Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

  “My condolences. Any police officer who dies is a brother to us all.”

  But not as important as a Europol agent, Valenti thought.

  “You think this was a Mafia stickup?” Conti asked.

  He didn't answer immediately, thinking stronzo mafiosi maledetto. Vicious gangsters, like the Antonetti brothers. Per il mafioso la morte e un modo di fare. For the mafioso, death is a means to an end.

  But why share his suspicions with this insufferable boor?

  “A witness said an armored van arrived an hour before the shooting. Dominic is known to receive shipments of uncut diamonds from time to time. Unfortunately, no one can give us a list of the store inventory. Sophia Ruffino is dead and Dominic is in the hospital, comatose with a severely fractured skull. The robbers took their five-year-old daughter.”

  “Maybe the robbers used the wife and the girl to make him let them into the shop.”

  Valenti clenched his teeth. These Europol agents were all alike. No concern for the victims. They wanted to ride in on a white horse like John Wayne and nab the bad guys. No, not a horse. They preferred sleek Ferraris, like James Bond with his fancy toys and sexy women.

  “I will check to see if we have your target and call you back.” Valenti closed his cellphone without waiting for a reply.

  _____

  7:45 PM

  Drawn by the whistling teakettle, Natalie entered the kitchen, shivering inside a thick terrycloth robe. For twenty minutes she'd stood in the shower under the steamy water, but she still felt cold, chilled to the bone by her frantic mile-long run to her apartment in sopping wet clothes. Maybe some green tea would calm her frazzled nerves.

  Ordinarily the kitchen felt cozy and cheerful, but not tonight.

  She shut off the gas under the kettle and poured hot water into a mug, her mind seething with questions. How could this happen now? She had a job she loved, working with kids, a nice apartment in a good neighborhood. Her Italian was, if not fluent, more than passable.

  Sipping the steamy tea, she wandered into the living room and shut the Venetian blinds on the window that overlooked the street. A flowered-print sofa faced a TV set, a stereo system and a wire rack with her jazz CDs. A comfortable apartment, but she was no longer safe here.

  The telephone rang, startling her. She checked the Caller-ID. Giancarlo. Normally, she would be pleased, but nothing was normal tonight. Should she answer or let it go to voice mail? But then he would expect her to call him back. Reluctantly, she picked up and answered.

  “Hi, Laura, how was your day? Did you do anything interesting?”

  Interesting? How about her worst nightmare? Hiding from men with guns, jumping into the canal to escape security guards and polizia. But her escape was only temporary. She didn't know what the masked gunmen had done, but shooting inside a famous art museum would draw serious attention. Security cameras in the museum had recorded her face. The cops would study the tapes and see her. They could easily identify her. She'd used her credit card to buy the ticket.

  But Giancarlo wasn't a cop. And he was waiting for her to answer.

  “Nice to hear from you,” she said. Recalling his dark sexy eyes and her contentment after they made love three days ago, she didn't have to fake her enthusiasm.

  “I got off work early tonight. Would you like to go out for a drink?”

  Impossible. She was exhausted. Her nerves were shot. “Not tonight. I have a migraine. The kids were very rambunctious today.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Shall I come over and give you a massage?”

  No, no, no! A frisson of fear prickled her neck. “Tempting, but I need to lie down in a dark room and get rid of this headache.”

  A brief silence, then, “Okay, I guess. Sorry you aren't feeling well. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  “I will,” she said, and clicked off. But she wouldn't be calling Giancarlo tomorrow. In fact she might never see him again. She had to leave Venice as soon as possible.

  A week after she arrived, they'd met by accident in a small cafe near her apartment. She smiled, remembering his abject apologies when he'd jostled her arm and spilled her coffee. He asked a waiter to bring her another latte, mopped up the spilled coffee with some napkins and sat down.

  “You are American?” he said, in English.

  Taken aback, she said, “Why do you ask?”

  “You're reading an American newspaper.”

  She usually read the local papers to expand her Italian vocabulary, but she'd bought a USA Today because it was the twelfth of September, one day after the ninth anniversary of 9-11.

