by Gerald Elias
Benson had little else to report other than to update Dahlia Maggette’s tarnished employment history, which included being fired from the Club Terrace and Back Stretch for soliciting. It reminded Jacobus that sometime soon he would have the unpleasant task of informing her that her beau and benefactor, Amadeo Borlotti, was dead, assuming she hadn’t already read about it in the papers. He suspected she hadn’t.
They arrived at the Daily Catch on Hanover Street after the lunch rush so there wouldn’t be the customary wait for a table outside in the cold. The tiny seafood restaurant had been around for decades and had fended off all challengers, including the trendy new oyster bar, Awe Shucks, that had just opened down the block. Brooks, who had positioned two plainclothesmen outside the entrance, was already there, and gestured for them to join him.
They sat at the one table in between the front window and the open kitchen, where a single chef handled all the orders. Jacobus and Benson sat with their backs to the window. Brooks, with a vantage point to see anyone coming in, had taken the seat facing out.
‘I’ll keep my eye on the street traffic,’ Brooks said to Benson. ‘You can keep your eye on the calamari.’
Jacobus inhaled the aroma of simmering seafood, tomatoes, and garlic with pleasure.
‘And I’ll be the cockle-eyed optimist,’ he said, and ordered his favorite dish, clams in red sauce over linguini, served in the pan in which it was cooked. It went perfectly with his glass of red wine, served in a plastic cup.
They small-talked about food and the weather for a few minutes. Then, with conversational appetizers out of the way, Brooks attacked the meeting’s main course.
‘Gentlemen, as I’m sure you’re aware from reading the news, arson for hire in the Boston area has reached epidemic proportions. Hardly a week goes by when there isn’t a suspicious fire. Until recently, casualties were minimal and we’ve had our share of successful prosecutions. But this year we’ve had four fatalities – five if we end up adding Borlotti – and there are still way too many that go unresolved.’
‘Why?’ Jacobus asked. ‘How many arsonists can there be in one city?’
Brooks answered calmly.
‘Partly because of bureaucratic gridlock, Mr Jacobus, which has improved greatly since the formation of G-BAT. And partly because some arsonists are extremely good at what they do. There is one in particular who my gut tells me is behind at least some, if not all, of the more recent suspicious fires. His name is Francis Falcone, but he goes by the names of Frankie the Flame and Saint Ignitius. He’s a hoodlum, a narcissist, and a braggart, but he also happens to be the best in his profession.’
‘What makes a good arsonist other than extra matches?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Much to our dismay, this Falcone’s a chameleon. He’s an innovator who transformed the trade. He doesn’t bring his own flammables but utilizes materials he finds on site, assembling them in such an organic way that we usually can’t even tell that arson had been committed. It’s only when there’s been a string of them that we figure the odds are that it was intentional.’
‘OK. Arson is arson. But not all arsonists are murderers,’ Jacobus said.
‘True, but consider the skillset of a fine arsonist. Impeccable planning, expert craftsmanship, ice running through the veins. That lines up well with the profile of a professional hit man. We believe Falcone is not averse to occasionally being called upon to dispose of the occupant of a structure in addition to the structure itself. And why not? The payoff would be much greater for him without having to punch much more time on the clock.
‘When Officer Benson called and told me about what happened out in your neck of the woods, it had all the earmarks of a Falcone job. If we can work together on this, we might be able to nail him.’
‘What makes our case any different from the others you’ve been incapable of solving?’ Jacobus asked.
‘I see you live up to your reputation, Mr Jacobus,’ Brooks said.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re an asshole.’
Jacobus laughed.
‘Just wait until you get to know me better,’ he said.
‘Here’s what’s different,’ Brooks continued. ‘You have actually found a body.’
‘You said Borlotti’s not the first fatality,’ Jacobus pressed.
‘That’s right. But he’s the first whose death was unquestionably homicide. All the others were categorized as accident victims, or questionable at best.
‘Also, you’ve found a weapon, and the lab has connected those dots with the blood. Whoever used that knife killed Borlotti with it and, by extension, burned the house down. We need to figure out where Falcone was on Christmas Eve and what the connection was to Borlotti.’
