‘I do… Do you know something, Sean?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight. I didn’t think I would, but I have. We ought to do this more often. We ought to make an effort to keep in touch. I hate it when we lose contact. Okay, we have the occasional disagreement, but what family doesn’t?’
Sean nodded, dried his hands on a paper towel. ‘You’re right, we should. Falling out is exhausting. Can you remember when we were teenagers, how we used to fight all the goddamn time?’ said Sean.
‘Yeah, we hated one another back then. We used to fight like cat and dog. Most of the time, it was over nothing. Usually, it would end in a fistfight. Remember that time when we went hunting? How we’d argued about who would inherit Da’s gun when he died? Do you remember it?’ said Michael, his conscious mind revolving under the harsh fluorescent lighting.
‘How could I forget? Christ’s sake … you even dared me to cut myself. You said the gun was mine if I did. I still have the scar. You were a mean-spirited son of a bitch back then. You were always trying to prove something. You loved winding me up to prove myself; always putting me down,’ said Sean, lowering his hand around his waist, grasping his shirt. ‘I mean … look at this… This is what you made me do to get that bastard gun,’ he said, lifting his shirt to reveal a five-inch long, sausage-shaped scar diagonal across his gut.
Michael’s mind reeled.
‘And do you know something…’
‘What?’
‘I never got that goddamned gun. You tricked me. It was all for nothing. I proved myself though. You can’t take that away from me,’ said Sean, slapping Michael on the back.
‘That’s right, I can’t. Back then you were crazy. Come on. We had better get back to Sinead. She’ll be wondering where we’ve gone.’
64
From NYPD’s internal archives Tooley unearthed newspaper cuttings describing the activities of the infamous Fratellanza Gang and its leader, Stefano Parrini. Giuseppe Ricci had either lived his life in blissful ignorance, or he’d been economical with the truth. Tooley couldn’t decide which.
The cuttings lay across Tooley’s king-size bed arranged in date order.
The gang’s activities peaked in 1933. The earliest article dated 14 March 1919 described the trial of mobsters Carlo Luppi and Joe Annatto on charges of extortion with menaces. It was the first time the gang’s Fratellanza tag—the Sicilian colloquialism for ‘brotherhood,’ had been coined. The prosecution dropped the case before it came to court after their primary witness left town without leaving a forwarding address. The cuttings evidenced a litany of extortion, fraud, threats of violence and accusations of murder. Several articles described the ongoing turf wars between competing Hispanic, Irish and Italian gangs.
One particular cutting caught Tooley’s eye since it had a handwritten notation along the top edge. The notation cited the date and origin. Tooley sat on the edge of the bed and re-read it.
New York Times, 14,11,35
Murder at Irish Bar
NYPD detectives are investigating the murder of a man last night at O’Brien’s Bar on 11th Street. The murder happened around 1:00 a.m. Police identified the dead man as Stefano Aldo Parrini. Parrini is a suspected member of well-known underworld organisation, The Fratellanza Gang. Mr Parrini died from gunshot wounds to the head and torso. A senior NYPD officer is being interviewed in connection with the killing.
Another newspaper cutting described the abduction and torture of a well-known Brooklyn bookmaker. The suspected abductors were identified as Stefano Parrini, Carlo Luppi, Joe Costa and Joe Annatto, known members of the Fratellanza Gang. Scanning the clippings, Tooley noted that there had been no mention of feuds between the Fratellanza and Irish gangs.
Tooley sighed a long sigh. Research, though fascinating could be frustrating.
He swigged the last dregs of bourbon from a thick-bottomed glass. Deciding to call it a night, he collected the clippings.
Casey’s recalcitrant mindset was tiresome. What was it with him? He seemed distant. Preoccupied. Cold even?
As Tooley lifted from the bed a clipping drifted to the bedroom floor. It revealed a headline, and a faded image. The image showed two handcuffed mobsters being led into a police van. Tooley picked up the crumpled clipping. It read:
New York Times, 15,5,30
Illicit Whiskey Still Discovered Under General Store.
