Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  I sat on the edge of my seat, feet planted on the floor. “I know we need to get a statement out, but let’s do it quick, I need to tell Mindy first, before she hears it on her own.”

  “Mindy’s already being notified. And by the way, I don’t mind you not calling me captain, but I wish you’d stop with Gladys. I’ve always hated that name; besides, that’s what Cybil calls me.”

  I nodded. Now I knew why she hated the name. Cybil was the mayor’s wife, and could be more than a bitch when she wanted. “What do you need?”

  “Wait until Cindy gets here. She’s bringing a recorder. We need this to be official.”

  Cindy arrived a moment later and sat next to me, but not before handing Coop her cup of tea.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Gino,” Coop said.

  Cindy turned the recorder to on.

  I took a deep breath, cleared my head, and related the events leading up to Dave getting shot and the subsequent shootout.

  “And we’re clean on this?” Gladys asked.

  “We’re clean. There’s video to back it up.”

  The captain shifted in her seat and gestured to Cindy. “Turn that damn thing off,” she said, then looked at me. When she had witnessed Cindy turn off the recorder, she said, “I’m not trying to rub salt in the wound, Gino, but how the hell did this go wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Dave gave them the money. They didn’t even count it, just looked inside the bag then shot him. From my position nothing seemed out of order. I think the bastards just wanted the money.” Silence followed for a moment while I thought. “I should have been there with him. If there were two of us…”

  “Then we’d have two dead cops.”

  I heard what Coop said, and in some remote corner of my mind I agreed, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. After a brief moment, I stood. “If that’s all you’ve got…”

  “Whoa, Cataldi. Not so fast.”

  I turned to see Coop with her hand outstretched. “Sidearm, please.”

  I handed her my gun. I didn’t like it, but I knew it was coming. It happened with any shooting. “I know, psych in the morning, right?”

  “You know the drill,” she said as I headed out.

  All the way home, images of the day haunted me—the dealer with the hoodie shooting Dave, his blood on the pavement, the chunk of his face missing…him lying there with blank eyes staring at the sky. I punched the steering wheel two or three times, cursing everyone I could think of, including God and all of his angels. Why the hell didn’t He take care of the good people? First my wife, Mary, and now Dave. As I drove, I thought of a few more people I wanted to curse, but most of all I cursed myself.

  I should have been there with him.

  It had turned dark on my way home. I flipped on the headlights as I exited the freeway toward my house, and soon found myself parked in the driveway next to my son’s car. I gathered my thoughts one more time, and then made a vow to get justice for Dave.

  It’s time for Rico Moreno to die.

  CHAPTER 3

  RICO SHOWS UP

  Houston, Texas

  I kicked leaves out of the way as I walked up the sidewalk. A fat squirrel chittered when I passed by. Sooner or later I’d have to take a broom to those leaves, but I couldn’t think about that now. I had to focus on working myself into a good mood for Ron. He’d had a tough go of it since his mother died, and our relationship had deteriorated. I grabbed the door handle and forced a smile and hoped my voice might reflect it. He was sitting at the kitchen table and looked to be sulking.

  “How’s it going, Ron?”

  “It’s not.”

  It was definitely a sulk, and I wasn’t in the mood for it. “What’s the matter?”

  He stared at me with a hurt look in his eyes, although it was bordering anger. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “Forgot what?” As soon as I said it, I felt like an ass. “Shit. I’m sorry I screwed up your birthday. Jesus Christ, how could I forget your birthday?”

  “Same way you did last year, on my sixteenth. It must be getting easier.” Ron got up and left the room. I think there were tears in his eyes. I know there were in his voice.

  I went after him. “Hang on. I’m sorry. I had a tough day.”

  He spun around and glared. “Mom had lots of tough days, and she never forgot. Not even when she was dying.”

  I grabbed his arm but he tore away from me and raced up the steps to his room. By the time I hit the fourth step I realized the futility of going after him. No way he was listening to anything I said right now. Maybe ever.

