“You worry too much, kid. Relax. I got this.” One thing is certain: I need my little brother to calm down and this is the best way to diffuse his wrath.
“Doc, you’re going to be alright. Hang in there. I know we had our issues but I’m truly here for you right now.” I watch him take his last breath. It’s traumatic to observe those last few attempts to pull air into his lungs. His body stops twitching as the bullets do their job. There’s no way for someone to survive two shots to their center mass unless they are wearing a Kevlar vest.
“Well, Franny, I can hear the ambulance. At least we don’t have to lie about this one. The doctor did give us a ride tonight.” A cell phone ringing in the back pocket of a dead hit man is a little nerve racking. I think I know who’s calling. I haven’t heard that voice in a while. I pick the phone out of Sal’s pocket. The caller ID displays the letter P. I answer, not saying a word.
“Hey Sal, che cosa fai qui? Is it done?” It’s Donny. My earlier thoughts about Sal killing Scavone rather than paying him are dead on. Donny had no intention of paying, especially if a bullet could save him thousands. Like I said, you can’t trust this guy for a second. I start to wonder what else Donny may have in store for me, and whether his words on the postcard are his true intentions. Hearing him breath brings me back around. A sickness swirls in my stomach, but I reject the urge to vomit and become obsessed with payback.
I don’t know what to do. There’s so much I want to say. Will talking to Donny change the game? A round of chess plays out in my head. Can I win? I breathe heavier into the phone as an uncomfortable silence takes over. I sense Donny realize that something is terribly wrong. But he doesn’t hang up. He just listens closer. I squeeze the cell phone with all my strength. The anger is boiling up my spine, making its way to my brain. We are both breathing into the phone. He, slowly and rhythmically. I’m waiting for him to say something, anything; but he doesn’t. The phone line goes dead.
****
Paolo Fretti knows someone dear to him was on the other end of that call. His gut is bothering him now. That familiar gurgle he hasn’t endured in some time is back. Something bad has happened to Sal. The breathing was hard to listen to, knowing it came from his old partner. The pal he almost killed is closing in, from such a distance. Suddenly, the entire Atlantic Ocean doesn’t seem enough to separate him from Hutchville, N.Y. Paolo doesn’t have anyone else to lean on now. He has to assume Sal is either in jail, dead or, even worse, is a newly turned rat. Doctor Scavone is probably dead too. Paolo calls to Fabrizio, who is busying himself pruning the fig trees in the vast garden.
“Fabrizio, my Zia Maria is dead. So is the doctor. Sal is either dead or he turned. She was a mother to me when I had no one. I have to pay my respects or her soul will punish mine. The cop knows for sure I’m alive. He felt my presence again, even if it was only my breathing.”
“Don Paolo, how can we go back? It has only been a week since we left. How can we pull this off?” Fabrizio knows the danger of returning to a place he wants to forget. The memories of killing his friend Gus are still fresh. “Can we get word to your uncle? So he can handle the arrangements?” Paolo’s is infuriated by the mention of his uncle.
“No! He is not my uncle, Fabrizio. Stop referring to him as family.”
“Sure, Paolo, sorry.”
“Get your head out of your ass. I need a new identity and passport. Fabrizio, call the Sheik. Tell him to have it ready for tomorrow so we can book a flight to America. Let’s fly into Newark, N.J. A little change may do us good. We will rent a car, pay cash at the George Washington Bridge and pay my respects to Zia Maria under the cover of darkness.” Don Paolo continues to think about Zia Maria.
“Fabrizio, call White Plains Hospital. Confirm her passing, and then call Charlie Balls at the funeral parlor. Let him know Donny’s estate had money put aside for Zia Maria’s funeral. He will take care of everything. Just find out the dates. I want to visit the night before her funeral. After, we will head back to Rome that same night.”
“Don Paolo, what about the cops? They may be staking out the cemetery.” Fabrizio is right to be nervous. Those two brother cops want his boss’s blood. Nothing would stop them from killing him and the boss on the spot. Hell, they probably have the holes dug already, awaiting their arrival.
