Back In Town (A Small Town Series Book 2)

by Marc A. DiGiacomo

  Officer Finley sways over towards the chief. “Chief, it’s a five knuckle shuffle. You know, a snap out.”

  There isn’t a dry eye in the room as cops are peeing themselves from the beer and Officer Chris Finley’s humor. The chief catches on and both he and Captain Grassio cackle like two stooges.

  As the clock approaches 7 p.m., Captain Grassio stands to make a heartfelt speech. “Men, today we buried a cop and a friend. I know some of you never warmed up to Donny because of preconceived bullshit, but he was an integral part of our department’s commitment to keep Hutchville, N.Y. as safe as humanly possible. I want to toast my friend with all of you today who have come to support him as he makes his way through the bowels of the afterlife. Salute, dear Donny and may you be blessed for eternity.” The room erupts with all kinds of noise and the word “salute” is heard over and over again. Franny and I don’t say a word, but we drink our fair share.

  “Boys, I got to go. See you tomorrow at work.” I wink at Franny, who smiles from ear to ear. I can hear them faintly talking as I walk away, “whipped, whipped”, but I don’t care nor do I turn around.

  A quarter mile walk while intoxicated feels like a New York City Marathon. As blasted as I am, the cool breeze of this last night in August arrives just in time. I catch myself humming one of my favorite bar tunes while I make my way home for the night.

  As I pass in front of Sofia’s Pizzeria, I trip on the sidewalk, falling hard. It almost feels like I was pushed, but I am alone. I scrape my knee pretty bad and watch my blue uniform pants become wet with blood.

  “Really, did I have to fall, and in this spot of all places?” I look around and see bright white Reebok sneakers all around me. Everything is spinning quickly. I hear a gunshot and start to cry. I think I am hit but there is no one there. I pull my gun, looking, searching for a target. I quickly refocus, certain there is no threat. Some cars are buzzing by, not even slowing down to help an intoxicated officer get home safely for the night. I stand up, cursing at the cars, pissed off about how many times I helped someone. No one gives a shit out here. I am on my own. I continue towards my apartment, trying not to say the one name that still shatters my inners.

  “Donny, you fuck, what have you done to me?”

  I can finally see my apartment building. The bedroom light is on and I feel safe knowing that I’m almost there. I enter my lobby, fumbling for my apartment keys while keeping one hand on the wall for support. It’s been a while since I was this drunk but it is well deserved, especially for someone who almost died not too long ago. I can feel my scar underneath my blues. The starch from my formal shirt is beginning to aggravate my skin. I unlock my door and enter. I quickly close the door, throwing the dead bolt into place.

  My shirt is off in seconds, followed by my dress shoes, pants and underwear. Even in this drunken stupor I remember to safeguard my firearm on top of the kitchen fridge. I wobble towards my bathroom and take that first long leak after a night of drinking. It’s the kind of piss that can feel better than having sex. I move slowly towards my bed and guzzle red Gatorade like I am pounding a brew. I toss three ibuprofens in my mouth as I finish the entire sports drink. My head hits the pillow and I dream of total blackness.

  Chapter Ten: A Black Widow Returns

  September 1, 2007

  The next day I wake to find the shades drawn wide open. The sun’s rays pierce every millimeter of my brown eyes, making it impossible to see. My cell phone rings and I reluctantly pick up, not knowing what time it is.

  “Yes, Francis.”

  “Detective Matthew Longo, you’re late. The captain is looking for you.” I don’t even answer him. I hang up and make my way to the shower. Even though it’s a Saturday morning, I promised the captain I would catch up on some of the cases that have been sitting on my desk. I never turn down overtime. My naked body aches from head to toe. My knees hurt the most and I wonder why. I can’t remember what happened. I open the medicine cabinet and find Band-Aids for the scrape. Before I put them on I jump in the shower. The steam feels amazing as the hot water trickles over my neck and back. The stinging from my knees continues as hot water meets the cuts. I turn the water off and reach for a towel but find nothing but air.

