The Doctor stepped forward. “Now I will hurt you a little more.”
Dominic threw his hands in the air. “Enough of this. Cut out his eye.”
Mazza translated. The man kicked and scratched at his bindings. As the Doctor got closer, the man closed his eyes and kicked harder. Before doing anything the Doctor looked to Dominic.
“Do it,” Dominic said.
When the scalpel started into the corner of the eye, blood ran out. The man screamed, then, “I will tell. I know things.” This, he said in English.
The Doctor stopped, but Dominic shook his head. “Finish it. What good is half an eye?”
The screams and thrashing continued long after the Doctor had finished, not just the cutting but the patching up too. Dominic approached and spoke in a whisper. “If you do not tell me what I want, I will have him cut out the other eye.”
The man told them about Carlos Cortes and how he was called El Jabato, and he told them about the operation Carlos ran from Monterrey. Details of the New York distribution plans followed, then he told them about a club in Houston that Carlos used. He spoke for almost twenty minutes about what he knew.
Dominic went to Fabrizio. “Give me half an hour to get home, then kill him. But do it quickly. Don’t let the Doctor have him.”
All the way home Dominic thought about how to handle the situation. Connie would not like him interfering in her business, but this was information she needed. El Jabato was a dangerous man. Dominic cursed his impatience. He should have tried harder to find out where the drugs from the bust went. Now he would have to resort to other means.
In the morning, Zeppe came to Dominic’s house. As they shared coffee Dominic told him about Carlos and his operation.
“I’ll call Connie and tell her,” Zeppe said.
“No. We need to be careful about how we get the information to her. I think we need to find a way to get it to Detective Donovan. You know how Concetta is about help coming from us.”
Zeppe sipped his coffee and chewed on a biscotto. “I can make it look like a tip from somebody. I’ll get with Manny, arrange for it to come from one of his guys in Brooklyn or even Queens.”
Dominic nodded. “As long as Donovan doesn’t suspect the lead came from us. If he thinks it is genuine, he’ll get the information to her.” Dominic looked out his window, deep in thought. “On second thought, Zeppe, have the tip go to Donovan’s partner, and make them work for it. Then they will never suspect.”
“Good idea, Dom. I’ll get on it right away.” He drained the cup then got up to go.
“Zeppe, when you see Fabrizio, tell him to keep digging. I want to know where those drugs went.”
Chapter 22
Investigation
Tip raced toward the door, hollering to me as he put things in place. “You coming?” As he ran he thanked everyone he could think of for another shot at homicide work. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you, God, and thank you Holy Spirit.” He stopped short of thanking the killer.
“I didn’t know you were Catholic, Tip.”
“I’m not, but I heard Delgado mention that Holy Spirit one time, and I didn’t want to leave anybody out.” He took off toward the front door and, without looking back, hollered again. “Hurry up.”
“Right behind you.” I snapped the cell phone on my belt as I ran to catch up, my leg hurting like hell. It always hurt after I sat for a while.
Betty was on the phone. As Tip rushed past her he said, “Call my cell if you need me, darlin’.” He took the steps two at a time and hit the bottom floor almost running, casting a quick glance to see if I was with him. “Come on, limpy.”
“Why, that corpse going somewhere?”
As we exited the door, he headed across the street. “We’ll take Enzo.”
“Enzo? I didn’t picture you a Ferrari guy.”
“I like anything sleek and pretty. When I worked narcotics I thought about stealing some dope money and getting one, but I figured somebody might notice.”
“Notice a cop with a Ferrari? Nah.”
We jumped in his SUV and he sped off. “You ever been to a homicide scene before?”
“I’ve seen dead bodies, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not talking about dead bodies. This one’s probably been sitting there a few days. The worst thing you ever smelled is going to seem sweet in comparison.”
I braced myself as he screeched around a corner. “That bad?”
“That bad,” he said. “If you feel like you’re gonna lose it, try making it to the bathroom—assuming it’s already been swept clean. If not, get outside. The crime scene guys won’t let you forget it if you puke.”
“Tough guys, huh?”
“When you apply for a job with them, one of the tests is they try to make you throw up.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“People keep saying that.”
I made up my mind that nothing was going to make me throw up, and the next few minutes I focused on breathing and preparing for what was to come.
When we arrived, the street was blocked off, with a patrolman guarding it. Three vans sporting the letters of local news stations were camped outside of the barricade, crews with cameras and mics poking them in every new face on the scene. Traffic was bunched up with people craning their necks to see what was going on. Tip took a right before reaching them.
“Where are you going?”
“Sometimes these sick bastards will call in a kill and wait around to see the show. I like to drive around and see if I spot anything suspicious.”
After a few minutes of trolling the area and seeing nothing but the normal, Tip pulled up to the scene. We got out and he pushed his way through the reporters as they shouted questions at him.
“What have you got, Tip? Who’s the girl? Heard her name was Patti.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know? I just got here. I should be asking you questions.”
“Got a new partner, Tip?” That came from a woman representing channel 11.
“Does she snore?” That from one of the guys.
