by Ava Collins
Both the wall and the creed had been freshly painted. It stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the gritty facility. Clearly a response to the negative media attention. As if a creed on the wall was going to stop an officer from beating a mouthy inmate. But it was a good reminder for me not to get mouthy. I like to think that I have perfected the art of being a smart-ass, but that wasn’t going to go over well here.
“Hey kid, what are you in for?” a voice asked. The question came from a man in the next cell. Years of whisky and cigarettes gave his voice a smooth thick texture, like a lounge singer.
I hesitated to answer. Jumping a turnstile wasn’t going to give me any credibility in here. “Murder,” I said, trying to sound tough.
“You’re a little bit fluffy for a murderer, aren’t you?” the voice said.
“I’ll have you know I’m very dangerous.”
“I’m shaking,” he said. “How many people have you killed? Allegedly speaking, of course.”
“I lost count after a hundred.”
“Oh, a mass murderer. Impressive.”
“What are you in for?” I asked.
“Cop says my dog pooped on the sidewalk. Cop says I didn’t clean it up.” Then he added, “I don’t have a dog.”
“Does the truth ever come out of your mouth, Mr. Falco?” another voice said. I peered through the cheese grater and saw Detective Gibbs standing in front of Falco’s cell.
“You’ve got nothing on me, Detective Gibbs,” Falco said.
“I’ve got a dead Giovanni capo and someone who will testify that you ordered the hit,” Gibbs said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I run a pizza parlor,” Falco said.
“You run at least a dozen businesses that we know about. And I use the term lightly. All fronts for organized crime. Your trucking company, your construction company, even your art gallery.”
“Prove it,” Falco said, confidently.
“I will,” said Gibbs. “And this city will be safer for it.”
“You give me far too much credit, Detective Gibbs.”
“Kids don’t steal from candy stores without your approval, Falco. And you know it.”
My body started to shake. I was in the cell next to Lou Falco. The head of the most powerful crime family. Rumor is that he put a hit out on his own mother.
“Detective Gibbs?” my voice creaked.
Gibbs tilted his head and looked confused. He peered through the grated door and frowned when he saw me. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, really,” I stammered.
“Don’t tell him anything, kid,” Falco said.
“Zip it, Falco,” Gibbs snapped.
“I jumped a turnstile.”
Gibbs rolled his eyes and sighed.
“But I had a good reason,” I said.
Gibbs shook his head and walked off. I wasn’t sure if he was coming back. The cell walls seemed to close in around me.
“A ruthless killer, eh kid?”
“I may have exaggerated a little, Mr. Falco.”
“Please, call me Lou,” he said. “What’s your name?”
My mouth was a desert. I could barely scratch out a sound. “Uh…”
“I don’t bite,” Falco said.
“Hannah,” I stammered.
“That’s a pretty name. Nice to meet you, Hannah.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Falco… I mean, Lou.”
Gibbs returned a few moments later with a guard, and I was released.
“Stay out of trouble now, Hannah,” Falco shouted as I was escorted from the holding area.
“How do you know that clown?” Gibbs asked.
“I don’t.”
“I turn around and you’ve got ties to organized crime,” Gibbs said, shaking his head.
Gibbs drove me back to the DuMond, and I explained to him everything that happened.
“You need to stop poking around this case. Seems like you’re starting to stir up the hornet’s nest,” Gibbs said.
“That just tells me I’m getting closer to the truth,” I said.
“The truth is Jake killed the old lady. That’s what the evidence says.”
“I don’t think you believe that any more than I do.”
“I don’t think you understand how dangerous these people are. There’s a turf war going on between the Giovanni and the Falco crime family. That’s something you don’t want to get in the middle of.”
“I get it,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” he said. His face grew sad. “These people killed my brother. He was a good cop. He was this close to taking the whole organization down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be smart. Don’t get involved in this.”
“But you want to take these guys down, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” he said, steely eyed.
“I can help.”
Gibbs chuckled. “So, what’s your current theory?”
“I don’t know what my theory is. But I know Otto is dealing in stolen art. Whether he’s importing it, or just connecting people with buyers, I don’t know. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it with the mob’s help.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Gibbs said.
“You said yourself that Mr. Falco has an art gallery. Mrs. DuMond found out about Otto’s dealings and threatened him. She would, in essence, be threatening the mob.”
“Now you think the mob whacked Mrs. DuMond, and framed Jake?”
“That’s one possibility.”
“And you think those guys that chased you down today were mob guys?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Weren’t you rambling on about poisoned cupcakes earlier? You’re all over the map.”
“I’m looking into every possible avenue. It’s called good detective work.”
Gibbs shook his head.
“I’ve got a sample of one of the cupcakes that Isabella ate,” I asked. “Can you run an analysis on it?”
“I told you, she died of natural causes. Isabella’s toxicology report was clean. Mrs. DuMond's toxicology report was clean.” Gibbs said. “I can’t just go wasting department resources on a hunch that you have about some cupcakes.”