  I grabbed a bottle of water and went to the family room to watch the news. Before half an hour was up, Ron came down the steps. He grabbed a baseball cap from the rack on the wall and started for the door.

  “Ron, wait a minute. I want to talk.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” he said, but didn’t look at me, just reached for his hat.

  I quickly got out of the chair, and grabbed his arm.

  He shook it off, and screamed, “Let go of me.”

  I stared. His eyes were glazed. The kind of glaze I hated more than anything—drugs. Ron had already had one run in with drugs—one that I knew about, but it was likely more than that. I’m sure he was more experienced than I’d like to admit.

  I waited a moment too long then ran after him. He was already in his truck, heading out. Tempted to let the situation go, I followed instead, slowing as I neared the bend. A couple of miles later he pulled into the parking lot of a corner store, choosing a spot off to the side near the dumpster. I passed the store, turned left down a small street with a row of older houses, and parked in the driveway of one that looked as if no one was home.

  I got out of the car, took my spare gun with me, and shoved it into my coat pocket. I moved to a spot where I could see him. There was no way in hell he could see me. Spying on him stirred a sick feeling in my gut. I grew up thinking parents were supposed to trust their kids. for a long time, I did trust him. Now…now I was following him and hiding behind trees.

  As those thoughts roiled in my gut, a blue van pulled alongside Ron. Three guys got out. They looked to be teenagers, Ron’s age or a little older. It didn’t take long to confirm my worst fears. After a few surreptitious glances, Ron gave one of the kids what looked like a small wad of cash. He received a bag of something—drugs, I presumed—in return.

  Motherfucker! I’m gonna kill them.

  Any guilty feelings I’d had about following him disappeared.

  Ron got in his truck and headed north. The blue van headed south. I was torn between who to follow but decided on them. I knew where Ron would be later.

  I raced to my car, backed out, and quickly caught up to them. I stayed two cars behind them, close enough to keep a watch but not be noticed. After a few miles they turned into a What-a-Burger, pulled into an empty spot and went inside. I parked on the other side of the lot, walked to their car and opened up the driver’s-side to get in. I damn near gagged with the first breath—beer, weed, and stale cigarettes. After composing myself, I climbed in, getting behind the back seat. They better not be long.

  They returned in ten minutes. The driver got in first then the passenger and the one in the back. As soon as the doors closed, I moved, shoving my gun under the chin of the guy in front of me, the kid in the back seat. “Nobody move or I’ll blow this fucker’s head off.”

  The driver turned. I reached up and smacked the side of his head with the gun, then jammed it back into the guy’s throat. Blood spurted from the driver’s scalp wound.

  “You fucking cut me, dude.”

  “Move again and I’ll kill you.”

  I must have put the right amount of tone in that threat because they shut up. “Driver, put your hands on the dashboard, palms down.” I stared at the passenger. “Face me, and wrap your arms around the seat. Keep your hands locked.”

  I turned to the guy in the back seat and cocked the hammer.

  “Whoa! Whoa,
man. You don’t want to do this.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said through gritted teeth. “I ought to kill you fuckers.”

  “Give him the drugs!” The guy next to me said. When the passenger didn’t respond fast enough, Back-Seat screamed louder. “Give him the fucking drugs.”

  I yanked on back-seat’s hair and held him, then shoved the gun in the passenger’s face. “The drugs, now.”

  He shoved a few bags of pills in my direction. I pressed the barrel of the gun into his cheek. “All the drugs.”

  With that he reached around to the floor.

  “Come up with anything but drugs in that hand, and you won’t see tomorrow.”

  He lifted a backpack from the floor. When he turned to me, I saw the sweat beading on his forehead. “It’s all here. I swear.”

  I believed him this time. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do—”

  My phone rang, and though tempted to ignore it, I knew it was Chicky by the ‘Love in This Club’ ringtone. Chicky Ramirez was my best informant. I had told him to be on the lookout for Rico.

  Keeping the gun trained on the guy next to me, I answered the phone. “Yeah.”

  “I found him.”

  Goddamnit. “Where?”

  “A new club down on Richmond—Sueños. Better hurry. Don’t know how long the dude will stay put.”

