Sophia Ricci gasped.
‘That’s not all. I strongly suspect he may also have killed two other men overseas.’
Pecarro settled a calming hand on Sophia’s shoulder. ‘I also believe Sean Casey murdered Gerard Tooley, because he got too close to exposing him.’
Marilyn raised a hand across her mouth.
‘Ladies, I need your help. I don’t think Detective Casey is all he appears. I suspect he’s perverted the course of justice by diverting suspicion away from his brother. The evidence I’ve collected is substantial. I’m confident it’ll stand up in court. Ladies, we have the killer in our sights,’ said Pecarro, gauging their reaction.
‘Oh my God,’ said Marilyn. ‘A police officer gone bad?’
‘Yes, I believe that to be the case. Ladies, it’s time to pull the trigger. With your help, tonight, this thing gets settled. I know you weren’t expecting this, but it’s the safest way for all of us. Act as if you’re on a blind date. You’re not in any danger. I’ve arranged for the NYPD to be outside at eight forty-five. Another team will arrest Sean Casey at his home address.’
Pecarro drew a long breath. ‘The nightmare ends here. Sophia, Marilyn, I promise, it ends. As for Detective Casey and his brother, Sean, they’ll get what’s coming to them. Just act normal. Okay?’ Pecarro rolled his gaze to Marilyn Wilson.
‘Okay,’ said Marilyn. ‘You can rely on me.’
‘Good. Thank you. Sophia?’
‘Me, too. Let’s get this over with. I want justice. I’ve waited a long time for tonight.’
108
‘Eh, Pecarro,’ said Casey, ‘you took your goddamned time. I thought you’d done a runner…’
‘I’m sorry, Michael, our guests, they arrived as I got to the bar.’
‘They did?’
‘Yeah, they did.’
The two women moved from behind Pecarro.
‘Michael, I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine.’
‘Okay…’
‘This is Sophia. Sophia is the widow of Franco Ricci. And this is Marilyn Wilson. Marilyn was a close friend of Gerard Tooley. I believe you’ve already met?’ Pecarro said, steel-blue eyes fixed on Casey.
Fuck, thought Casey, as a sickly bilious feeling erupted deep inside his gut. This doesn’t feel right.
‘Yeah… Well… Look… Sorry … only … only… I’m going to have to use the bathroom,’ said Casey, staggering up, throwing the napkin behind him onto the chair, launching from the table.
‘If you’ll excuse us ladies,’ said Pecarro, maintaining eye contact with Casey. ‘We won’t be long, will we, Michael?’
‘No … Tony,’ said Casey. ‘We won’t be long…’
Pecarro followed Casey; kept him within arm’s length. Placed a steadying hand on Casey’s shoulder as he bounced from table to table like a pinball.
109
They stood at the urinal trough pissing against the gleaming porcelain. Michael Casey shuffled and spun to face his old friend. Their eyes met. A boyish understanding passed between them. They exchanged knowing smiles. Affectionate smirks. Both men unable to ignore the deceit any longer.
Michael Casey dragged up his zipper. Straightened up. Took a step back. Rocked on his heels. Stood tall. Faced Pecarro head on. ‘You know don’t you?’
‘Now you come to mention it…’
‘You know all right. And before you say anything else. How’s your client, Mrs Ricci? Don’t lie, Pecarro, I know you’re working for her.’
‘Considering what she’s been through this past two years, she’s fine. And in answer to your previous question, of course I damn well know,’ said Pecarro, shifting sideways, blocking the door. ‘And yeah, I’m working for her.’
‘I thought as much. Just so you know … don’t think I’m taking part in that charade in there … because I’m not. You knew I wouldn’t, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve followed me in here,’ said Casey, pointing toward the dining area.
Pecarro nodded.
‘Thought so. You’re a clever bastard, Pecarro. You know what we did, Sean and me. You know what we had to do. What you don’t know is that those bastards destroyed our family for generations. The thing is … it happened long before we were born. Irrespective of that fact, it affected us. We lost our family because of it. All the way through our childhoods—our adult lives even—it was always there, just like a goddamned cancer gnawing away at our souls. We couldn’t ignore it forever, could we?’