“Maybe the poison is something that wouldn’t show up on the toxicology report?”
“Leave the science to the experts. If something was there, we’d have found it.” Gibbs pulled the car up to the DuMond.
“I’m not giving up on this,” I said.
“You better start being a little more careful.”
I hopped out of the car and marched inside. I wanted this day to be over. It was miserable. A shower and a warm bed sounded really good. When I reached my apartment, there was an envelope taped to the door. I tore it open and pulled out a note. Random letters had been cut and pasted from a newspaper to form sentences. The note read: Back off, or die.
CHAPTER 21
MY BODY TREMBLED with fear. This was hitting a little too close to home. But this didn’t seem like the type of letter of the mob would write. The mob wouldn’t write a letter at all. They’d have four goons chase you down in broad daylight. This was a letter written by an arts and crafts type person.
To cut each letter out, and glue it into place, took time. I mean, it wasn’t like they were typesetting a five hundred page novel. But time, none the less. Sure, the FBI could track a page from an inkjet printer back to the make and model. Determine what type of paper it was printed on, and maybe trace it back to the store that sold the paper. Then go through purchase receipts. But the FBI was far from getting involved in this.
So, why not just print the letter out? Unless, of course, you didn’t have a computer and printer.
Mrs. Abbott didn’t have a computer. She had asked me on more than one occasion to print something out, look something up on the Internet, or order something online. I think that’s why she always made me cupcakes. But why would she mak
e a death threat?
I may have my suspicions about poisoned cupcakes, but they were turning out to be dead ends. I suspected Mrs. Abbott was lying about her whereabouts the night of the murder. She and Zoe were corroborating each other’s alibis. But why?
I thought for a moment about the best way to handle this. I could leave the note back on Mrs. Abbott’s door and see how she would react. But what if she didn’t write the letter? She might have a heart attack thinking someone is trying to kill her.
I made sure the door to the apartment was double locked. Then I went to my room. It was almost midnight.
For an instant, a protection spell seemed like a good idea. But the way my magic has been working lately, I thought better of it. I might end up in a worse situation.
Porter’s earlier admonition echoed in my mind. I really did need a mentor. I was blindly casting spells in the dark. Sometimes they would work, sometimes they wouldn’t. Sometimes they had gotten me in trouble. And I sure didn’t want to pop up on the radar of the League of Sorcery. They didn’t sound altogether friendly.
Banksy was waiting for me in my room. He leapt out of the chair when I entered. “I’ve been worried sick about you,” he exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
“Long story,” I said. “You didn’t happen to see who left this on the door, did you?” I held the death threat out to him.
His eyes grew wide. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“I need you to check out Mrs. Abbott’s place. Let me know if you find anything out of sorts.”
“I can’t go into Mrs. Abbott’s apartment. It’s one of the areas affected by that dreadful exorcism.” Bancroft sighed. “You don’t really think Mrs. Abbott is capable of murder, do you?”
“I think everyone is capable of murder, given the right circumstances.” I told Banksy about the challenges of my day. He didn’t react well.
“I think you’ve pushed this too far.” His worrisome eyes surveyed me. “I’m just going to say it—I’m concerned for your safety. I want you to stop.”
“Stop what? Stop trying to help an innocent man?” I protested.
“How do you know he’s innocent?”
“I wouldn’t be getting death threats if I was chasing down the wrong leads. I’m getting close, Banksy.”
“I couldn’t take it if anything happened to you. I wouldn’t be able to go on. I would just evaporate, I suppose.” Bancroft hung his head and sulked. Torment twisted his face. If he wasn’t a ghost, a tear would have rolled down his cheek. But ghosts don’t cry.
“Banksy, look at me. Don’t be upset. Nothing is going to happen to me. We’re always going to be together.”
“No, we won’t,” he mumbled.
“I promise, if I die, I will come back and haunt the DuMond with you.”
“One day, you will leave me. You’ll move on with your life,” he said. His voice was melancholy. “You’ll get married and start a family. Hopefully you’ll live a long and happy life. Then one day, you’ll transition to the other side. Everyone does. And I’ll still be here.” He looked heartbroken. Hopeless.
My eyes filled, and a tear rolled down my cheek. Everything he said was true. It was something we both had been pushing to the back of our minds. We had become so close. Closer than either of us wanted to admit. I couldn’t imagine my life without Banksy. But neither of us had ever put that fine a point on our situation. He was my best friend. But I began to wonder if my feelings for him weren’t something more than that.
I tried to stifle those thoughts. He was a ghost. I wasn’t. It would never work.
“Banksy, how did you die?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, solemnly.
“How do you not know?”
“The last thing I remember was sitting down for a meal. I’m afraid the rest is a blank.” Banksy drifted away in thought. “That was in 1921.” His face lightened as he remembered the time.
“Have you ever considered the possibility that you were murdered?”
His face tensed again. “That’s preposterous. Who would want to kill me?”