  Avoiding a direct answer, she said, “I have friends there.”

  Well, she used to have friends there, until Oliver betrayed her. Now she had only enemies. Oliver's CIA friend was still looking for her, and so was Frank Renzi. She said nothing about this to Giancarlo, of course. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed the company of an attractive, charming man. When she complimented his fluent English, he said he had a degree in languages from the University of London and had done graduate work at Georgetown University in Washington.

  “I travel a lot for business, often to New York City. Have you been there?”

  That sent her into deception mode, a skill she had acquired, of necessity, as a child. Answer no questions. Reveal nothing of yourself. Flatter your inquisitor and learn more about him.

  “No, but I hear it's a great city. You must be good at your job. What sort of work do you do?”

  “I work for an international real estate firm.” Not looking at her, rushing his words. A sure sign of deception. She didn't believe him.

  Perhaps sensing this, he flashed a smile, took out a business card and gave it to her, a fancy one with embossed letters. Worldwide Properties.

  But anyone could create a fake business card. She'd done it herself several times.

  “Let's have a drink sometime,” he said. “Call me and we'll go hear some jazz.”

  A week later she had called him. They went to a jazz club to hear an East German jazz band and had a wonderful time.

  But the good times were over. Tonight she had witnessed a crime at the Guggenheim Museum, which had security cameras.

  Picturing men in black balaclavas wielding automatic rifles, and a little girl looking at her with terrified eyes, she went in the bedroom, took a suitcase out of the closet and began packing. Where would she go?

  Not Paris. Not London. No hiding in those cities.

  Now it was eight o'clock, six hours earlier in Boston. The Mountain Man was probably in his office. She took out her iPhone and punched in his number. Pak Lam was the only person she trusted. He would help her figure out what to do.

  CHAPTER 4

  SATURDAY December 11 – 6:25 AM – New Orleans

  Standing beside David Lee, Frank looked through a one-way-glass window. Slumped in a chair inside the District-8 interview room, Jawon Taylor stared at the tabletop, maybe hoping it held the solution to his predicament. A scrawny five-seven, he'd earned his street name—Rocket Man—due to his ability to outrun most anybody, cops included.

  Yesterday he had eluded David. Not today. A Gang Unit detective had caught a tip. Rocket Man was staying in an abandoned cottage a few blocks from the B-n-L drug corner.

  At 5:00 AM they went in hard and fast, screaming, “Police. Don't move or you're dead!” Rocket Man yelling, “Don't shoot, don't shoot!”

  The place was a pig-sty reeking of pot and rancid garbage. Empty 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor littered the floor beside two mattresses. Tattered blankets nailed over the windows protected the room from the sun, and the eyes of unwanted visitors. No electricity and no furniture, just two trash bags full of clothes pushed against one wall to sit on.

  Hidden under one bag, they found a loaded Tec-9 with a home-made silencer and a Smith & Wesson .38 Special, both serial numbers filed off. Not the guns that killed Angelique, but they had bagged and tagged them and taken Jawon Taylor to the station to book him.

&n
bsp; But Frank wanted to squeeze him for information first.

  “Sad case,” David said. “According to the file at juvenile hall, his father left right after he was born and his mother's a crackhead, been sitting in prison for the past four years.”

  “Tough. You can be the good cop. I'm gonna make the little shit wish he never met King Rock. Put a fresh tape in the video machine but don't roll the tape.”

  David frowned. “Why not? Department protocol—”

  “Fuck protocol.” He didn't give a damn about protocol, nor would any other cop in the city. When a scumbag shot a cop, sometimes rules had to be broken. “If we catch heat, I'll take responsibility. He's an accessory to murder. Let's see what he says before we roll tape. He plays nice, we tell him we might cut a deal. Get the DA to go easy on him.”

  “And if that doesn't work?”

  Frank smiled grimly. “You go get him a bottled water. I'll handle the rest.”

  He went around the corner and entered the interview room. Rocket Man looked up, gazing at him with a sullen expression.

  Frank sat across the table from him. David took the chair beside his.