  “On my way.”

  I had the plate number for these kids and felt certain they weren’t skipping town. I could get them anytime. Rico was another story. “You fuckers are lucky,” I said to the kid next to me. “But if you ever come back to this area again, anywhere near it, I’ll kill every fuckin’ one of you, and then I’ll dump your bodies in the swamps.” I gave each one a glare. “Clear?”

  “We won’t,” Back-Seat said, and the others chimed in.

  I walked to the dumpster and emptied the backpack. They couldn’t see me from where they were, and I was willing to bet they wouldn’t go dumpster diving with people around. I got in my car and raced toward town.

  It took me almost thirty minutes to get to Richmond. I found Chicky parked with a good view of the front door. I pulled up next to him.

  “He’s still inside,” Chicky said.

  “I’ll be in the back of the lot. Call me when he comes out.”

  “I’ll call, but I ain’t coming with you, man.”

  “I don’t want you with me.”

  I tried calling Ron while I searched for a place to sit. The call went to voice mail, which meant that either he was still out or he was home and afraid I’d recognize his “high voice.” He knew I could tell when he was on something by the difference in his voice. Fifteen minutes later, I tried calling again, and then twenty minutes after that. Frustration was setting in. I still hadn’t heard from Chicky, and Ron not answering pissed me off, but the longer it went on, the “pissed off” grew into worry.

  Suppose he wrapped his truck around a tree, or some druggie stabbed him?

  With drugs involved who the hell knew. I thought back to a saying my mother said whenever she wanted to make me feel bad. She said,

  A parent never stops worrying from the time their first child is born.

  I thought she might have been exaggerating, which she did at times, playing the martyr. But not on this one. This one she got right.

  As I brooded over my horrible day, Chicky called.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s on, dude. He’s coming out. Got two of his guns with him.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Careful, Gino. This fucker will take you out.”

  “I know.”

  “Good luck, man.”

  I waited for Rico’s Escalade to roll out of the lot. I pulled in tight behind it, damn near hugging the bumper. Rico was in the back. His driver shared the front with another gun. A couple of times they switched lanes. By the third time, they knew they had a tail. I could tell by the way they continually switched lanes and checked the rearview mirror immediately afterward.

  They turned left on Fondren then left again on Westheimer, the cruising street. Half a block later they settled into an empty parking lot. When I pulled in behind them, their doors opened. Rico’s two guns stepped out.

  I got out, my Beretta within easy reach. “Buenas noches, señores.”

  The back door opened. Rico stepped out, dressed to the nines in silk, gold dripping off him. “Don’t try your cowboy Spanish on me, Gino. I know who the fuck you are.”

  “Just so that you are fully educated,” I said, “I’m from South Philadelphia. I’m not a cowboy.”

  “You got a warrant, Philadelphia cowboy?”

  “No.”

  Rico looked to his right. “Did my driver do something wrong? Forget a turn signal? Go too fast?”

  “No.”

  “So what the fuck do you want? I’m a busy man.”

  “I came to kill you.”

  Rico’s eyes narrowed for a second, but then he laughed. “Kill me? Just like that? Gino the cop is going to kill me for nothing?” He looked at me for a long time, then he took a step forward, and eyed me up and down. “Or is it for old Dave Skelton?”

  I scanned the area. No one was around. His men were at ease. The events of the day came to a head. I expected to have to beat a confession out of him, but he spilled it right out. Waved what he’d done to Dave in my face. Proud of it.

  Something inside of me snapped. I pulled my gun, stepped toward his men, and…almost pulled the trigger. I was holding the gun pointed at the driver’s face and shaking as if I had the chills.

  I was still shaking when one of Rico’s men went for his piece. That sent me over the edge. I aimed my gun at him and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit him in the chest. Rico’s second man moved, so I put a bullet his head. Then I turned to Rico. Fear shone in his eyes. Hard core fear.

  “This is for Dave. And all the other people you killed.” I put the gun close to his cheek and squeezed three times. After one more in each of his men, I got in the car and drove home, stopping at Cypress Creek to get rid of the gun.