Following a tip-off from an unnamed source, NYPD officers smashed their way into a major whiskey still located in the cellar of Marney’s grocery store on Union Street. Police seized fifty barrels of whiskey in varying stages of distillation. A police spokesman confirmed two arrests were made during the operation—Mr Carlo Luppi and Mr Joe Costa—known members of the Brooklyn based Fratellanza Gang. The same police spokesman expressed his shock at the arrest. ‘The arrests of Mr Luppi and Mr Costa comes as something of a surprise. Illicit liquor production is a new string to the Fratellanza Gangs’ bow. Our investigations continue. We have no further comment to make.’
Tooley placed the cutting onto the bedside table and made a mental note to study it further in the morning.
65
Chief Johnson set the case meeting to start at 8:30 a.m. Casey thought the timing hilarious. Tooley would despair at so early a meeting. With luck, he’d sleep in, arrive late, or not at all.
The month-old investigation had once again gone cold. They had established that one of the victim’s ancestors was a mobster killed by an errant police officer, almost eighty years prior.
Tooley was late.
Johnson stood before the assembled officers. He cleared his throat. ‘This investigation is going nowhere. This is a fact, not an opinion. Ladies and gentlemen, it isn’t good enough. Redouble your efforts. I want progress. Results. Do you hear?’ exclaimed the Chief, receiving a weary ripple of acknowledgement around the room. ‘I want you all to get back to basics. Appraise again anyone of interest from the first murder. Anyone fitting the the age and ethnicity profile.’
‘You mean anyone who’s Irish, sir?’ said Abrahamsen.
‘Yes, I mean the Irish. If you’d allow me to finish, Detective,’ said Johnson, glaring. ‘Interview them again. Chip away at their alibis. Someone out there knows something. Forensics have drawn a blank. All we have is basic policing.’ Johnson looked at Casey. ‘Casey, where the hell is Tooley?’
‘I spoke to him last night. Reminded him about this meeting. I also left a message on his cell this morning.’
The door swung open. A bedraggled Tooley ambled in.
‘Sorry, Chief. My car, it, wouldn’t start. It hates cold mornings,’ said Tooley, making for the coffee pot.
‘Well, good morning, Gerard. So glad you could join us. Have you considered an upgrade?’
‘No, but I will.’
Johnson rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s get back to business. Do you have anything to report?’ said Johnson eyes boring into Tooley’s back.
Sipping coffee, Tooley turned to face the room. ‘No, nothing tangible. Did Michael brief everyone about our meeting with the second victim’s elderly uncle?’
‘Yes, he did. Don’t get bogged down on a single line of enquiry. It’s a long time ago. It might not be relevant.’
What a twenty-four carat asshole, thought Tooley. ‘No, sir, I won’t.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Casey, as usual, I want a written progress report by close of play. The Mayor is giving me a lot of grief. This case is rapidly becoming an open sore. A sore I want healed up.’
Casey nodded. ‘Yes, sir, you’ll get your report.’
66
Casey implemented the Chief’s instructions to the letter. At the end of every day, he would summarise progress in an email. The main suspects from the Costa murder were re-interviewed. Nothing new was established. Every suspect could verify his or her alibi via a third party. Progress proved elusive. The investigation was in danger of running out of steam and grinding to a halt.
Abrahamsen reminded Casey o
f a yet to be mined nugget; the unidentified man in Delaney’s with the scar across his gut. Casey drew a long breath. ‘How about we put out an APB? We could ask Irishmen with scars across their stomachs to turn themselves in to the nearest precinct?’ said Casey, with a go-large dollop of sarcasm. ‘I haven’t forgotten him. I spent days trawling hospital records. It was a complete waste of time. Do you know how many appendix operations take place in New York State alone in any one year?’
‘No,’ said Abrahamsen.
‘Answer is thousands. We need something more concrete to go on.’