“You worry about our passports. I will handle those cops,” Don Paolo said, smiling at the thought of seeing his old buddies once again.
Chapter Seventeen: Keep Your Mouths Shut
The sound of multiple sirens blaring from different directions breaks the trance I’m in. My gut is right. Donny is alive, and he was on the phone. Several police officers and emergency medical technicians burst through the front door. Franny is seated on the living room sofa, in a daze of his own.
“Franny, don’t say a thing until we talk to our PBA attorneys.” He just nods, but I know he understands.
Chief Ramsey walks through the door.
“Guys, what happened here?” I look up at the chief.
“Sorry, Chief, as with any police shooting, I’m not allowed to talk about what occurred here until after I speak with my attorney.”
This should buy me some time to discuss the details with Franny prior to any departmental investigation. I have a feeling if this Sal guy was connected, the feds will be knocking on my door real soon. I wasn’t talking nor did I have too. Not yet anyway.
“Well, Detectives, I need your guns. Head to the hospital. I’m placing you both on administrative leave pending an investigation.” It’s standard procedure to respond to the hospital after a police shooting, to get evaluated. I hand over my Glock to the chief and remind him to put some gloves on and to bag it in paper, not plastic, until a cardboard gun box can be located. Franny does the same.
I don’t say another word until I walk outside the house. Scotty is there waiting for us. The look on his face is familiar.
“You guys okay?
“Yeah, Scotty, never better.” I manage a smile.
Scotty grins back, but I can see the true concern in his eyes. I trust Scotty completely, but until the investigation is over I can’t talk about it. Anyway, it’s better he doesn’t know any of the details. Franny and I both climb into the ambulance and sit on the red cushioned bench. Scotty checks our vitals. The drive over to White Plains Hospital is quick. The emergency room is awaiting our arrival. We are brought in through the ambulance entrance. All eyes are on us as we walk through the double doors of thick glass. I immediately notice two suits waiting in the lobby. Fucking feds are here already.
“Detectives, can we speak to you both for a moment.” The taller one does the talking. They are the same guys Captain Grassio threw out of his office.
“And you are?” I motion to Franny. He understands. I will do the talking. The small gold badge makes an appearance from his inside suit jacket pocket.
“I am Special Agent Joe Martinez. I’m wondering if I could ask you some questions.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Special Agent Steven Rowland, F.B.I., Organized Crime,” the shorter man speaks up.
“ID?” I say, not taking anything for granted.
Agent Rowland reluctantly brandishes his black wallet displaying his badge and Department of Justice Identification card.
“It’s been a long night, guys. What do you want?”
“Detectives, we were wondering if we could ask you some questions about Detective Donny Mello.”
“He’s dead. What is there to talk about?”
“Do you believe he is dead?”
“I don’t understand your question. Are you saying he’s not dead?”
“I don’t want you to jump to any conclusions, Detective. I’m just wondering if he’s been in contact with you since the car accident.”
“Guys, we were just involved in a police shooting. We don’t have time for this interrogation.” One look towards Franny expresses my frustration with his outburst.
“Pardon, Detective
, I wasn’t talking to you.” Martinez is obviously annoyed at Franny’s interjection.
“No, I haven’t been contacted by anyone. The doctor is waving me over. Sorry, we have to go.”
“No problem. You guys have your hands full. We can do this another time.”
“Sure. Goodbye.” My heart is racing, but you would never know it. A good cop knows when he’s being backed into a corner. These two assholes are onto something. I’ll have to ask Cynthia about them when she gets back.
“Shit, Cynthia,” I say, looking right at Franny. “I have to call her.”
“Matt, it’s all over the news. She will find out. Don’t call her. You can’t talk to anyone with a badge except me.”
“You’re right. Okay, let’s get this over with.” It only takes a few minutes for a doctor to clear both of us. Had I come clean about everything, they would have put me in a rubber room for sure.
Instead of taking a cab home, I call headquarters to arrange a ride. My cell phone is blowing up with calls from everyone, including my mother.