‘If any,’ said Benson.
‘If any,’ Brooks repeated.
‘Where does this Falcone live?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Would you believe a few blocks from here? That a hoodlum like him lives spitting distance from Paul Revere’s house? He grew up in the North End in a one-bedroom apartment on Salem Street. Went to church at Saint Ignatius on North Street. Now he’s got a lovely million-dollar condo with a great view of the harbor and his yacht sitting in the dock. And you know how he paid for it?’
‘No.’
‘Join the club. We’ve never been able to trace anything illegal in his bank accounts because it’s all cash. He hasn’t worked a day in his life that we know of, yet he’s flush. Go figure.’
‘Have you interrogated him?’ Jacobus asked.
‘He always has an airtight alibi. Never knows a thing.’
‘Anyone at Saint Ignatius know him?’
‘It’s a little late for that. It’s no longer a church. They shut down the congregation a year ago,’ Brooks said, ‘after a hundred-thirty-eight years. Couldn’t afford maintenance and repair. Heating bills in the winter. AC bills in the summer. It’s becoming an old song. No one goes to church anymore. It’s a nice historic building.’
‘They’re going to tear it down?’
‘Saved at the bell by an architect. He’s going to convert it to an art gallery café.’
‘Probably for the best,’ Jacobus said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘With the congregation turning out scum like Falcone, a gallery will probably serve mankind better.’
‘I’m not sure Monsignor Gallivan would agree with that.’
‘Probably not. Hard for him to save souls as a barista. Is it worth talking to this monsignor about Falcone?’
‘They put him out to pasture when they closed the congregation. I heard he’s not in great shape.’
‘Then why not go and have a chat with Falcone directly?’ Benson asked. ‘Maybe if you tell him we’ve expanded our investigation and are gathering evidence from the Egremont Falls fire you can rattle him into making a false move. Telling him about the matching blood samples might get under his skin.’
‘Sooner the better, I’d say,’ Jacobus added.
‘I understand how anxious both of you are to get results,’ Brooks said. ‘But I don’t think going at Falcone will produce the results you want. Chances are he’d lie or clam up. Telling him where we are in the investigation will also give him information he does not yet have. And finally, I can’t overstate how dangerous this guy is.’
‘You have a better suggestion?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Yes. Keep our distance and get some information at the same time. And if you accompany me down the street to the Café Paradiso for espresso and the best cannoli in the North End, I’ll introduce you to someone special.’
‘Say no more,’ Jacobus responded.
TWENTY-ONE
‘I hope this isn’t far,’ Jacobus said, beginning to reconsider the relative value of a cannoli. He hadn’t anticipated having to walk through frozen slush in downtown Boston, and every time he stepped off a curb into the street he felt Italian ices seep through the soles of his old shoes.
‘We’re almost there,�
� Brooks assured him. ‘And I think you’ll find the effort worthwhile, and not just for the dessert. We definitely need information, and I think we’ll be able to get some from Sammy Rocchinelli, one of our more dependable informants.’
‘You invited him to be part of our coffee klatch?’ Jacobus asked.
Brooks laughed.
‘That would be a little obvious,’ he said. ‘No, Sammy’s hangout is the Paradiso. He’s almost always there this time of day. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. I think you’ll find him a colorful character.’
‘What does he do for a living?’ Benson asked.
‘Why, he’s an arsonist!’ Brooks said, sounding surprised by the question.
‘So why don’t you put him behind bars?’ Jacobus asked. ‘Voila! Epidemic cured.’
‘If only that were the case,’ Brooks answered. ‘Believe me, Sammy did more than a few years in Walpole. But we got him out early for good behavior once he agreed to cooperate with us.’
‘How did you get him to do that?’ Benson asked.
‘The usual,’ Brooks replied. ‘Money. Sammy is predisposed to wager on sporting events.’
‘Horse racing?’ Jacobus asked. Maybe there was a connection.