  What the hell? Dammit! I carefully get out of the shower searching for anything to dry off, but strike out upon opening the linen closet. Now I am dripping wet and aggravated, as I jump onto my bed and roll around in the sheets to dry off. I feel like a wet dog, but what else can I do? After a few good ones I dress myself and move towards the door. I happily find my sunglasses and can’t wait to put them on for instant relief from the sun. As I exit my apartment I can hear the birds chirping in the trees. They sound louder than usual. The weather is much cooler today. A welcome break from yesterday’s scalding heat. I observe a hint of fall in the old maple tree outside my apartment, a yellow leaf tucked in behind mostly big green leaves. I love the fall in New York.

  Where’s my Jeep? It’s at the bar you asshole. I hate answering my own questions. I start the long walk back to pick up my car, cursing that I should have just driven it home last night. Even with my pounding head, I’m still able to spot Franny driving my detective car a few blocks away. Thank God. The relief is glorious. Franny hits the gas and aims the front of the car directly at me as I wave him down with a one finger salute. We both are laughing as I fall into the passenger seat and we head north to our headquarters. The last few days have been a blessing, working with my kid brother. It’s a dream come true, not only for us but our parents too. My mother is ecstatic that we are working together and feels she has a better chance of getting hold of one of us with her daily calls. My mother loves to call us up and tell us about her day. I don’t mean just the basics; the woman goes into details. Franny and I joke because our mother rarely calls with good news. It seems that every time she calls someone we know has passed away. She should have been a mortician. She loves the dark stuff.

  We arrive at headquarters too quickly and I just want to go back to bed. Franny and I enter the detective division, which is our own space since my infamous partner’s planned demise. The only people allowed to enter are Captain Phil Grassio and Chief Tim Ramsey. Chris and Benny pop their heads in from time to time before or after their patrol tours. For the most part the office is our exclusive man cave. The walls are painted a faint blue with old, very dusty plastic blinds blocking the sun from penetrating the small rectangular windows above. It is dark, and the overhead fluorescent lighting exposes how dated the room truly is. The interview room is the size of a small closet, and no matter how many people we bring in for questioning none of them know they are being recorded. You would think the public would be a little smarter. Cops don’t call you in for an interview unless there’s a reason, and it usually means you can either be of help on an investigation, or you’re screwed. There are two new desks which lack the feeling of the type of work performed on them. They are mahogany, a gift from the Burton’s after a job well done. They belong in Manhattan in some stuffy office. The arrival of the new desks caught Franny and I by surprise. But neither he nor I would have sat at Donny’s old desk and we couldn’t wait to carry it outside to smash the shit out of it.

  “Hey, Matt, what are we going to do about all these cases? Can we just throw them in the shredder? Most are just bullshit.”

  I can’t help but smile at my little brother because he is right. There hasn’t been anything we could sink our teeth into since Kepler’s arrest. These stupid petty offenses don’t warrant a second look, even if the job is catching pressure from the politics within our wonderful community. I walk over to a dusty filing cabinet and pull the rusty handle. This is the cabinet I found open the other morning when Captain Grassio was drunk in our office. It took me a while to clean up his mess. My eyes are closed as I move through the files with my left hand like a pianist tapping the ivories. I pull out a large file and plop it on Franny’s desk.

  “Thanks for the asthma attack pal,” Franny says, as a cloud
of dust spreads like napalm all over his paperwork. “What’s this?” Franny asks, annoyed at me for making a mess.

  “How the hell should I know? I never opened that file cabinet before. Donny always said they were cold cases impossible to solve.” Franny lifts the manila colored folder and begins to read a police report from years ago. Seeing as my brother is entertained, I decide to close my eyes for a little while. I am barely asleep for a second before Franny starts poking me on my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a picture of a very attractive woman.

  “Who’s that piece of ass?” I question Franny, slightly perturbed by his lack of respect for a senior detective copping some sleep. Franny was getting more eager by the second.

  “She is a suspect in the murder of her husband, who disappeared.”

  I laugh. “Why the hell would her husband want to disappear from that dime piece?”

  Franny doesn’t answer and continues to shuffle through reports, while I nod off, thinking about lunch.

