Death by Chocolate

by Steven Henry

  Erin nodded numbly, still trying to untangle what she could and couldn’t tell her fellow detectives.

  Chapter 17

  Webb and Vic trailed back into Major Crimes three long hours later. Erin was plugging away at her DD-5s, trying to pretend she wasn’t thinking about Paulie Bianchi. Rolf was napping on his blanket next to her desk.

  “Got anything?” she asked, a little too quickly.

  “The Lieutenant’s got jack,” Vic said, “and I’ve got shit to go with it.”

  “No witnesses,” Webb said. “The weapon was a nine-millimeter automatic, two shots. Levine says the shots were almost contact close, entrance wounds just behind the right ear, powder tattooing around the wounds.”

  “Execution-style,” Erin said.

  “Exit wounds took off half his damn face,” Vic said. “Hell of a mess. Closed casket for sure.”

  “Looks like the shooter was waiting for him behind the front door,” Webb continued. “He came in and didn’t even have time to see the guy. Probably never knew what hit him. CSU’s going over the scene, but it looked pretty clean. Professional.”

  “And we got no motive,” Vic added.

  “Of course we have a motive,” Webb said. “Someone must’ve told Paulie’s boss he’d talked to us, cut a deal.”

  “Nina’s the one who cut the deal,” Erin said.

  “That’s a fine distinction,” Webb said. “We should’ve had protection on Paulie.” He sighed. “Damn it, I should’ve guessed this would happen. I just figured Paulie wasn’t important to anyone but his mom. I got tunnel vision.”

  “We all screwed up,” Erin said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Vic said. “My conscience is clean as a newborn baby.”

  “Newborn babies come out kind of slimy,” Erin said. “And covered with blood.”

  “Okay, bad example,” Vic said. “But I didn’t kill this idiot, and I didn’t get him killed. We know Vinnie Moreno had him killed.”

  “We suspect that,” Webb corrected. “But I don’t see any other reasonable theory. And unlike Lorenzo Bianchi, Vincenzo Moreno is the subject of a RICO investigation.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Vic said. “You’re throwing this one to the Feebies? Jesus, boss, this is a New York homicide!”

  “RICO is the only way to stick a higher-up with a hit like this,” Webb said. “There’ll be three layers of insulation between Vinnie and the triggerman. Unless the Feds flip someone in the chain, there’s no way the Oil Man takes the rap for this.”

  “So that’s it?” Erin said. “Not our case?”

  “Not our case,” Webb agreed. “I don’t like it either, but we’ve got no choice.”

  “It’ll take five years,” Vic grumbled. “And then they’ll get him on some sorry shit like tax evasion.”

  “That worked on Capone,” Webb reminded him. “So unless you’re requesting a transfer to the FBI’s White Collar Crime program, Neshenko, we’re packing it in. We’ll send our files to the FBI and call it good.”

  Erin said nothing. She told herself it didn’t matter why Vinnie thought what he did; what mattered was that he’d had Paulie killed. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She stood up. Rolf, always attentive, bounced to his feet and wagged his tail.

  “Where you going?” Vic asked.

  “I gotta take care of something,” she said.

  “Police business, or personal?” Webb asked.

  Both, she thought. “Personal,” she said.

  Webb shrugged. “It’s about lunchtime anyway. Can you be back in an hour?”

  “Sure. What’ve we got going?”

  “It looks to me like you’re not quite done with your paperwork,” he said.

  “That’s because I’m illegitimate,” she said. She left the office while Vic and Webb were still staring at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was talking about.

  * * *

  Erin drove to the Barley Corner, not even knowing what she was going to say when she got there. Her thoughts were a haze of guilt and confusion. Rolf, picking up on her mood, shifted uneasily in his compartment and whined softly.

  She parked in the police space outside the pub and went in, walking fast. The Corner was filling up for the noon rush, and she didn’t see Carlyle right away. Caitlin was up front. She grinned at Erin.