‘Any sport. From football to foosball and everything in between. Sammy never met a hot tip he didn’t like. To our good fortune, he almost always loses. He needs us to help maintain his cash flow. Sometimes he’s loose and easy with the facts, but he’s got a memory for detail that fortunately hasn’t been beaten out of him yet.’
‘How is he still alive?’ Benson asked. ‘For a crook, there’s nothing worse than having a reputation as a rat. Look what’s going on right here in Boston. The Herald’s saying Whitey Bulger’s killing anyone who even smells like an informant.’
‘We never asked Sammy to turn state’s witness, so no one knows he’s providing us with information,’ Brooks said. ‘Plus, we make him look good.’
Benson beat Jacobus, asking, ‘How do you do that?’ as Jacobus put his foot into yet another moat of slush.
‘We keep him gainfully employed to burn things down once in a while. We tell him when and where. Mostly small jobs – condemned apartments, a shuttered up store here and there. Make sure no one’s in them, of course. We make sure the fire department is on the scene pronto to keep things contained. It’s enough work for Sammy to keep his street cred without questions being asked. And, to be honest, it’s been good for urban renewal. Some of those property owners would never fix their places up unless they got the insurance money. And I should mention, there aren’t many people who would mess with Sammy Rocchinelli whether they knew he was a rat or not. There’s good reason they call him Sammy Rock. Here we are, Mr Jacobus. Just let me do the talking,’ Brooks said to him and Benson.
Brooks took Jacobus’s arm and entered the café. The weather had evidently shooed away the tourists, as the conversations Jacobus heard were mostly in Italian. Brooks escorted Jacobus past the tables and past a television set broadcasting a soccer game on low volume, to the bar at the back of the café where a Mario Lanza medley held sway. Jacobus felt for a stool and sat on it, placing his hands on the counter for stability. Benson sat to his right, Brooks to his left.
‘Hey, Sammy,’ Brooks said. The volume of noise in the café was soft enough for quiet conversation and loud enough for it not to carry more than a couple feet. Ideal for passing information.
‘Hey, you bring your blind grandfather today?’ Rocchinelli said. The voice came from Brooks’s left, even farther to the back of the café. Maybe the last seat at the bar. Though the voice was hushed, the brutality was undisguised. ‘Better not tell him you’re a black boy.’ Rocchinelli apparently thought that was a great joke and started wheezing with laughter.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ Brooks replied with a chuckle. ‘I’ve been trying to keep it a secret from him.’ He then introduced Jacobus and Benson.
‘Espresso for everyone? Cannolis?’ Brooks asked. Jacobus and Benson nodded their assent.
‘Grappa,’ Rocchinelli said.
‘Starting early today, Sammy?’ Brooks asked.
‘Today, tomorrow, yesterday. Plus, you’re buying.’
The barista, a large woman in her sixties who seemed to be serving all the customers in the café simultaneously, took their order and went off.
‘You seen Frankie lately?’ Brooks asked Rocchinelli.
‘What, aren’t you gonna ask me about the weather first?’
‘Look, Sammy,’ Brooks said, suddenly with gloves off. ‘I don’t have all day. You’ve seen him or not?’
The change of tone must have surprised Rocchinelli. He answered quickly.
‘Nah. He’s down at some Caribbean resort with the wife and kids. Celebratin’ the holidays.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I saw him before he left, Einstein.’
‘When was that?’
‘Christmas. Christmas day. We was watchin’ football at Johnnie’s on Salem Street. Fuckin’ Lions lost again. You know how much I lost on them?’
‘Don’t give up on them, Sammy. That Barry Sanders kid they got can run. They’ll turn it around. Just you watch. Did Frankie tell you about anything other than his vacation plans?’
‘Not much.’
‘Sammy, you want to earn back what you lost on the Lions, you’ll have to unburden yourself more than that. “Not much” just ain’t gonna cut it.’
‘OK. So he says he can’t wait to get to the sun because the night before he was so fuckin’ cold.’
‘So Frankie was cold on Christmas Eve. Him and ten million other people. Go on.’