  I awaken to find Franny embedded in paperwork. I have been asleep for an hour. To my amazement my brother is still reading the file. Since we were kids, Franny’s attention span has been minimal, unless there was a big rack aimed directly at him.

  “What are you doing? Let’s talk over some lunch.” I’m getting hungrier by the second.

  My cell phone has a message. I pick it up to see a text from Cynthia. Hey Matt, working a new case won’t be around for a few days(. I try to remember our dinner conversation the other night. No mention of going away. She didn’t mention anything in the morning when she left. She was up and gone before I even woke. That’s weird; something must have just come up. I try to call her but her voicemail picks up, so I leave her a message. Hey, Cynthia, it’s me. It really sucks when your friend has a much cooler job than you. BE CAREFUL! Call me when you can. I turn and see Franny staring at the paperwork, and suppose he didn’t hear me. Forcing a smile, I get up from my desk, stretching as high as I can reach. “Come on, Franny.” Franny reluctantly gets up, making sure to keep all the paperwork in order.

  ****

  September 1, 2007 Paradise Island, Bahamas

  “Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Tartufo? The uneasy Bahamian clerk hands Miranda back her credit card. He stares directly at her breasts cupped perfectly in a yellow bikini top. It is not often a man gets to look upon a gorgeous creature. Her face is slender, tanned, with a youthful appearance, although her driver’s license paints a very different story.

  “Your taxi is out front to take you to the airport. Will Mr. Tartufo be leaving today?”

  “No, he is staying to play some golf. I need to get back for work,” Mrs. Tartufo says with a grin. The clerk is used to couples fighting, even breaking up, but this situation is most peculiar. Yesterday, upon check-in, the Tartufo’s appeared to be madly in love and just starting their lives together. He remembers their public affection to be almost sickening.

  Paradise Island is connected to Nassau, Bahamas, by a bridge. It is the ideal get away for newlyweds seeking a honeymoon to remember. Tourist deaths do not often occur on the island, but every once in a while the unexplainable happens without prejudice. A white taxi waits for her out front of the Pirate’s Cove Hotel. She seeks their attention; it’s what keeps her hungry and vibrant. Her strut is reminiscent of a model parading a new summer line on the red carpet. The driver hurriedly takes her luggage and places it in the trunk. He starts the old white Camry and takes a quick look at his cargo through the rearview mirror. He has difficulty weaving through the traffic on this Monday morning. Rush hour is upon him and he can sense from the backseat a feeling of urgency.

  She is not the person she once was. In fact, she is the complete opposite. This wasn’t her first time nor will it be her last. Invigorating is how she would describe it, almost beautiful. Watching her love take his last breath, powerless and in a state of confusion, is exhilarating. She gets real close to them as the venom works its magic through every capillary in the body. She presses her ear to their mouth so she can feel their faint breath on her face. Thinking about it makes her lower lip moist. What is my name today? the newly blonde-haired beauty wonders for a moment.

  Her arrival at the airport is upon her faster than she expected. This should do it, she whispers to herself, as she pulls a passport from a stack bound together by a rubber band. As she exits the taxi, she puts a white linen top over her barely clothed body. She pays the young taxi driver. He can’t help but smile as she gazes at him. Her stare is different; he’s used to these rich Americans looking down upon him but he begins to feel scared. He becomes uncomfortable and hurriedly pops the trunk, removing one Louis Vuitton suitcase. She empties the contents of her purse into a garbage can by the entry doors, throwing the other IDs away, together with her brunette wig. She carries only her passport and N.Y. driver’s license to match the name. It’s time to go back to my new favorite small town.

  JetBlue flight 359 from Nassau, Bahamas, to the Westchester County Airport is departing. She makes her way to gate fifteen and hands her ticket to the gate clerk. She can feel the eyes of both sexes gawking at her. She takes off her linen shirt to let them all have a look. Her lack of proper attire has everyone watching in disbelief. For the women, it is a look of disgust but, above all, jealousy. Every guy around her is trying to cover up their bulges, just beginning to blossom in shorts of all colors and sizes. Her smell is intoxicating to those in close proximity. It seems to linger in the air longer than the usual commercial fragrances.