Casey searched Pecarro’s face for any traces of understanding, of compassion even, but found none.
‘I knew it was wrong, only … only … I couldn’t stop myself.’
‘And that’s the story you’re sticking to?’
‘It is … yeah. London. Sicily. I would never have seen those places otherwise. I never expected to. It gave my life meaning when it had none. What those Italian bastards did all those years ago, it damaged us both. It destroyed our futures.’
‘So, you’re saying you murdered Benedict Luppi in London and Alfonso Annatto in Sicily?’
‘I did. Loved every goddamned minute of it.’
‘And Tooley?’
‘Tooley got too close. He got in the way. He got what was coming to him. I couldn’t let him live and risk the truth coming out.’
‘You bastard.’
‘Sean did the other two. I suspected him early on. That scar—the one across his gut—is self-inflicted. He did it when we were both teenagers for a bet. My bet. Me, being the elder, I hold myself responsible for him. Figure that out. I can’t… You think scars disappear over time, but they don’t. Mental scars. Physical scars. They’re just the same. They never go away. Can you believe that we’d both got to the same place in our lives without either of us knowing what the other was doing? It’s fucking crazy mad I know, but it’s true, nonetheless. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but revenge … it tastes so fucking sweet. It’s like the best drug you’ve ever taken. Take my word for it.’
Outside, police sirens wailed.
Casey stalled. A euphoric sense of release coursed through him as the haunted ghosts of his ancestors departed. The elation sharpened by the heady mix of alcohol and ecstasy coursing through his veins.
‘I’ve always had the utmost respect for you, Pecarro, I really have. I’m going to ask you one question. I’d appreciate an honest answer.’
‘Go on…’
‘Tell me… Without Tooley, would you have worked it out?’ lamented Casey, facing Pecarro, hoping for understanding, but finding only indifference.
Pecarro shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t have.’
Epilogue
Epilogue - Brooklyn, 1930
The New York night of January 2, 1930, was pitch black and as cold as death. A Nor’easter storm hung bloated over Brooklyn. Snow piled high on walls abutting sidewalks. The city was at a standstill. More snow was due.
Thirty years a cop, Captain Flynn Connelly steeled himself. He could no longer stand idle. Flynn’s superiors wanted results. Demanded action.
Chicago’s Police Department’s success against The Mob and illicit bootleggers was fast becoming an embarrassment. New York Police Department’s failure to make progress in the fight against illicit liquor production was rapidly becoming a weeping sore. The message came down from the top. The District Attorney’s office demanded headlines exclaiming details of stills smashed, speakeasies closed, arrests made and those responsible for producing prohibited alcohol, incarcerated. The strongest possible deterrent issued.
Since the much-hated Volstead Act of 1919, prohibiting the production and sale of alcohol for public consumption, Connelly’s life had taken on a surreal, schizophrenic complexion. For like many of his Irish brethren, Connelly loved a drink.
The two hundred and ten-pound rotund Connelly stood before his men, combed his black grey-flecked Brylcreemed hair off of his sweaty forehead; his other hand firm on a shotgun stock. Connelly’s fiery blue eyes burned with resolve. He searched the face
s of the assembled squad for any hint of discontent. ‘Now then, lads, the time has come. We’ll split into three teams of four. Two teams in the Chryslers, and the rest in the Buick truck.’ Flynn spoke in a thick Irish brogue. ‘As we approach, I want complete silence. We’ll hit them hard and fast. Cars approach from the front. The truck from the rear. I want to maintain the element of surprise. They won’t know what hit them. This won’t be easy. Spare the shooting. Better if we bring the O’Sheas in alive. That said, if there’s any shooting to be done, let’s make sure you’re the ones doing it. Make damn sure, boys, you’re the ones that make it home tonight to your loved ones. Come on, it’s time we made tracks.’
Unbeknownst to Connelly and their quarry, distilling whiskey long into the night, others had similar, yet infinitely more conclusive plans.