‘OK, he was pissed because he was stuck in some delivery truck somewhere out in the sticks with only his leather jacket and didn’t have no gloves. He said every time he was cursin’ that he shoulda been home in his condo, all it did was fog up the fuckin’ windshield.’
‘You’ve ever been in his condo?’ Brooks asked.
‘Sure I been there. More than once, too. Six bedrooms. Overlookin’ the harbor. Can you imagine how much that costs?’
‘Sounds like a nice place.’
‘He keeps it nice and warm there. Never lower than seventy-five. No wonder he felt so fuckin’ cold. The only ice in his condo is in his martini.’ Rocchinelli laughed through his nose at his joke. Brooks joined in.
‘There’s one room you’d really, really like, Lieutenant,’ Rocchinelli continued, with false mirth. ‘Frankie’s trophy room.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Brooks said.
‘He got his favorite newspaper stories in frames. Shows ‘em off. You know: “Faulty Wiring Sparks Warehouse Fire.” “Smoking in Bed Dooms Victim, Building.” He brags that none of them newspapers ever mentions his name because the cops got nuthin’ on him. A couple stories said ‘suspicious, under investigation,’ but they got nowhere. As you well know.’
‘Proud of his accomplishments, is he?’
‘Yeah. He sure has got you guys chasing your asses. The only thing that bugs him is he’s so good at what he does he’ll never get no credit for it. He’s pissed no one’s ever gonna know his legacy.’
‘That’s what he said?’ Brooks asked.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Life is tough.’
‘Fuck you, Brooks,’ Rocchinelli said, but there was no heat behind the comment.
‘So he’d like to be able to leave some kind of trademark? Some indication of his handiwork?’
‘Trademark. Yeah. That’s exactly the word he used. But not enough to get caught.’
‘Of course not. Just something to burnish his reputation. His calling card, so to speak.’
‘Yeah, like that bounty hunter in that TV western. I liked that guy. With that mustache and that black outfit he wore. What was his name?’
‘Palladin? “Have Gun, Will Travel”?’
‘That’s it! You should be on Jeopardy, Brooks. You’d make more than being a fuckin’ cop.’
Rocch
inelli’s laugh started in his stomach and bubbled up to his throat before he squelched it. ‘I should’ve been a comedian,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you’re another Rodney Dangerfield,’ Brooks said. ‘But you want some respect, you tell me more than the bullshit you’ve given me so far. The more detail, the more you’ll have to lose on the Bowl Games.’
‘OK. It’s your dime, pal. Sure is crummy weather we’re havin’. Think we’ll be gettin’ dumped on again?’
Jacobus noted that the change in subject matter coincided with the barista arriving at the counter with their order. Cautious son-of-a-bitch, anyway, Jacobus thought. Feeling for the cannoli, he accidently inserted his finger into the ricotta cheese, licked it off, and mentally agreed with Brooks’s assessment of its quality.
As soon as the barista left, Rocchinelli returned to the narrative.
‘So Frankie was stuck in this truck. On Christmas Eve. He says Feliz Navidad was on the radio. You know it?’
Rocchinelli did a bad impression of Jose Feliciano. ‘We wanna wish you a Merry Christmas. We wanna wish you a Merry Christmas. We wanna wish you a Merry Christmas, From the bottom of our heart. Frankie said he loves that song, but that night everything was pissing him off. It was dark as hell and the snow was coming down. Hard. So he turns on the wipers to clear it off before the truck turns into a fuckin’ igloo. He has to rub the inside of the windshield with his sleeve just to see out.’
Jacobus was about to ask the essential question: Where was Falcone parked? But just as he was clearing his throat, Brooks put a restraining hand on his leg. Jacobus took another bite of cannoli.
‘Frankie didn’t understand why his boss contracted him to deal with a punk yokel in the first place,’ Rocchinelli continued. ‘He was so pissed he punched the steering wheel.’
Rocchinelli, imitating Falcone, delivered a series of blows to the bar’s counter with his fists that made Jacobus’s espresso cup rattle. Rocchinelli laughed and took a sip of grappa.