  “Hey, Erin,” she said. She’d had a soft spot for Erin ever since a gang of hitmen had attacked the Corner while she’d been there. Erin and Carlyle had fended them off while Caitlin and Danny had huddled behind the bar.

  “Hey,” Erin said. “Your boss around?”

  Caitlin pointed. “Usual spot.”

  “Thanks.” Erin threaded the crowd and saw Carlyle. His face lit up when he saw her, and he got up from his barstool.

  “Hello, darling,” he said.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  He saw it in her face. “What’s happened?”

  She glanced around and saw half a dozen guys who might be Mob-connected.

  “Upstairs,” she said.

  He nodded and led the way to the back stairs, ushering her through the door and making sure it locked behind Rolf. They went up to the living room, where Rolf sat beside the couch and watched them.

  “Do you want anything?” he asked, gesturing to his personal drink cabinet.

  Erin shook her head. “They killed Paulie Bianchi this morning,” she said bluntly.

  Carlyle froze in the act of reaching for a whiskey bottle. “Who?”

  “Paulie Bianchi!” she snapped impatiently. “Sewer Pipe’s kid!”

  “Nay,” he said. “I meant, who killed him?”

  “Vinnie the Oil Man.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said. Then the words came out in a flood, so quickly she could hardly control them. “We cut a deal with his mom, so she confessed to killing Lorenzo. Lorenzo was trying to kill her first, but everything got screwed up and the stupid dentist ate the candy, and now Lorenzo’s dead, and Nina’s in jail, but Paulie walked on the drug charge, which would’ve been fine except for your asshole buddy Liam and his goddamn tipoff. Then I hit the drug shipment with the street Narcs, and Vinnie figured the only way we’d have known was if Paulie had talked, and there he was, getting let out of jail like he’d made the deal himself. So bang bang, that’s it for Paulie.”

  Carlyle walked slowly over to Erin and put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off.

  “Erin, darling,” he said. “Paulie Bianchi worked for the Mafia. They’re a suspicious lot. They don’t need to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Doubt’s quite sufficient for them to act. They killed him.”

  “I got him killed,” she said.

  “Are you weeping for the lad?” Carlyle asked quietly. “He was a petty criminal, a dealer in narcotics. I believe your lads would call this a ‘misdemeanor homicide.’ Paulie was in the Life.”

  “You’re in the Life!” she shouted at him. “What am I supposed to do if you get whacked?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a bit more experienced than young Paulie,” he said. “I know my way around these lads.”

  “That makes you safe?”

  “Not safe,” he said. “But a little safer, aye.”

  “This case,” Erin said. “Jesus Christ. It’s just such a chain of screw-ups, beginning to end. It started with the wrong guy getting killed, and now it’s ending the same way.”

  “Who’s the right guy?” Carlyle asked.

  “Your buddy Liam, and whoever the source is who gave him the tip on the drugs,” she said. “He’s got someone in Vinnie’s organization, someone important.”

  “More than likely,” he agreed. “Would you feel better if Liam was the one lying on the ground with a few extra holes in him?”

  “I feel shitty either way,” she said. “I got a shady tip, acted on it, and a guy got killed. What the hell does it matter who it was? Shit, I guess I’m in the Life now, too.”

 
; Carlyle’s face hardened. “Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t even think it. Don’t ever say that, unless you want it to be true. I love you, Erin, and if it came down to it, I’d take bullets for you. You know that. If being with me drags you down, you’d best walk out that door and never come back, because I’d not forgive myself.”

  “But you won’t stop being a gangster,” she said.

  He gave her a slight, sad smile. “It’s not as easy as all that. If I walk away, now of all times, when I’ve just gotten involved with a copper… Well, darling, didn’t you just come to me with an example of what can happen?”

  “You wouldn’t be betraying them,” she said stubbornly.

  “Did Paulie betray his people?” Carlyle replied. “Erin, you need to remember, in this world, the truth matters less than most people think. It’s the perception that matters.”