Despite my sore leg, I kept pace with Tip as we climbed the steps to the apartment. “Seems like you have a bad reputation around here, Mr. Denton.”
“Don’t pay any attention,” he told me. “They’re all full of it.”
The apartment was on the second floor with a balcony at the front. Tip took the steps slowly, looking around as he did. The cop at the door stepped aside allowing us entry.
“Bad in there,” the cop said.
Tip nodded and offered me a handkerchief. When I refused, he put it over his own mouth. “Suit yourself.”
We both put on gloves and went in. When the door opened, a wall of stench hit me like a slap in the face. I wanted that handkerchief but wasn’t about to ask for it, and there was no way I was puking. I’d die first.
Tip held the cloth to his face as he walked in. “Son-of-a-bitch, this is a bad stink.”
As soon as he got inside he turned to the right and looked out the window of her living room, a large, triple window that must have measured nine feet wide and six feet high. He took the cloth from his face, pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket, then peered up and down the street. “You can see a long way from here.”
I stood beside Tip. “Which means a lot of people could see inside.”
Tip looked to the man at the door. “Nothing touched, right? These curtains were open?”
“Yes, sir. Curtains, blinds, all open, but the windows and door were locked.”
“Dead bolt, too?”
“No sir, not the deadbolt.”
“They dust in here yet?”
“They’re done in here. All the action’s in the bedroom.”
Tip wrote everything down, walked to the sliding door, opened it and stepped onto the balcony. Reporters called to him but he ignored them. I joined him, happy for the fresh air, but he only stayed about ten seconds then went back inside.
I was in no hurry
to get to the body but curiosity forced the question. “Aren’t we going to look at the body?” Part of me wanted him to say no, anxious about my first homicide.
“Soon enough,” Tip said. “I want to get a feel for this place. Picture her living here. How she came home and how she lived.”
“Why not just—”
“It taints me if I see the body first. I’m weird like that.”
I nodded, watching as Tip went through the kitchen, opening drawers, looking in cabinets, checking the refrigerator. “Not an abundance of food,” Tip said, “so she probably shopped every few days or so.” He opened the dishwasher. Empty. As he looked in the coat closet he continued. “Doors and windows were locked, so she wasn’t careless.”
He went to the dining room table, picked up her iPod and clicked it on so he could hear what was playing. It was an old George Straight song. After that he opened the laptop on the table. It was a MAC. He waited to see if it asked for a password. It did. He turned to the cop at the door. “Did you find the car yet?”
“Mitsubishi. Parked out front. Doors locked.”
Tip grabbed two towels from the kitchen drawer, handed one to me. “Not treating you like a rookie, and I know you’re trying to be tough, but when we go back there it’s going to be a lot worse. You might need this.”
“I’m good. Let’s go.”
“You’re gonna need this towel,” he said.
“Don’t worry. I’m good.”
Tip called back to the officer in the dining room before heading down the hall. “Get that computer to the office. I want contacts, addresses, emails, everything. Music and photos included.”
As we neared the end of the hall, I got my notepad ready.
Tip opened the bedroom door and a new wave of stink hit us, this one more potent than the first. He waved his hands, as if to disperse it. “Can’t you people invent a spray to get rid of this?”
A tall thin man stood above a body on the bed. He smiled. “Stink’s the same no matter where you go, Tip. This one’s no different. Just a little stronger than some.”
“Ben, you know I can’t stand a bad smell.” Tip stepped close to the bed, staring at the body. “What have you got?”
I looked around the room, not at the body. I wasn’t ready for that. The room wasn’t big—a Queen Anne chair sat on the right wall a few feet from the door, with the bed on the end wall, centered on a double window, nightstands on each side. The wall opposite the chair had a mahogany dresser with a mirror above it that stretched to the ceiling. I looked left to see two doors, the far one opening to a large walk-in closet and the other into a huge bathroom. Between the doors sat a small table.
Tip coughed into the towel. “Ben, this is my partner, Connie Gianelli. Connie, Ben Marsh, our favorite M.E.”
I approached the M.E. “Can you tell us anything yet?”
Ben looked at me, then back to Tip. “She’s taking this better than you. Wait till I tell the guys.”
“Tell us what you got,” Tip said.
Ben looked at his notes. “Broken nose. Jaw. Ribs. Whoever did this must have hated her.”
As the M.E. cited her damage, I followed along her body with my eyes. I didn’t want to, but I felt as if I had to. Her nose had a definite bend in it, reminding me of Benny The Nose, back in the Bronx, and her jaw—good God, it was twisted so bad it looked like he’d hit her with a hammer. I said a quick prayer, then listened to the rest of what Ben had to say.
“This guy wanted to hurt her bad. See these bruises on the sides.” He pointed to the ribs. “He was probably raping her while he did that. My guess is it got him off. This is a real psycho.”
“Sick son-of-a-bitch,” Tip said.
“That and more. You see all the blood in her mouth, and the color of the lips; the hemorrhaging tells us it’s an antemortem wound. In other words, she was alive when he cut the lips off.” Ben shook his head. “I’m telling you, this guy wanted to hurt her real bad.”
