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This is a work of fiction. While some events and characters may be based in some part on real news events, the names, characters, places, and incidents herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Michael C. Hughes
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If You would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
First edition: January 2016
ISBN: 9781311371225
Momma Lupe
A Novella
© Michael Hughes, Toronto, 2015
“Ma was sadistic. A stone killer. I think she enjoyed it. Watching.”
Connell was doing the talking, leaned back in the detective department of the C-11, Boston PD, a uniformed rookie from traffic asking the questions.
“It was like she, herself, was already dead inside and that was the only thing left,” he said. “To destroy other people. One of the most disturbing individuals you’re ever likely to come across.”
The rookie was curious and a little surprised.
“You actually met her?”
“No. Hardly anyone outside her circle ever met her. She didn’t go out much. Spent most of her life in her kitchen. I just pieced it all together from interviews with those who had. Statements people made. Intel from sources.”
Connell fell silent for a moment, thinking back to it all.
“I heard it was more than a dozen girls disappeared around her,” the other fellow said.
Connell nodded. “That we know of. Confirmed. Some males as well. I’m sure more we don’t know about. Maybe never will.”
“And you’re still on it? The case?”
“Yeah,” Connell nodded, a little surprised himself that he alone hadn’t given up.
He didn’t mouth the next words, but he still thought them from time to time: someone’s gonna pay.
And he wasn’t letting it go until someone did.
Momma Lupe.
One year earlier
Early morning. A late model black sedan pulled up to the curb on a leafy street on Boston’s east side, a pocket of ritzy homes near the bay. Two men in expensive suits exited and briskly walked a short distance along the sidewalk beside an ivy-covered stone wall, stopping at the entrance gates to No. 6 Currie Close.
"Is Ma really the one who put out this order?"
The man he was asking the question of was obviously the lead man. The one who had the answers.
"She's the one all right. And she's the one who said 'zactly how it's got to go down."
"Really?"
The other man nodded.
"We really got to do it the ‘zactly way we was told?" the other asked.
"Ex—zactly as we was told."
"Well, I think it's sick. I'm in the business, and I think it's sick. It's sick."
"OK. You made your point. You think it's sick. You want your dough?"
The other man let out a short sigh. "Yeah. But it's sick. Why'd she want two of us on the job, anyways?"
"In case Vinnie squeals and runs for it. She's knows he's a fat slippery basotto. Like I said, Ma's a stickler for getting things her way, and Vinnie ain't slipping nowhere."
Dawn had just broken over the city, but they saw that no lights had yet come on inside the stately three-storey stone mansion.
"You sure he ain't gonna look out and see us?" the nervous one whispered.
"It's five fucking a.m. When was the last time you was up at five a.m.?"
"You sure it's not alarmed out here? Motion detectors?"
"I'm sure. It ain't. Just the sides and back are alarmed. Just relax will ya? We got three hours to wait and you're starting like this already? You'll drive me nuts."
They had turned in an opening in the wall that led to a broad circular driveway. They made quickly for the first garage door, the one closest to the home's service entrance.
The lead man had a lock-pick set and the garage door lock was easily jimmied. He
eased the door up quietly, they stepped in, and he eased it back down just as quietly.
As they looked around, the lead man spotted a couple of folding lawn chairs against a back wall. He went to them and brought them over, pulling first one open and gently setting it down, then the other.
"Make yourself at home," he whispered, taking one seat and indicating the other.
The other man sat and glanced all around. It was a large, tidy, garage: four doors with a tandem bay at the end, making it a five-car. There was a Mercedes E-Class sedan parked in the bay closest, a Ford Expedition SUV in the next, and a 16-foot inboard/outboard speedboat backed in on a trailer in the far tandem bay. They were seated in the empty bay facing the entrance door to the house.
"Nice place Vinnie's got here," the man said, looking around with a touch of envy.
"Yeah. Vinnie's been living beyond his means for a long time. Probably what got him into this mess."
"You think?"
The other man merely grunted.
"How come he alarms the sides and back but not the front?" the second man asked.
"Cause the guy gets about five newspapers delivered in the middle of the night. Didn't you see them all out there?" He lapsed into derisive mock baby-talk: "But the l'il paper delivery guys was setting off the l'il motion sensors every l'il hour between two and six, and it was disturbing his l'il sleep. What crap!” he said, breaking out of the baby-talk. “Anyways, he’s got the front sensors shut off. He never got around to wiring the garage."
"And you know all this how?" the other whispered.
"Ma. She done her homework. 'Course wasn't that much homework to do. All she had to do was call Paulie. Paulie knows the place. That Momma. She looks like a harmless old bag but, man, she's one pazza manovella. Crazy in the head,” he said, tapping his right temple to emphasize that Momma’s reputation was that of a certified mental case. “They don't call her Momma Lupe for nothing. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her. You know she off-ed her old man, eh?"
"No. Really? Her old man? Why'd she do that?"
"Guess they had some difference of opinion about how to run the business. Like I said, Ma's a stickler about getting her own way."