After a prolonged and acrimonious discussion; Johnson instructed Casey to, “cut Tooley free to do his own thing.” In the past doing so had worked, the Chief argued. The baby food extortion case proved it. Casey succumbed to the Chief’s demands, though insisted that Tooley provide daily updates. Casey argued for Tooley removal from the case. Tooley’s “lone wolf” approach represented an anathema to Casey. Johnson, with his usual dismissive attitude, ignored Casey’s advice.
‘Crystal,’ said Johnson into the intercom. ‘Get me Gerard Tooley. I want to see him as a matter of urgency. No excuses. I want him here now.’
Ten minutes later, Tooley sidled in with his usual blend of casual, ruffled informality. He carried a paper cup brimmed with coffee.
‘Sit down, Tooley,’ said Johnson, rolling a hand towards the vacant chair opposite.
Tooley swung into the recliner. Set the paper cup down on the table.
‘I’ve been discussing with Casey the most effective way for you to contribute towards the satisfactory resolution of the Celtic cross case. We agreed that you work better alone. I feel your approach demands it. What do you think?’
‘Whatever you consider best, sir. Only…’
Johnson interrupted Tooley mid-sentence. Glowered. ‘I must insist on one thing, Tooley. You must, and I need to emphasise this point, you must, keep myself and Casey informed every day. Do you understand?’
Tooley nodded. ‘If I come across anything substantive, I’ll let you and Detective Casey know immediately,’ said Tooley.
‘Make sure you do. That’s all for now. Tooley, find me the goddamned killer. And find him quick.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tooley. ‘I’ll try my best.’
67
‘Why if it isn’t, Detective Tooley? How are you this fine morning?’ said Marilyn, from behind the reception desk at Brooklyn Central Library. ‘I’m fine, Marilyn.’ Tooley paused, weighed his words with care. ‘And you?’
‘Getting by … I suppose. How can I help?’
‘The powers that be, have cut me free. They seem to think I work better alone.’
‘Cut free? That’s an interesting turn of phrase. You’re quite the Lone Ranger,’ said Marilyn.
‘I wouldn’t say that. I’m more your every day, Tonto, always playing second fiddle to someone,’ said Tooley, with a broad smile.
‘I very much doubt it,’ she said. ‘Anyway… Was the research I did for you of any use? Did you find your killer?’
‘No. We’re still, as they say, “exploring all avenues.” I don’t suppose you’d help me again, would you? Only, last time, you worked wonders,’ said Tooley, with a doe-eyed grin.
‘I’d love to. On one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘You repay the favour sometime. You could buy me a drink, perhaps?’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ said Tooley, stunned at Marilyn’s directness.
They eyed one another like love-struck teenagers across the reception desk. Tooley broke the spell and settled a sheet of paper on the desk.
Marilyn studied Tooley’s “spider on acid,” handwritten scrawl listing the names Stefano Parrini, Carlo Luppi, Joe Costa and Joe Annatto.
‘These men are the principal members of a 1930s gang known as the Fratellanza - AKA the Brotherhood. One of our victims is a descendant. My hunch, and it’s only a hunch at the this stage, is they came into conflict with a local Irish gang. I imagine there was some kind of incident. An incident that went unreported. There would have been threats of reprisals. Maybe even multiple murders. Nobody would talk. I can visualise the scenario.’
‘I can too.’
‘Would you carry out a search of the death register for males under the age of thirty with Irish surnames? The record would show that they died suddenly without explanation, prior hospitalisation, or as a result of criminal action. One day they’d be alive and kicking, the next, inexplicably dead; death, most probably cited as natural causes. We should focus the search in Brooklyn and the surrounding boroughs between 1928 to 1935 for individuals aged between eighteen and thirty years of age. I’ll need a genealogical family search on the results. Establish the identity of any living relatives.’ Realising the enormity of his request, Tooley stalled. ‘I’m sorry, Marilyn, I know it’s a lot to ask.’
‘Detective Tooley … Gerard… May I call you Gerard?’
‘Of course, you can. How did you know my christian name?’
‘I did a little detective work of my own,’ said Marilyn, with a knowing smile. ‘My niece, Caroline, is an amateur genealogist. She prepares reports to supplement her income. She loves digging through archives. I’ll ask her to waive her normal charges.’
