario and Olivia walked out to the car together. Both were ready to investigate in different directions. Olivia with surveillance cameras around the intersection of Tulane and Broad, and Mario knocking on doors. Olivia agreed to handle the arrangements of a police funeral procession for their fallen brother in blue.

  Olivia looked distracted. Mario thought it was the aftershock of Truman’s death. He was wrong. She asked to discuss something with Mario in private.

  “Can it wait?” Mario reached his car and opened the door. “I’ve got a full day.” He saw the tension in her face, her eyes appeared worrisome. “You okay?”

  She nodded her head left to right. “No.”

  “We’ll meet for dinner; Italian or Chinese?” Mario’s favorite foods.

  “Neither, my house at seven P.M. I’m cooking.” The worriment in her face disappeared.

  Mario agreed. It had been a long time since he had a home-cooked meal.

  Chapter 9

  Mario arrived at Olivia’s house a few minutes early with a bottle of red wine in hand. He hoped it was the proper wine for the meal she’d prepared. He clipped a rose from her yard and knocked on the door.

  When the door opened, “Wow” poured out of his mouth before he could catch himself.

  Olivia looking different from what she wore at work. Her scrubs were replaced with a kelly green sundress, white pinstripes, and her red hair made the outfit pop. The final touch was an apron.

  “Wine and a rose for the beautiful lady.”

  “Merlot will work.” She peeked at the rose bush on the walkway. “And my favorite color rose—thank you.”

  They exchanged a casual kiss, and Mario took in a deep breath. “Smells like pasta with red sauce.”

  “It’s about ready, finishing up the salad, and I have hot bread from Breads on Oak artisan bakers.” Leading Mario to the kitchen, she handed him the wine opener and two long-stemmed glasses. “Make yourself useful.”

  Mario popped the cork. Poured wine for two and handed one to Olivia. “To a great dinner.”

  “I hope it holds up to your Italian tradition.” The smell said the bread was ready to come out of the oven.

  Mario looked around the house, seeing pictures of Olivia as a teenager, another with her mom in front of an oak tree on the campus of Tulane University. His mind wondered at the cozy home and thought it would be nice to settle down with the right woman and a charming little house. Olivia placed dinner on the dining room table. She smiled at him. It was all in front of him—one of the most caring women he’d ever met. She understood the challenges of police work, and to top it off, she was beautiful and could cook.

  “Mario?” Olivia said, snapping him out of his daydream. “Take a seat.”

  He pulled her chair out, topped off her wine, and sat across from her.

  No one could ever match his mother’s red sauce, but Olivia’s was close and way better than anything he could cook. They engaged in small talk, mostly about people at work, nothing about cases they were working. Both their jobs had daily stomach-turning events, not fitting for dinner talk.

  Olivia finally broke the ice on what she wanted to discuss and what led to the dinner invitation. “I appreciate you taking the time to come over.” She sipped the rest of her wine.

  “A free meal with a beautiful woman.” His heart was talking. “What fool would turn you down?”

  She gathered the dishes with Mario’s help and placed them in the sink, he split the balance of the wine between the glasses, and they sat on the sofa.

  “I have perps in the box for questioning less nervous than you,” Mario said. “What’s going on?”

  “Money,” she said.

  Mario wasn’t thrilled about lending money. It was a sure way to lose a good friend. “How much do you need?”

  “Nothing like that” was music to Mario’s ears.

  Olivia rambled jargon that made no sense.

  Mario took her by the shoulders. “Calm down and spit it out.”

  Olivia walked Mario to a small desk and turned on her computer monitor. In preparation, she had her bank account opened on the screen. Strolling down, she pointed at the debit of thirty-two thousand dollars. Her face showed worry, and what was a fun evening turned sour quickly. She’d been to the bank and was told the money had been transferred by her. The transfer matched the IP address of her computer.

  Mario’s head, a little in a daze, asked, “Where did you transfer the money?”