"How'd she do him?"
"The old fashioned way. Rat poison in his tourtiere. Like in the old movies. A bit at a time till it built up in his system. Strychnine or whatever. He liked his garlic, so he never noticed a thing. One day he just drops. Went down as natural causes. A heart attack. She had him cremated before there was even time to send out for marshmallows."
The other man thought about that for several moments.
"I heard she's got two sons work with her. Why didn't she use them for this?"
"For a job like this?" the first man said with obvious scorn. "She don’t trust those two to go for coffee."
The man then rose, crossed the garage to the rear wall and cranked the window full open to create an out draft. He returned and they lit up smokes.
And they waited.
About 8:30 they heard sounds of stirring from inside the house and, half an hour later, Vincent Momesso entered the garage from the door into the house. He hit the garage door opener to go out and collect his papers, then started down the steps with a yawn and a scratch at the bald spot at the back of his head when he looked up and saw the two in the chairs.
He froze.
The lead man had weapon drawn.
"Hey, Vinnie. How's things?"
"What the hell's this?" Momesso demanded.
"Vinnie, we ain't got time to chit chat," the man said, standing and pulling out his phone and flicking it on video. He held it out, in his left hand, a silenced 9 mm in his right hand.
"Vinnie, get on your knees."
"What the —"
"I don't want no trouble from you. I want to get a statement and I don't want you jumping around on me, so get on your knees."
"This is bullshit …"
"You're right," the gunman said. "But I got my orders. On your knees. NOW!"
Momesso reluctantly went down on his knees in his expensive silk pajamas and housecoat on the grease-stained floor.
"What's this all about? Who are you two? I don't even know you guys. Does Paulie know you're here?"
"Paulie knows."
"Did Paulie send you?"
"No. Never mind about us. Fact is, you took some merchandise didn't belong to you. Lots of it. And then, when you was asked nicely many times to give it back or pay for it, you said some rude things. That wasn't smart. Plus you went and smacked that hooker around. Also not smart."
Vinnie squinted at the two men.
"Is this about Momma?"
The gunman nodded.
Vinnie was relieved. For a moment there he thought he'd crossed one of his mob brothers somehow. He breathed a little easier.
"Hey, well listen, I didn't mean nothing," he said, in a consoling tone. "I didn't know that girl was one of Momma's. And that dope stash that stupid broad had, I thought she'd ripped off some mark. I thought it was free dope, so I swung with it. I didn't know that was Momma's neither."
That, he felt, explained everything.
But the gunman shook his head slowly.
"That's a crock, Vinnie, and you know it. You may not have known when you batted the girl around and took her stuff that she was one of Momma's. But you knew after. You was told. Over and over you was told. And that was no little dope stash she had. That was twenty ounces of pure hundred-grade powder worth more'n eighty grand. Dope entrusted to Ma for delivery. Wasn’t even hers. You had to know that wasn't some party girl's stash. Again, you was told. But not only did you not make restitution - or apologies - you called Momma some nasty names. In front of all the guys. All three was big mistakes. BIG mistakes."
Momesso realized then they were serious about this.
"Okay, okay" he said. "I screwed up, OK? I was stupid about it. So now I'll make good. I'll give Momma the money for the dope and I'll send flowers to the whore."
"You're gonna have to do better than that, Vinnie," the gunman said, pulling back the hammer on the compact little Bernardelli semi-auto. It made an ominous click, which resonated in the silence of the garage. "Momma wants to hear genuine contrition. You know, like a confessional. Like at church sort of thing. With some heart behind it."
Momesso suddenly got the full urgency of the situation.
They were actually threatening to shoot him!
He held out his hands in a pleading motion.
"Okay. Okay. I'm a lousy son of a bitch and I throw myself on Momma's mercy. Ma, please, I'm sorry I messed with your business. I'll make it up. Double! It was all just a big mistake."
The gunman looked at the video on the small screen and shook his head.
"Vinnie, that just ain't convincing. I gotta tell ya, no Academy Award there. If that's the best you can do …"
"No. No. Hold it. Wait. Okay. Ma, I'm reeeaaally sorry. I'm a complete piece of lying double-dealing shit. Ma please … please … show some mercy … Pleeeaase! I'll make it up. Ma, pleeeaase … just give me another chance."
The gunman looked at his associate and they exchanged slight nods: they had enough on tape. This was sick and they did not want to prolong it.
"That was good, Vinnie. Too bad you're such a screw-up," the man said and he fired four silenced rounds in rapid succession.
The impact threw Momesso onto his back. He writhed only briefly as the shock to the heart was almost instantaneous. Vincent Momesso let out a brief death rattle and a sigh and went limp. It was over in seconds.
The shooter clicked off the video, pocketed the phone, and bent down to pick up the four spent shell casings.
"Well, that's exactly the way Momma wanted it. Let's get outta here and go get our dough."
Two hours later. Connell pulled into No. 6 Curry Close, past the stone pillars at the front gate and onto the wide brick driveway.