“Franny, when you get home, explain everything to Mom and Dad. I know it will be difficult. I just don’t feel like talking.”
“No problem, Matt. You okay?” Franny is concerned. I’m guessing his anxiety has tripled due to those snooping feds. When a federal investigator questions you, most of the time they know the answers to their questions. They’re testing an individual’s truthfulness. I always remember something I learned in the police academy: never lie to a fed. It’s a felony. Working in a small town like Hutchville, I never thought I would have any feds looking to speak with me.
I know it’s wrong but I need to speak with Cynthia and fast. I try her cell and her voicemail picks up almost instantly.
“Hey, Cyn, it’s me. I don’t know where you are but I need you to call me. Call me as soon as you get this message.”
My body aches with the guilt of cheating. I’ve never been unfaithful before. The stress moves through my inners. I know the uncomfortable feeling so well, but I turn it off as the white, marked police cruiser pulls to the curb. Officer DeLuca can barely contain himself. He moves quickly out of the driver seat, placing his police hat on immediately.
“Detectives, do you want me to sit in the back?”
“Eddie, please, you drive the car. Thanks for the offer.” I fall into the passenger seat. Franny takes the rear cage, which doesn’t have the normal hard plastic bench seat.
“Nice. I didn’t know patrol had plush rear seats.” Franny is relieved to have a soft seat.
“So, Eddie, are you excited about the police academy?”
“Yes, Matt. I mean, Detective.”
“Hey, Eddie, we’re not bosses. It’s okay to call us by our first names,” Franny chimes in from the rear.
“Are you guys alright? I know I’m not supposed to ask you anything.”
“Eddie, we are doing fine. I just killed someone, that’s all.”
“Holy shit, Matt! I didn’t expect you to say that. Would you like me to take you to St. Vincent’s to see a priest?”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Eddie, but I’m afraid Franny’s sins may give the priest an aneurism.” I’m laughing now, almost certainly as a result of stress.
“Eddie, do you understand what it means to be a police officer?”
“Yes, Matt, I have always wanted to help people.”
“That’s good, but that’s not what I’m talking about. When you raise your right hand in a court of law and swear on the Holy Bible under oath, only then are you truly being a police officer. We are the ultimate witnesses, capable of putting the garbage away forever if need be. Writing tickets is great, but you can train a dog to do that. All you have on this job is your word. People will know if you’re a good cop by your word and actions. It will define you for better or worse. Who knows, you may be testifying against one of your own. You never know.”
“I’m a little confused.”
“You will learn soon enough.”
We pull up in front of my apartment. I say goodnight to Eddie and Franny.
“I’ll call you later,” Franny manages to say, but his eyes are heavy.
“Don’t. Our phones are probably tapped.” I meant what I had just said. With Agents Martinez and Rowland lurking about, I’m not gambling with these odds.
Chapter Eighteen: A Good Shoot
What a fucking day! Where is Cynthia? My head hits my pillow. I know the shooting with Sal will be clean. No issues there. I’m justified using force when defending the life of a third party. Had Sal not been holding and aiming his gun at the good doctor, I would be fucked right now.
The shooting is not stressing me out as much as my federal stalkers. That’s what really has me thinking. Could those two be working for Donny? Anyone could get a fake ID, and I have seen Department of Justice wallets and F.B.I. badges sold on eBay from time to time. How did they get to the hospital so fast, unless they were watching Sal? Could Donny have guys watching from afar?
My mind is getting the best of me as usual. The phone rings. I look at the clock across my room on the cable box. Eleven-thirty. It must be Cynthia. I answer on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Detective Longo, please.”
“Speaking. Who’s calling?”
“This is Larry Metz, your PBA attorney. Sorry I didn’t make it to the hospital. How are you doing?”
“As good as possible, I guess.”
“Do you have a moment to speak with me?”
“Well, Larry, if it’s about what happened tonight, it’s best we speak in person, don’t you think?”
“Your right, officer. How is tomorrow at 9 a.m., at the police station?”