  He put King Rock's mugshot on the table. The bastard had a cocky look on his face, staring at the camera, light-skinned and good-looking, unlike Rocket Man who had dark skin and a face only a mother could love: a low forehead, a big nose, acne scars on his cheeks.

  “Where's your scumbag leader?” Frank said, tapping the photograph.

  “How should I know? He don't tell me where he goes when I ain't with him.”

  “Don't dick me around. No sleep for two days, I'm in no mood for your bullshit. We got you for illegal possession of firearms. You better start talking.”

  “Ain't giving up nuthin to no cops.”

  “Why? Because King Rock will kill you if you do?”

  The kid stared at him, fingering the scraggly hairs along his jaw.

  “Where's he hiding?”

  “Just tol' you I don't know where he at!”

  “We know you were in Angelique's apartment yesterday. That makes you an accessory to murder.” But they couldn't prove it. Yet.

  “Can't put that on me. Wasn't nowheres near the place.”

  “Bullshit. Where were you yesterday morning at 5:30 AM?”

  “Sleeping.” Taylor raised his chin, gazing at him, belligerent now. “With my girlfriend.”

  “What's her name?”

  “Daisy.” Something flickered in his eyes. “Daisy Buchanan.”

  Frank shot out of his chair and got in his face, so close he could smell the stink of his filthy T-shirt. A lot of 'bangers dropped out of school barely able to read, got their information from TV shows and movies.

  “Listen up, asshole. Don't give me a name from some movie you saw on TV. Daisy Buchanan? In your dreams.”

  David tapped his pen on the table to get Frank's attention. “Maybe he'd like a bottle of water.”

  “Maybe he should give us some information first,” Frank snapped. He went back and sat in his chair and locked eyes with Taylor. “Where'd you dump the guns?”

  “What guns?”

  Fury stabbed his gut, already churning with acid from all the coffee he'd consumed in the past twenty-four hours, running on adrenaline for most of those hours, running on fumes now.

  “The guns King Rock used to murder Angelique. Sooner or later we'll find them. We already got you for illegal possession of firearms. You're an accessory to murder. Tell us where King Rock is, maybe the DA will cut you a deal. Reduced time for telling us where he's hiding.”

  “Reduced time?” Taylor said. “How 'bout no time. How 'bout dead.”

  “How about King Rock murdered his son's mother and you watched him do it.”

  Taylor straightened in his chair. “Fuck this, man. I want a lawyer.”

  He was certain Taylor was hiding something, his body language screaming deception, but the kid had just spoken the magic words. I want a lawyer.

  “Detective Lee. Go get him a bottled water out of the vending machine.” Better that David didn't see what was about to happen.

  David left the room, and Taylor leaned back in his chair, smirking at him. He went around the table, grabbed the punk by the throat and squeezed. “Tell me where King Rock is hiding,” he said quietly.

  Taylor clawed at his fingers, a futile attempt to pry them from his throat, eyes bulging, his forehead damp with sweat.

  Frank squeezed harder. “Tell me where he is and I'll let go.”

  Taylor's mouth opened, emitting a croaking sound.

  He let go and flexed his fingers. “Tell me.”

  Massaging his throat, Taylor said, “Might be at his cousin's in Mississippi.”

  “Where in Mississippi?”

  “Bay St. Louis.”

  “What's his cousin's name?”

  “Ace be his street name.”

  Frank slapped the side of his head. “His real name, asshole.”

  “Tariq Barrett.”

  Not much but it was something.

  “We know you were with King Rock at Angelique's apartment. We found casings from two different guns in her bedroom. Maybe he made you shoot her, too, so he'd have something on you.”

  Taylor clamped his lips together and looked away. Frank got the feeling he'd struck a nerve.

  “We got a hundred cops combing the city looking for the murder weapons.” A gross exaggeration, but nothing in department protocol said he couldn't lie to a suspect. “When we find them, we'll use DNA to nail both of you.” Another empty threat. DNA was no magic bullet. Depending on when and where the guns were found, any DNA on them could be degraded by moisture, extreme heat and a dozen other factors.

  “You got no right to put your hands on me, no cameras running, no witnesses.”