  As she sinks into seat 7A she is ecstatic to have a window seat. She plugs her JetBlue headphones into the slot on her chair’s arm. After a few minutes of boarding, the flight attendant closes the airplane hatch. The woman turns to look out the oval window, peering out at the engine warming up. The rumbling sends vibrations up her legs into her ass and back. The pleasure she feels is welcome; she was very naughty last night. Before the plane takes off, a sleepy sensation overtakes her. Thank God for Xanax. She drifts off into a mid-morning siesta.

  Back at the Pirates Cove, the hotel clerk makes his way to Suite #1110. After repeated knocks for Mr. Tartufo, he uses his hotel key to open the door. Slowly, the clerk pushes the door open and immediately calls out for Mr. Tartufo. The clerk remembers Mr. Tartufo as being a big man and does not want to surprise him, especially if he is in the shower. He listens carefully for running water. All is quiet in the oceanfront suite. The balcony is uninhabited and the clerk checks the sliding door, which is locked. He makes his way through the living room area, heading towards the closed bedroom door. The living area appears clean and tidy. There are no bags lined up in the foyer; no sign of any golf clubs either. The clerk begins to worry as he knocks on the bedroom door. “Mr. Tartufo, are you okay?” No answer again.

  He turns the gold door handle downwards and pushes the door just a little. His heart is pumping faster now. The bedroom is dark, but outside the sun is blazing. There is a small opening between the shades that lets in a trickle of light. The clerk pulls the blackout shades across their long poles to let sunlight in. A room service tray is placed on the bed. The large, white circular plates are empty except for a glob of syrup spread across the middle. Two empty tea mugs sit upon the tray. He notices the sheets of the bed pulled over a large object. “Mr. Tartufo,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. Nervousness consumes the gentlemen; he hasn’t felt like this in a long time. If this man wakes up and finds me in his room, I may get a beating. He slowly pulls back the bed linen, starting with the duvet, then the white satin sheets.

  No blood, he says to himself, slightly relieved. The only layer left is a bright white Egyptian cotton 1200 thread count sheet. He lifts the sheet and exposes Mr. Tartufo’s face. Eyes wide open, mouth agape. Oh shit, he’s dead. The clerk panics, picks up the black hotel phone next to the bed and phones the front desk. As soon as he hears a voice, he yells for a doctor and the police.

  Chapter Eleven: A Couple of Dogs

  Franny tosses me the keys and I re
turn them back with a quick flip, saying, “You’re driving, bro. I’m shot.”

  My little brother is quick with comebacks. “No, you got shot and recovered. You can’t use that phrase anymore. It’s too confusing.”

  “That’s true, Franny, I guess. Ha! How about, I’m finished?”

  I knew it as soon as I said it. That statement was made by my paternal grandfather, just before he died. Franny just smiles. He knows exactly where I got that from. No explanation needed. My mind quickly drifts off, thinking about one of my favorite memories of my “Pop”, as we called him. I was fifteen and worked for the Hutchville Recreation Department. I was crossing Main Street, heading to work, when out of the corner of my eye I saw the old green Chevrolet Caprice Classic heading in my direction. Pop drove everywhere; it didn’t matter how far or during what storm. Nothing stopped him. It was a purely chance encounter as he had no idea what time I was working on this particular afternoon. The conversation was quick, the passenger window lowered as he slowed down to a crawl. “The snappers are in, kid!” Never coming to a complete stop on the busy road, he was gone as quickly as he arrived. The very next day he picked us up and we went fishing. He lived for two things in this world, golf and fishing. He was a master at both.

  Franny ruined my moment. “We have to talk about this case,” Franny says, excited beyond measure. I reassure him of my ability to eat and talk at the same time. As we exit our office I make sure the door is secure. Franny is already walking outside to smoke. He’s trying to quit and is wearing a nicotine patch on his left shoulder.

  “Can’t you overdose if you smoke while wearing the patch?” Franny takes a couple of puffs and throws the cigarette to the ground without stomping on it. “What’s for lunch?” I say, leaning into the passenger seat.