  By the time I hit the street leading to my house, my head was spinning, and pounding. It felt as if I were ready to explode.

  What the hell have I done?

  CHAPTER 4

  SURPRISE MEETING

  Houston, Texas

  Ron’s car was parked in the driveway, which was the first good news I’d had all day. I calmed myself before going in, determined to make things work, maybe even mend the rift between us. The lights were off upstairs. He might be asleep, but more likely pretending. I began to climb the steps, then stopped. I was tired and didn’t want to risk another fight. Or was it cowardice causing me to rationalize? Afraid to face the drug problem? Not convinced Ron was doing drugs, but knowing in my heart he was.

  A bottle of Cannonau di Sardegna called to me from the wine cooler. As much as I wanted to open it, I didn’t. I took a shower instead, trying to wash the filth off. I felt slimy, like the scum I arrested. My hands and arms shook, and my gut churned. I turned the faucet to make the water hotter, hoping the shock would stop the shaking. It didn’t work.

  After a few minutes I got out, dried off and dressed. I put on a sweater to stop the shivering. I still felt dirty, so I opened the wine, sat in the dark and drank. A couple of hours later I dropped the bottle in the trashcan and went to bed.

  Dreams haunted me—the shocked expression on the faces of Rico’s men, the smell of fear on the kids in the van. Worst of all was the terror in Rico’s eyes when he knew he was about to die. By five A.M. I concluded there was no sense lying in bed awake. I got up, showered again and got coffee. I left Ron a note, which took me damn near twenty minutes to write, then I worried all the way in to work whether I’d said the right things. Twice I almost turned around to go rip it up, but laziness disguised as common sense got the better of me.

  My body screamed for more coffee but I figured I’d get more once I got to the station. I called the department shrink and le
ft him a message, requesting an appointment at eight o’clock. I guessed I was fortunate it was a department shrink, as a real one might take a month or two to get an appointment.

  As fate would have it, an accident on the freeway caused traffic to come to a standstill. About every three minutes I found myself looking at my watch. I chose the watch even though there was a dashboard clock because Mary had given me this watch the Christmas before she died, and I wanted to make use of it, didn’t want it to become just another watch.

  I had a thing about not wanting to be late, even though it was the shrink and my inclination was to not care. I should have stuck to the dashboard clock or the one on my iPhone, because every time I glanced at the watch on my wrist, I got depressed. The watch held a special place in my heart. In the past, I counted on Mary for advice. She always had great suggestions on how to handle Ron, and how to deal with neighbors. When we were browsing at the book store, she’d suggest what books I should read, and she was usually right. She even recommended movies to watch. Now I had no one to talk to about anything. If I didn’t watch out, I’d be seeing a shrink about that, too.

  I blamed a lot of things on the church. The paranoia about being late was one of them. Those damned nuns used to position themselves by the doors with a yardstick or pointer in their hands, waiting to whack anyone who was late—and them, with their internal “nun-clocks” set to know what time classes started down to a millisecond.

  When I was in second grade I began wondering if they had invisible watches so I put it to the test. At recess I asked Sister Frances what time it was. She said ‘you have thirty seconds left.’ I grabbed her wrist to see if I could feel the watch. The next thing I remembered was two sharp whacks to the back of my head.

  I learned two things that day: Nuns really did have a “nun-clock,” and you should never grab a nun by the wrist. My head hurt for a week. By the time I got out of third grade I was never late for anything again.

  I did a little bobbing and weaving to skirt the traffic, and soon found myself inching through the skyscrapers, the sun shining off the mirrored glass blinding me. I’d been a lot of places, but Houston might have been the cleanest, neatest city I’d ever been to. That thought brought Philadelphia to mind, with its narrow streets littered with cheesesteak wrappers, hawkers on the corners selling pretzels and hot dogs, and an inner city that bustled with people of all ethnic groups. The memories made me realize that comparing Philly and Houston wasn’t fair—one was old and blue-collar tough, and the other built brand-spanking new from oil money.