* * *
The brothers O’Shea and their cousins had constructed a secret underground whiskey still under a derelict brick warehouse at the junction of Van Brunt and Union Street. The still was hidden in a two-storey-high basement: a dark and featureless room, void of windows and doors. It could store one hundred and fifty oak barrels in complete secrecy. Access was via a tunnel from the adjacent Marney’s grocery store.
The still had—over the past ten years—served the local Irish community well. It was secure, local, discreet and efficient. However, the O’Shea brothers—Tom, Michael and Connor, first-generation migrants from Aghada, County Cork—were under no illusions about the real reason for their continued success.
‘Tom?’
‘What now?’
‘Did you pay, Connelly?’ said Connor, manhandling a barrel into a corner, face flushed ruby red.
‘Course I did. Greedy son of a bitch expects it,’ said Tom, irritated by his brother’s insistent line of questioning.
‘I was only checking, don’t bite my head off. Uninvited guests, we don’t need. He’d better honour his end of the bargain and keep those Eyeties, happy.’
‘You’re right there. What about that gorgeous, scarlet-haired colleen from Gallagher’s last night. She can visit any time she likes,’ said Michael, filling bottles with translucent, amber mash. ‘I’d take a break for her, anytime.’
‘You’ve not a hope in hell there, Mickey. She’s only got eyes for me,’ said Connor, with a broad smile, throwing a playful punch at his brother’s gut.
‘You two are mad as bloody hatters. Mark my words, she’ll not be back. Poor girl was like a deer in headlights. Don’t expect to see that one again,’ said Tom, balancing eight bottles of matured whiskey across his arms.
Whiskey production in the early days was slow. Whiskey of acceptable taste and consistency took two years to mature. Since times were hard and incomes low, it was an excruciatingly long period. The Wall Street Crash of the previous year had proved catastrophic. Millions were unemployed and living on the breadline. With an eye to the future, the O’Shea brothers persisted with their illicit activities and fifteen barrels of whiskey were reaching maturity every year.
‘This stuff is better than money in the bank,’ said Tom, rolling a sealed barrel into position.
‘And far tastier,’ said Connor.
* * *
Outside Marney’s, a black, four-door 1929 Model T Ford skidded to a halt on fresh-packed snow and bounced against the kerb. The Ford’s engine stalled. The headlights died.
With a sombre sense of purpose five men in fedoras and suits spilled out of the Ford and strode across the sidewalk towards Marney’s. A copy of the day’s New York Times hung over their forearms.
Marney had no time to react. The first punch landed square on his jaw and sent him crashing to the floor. He lay absolutely still, frozen with fear. Five pairs of polished Italian brogues clicked past just inches from his face. Marney recognised the members of the Fratellanza Gang. He dared to breathe shallow breaths.
‘Where’s the fucking entrance?’ barked Joe Annatto.
‘Connelly said to look under the counter, boss,’ Carlo Luppi said.
‘Find it. I’ll cover the front,’ ordered Stefano Parrini. ‘You two, Costa and Annatto, go guard the car. Let no one near it. It’s our only route out of here.’
The two gangsters acknowledged Parrini’s order, stepped over to the window and scanned the street.
* * *
Ten blocks away, the two Chryslers and a Buick truck slid to a halt - a serious accident blocked the road. A young mother walking down the busy sidewalk had lost the hand of her four-year-old son. He’d panicked. Run out into the road directly into the path of a postal wagon. It didn’t look good. The chatter on the police radio suggested as much.
Sergeant George Wessel, an NYPD veteran of twenty years, turned to his captain.
‘We’re going to be late, Captain.’
‘We are. Don’t worry. We’ve all the time in the world,’ said Connelly, without emotion.
* * *
Once the Fratellanza Gang discovered the trapdoor under the counter, The O’Shea brothers fate was sealed. Escape was impossible.
‘Hands on your heads! Move! Up against the wall, Mick motherfuckers!’ barked Stefano Parrini, directing a Colt 45 at the three brothers. ‘Cover them. They turn around. Try to run. Shoot them.’