  Fury rose up inside him again. He pictured Kelly, close to tears, devastated that Angelique had told her King Rock was in her apartment and wound up dead. “What about Angelique's rights? What about her three-year-old son? Detective Lee saw you and King Rock drive away after he killed her. Tell me where you dumped the guns.”

  “Ain't telling you nuthin. Told you I wanted a lawyer.”

  “Listen, right now I'm the best friend you got. It doesn't matter if you talk to us or not. I can put the word out that you did.”

  Taylor stared at him, naked fear visible in his eyes. “Yo, man, you wanna get me killed?”

  He didn't want him dead, he wanted information, but he wasn't going to get any more out of the punk.

  “When Detective Lee brings your water, we'll roll the tape and you will tell us the whereabouts of King Rock. You even mention the word lawyer and I will fuck you up so bad you'll never stick your slimy dick in a girl again. You'll be lucky you can walk, you hear me?”

  Taylor stared at the tabletop and nodded.

  “Say it out loud. You understand me?”

  “I understand.”

  The door opened and David entered the room with a bottled water. He looked at Frank, his eyes sending a message: What's going on?

  “Hold on while I start the tape.” Frank took the bottled water and left the room, hit Record on the video camera, went back inside and set the bottled water on the table in front of Taylor.

  “Here's your water, Mr. Taylor. Homicide Detectives Frank Renzi and David Lee commencing an interview with Jawon Taylor at—” He checked the clock on the wall. “6:45 AM, December eleven, 2010. Mr. Taylor, we have reason to believe that Rufus Barrett, also known as King Rock, murdered Angelique Vaughn in her Iberville apartment yesterday. We saw you leave the scene with him. Tell us where he is.”

  Taylor unscrewed the cap on the bottle, drank some water and glowered at Frank. “Can't swear to it, but he might be at his cousin's in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi.”

  “What's his cousin's name?”

  “Tariq Barrett. Street name Ace.”

  “Did you drive Rufus Barrett to Mississippi yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “But you ofte
n drive Mr. Barrett around, correct?”

  “Sometimes. But not yesterday.” Taylor smirked. “Not that I recall.”

  The punk spouting lines from reality TV shows now, gangsters denying their crimes. “Maybe when we charge you with being an accessory to murder, your memory will improve. If King Rock isn't in Bay St. Louis, we'll be having another conversation.”

  He checked the time and announced he was ending the interview at 6:55 AM. “Detective Lee, can you shut off the camera? I'll take Mr. Taylor and get him booked on the firearms charges.”

  He waited until David left the room, gave him two minutes to shut off the camera, and said in a quiet voice, “I meant what I said, Jawon. If we find King Rock at his cousin's house, you're home free. If not, we might put the word out on the street that you gave up your boss.”

  “Get me killed you do that,” Taylor muttered.

  True. No snitchin ruled the street. If King Rock thought Rocket Man ratted him out, he was a dead man. Not that Frank intended to make good on his threat. Which reminded him of another threat, CIA Agent Clint Hammer, vowing to capture Natalie Brixton.

  If Hammer found her, he'd pull a CIA snuff job, and no one would be the wiser, including Frank.

  _____

  4:10 pm – Venice

  Natalie pretended to take a sip of wine and set her glass on the bar. Giancarlo had ordered an expensive Valpolicella, tart with a hint of sweetness. But she needed to stay alert, needed to deflect any more invitations from him.

  He ate another piece of fried calamari and licked his lips. “Fantastico! So crisp and tender. You should try some.”

  “Not for me,” she said with a smile. “All the more for you.” Her stomach was too jumpy. Playacting for Giancarlo. Pretending everything was normal. She shouldn't have answered his call this afternoon. When he invited her out for dinner, she said she had work to do, but had agreed to meet him at a wine bar near her apartment that hip young couples frequented, drinking cocktails and sharing appetizers before moving on to a restaurant for dinner.

  Giancarlo lighted a Benson & Hedges, the British cigarettes he preferred. He was a heavy smoker, and she hated it. She could smell the smoke on his clothes, and if he didn't use mouthwash, his mouth tasted vile when he kissed her.