“Maybe that’s the reason you are still stuck here? Once you solve your murder, you can finally transition.”
“I don’t think it works that way. People are murdered everyday, and they seem to transition just fine. Why am I stuck here?”
“Some larger purpose, perhaps?” I said.
“I think my purpose in life is to keep you out of trouble,” he said, smiling. “I guess that’s my purpose in death, actually.”
I smiled back at him. I wanted to give him a hug, but there was that whole ghost thing again.
“Well, it’s about that hour where I should do my nightly haunting. And you need some rest.”
“Goodnight, Banksy.”
“Goodnight, my dear.” He drifted away, fading through the wall.
I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang. It was Zoe Alexander. “I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I need your help.”
CHAPTER 22
ZOE PACED BACK and forth in her apartment, panicked. I had never seen her this frazzled before. She’d pour a glass of straight bourbon, guzzle it, then pour another. It wasn’t doing much to calm her nerves.
Thunder boomed, and the rain started to patter hard against the windows. The storm was finally here, and it made the situation feel even more ominous.
“Thank you. I couldn’t think of anyone else to talk to. And I figured you were a night owl and would be up,” she said.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m in big trouble.”
“What is it?”
“I met a guy.”
“You do that a lot,” I said.
Zoe glared at me. “No, I mean the wrong guy.”
“You do that a lot, too.”
She gritted her teeth and took a deep breath.
“Look, I’m really the wrong person to give you romantic advice,” I said.
“I think he’s trying to kill me.”
I squinted at her, confused. “Why?”
“I think things started to go sour when I mentioned that I would tell his wife about our relationship if he didn’t make a substantial deposit to my bank account.”
“I can see where that would cause a problem,” I said.
“But it gets worse. I think he’s connected to the mob.”
“Go on,” I said. She had my full attention.
“I could’ve sworn I saw him in the building today. He was with another guy, and they left a note on your door,” she said. “I hope you don’t think me nosy, but I took the liberty of reading it. I think it was meant for me. I think, maybe, he got our apartments confused.”
I processed this for a minute. “How did you meet this guy?”
“How does anyone meet these days? We met on the Internet. One thing led to another, and we hooked up.”
“When?”
“The night of the murder.” Zoe’s eyes widened, realizing she was about to get caught in a lie. She sighed, then confessed. “Okay, I have to be honest. I wasn’t with Mrs. Abbott at the time of the murder.”
In my experience, the words I have to be honest usually precede a lie. This time, I think she was telling the truth. But I was still confused. She was stumbling drunk the night of the murder. I couldn’t imagine that she had been in the condition to entertain anyone that night. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were so drunk that night, Charlotte and Otto had to help you to your apartment, right?”
“Wrong. This stays between us, okay?”
I nodded.
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“You sure looked like it to me.”
“Charlotte paid me to pretend I was drunk and hit on Elliott.”
My face twisted up. “Why would she do that?”
“Honey, you have a lot to learn,” Zoe said. “I think she wanted to see how Elliott would react to temptation. I am rather irresistible to men.” Zoe admired herself in the mirror, gazing at her curve
s.
I rolled my eyes.
“If Elliott can resist me, I’m sure her marriage will be safe. She just wanted some peace of mind before she tied the knot.”
“So, after Charlotte and Otto left, you connected with Mr. Mafia?”
“He called. Said he was in the neighborhood. I was bored. Why not?”
If I could trust what she was saying, it only strengthened my conviction that Otto was involved with the mob. And the mob had most likely been involved with the death of Mrs. DuMond.
“What’s his name,” I asked.
“Nick Nicoletti,” She said.
“Which family does he work for?”
“How should I know? One of the ones that put people they don’t like at the bottom of the harbor.”
“You didn’t think it odd that a mob guy just happened to be in the neighborhood the night Mrs. DuMond was killed?”
“I didn’t know he was in the mob then,” she protested. “Give me a little credit.”
“So, let me get this straight. You saw your mobster boyfriend put the death threat on my door?”
“Not exactly. I didn’t want to wait on the elevator, so I took the stairs. I was coming around the corner from the stairwell when I saw him and another guy. They were walking away from your door toward the elevator.”
“And you’re sure it was him?”
“Well, I didn’t have my contacts in. But I’m pretty sure,” she said.
There was a lot of room for error in Zoe’s story. But it was plausible. “So, why did you lie about being with Mrs. Abbott?”
“I didn’t kill Mrs. DuMond. But I didn’t have an alibi. The man I was extorting money from wasn’t likely to vouch for me. Then I ran into Mrs. Abbot. She offered up a convenient story that would cover both of us if anyone started nosing around.”
“And you didn’t question Mrs. Abbott’s motive for fabricating an alibi?” I asked.
“Oh please. Mrs. Abbott wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Zoe sneered, disregarding the notion as preposterous. Her sneer faded, then her eyes grew narrow. I could see she was questioning things.