With their hands above their heads, the three brothers moved over to a cleared area of wall between a high pile of barrels and a gleaming brass still.
Stefano Parrini sneered. The scars on his face glistened like wet worms under the harsh electric light. Parrini pistol-whipped them. Threw each man against the wall. Instructed them to face the wall.
He halted. Drew breath. Glared. Primed ready to explode.
‘You think you can do this, do you? Think you can take us on? Steal our money? Rob us of our livelihoods? Take the food out of the mouths of our children? You Irish pricks. We ain’t taking your shit. You hear?’
Parrini’s body convulsed with rage. Spittle ran down his chin. He’d killed before in cold blood. Found it unsatisfying. Preferred to kill with his blood lust high. Inflicting death in the grip of rage gave him an instant, gratifying rush. It was enough to sustain him between kills. His men knew this. They knew his habits. Had seen his deadly rage countless times before. They knew him only too well.
‘Well, you’re not getting away with it, do you hear… Today, Mick motherfuckers, you get to die.’
Connor—the youngest of the O’Shea brothers—spun to face the rabid Italian. ‘Please, Mr Parrini, don’t! We’re sorry. We’ll make it up to you. We’ll work for you. Can’t we talk about this? Talk like reasonable men?’
The Colt exploded. Connor’s frantic begging silenced forever by a single shot to the forehead. Acrid, choking smoke—bleached yellow with cordite—filled the room. Connor’s lifeless body slumped to the floor. A burgeoning puddle of crimson leached over the straw-covered concrete.
It had only just begun.
Turning away from the two cornered brothers, Parrini sought to control the uncontrollable—his rage. His orders were clear.
Leave one alive.
‘Give them a message that will survive the generations. Let them live in fear…’
Parrini forced the barrel of the Colt against the back of Tom O’Shea’s skull.
The second shot echoed from the walls and ceiling with just as much alacrity, as the first.
Also by Keiron Cosgrave
D.I. WARDELL BOOK 1 - PROMISES, PROMISES
PROLOGUE,
CHAPTERS 1 & 2
1
January 1999
St. Amias Boarding School, Harrogate
Outside, gnarled witch’s fingers of ice hung from the gutter above Kate’s bedroom window. Inside, she slept.
Live-in caretaker Alan Carter lifted his head from the pillow and peered towards the bedside cabinet. One-thirty p.m. displayed in inch-high, neon green numerals. He reached over and disabled the alarm.
Powerless against the compulsion, he pushed up on an elbow, massaged gritty eyes and yawned. Coming around, he slumped bac
k against the high stack of pillows piled against the headboard.
A movie of coupled naked images flashed through his half-conscious brain. He pushed his right hand deep into his pyjama bottoms. Took a firm grip and savoured the memory of innocent, reluctant fingers as cool as glass on his hot seed.
A chuckle escaped his lips.
Life in the old dog yet …
Stalling, Carter held himself on the jagged-edged precipice of release and withdrew his hand.
Stop! He chided himself. Not so soon …
Carter swung his legs to the floor, pulled on a pair of faded Levi’s, wriggled into a tattered vest and dragged on a pair of socks. He padded over to the door, clicked it open and leaned out into the corridor. Squinted against the gloom. The clawing darkness in the corridor felt touchable.
Reassured, he set off for Kate’s bedroom.
At the door, he halted and remembered oiling the hinges. Complimenting himself on his foresight, he pushed through the door, slipped silently over the oak boards and arrived at the side of the bed. He cast out a hand and stroked Kate’s cheek. Her breath warm against his fingers. He slipped out of his clothes and stood there naked, but for socks. Over his shoulder, he glimpsed a comedic phallic-shaped shadow cast onto the wall. He stymied a chuckle.
Leaning down, he blew gently in Kate’s ear.
She slept on.
Carter rolled the blanket away and climbed into bed.
Silence and stillness.
He grinned a sickly grin.
Kate wore a pyjama set printed with teddy bear motifs – a thirteenth birthday present from a doting grandmother.
After a moment of indecision, he shuffled closer and caressed Kate’s silky-smooth brown hair.
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 20