  “I didn’t, that’s the point.” She explained that it was her investment account. The money went from the bank to her broker’s account and back when she sold the stock.

  “Like a day trader?”

  “Yeah, I make good money jumping in and out of the market.”

  Mario tried to wrap his head around her problem. She confirmed her accounts were password protected, the money was debited from the bank but wasn’t transferred to the investment account.

  Mario was involved early in his career with a similar case. An old couple thought they were ripped off when their bank account was short by twenty-five hundred dollars. The couple swore they never wrote a check for that amount. One visit to the bank manager cleared everything up. The husband wrote a check to the bank for a car note of two hundred and fifty dollars, or so he thought. It was actually written for twenty-five hundred dollars, and the difference prepaid future payments. The bad news was they were out the money, and the good news was they owed less on their car.

  “Did the bank tell you where the money was transferred?”

  Olivia, on the verge of tears, shook her head and handed him a piece of paper. It showed a routing number and an account number but no company name. Mario knocked back the rest of his wine.

  “Who transferred the money? How did they do it on your computer? How did they get your password?” Mario hit Olivia with questions she had no answers to.

  Mario looked at the day of the transfer; it had been two weeks before. She had done no transactions in a few weeks and that’s why she hadn’t discovered the money missing until now. Like a detective, Mario backtracked the last two weeks. Asking who had been in her house. She claimed no one, then corrected herself, saying her mother came by for a short visit.

  “Gardener?” Mario asked.

  “Yes, every Wednesday.”

  “Did he ask to use the bathroom or for some water? Do anything to distract you?”

  Olivia shook her head. He cut the grass while she was at work. She seldom saw him and mailed a check once a month.

  “Olivia, look at me,” he said, turning her face. “Someone had to come in and know what they were looking for.”

  “How about a boyfriend?”

  She made a face and shook her head left to right.

  “A one-night stand?” Mario knew it was a personal question, but he was in cop mode.

  She laughed. “Just you, and it was about two weeks ago.”

  He smiled. “And it’s been too long.” They laughed, and it broke the seriousness of the moment.

  It was when her mind was relaxed that a
thought came to her. “Louise—she cleans on Thursdays.”

  “While you’re at work?”

  “Yes.” The woman had worked for her since she bought the house and had worked with her mother for years.

  “Get Louise on the phone.” He perked up, like he did when he got a break in a case.

  “Now? It’s late.”

  Mario persuaded Olivia. Louise answered on the second ring. When asked if anyone ever helped her clean, she replied that a woman from her church and sometimes her son would help. Olivia got the woman’s name and address. Louise worried she’d done something wrong. Olivia assured her there was no problem and hung up.

  “Now think, Olivia,” Mario said. “Did Louise know about the account?”

  “No way.”

  “Did you ever talk about money?” Mario dug hard for information.

  “No, but . . .” Olivia paused. “My open mail sits on my desk. Someone could have seen the statement, but how could they get in the account?”

  “I don’t know.” Mario ended the night. He left with the cleaning woman’s information and concern that his friend had been ripped off. How? He didn’t know.

  Early the next morning before Truman’s funeral, Mario visited the cleaning woman, Kathy Taylor. The woman was a church freak, and it showed when he entered the house. Mentioning Olivia’s name got him a seat on her sofa. She was trusting, and it was scary how quickly she’d invite someone into her home. Even if she’d asked for ID, he wouldn’t have shown his police badge; this wasn’t official work.

  Mario continued with a story that Louise had recommended her for a cleaning job. He zeroed in on her son, mentioning he understood she had help. Mario listened. Kathy gave up all the information needed. Her son worked part-time at a computer store and sometimes helped her. Now he was a full-time worker, and she assured Mario she’d handle cleaning by herself.

  Mario quickly came back and praised the son as being good at computers for them to offer a full-time job. Kathy didn’t let him down and proudly told Mario how her son, Logan, built his own computer at age thirteen.