His cases seldom took him to this small enclave of expensive real estate on the eastern-most edge of the C-11's territory, and he was just as happy about that. The problem with these cases among the Fortune 500 set, as far as he was concerned, was that they got complicated too fast. They led places where people didn't want cops poking around. Next thing the Chief gets a call. Then a City Councilor gets involved. Then the Mayor's Office gets involved. Then … well, they were just a pain!
Good thing it was John Henry's case. John Henry Morgan was Connell’s sometimes partner when cases and budgets were big enough.
Connell had heard over the police band that Morgan and several others from the C-11 had been called to view a body at the address. He was merely curious. He was planning just to stick his head in, say a quick hello to John and the others there, extend his sympathies, and carry on to the stationhouse.
He stepped out and he heard a pair of wood doves cooing in a nearby tree. Even though it was only a mile or so from the towers of downtown, that pocket was so quiet and wooded it felt more like being in cottage country than near the heart of the city.
The house wasn't as big as some others in Boston, like over in Beacon Hill or Back Bay. On a square foot basis it was actually not big at all. Maybe four thousand square feet. And a bit plain. And a bit on the shabby side as well. Unkempt grass, weeds here and there, which was unusual in these fastidious pin-striped neighborhoods.
The garage door nearest the front entrance was raised and he saw Morgan inside, standing with a cluster of forensics people.
Connell walked in with his coffee in hand.
"Morning, sports fans."
They were looking down at a body with obvious entry wounds to the chest. A rivulet of blood had zigged and zagged across the tile floor to a drain under the Mercedes nearby, and much of the floor area around and in front of the victim had been taped off by the CS crew.
Morgan turned and looked over to watch Connell approach. They hadn't crossed paths for most of a week and were partners only when it was necessary for two senior detectives to be teamed on a case which, for budget reasons, was only occasionally. Mostly, they worked their own caseloads. Connell was in his usual 'old clothes' attire, which meant ‘street mode.’ A rumpled flannel shirt, well faded jeans, a scruffy black pea jacket. But he looked otherwise pretty well rested for a guy who often looked haggard and worn from too many late nights, too much beer, and too much greasy pub food.
“You lookin' good, little brother," Morgan said. "You been living right lately, or what?"
"Got to bed early and slept like a baby last three nights," Connell said. "Not sure why. But feels good now. If I felt any better I'd have to register my entire body as a restricted weapon."
Morgan grunted and cracked a half smile. He was well used to Connell’s self-promotional pronouncements.
"Who's our host?" Connell asked, glancing down at the victim and taking a long sip of coffee. "Some stock market wanker?"
Morgan said, "You lookin' at the late Mr. Vincent Momesso."
"Slim Vinnie? The mob g
uy?"
Morgan nodded. " 'Bout as Slim as he gonna get now."
"Wow. They let Slim Vinnie into this neighborhood?" said, a little incredulously, glancing at the mansion across the street.
It was meant as a rhetorical comment, but Morgan replied.
"I doubt they took a vote on it, Ty. Fact, I doubt people round here had any idea who their neighbor was."
Connell drained his cup. "I'm sure you're right, John. Anyway, glad he's all yours," he said and turned to leave.
"Hey, where you goin', man?" Morgan said. "Thassit? You just gonna slide in here, have a free peep, and then walk?"
"Come on, John. You don't need me on this," Connell said, tossing his cup into a nearby garbage can as he headed for the door.
As soon as heard that it was mob business, his interest evaporated. As far as he was concerned, the only homicide cases more problematic than Fortune 500 ones were mob hits: third party professional contract killings. They were frustrating, time consuming and, too often, dead ends in the end. Besides, it was Connell’s further opinion— and that of a good many officers— that scores settled by mob guys between themselves was their business and could stay that way as long as no innocent citizens got hurt. And Vinnie was anything but innocent.
Connell was almost to the open door when Morgan called to him again, "Hey, hey, get back here, man. Least you can do, since you showed up, is scope the scene. I'm maybe gonna need an o-pinion down the road, and you no good to me if you haven't even checked out the vic."
Connell stopped. Morgan was right. He wouldn’t be crazy about the case either —for the same reasons Connell wasn't— but he was stuck with it, and he wasn't letting Connell off so easily. It was the least he could do for his partner. And you never knew when your two cents worth might be called for. Maybe even three cents worth. Cases sometimes swung on less.
So Connell walked back and had a cursory look over the scene. He noted the arrangement of the two lawn chairs as well as the scuff marks some distance apart on the dirt on the garage floor, like two men had sat and waited. Plus there were lots of cigarette ashes in the dust but no butts. So whoever had waited had pocketed the butts. The body looked like it had four entry wounds, but there were no bullet casings marked out on the floor. So the shooters had picked up the brass as well.
Momma Lupe, Book 1 in the Ty Connell 'Novella Series. A Mystery/Suspense Thriller. Cooking or killing -- Momma Had Her Funny WAys Page 1
