A Bullet for Carlos

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Julie looked around as if someone might be watching. “Not so good. Guess you haven’t seen the papers.”

  I had read the USA Today at the coffee shop, but never looked at the local one. “No, what’s wrong?”

  Julie handed me a paper, treating it as if it were poison.

  I flipped it open, stared.

  ‘Serial killer claims another victim. Takes victims’ lips. Police have no clue.’

  And boasting the telling of the tale was the worst news—Samantha Roberts. Tip was going to be pissed. I looked over at Julie. “Has Tip seen this?”

  Julie walked to her desk, and turned on the radio, pre-set to a sixties station. “Mr. Tambourine Man” came on. “I don’t know, but I haven’t been in long. My kids had me running late this morning. I just went downstairs to get the paper when you came in.”

  “Your kids?”

  She looked up at me, smiling. “I know. I don’t look the type to have kids, right?

  Julie was right. I was shocked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

  “That’s all right. Most people look at me and figure, no way she’s got kids. I’m used to it.”

  “I bet you’re a great mom.” It was a weak attempt at covering my ass, but it was all I could come up with.

  “How about you, Connie? You have any?”

  “Not yet,” I said, with a fake laugh. “Guess I better get busy, huh?”

  “Don’t wait too long or you won’t have the energy to keep up with them.”

  Out of embarrassment I stayed and chatted for a few minutes, and, to my surprise, found her to be a great conversationalist. She ended our chat by inviting me over one night for dinner.

  “Let’s do it,” I said, and walked away from Julie’s desk with a smile. Next I headed toward the coffee room and ran into Tip. He was pissed.

  “You see the papers?”

  “I saw them. How did Roberts get the story?”

  Tip shook his head. “I don’t know, but I suspect it has something to do with our good mayor, Rusty Johnson. Doesn’t matter. We’ll get this son-of-a-bitch.” With his arm around my shoulder, we walked back to our desks. “Let’s get to work. We’ve got a case to solve.”

  As we walked Tip suddenly turned philosophical. “You know, Gianelli, I said I hated that reporter, but I don’t like hating people. It’s no damn fun.”

  I patted his arm. “Everybody hates something about others, something about themselves too. It’s a fact that no one likes to think about, but it’s true.”

  I thought about how I used to get embarrassed about my mother’s condition. After her stroke she couldn’t feed herself. Food would dribble from her mouth and down her chin. If we were in public, I’d sit low in my seat, hiding my head behind a menu, and looking around to make sure no one I knew saw me. Afterwards, I’d go home and cry, hating myself for the way I felt. In a way I still hated myself for that, and there was no way to fix it. Mom was gone.

  “You sound like a shrink,” Tip said.

  “Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  We walked in silence to our desks, and no sooner had we gotten back to work than the phone rang.

  Tip reached for it. “Tip Denton.”

  “Yeah. Okay. When?”

  “We’ll be there.” He hung up and said, “Renkin wants us.”

  Tip led the way into Renkin’s office. “Lieutenant, before you—”

  “Sit down, Tip. Connie.” Renkin looked somber, not angry.

  Tip took the chair closest to Renkin, leaving me the other one. “What’s up?”

  “Tony Ramirez is dead.”

  I damn near fell over. Tony, dead? Jesus, did I get him killed?

  I looked over to Tip and could tell the news hit him hard. He had worked with Tony and counted him a friend. “Goddamn.” His fist pounded the arm of the chair. “How?”

  “Suicide and—”

  Tip jumped up. “Bullshit.”

  “Sit down, Denton.”

  “Screw you. You know Tony didn’t kill himself.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it, but the initial call is suicide and murder. He supposedly killed himself and the girl he was with.”

  “What girl?” Tip asked. “What are you talking about? Where was he found?”

  “In a hotel room. Both of them shot. And from the looks of it she was a prostitute.”

  Tip walked around shaking his head. “No way. No way Tony did that. Somebody set this up.” He turned and glared at me. “You know anything about this?”

  “She didn’t even know Tony,” Renkin said. “I called her in here because you’re partners, and partners should know things like this.”

  I gulped, and felt sick to my stomach. I got Tony killed. It’s my fault.

  Tip never took his eyes from me. “Oh, yeah. I forgot,” he said, then faced Renkin again. “Get me the reports. I’ll need everything he was working on, including—”

  “Whoa,” Renkin said. “You’re not working this. This is HPD and you know it.”

  Renkin’s face hardened. “Besides, you’ve got a case, Detective. A high-profile case that has the city in an uproar about serial killers and lips being cut off.” He reached into a file and pulled out some papers, then walked around his desk and got right in Tip’s face. “If you don’t start making progress I’ll be forced to do something.”