At the mention of the lips I stepped closer, got within about two feet and stopped dead. The woman on the bed was a mass of bruises and swollen flesh, a blood-splattered mess. Dead bodies I’d seen before. Hell, I had even killed people, but I had never seen them from this perspective. This was an innocent woman, probably just trying to get by like the rest of us, and some pervert had taken her life. “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”
The images of the Mason case returned, those same pictures that had haunted me since I first saw them in New York. The sheer brutality of it shocking. And the nakedness. I cringed at the thought of these men staring at her. Wanted to grab a blanket and cover her.
“Some bad shit there,” Tip said. “How long has she been dead?”
“Can’t tell yet. More than a few days. I’ll be able to narrow it down after I get her in.”
Flashes from a camera brought my focus back to the body. One of the crime scene people was taking pictures. “We’re about done,” Ben said. “Few more pictures is all. The rest of the place is yours.”
“Was she raped?” I asked Ben.
“I’d say yes from the bruising, but he used a wrapper. We got nothing.” Ben put some of his tools and brushes in a bag, zipped it up and walked over to us. “Fact is, detectives, we don’t have much. This guy cleaned up good. We won’t be able to tell until we get it all processed, but I would suggest you start looking for other clues.”
“You’ve always been such an optimistic prick,” Tip said, but he wore a smile when he said it.
“I try, sir. Truly, I do.” There was a pause then, “By the way, this guy not only cleaned up, he took the vacuum with him, assuming she had one.”
“Damn,” Tip said.
“When I said he cleaned up, I meant it,” Ben said. “We emptied the hamper and took her clothes, and there was a wet towel on the floor right by the door. We figure that’s where he grabbed her.”
I cringed, trying to imagine what she’d felt, coming out of a shower to that. I then made a note to ask neighbors if anyone saw someone carrying out a vacuum. “What’s her name?”
“Patti Green,” one of the crime scene guys said.
I blessed myself and said a silent prayer, asking God to take better care of Patti in the next life, if she believed in that. I wanted to believe in it. Felt as if I had to after a day like this. When I finished the prayer for Patti, I said another one, asking God to let me be the one to catch the guy who did this. I’ll show him what pain really is.
Within ten minutes the crime scene unit had gone, leaving us alone, with the exception of the cops stationed outside. Tip had two of them begin knocking on doors, hoping to find someone who might have seen or heard something. While they did that, we finished inside.
I opened the drawers, checking her clothes. Plain underwear, nothing special. White socks, shorts, jogging pants. Plain white bras. After closing all the drawers I went to the closet, examining the wardrobe. Mostly casual clothes, but there were two nice dresses and seven pair of good shoes. Another half a dozen pair of casual shoes and a few for working out or running. I took out the notebook, wrote ‘where did she go?’ then added, ‘check for boyfriends, co-workers, relatives.’
As I continued searching the closet I thought about the girl.
What a boring life she must have. Then to have it end so suddenly. That thought spurred a realization that her life was mine.
This Patti… was just like I was. I could even picture someone going through my closet and arriving at the same conclusions.
That’s it. I’m changing my life.
I looked over to Tip. “So what do you think? She’s naked on the bed, clothes in the hamper. If he grabs her coming out of the shower, how did he get in? I can’t imagine it was someone she knew.”
“Me neither,” Tip said. “Not the way he beat her. But then again, some of the worst crimes are done by people who are close to each other.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“He came in with her, or he came
in while she was in the shower.”
“They said the locks weren’t messed with. That means he came with her, or she let him in after the shower.”
Tip shook his head. “No way she let him in after the shower.”
As we walked for the door, I thought some more about it. “He could have had a key, but that brings us back to her knowing him. No matter what the answer is, we better hurry and figure it out because I don’t think this sick bastard is done.”
“You’re right about that. He’s definitely not done, and I don’t want to do another one of these.”
Chapter 23
Reporters and Coffee Shops
Tip grabbed my arm before we left the apartment. “When we go out, the reporters are going to be all over us. They’ll do anything to get a story—lie, cheat, steal. Hell, some of them will even go to bed with you.”
“How about I let you do the talking?”
“Sounds good.”
Tip led the way out. I said to the cop stationed at the door. “Keep a guard on the door until someone notifies you, and keep the questioning going until we get answers from all the apartments.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Yes, ma’am? By the time we reached the bottom, the reporters had already gathered. I stood back and observed the side show.
“What have you got for us, Tip? What’s her name?”
“We’ll release a statement soon.”
“Come on, Tip,” a short-haired blonde cooed from the side, her voice a little too sensual for the normal cop/reporter relationship.
“Told you already, Barb. Got nothing.”
Tip shut it down. If there had been anything between them it must have been in the past, or he was a damn good actor.
“How about you, Tip’s partner?” At that everyone laughed. “You got anything for us?”
I blushed, covering it with a smile. “He does all the talking. I’m just a token female homicide detective.”
“Where’d you get that accent?” a guy with a baseball cap, that was obviously covering a bald head, asked.
“My accent? They were handing them out for free in Brooklyn.”
A Bullet for Carlos Page 14