  Erin nodded. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

  Carlyle actually laughed softly. He put his hand on her shoulder again, and this time she softened to his touch.

  “Darling, if you know anyone on this earth who isn’t, be sure to point them out. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but not a one of us is getting out alive.”

  “Don’t you dare get yourself killed,” she said. “Because if you do something stupid and get whacked, I swear, I will drag you out of your coffin and kill you again. And if you think I’m leaving you to deal with these assholes alone, you’re out of your damn mind.”

  “Erin, have I ever told you how much I appreciate your romantic sentiments?”

  Seeing his poker face as he said it, she couldn’t help it. The tension broke and she fell against him, laughing almost hysterically. He put his arms around her, and she held him in return.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said after a few moments.

  “More people are gonna die,” she said.

  “If they do, that’s not on you,” he said. “All of us make our choices and have to live with the consequences.”

  “Or not live with them,” she added. “You know, this whole thing would be a lot easier if I didn’t love you.”

  He pulled back to arm’s length. “You’ve not said that before,” he said. “Is it true?”

  Erin smiled shakily. “This would be a pretty lousy time for us to start lying to each other.”

  “I’m not Lorenzo Bianchi, you know,” he said. “And you’re not Nina. We’re writing our own story, with our own ending.”

  “You don’t get to choose how your story ends,” Erin said grimly.

  “Sometimes,” Carlyle said, “when you come down to it, that’s the only choice we have left.”

  Author's Note

  I wish to acknowledge a debt to Edward Conlon of the NYPD for his excellent memoir “Blue Blood.” I am particularly indebted to him for his lively and compelling accounts of the inner workings of the New York Police Department’s Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit.

  Here’s a sneak peek from Book 8: Massacre

  Coming 2020

  Click here to get a reminder when it's out!

  Erin saw the smoke from three blocks away, rising over lower Manhattan. As she got closer, she was able to follow the flashing lights of squad cars, fire engines, and ambulances. The street was choked with emergency vehicles. Lights, sirens, and blaring horns overwhelmed her senses. Poor Rolf, with his sensitive ears, was having an even worse time.

  Erin parked as close to the scene as she could. She got Rolf and dismounted, making her way toward the billowing smoke. She didn’t see Lieutenant Webb, but she noticed the Bomb Squad van in front of the building and angled that way. A young guy with a military buzz cut was standing next to the van, talking to an engine captain from the Fire Department.

  “Hey, Skip!” she called, recognizing her friend.

  “Hey, Erin!” Skip Taylor replied. “You might want to keep back a little. Fire’s still going.”

  “I can see that,” she said. She turned to the firefighter. “Sir, what’s the situation?”

  “Firebombing,” the captain said. He pointed to the front of the building. Dense clouds of smoke poured through the shattered plate glass. “Excuse me, Detective. I know you have your job to do, but right now, I have mine. We’re containing the blaze. I’ve got Engine 24’s crew working the fire, and 55 doing a rescue search.”

  “They’re inside?” Erin asked, appalled. As a first responder, she’d made entry to burning buildings, but it was never safe or easy.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Excuse me.” He turned and went quickly toward the fire.

  “What can you tell me, Skip?” Erin asked the bomb tech.

  “I was just talking to the cap about the danger of secondaries,” he said.

  “Secondaries?”

  “Secondary explosions,” he explained. “We’ve shut down the gas lines, and I’m guessing they don’t have propane tanks inside, so the worst I’d expect would be a grease fire. The guys should be okay.”

  “O’Reilly!”

  Lieutenant Webb hurried over, Vic Neshenko looming behind him. Erin’s commanding officer had his trademark unlit cigarette in one hand. Webb looked unhappy, even by his standards.

  Vic, on the other hand, was cheerful. “Welcome to the party,” he said.

  “What’ve we got?” she asked.