  Tip nodded. “Who’s handling Tony’s case?”

  “Klein and Massey.”

  I didn’t know Klein and Massey, but I could tell by Tip’s reaction he wasn’t happy with the choice.

  “They don’t know shit.”

  “It’s not our call, Tip. They’ve got a dead cop. I’m sure they’ll do whatever it takes to get to the truth.” Renkin stared at both of us. “Let’s get back to our business. How did this story leak?”

  “I don’t know,” Tip said, “but it probably has something to do with Rusty Johnson.”

  That name I was familiar with. Rusty Johnson was Houston’s mayor. What the hell had I gotten involved with down here?

  “And it just so happens the reporter is the one who tried to get your badge, huh?” Renkin had a hard look about him. “I swear, Tip, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I won’t have anybody compromising my investigations, not even the mayor.” He went back and sat in his chair.

  “Anyone tell Belinda?” Tip asked.

  “I’m going over with Tony’s captain, and trust me it’s the last thing I want to do. Telling a spouse is one thing, but Tony has kids. Had kids.” Renkin put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Get out. Go solve this case.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tip said and headed for the door, me right behind him. We walked down the hall in silence but the whole time Tip looked as if he were deep in thought. “We’ve got to find out what happened to Tony. I can’t leave this to Klein and Massey.”

  I didn’t respond to Tip, afraid to talk for fear of giving myself away. All I could think about was Tony’s wife and kids. Screw me. I got Tony killed. And I left his kids without a father.

  On the way back to our desks, I ducked into the ladies’ room. I checked to make sure no one was in there, then paced, hands balling into fists, clenching and unclenching. I smacked a stall door with an open palm, stinging the hell out of it, then did it again. I paced back and forth in that tiny room, muttering, “I got him killed. I got him killed,” and then I plopped onto a toilet seat and cried.

  I don’t know how long I was crying, but there I sat, head buried in my hands, when I heard a noise. I looked up to see Julie, purple hair and all.

  “Connie, are you all right? What’s wrong?” She grabbed my arm and lifted me, then gave me a big hug. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

  I nodded between sobs, wiping my eyes and trying to make the tears stop. Damn, this was embarrassing. I thought I’d die when the door opened again, but Julie rushed over. “Give us a minute,” she said to whoever it was, and pushed the door closed.

  “Thanks, Julie. I’m doing okay now.” />
  She hugged me again. “I know this isn’t the place to talk about it, so why don’t you come to my house some night for dinner. I want you to meet the kids anyway. And we can have a girl chat, talk about anything.”

  “I’m all right. I just—“

  “You just nothing. I found you crying in a bathroom stall. You come to dinner. You need to get away from all this testosterone. I promise I won’t make you cry.”

  That forced a small laugh out of me. “Okay, I might take you up on that.”

  She handed me a business card and scribbled her cell phone number on it. “We don’t get many visitors, so it’ll be fun.”

  She headed toward the stall. “Now I need to do what I came here for.”

  “Don’t tell Tip, okay?”

  “Whatever happens in a ladies’ room stays there,” Julie said, and laughed.

  I dried my eyes one more time, then headed out. I wasn’t planning on going to Julie’s house, but the invitation alone made me feel better. Now all I had to do was get rid of the guilt eating at me.

  Chapter 33

  A Fine-Tuned Body

  Mr. Perfect parked the car and headed to the gym for his morning workout. He greeted everyone he saw with a smile and a warm welcome. There were a few tantalizing bodies but for the most part the gym was filled with dreamers, ones who joined with great expectations only to falter after a month or two, never to return. Some of the guys came just to look at the women—or the other guys—and he guessed there was a fair share of the women who came for the same reasons. All in all, though, the women seemed more dedicated. A good body was everything to a woman.

  A delicious looking brunette passed by him. “Great day, isn’t it?” He said. He’d been watching her for weeks. She nodded, but didn’t respond.

  “Hope this cool weather stays a while,” he said to a long-timer who had been working on her weight after having a baby. He let his eyes follow her as she passed, thinking of numerous things he could do to help with that. Some of the men he nodded to, but didn’t speak. Why should he. They were insignificant saps with no hope to ever achieve what he had with his body. Not if they had ten years to try.