‘That would be great. I’ll leave the detective work in your capable hands,’ said Tooley, warmth radiating from electric blue eyes. Tooley had written his name and cell phone number along the bottom of the sheet listing the names of the long-dead Fratellanza Gang. ‘Call me. We’ll have that drink.’
‘Bet your life I will.’
68
In need of fresh air, Michael Casey decided to take a brisk walk around Brooklyn’s Madison Park. Half way around, the heavens opened. Casey scurried under an ornate gazebo with a view across the lake. He took a seat on a bench. Reclaimed his cell phone from an inside pocket. Dialled.
‘Can you hear me, Tooley?’ said Casey, so loud Tooley felt compelled to drag the cell from his ear. The buzz and zing of static suggested that Tooley was in a subterranean cavern on the dark side of the moon.
‘Is that you, Casey?’
‘It is. Just like it says in the display when my name pops up. Who else would it be?’
Zings. Whoops. Crackles.
‘Is everything okay? This line … it’s terrible. Speak up.’
‘I’m phoning for an update.’
‘On?’
‘On the goddamned Celtic cross case, that’s what? The Chief wants daily updates. I’ve already told you this. I need your update. What lines of inquiry have you been following? You made any progress?’ said Casey over the static, trying hard to control his anger, since there’d been no contact from Tooley for forty-eight hours.
‘Mississippi Police Department have me working on a child rape and murder. It’s a real nasty case. It’s taking up a lot of my time.’
The static on the line became almost impenetrable.
‘I’m researching the victim’s family backgrounds on the Celtic cross case. Hoping to find a motive, or a possible link to mob activity. I’ve been following up after our sojourn to the Cape. So far, I haven’t come up with anything concrete. I’ll let you know when I do.’
By now, Tooley was almost shouting.
Without warning the line fell silent. Casey’s looked to the cell. The signal strength indicator showed one bar. The call died.
Casey seethed.
Tooley’s idiosyncratic attitude was driving him crazy.
69
‘Antonio, it’s Gerard Tooley, apologies for the late hour. Remember me? We worked together on the baby food extortion case,’ said Tooley, into the antiquated cell.
‘I do. How could I forget? You’re a celebrity in policing circles. The papers made sure of it. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ said Pecarro, surprised by Tooley’s unexpected call, recollecting how most of the credit for solving the Ma’s Best baby food case had gone to Tooley.
‘I’m calling about a case you worked on b
efore you left. Chief Johnson’s drafted me in to assist on the Celtic cross homicides. I’d like to pick your brains. I was wondering if we could meet? Have a beer or a coffee, perhaps. Your choice. I’m easy. I value your opinion and your insight. There may be some minutiae you’re aware of? Something that unlocks things… I seem to recollect you were lead detective with Casey as your understudy. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. It was my last big case. My great unsolved swansong. Kind of apt, don’t you think? Don’t answer that. Plead the fifth,’ said Pecarro, smirking. ‘Yeah, I’ll meet you. But only on one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s off the record. I don’t owe the department a damn thing. They treated me bad. It’s left a sour taste in my mouth. Sons of bitches don’t care or understand how it affects a person. I’ll meet you for coffee.’
‘Thanks. When?’ said Tooley, switching off the speakerphone, pushing the cell against his ear.
‘I’ve not much in my diary at the moment. How about we meet at Green Point Coffee House on Franklin Street tomorrow morning at ten? The morning rush ought to be over by then,’ suggested Pecarro, gazing over the unfurnished office out through the window at a slate grey sky.
‘Okay,’ said Tooley. ‘I’ll see you there at ten.’
‘Don’t be late, Tooley. Your reputation, it, precedes you.’
‘I won’t. I promise. I appreciate it. Goodbye, Pecarro,’ said Tooley, ending the call, contemplating his next move.
70
Tooley slid across the vinyl and eased in to the seat opposite Pecarro. They exchanged warm smiles.
‘Eh, well done. You’re almost on time,’ said Pecarro, checking the time.
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 13