  “Dispatch got a 10-10S,” Webb said, the code for a crime in progress with shots fired. “We had a Patrol unit less than a block away. When they rolled up, they took fire from at least two automatic weapons, so they fell back and called for backup.”

  “Any officers hit?” Erin asked sharply.

  “Nope,” Vic said. “Lucky bastards. Got some holes punched in their car.”

  Erin suppressed a shiver, remembering a similar situation she’d been in last year. “Glad they’re okay,” she said.

  “While they were pinned down, some joker tossed a Molotov through the storefront,” Webb continued. “Then the perps took off around the corner. They must’ve had a car waiting. Backup arrived in less than two minutes, but the shooters were already gone.”

  “Traffic cams?” Erin asked.

  “No good,” Vic said. “We’ll check ‘em, but there’s a lot of traffic on that road, and we don’t have footage in the middle of the block, so we don’t know which car was theirs. We may be able to ID the shooters at the corner, but we’ll have to run all the plates on all the cars.”

  “And theirs will be stolen,” Erin predicted. “They’ve probably already dumped the car.”

  “Probably,” Webb gloomily agreed.

  “How many shooters?” she asked.

  “The uniforms saw three,” Vic said.

  “We’ve got spent brass all over the sidewalk,” Webb said, indicating the front of the building. “Of course, New York’s Bravest are contaminating the hell out of the crime scene as we speak. I hate arson jobs.”

  “On the bright side,” Vic said, “the shooting ended before we got here.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” Erin observed.

  “Can’t a guy be happy?”

  “Not if it’s you,” she said. “I’d call that highly suspicious.”

  “You gotta watch out, Erin,” he said. “All this time around crooks and psychos is making you paranoid.”

  “It’s not paranoia…” she began.

  “…if they’re out to get you,” he finished. “Hey, Lieutenant, how long you think they’re gonna take hosing down our crime scene?”

  “Depends on what they find,” Webb said. He was starting to say something else when a distinctive sound cut through the controlled chaos on the street. A series of loud pops, it was immediately recognizable to anyone who knew it.

  Erin and Vic had their sidearms drawn before they’d even fully registered what they’d heard. Skip, who’d served in combat in Iraq, was even faster. He was crouching behind his van’s engine block by the time Erin shouted, “Shots fired!”

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Webb demanded, drawing his old serv
ice revolver. Cops and firefighters were scattering, taking cover and looking frantically for the shooter. More shots rang out.

  “Over there!” Vic shouted, pointing at the burning building.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Erin muttered.

  The fire captain ran toward Webb, a radio at his ear. “Lieutenant!” he shouted. “I’ve got men inside taking fire! I have a man down! I need cover!”

  “Get me masks and fire gear,” Webb snapped, energizing. He waved over the nearest Patrol officers. “I need some volunteers. We’ve got men in there who need help.”

  There was the briefest hesitation. Then a young officer whose nametag read RUIZ stepped forward. “I’ll go, sir.”

  “I’m in,” Vic growled. Two more shots came from the building. Everyone but Vic flinched.

  “Let’s do it,” Erin said. Turning to the captain, she quickly asked, “Is it safe for my K-9?”

  “Can he do SAR?” the captain replied.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Then we need him. Let’s move!”

  The police grabbed firefighter overcoats and oxygen tanks on their way. Erin was trying not to worry about Rolf. He was absolutely willing to go in, and being low to the ground, he wouldn’t have as much to fear from smoke inhalation as the rest of them, but he wouldn’t be able to stay inside long. “Komm,” she ordered, giving the command in his native German. He trotted beside her, alert and attentive.

  “You better stay outside, sir,” Erin told Webb. He tended to get short of breath at the best of times.

  “You giving me orders, O’Reilly?” he retorted. “I’ve been sucking smoke since I was sixteen. I’m used to it.”

  Ruiz looked very young, and very scared, but he buckled on his gear with steady hands. The four officers formed up outside. Even through the protective gear, Erin could feel the heat of the fire, like an open oven door.