“Larry. I’m on administrative leave. Don’t you think we should meet at your office?”
“Right. Do you know where I am?”
“Yes, Larry. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”
I hang up agitated and stressed to the max. How stupid can you be? My legal representation is a moron. Just because we are protected under lawyer/client privilege, that doesn’t stop someone from listening in.
I grab my cell phone from the nightstand. No texts from Cynthia, no calls. What the hell?
Just before I close my eyes, the phone rings again. It must be Franny. But there’s no number on caller ID.
“Hello.” I try not to sound too sarcastic.
“Matt?” I know her voice as soon as she says my name. The guilt of last night resurfaces.
“Cyn, where are you?” I sit up in bed, my heart thumping inside my chest. I know I can’t talk on the phone.
“Matt, I got your message. I just got back into New York. Can I come to you?”
“Yes, please do.”
We hang up. Cynthia knows the game: never talk on the phone. I have about an hour to kill if Cynthia is leaving from her place in Manhattan. It’s on the Upper West Side, on 90th. She was so excited that Starbucks had moved into the lobby of her building, replacing a Dunkin Donuts that closed up. I have to get down there one of these days to have a look. I’m not a big fan of the city. Since 9/11, I haven’t been there much. They say the air is safe to breath, but with all the first responders getting sick from “the pile,” I don’t trust it.
So many questions need to be answered. How does Cynthia not know Martinez and Rowland from the F.B.I.? Aren’t they her replacements in organized crime? Does she know this guy Sal I killed and his connection to Donny? Am I going to tell her about last night, my romp with Theresa Delmonico? Just then, a weird feeling comes over me. Thinking of Theresa makes me feel something different. She is beautiful, nice, and obviously great in the sack. What is happening to me? For the first time in my life, I have feelings for two women. I’m so screwed.
Chapter Nineteen: Cynthia Shyler
I hear the lobby door squeak open, immediately followed by someone moving swiftly. My Glock is on the fridge, within a second’s reach. As soon as the key enters the lock, I know it’s her. The door
swings open and in walks Cynthia Shyler. Her long blonde hair is pulled tight into a ponytail. Her fresh skin is all golden. She has on these short gray shorts that are obviously something she sleeps in. Her black, off the shoulder T-shirt exposes her skin to the air. I get up and embrace her, not thinking at the moment about anything but her. My hand moves down her back and grabs her hand, locking fingers together as one. She kisses me on the cheek once, looking deep into my browns, before kissing me again on my lips.
“Cyn, where have you been?”
“In Miami, holed up in a stinky motel for three days. We had a fresh lead on a new Al-Qaeda cyber cell that set up shop fresh in Sudan.”
“Sudan? They have computers in Sudan?”
“Matt, what is happening?” Cynthia is all business.
“Am I talking to my friend or a federal agent?” Cynthia kicks me. I don’t want to show how much it hurt. I guess she answered my question. I go over everything that happened today, purposely leaving out my breakfast sex with Theresa. I tell Cynthia about Zia Maria passing and the phone call with Dr. Scavone. I mention Chief Grassio’s heart attack and taking Dr. Scavone home. Then I get to the pertinent details. I explain the connection between Donny and Dr. Frank Scavone with regards to Zia Maria. I reenact the shooting of Sal, leaving out nothing. Cynthia is very attentive and I can tell she is concerned.
“Sal Bruno is an associate of the Mello Family. He handles all gambling operations and is in charge of making all cash pickups. This wouldn’t have been the first time he whacked someone.” Cynthia crosses her legs, getting more comfortable. She continues, “So Donny Mello is really alive? I can’t believe this guy has pulled off the unbelievable. With all the technology we have at our disposal, he slipped through the grates of the dirtiest gutter.”
“Cyn, I listened to his breathing.”
“What?”
“Sal’s cell phone rang. I picked it up. I heard his voice and then he went silent while I listened to him breathing.”
“Did he say anything?” Cynthia’s ears perk up. I really had her attention now.
Back In Town (A Small Town Series Book 2) Page 13