  Mr. Perfect hung his keys on the rack, but didn’t bother signing in. As he made his way to the pull-up bar, he passed a puny man with a pock-marked face struggling with the squat bar. Mr. Perfect calculated the weight in his head as he passed—one hundred fifty pounds. Made him wonder if pock-mark was a man or not. Mr. Perfect had done that much at age fourteen. He thought about stopping to show the man up, but today was Monday and on Mondays he did cardio—jumped rope, ran sprints, then heavy work on kettle bells before finishing up on the punching bag. Mr. Perfect walked past a few more of the invisibles, ignoring them until he got to his station.

  After forty-five minutes of grueling cardio his lungs screamed for relief, but he would have none of it. That wasn’t the way to build strength, or character. With his hands taped, he started on the bag with easy jabs, slowly working up to medium, then heavy strikes, until all he saw was a haze. Images of her crept into his mind, raising his blood pressure. With each bark of her voice he hit the bag harder. Much harder. He slammed his fist into the bag, wishing it were her face, or her gut. Or her tits, or her pussy. No, not that. He wanted to be in her while he punished her. He stopped to breathe. Focused.

  Patience. All in good time.

  Chapter 34

  Bad News From Brooklyn

  Carlos came into the kitchen ready for breakfast, his favorite meal of the day. The love for it hearkened back to childhood, when he and his sisters used to sit at the table with their parents and laugh and eat. His mother, saint that she was, insisted on starting the day with laughter.

  The servant nodded to him as he passed. He seemed nervous, even though he had been with Carlos for a while. “Everything is ready, señor.”

  “Gracias,” Carlos said, and took his seat.

  “Señor Tico is waiting.”

  Carlos looked to the patio, Tico pacing as if he were a big cat at the zoo. “I see him, Manuelo.”

  Manuelo poured coffee from a carafe into the cup in front of Carlos. “Si, señor. I will go now.” He disappeared, though he kept watch from the other side of the room.

  Carlos placed the napkin on his lap, took a sip of the coffee, and smiled, nodding to Manuelo. On the plate before him were pieces of bananas—always broken into chunks, not sliced—and sitting next to the bananas lay berries and melon balls. A small sweet roll occupied a plate to his left, next to the morning paper. To the far right sat a tall glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed, and two packets of sugar to accompany it. His mother had always put sugar in their orange juice and Carlos never grew out of the habit. Breakfast was a ritual, and Carlos stuck to it as religiously as the old priests who insisted on saying mass in Latin.

  Manuelo cleared the plate and moved the sweet roll in front of Carlos, then refilled his coffee and lit his cigarette. When Carlos was done, he nodded to Manuelo. It was time to hear what Tico had to say.

  Manuelo opened the sliding glass door and motioned for Tico to enter.

  Carlos moved his chair to the side. “Come in, Tico. Tell me the bad news.”

  Tico took long strides across the room coming to a stop in front of Carlos. Tico kept his head bowed. “It is Brooklyn. We lost three more men and still no information on the missing drugs.”

  Carlos ignored his own orders to smoke American cigarettes, and pulled a Fortuna from a pack on the table, rolling it between his fingers before putting it in his mouth. By the time it hit his lips, Tico had a match ready. He struck it against the pack, cupped his hands and held it under the cigarette. Carlos hated lighters.

  He drew a strong first drag, tilted his head back and exhaled, blowing smoke rings. “Tell me again what we lost.”

  “We lost Juan, Paulo—”

  “They can be replaced. How much product?”

  “Twenty-five kilos.”

  Carlos pushed his chair back and stood, quickly beginning his customary pace. Smoke leaked from his mouth and swept behind him as he walked. “That is almost three quarters of a million dollars.” He stopped, crushed his butt out in the ashtray. “And we still do not know who did this?”

  “Some people say it was Dominic Mangini.”

  “You mean Manny Rosso.”

  “No,” Tico said. “They say Señor Mangini, from the Bronx.” When Carlos said nothing, Tico continued. “Our men say it is retribution for what we did to the girl. Some even say it was him who killed our men the night of the bust, not the cops.”

  This news piqued Carlos’ interest. “Where does this information come from?”

  “From inside.”

  Carlos rubbed his chin. “Why would Señor Mangini bother with an undercover cop? Is she on his payroll? Even so, why would he care? Cops on the take are not uncommon.”

  “We could cause him trouble. He has operations in—”

  A waving hand forestalled him. “No, Tico. We will do nothing like that. If Señor Mangini cares so much about this cop, we need to know why.” A thin smile appeared on his face. “Find her, Tico. I want you to find out where she is and bring her to me.”

  “Señor, you already told us to kill her.”

  “Now I want you to bring her to me.”

  “Si, señor.” He turned to leave, but Carlos stopped him.

  “Have you found me a girl yet?”

  “None that would suit you.”

  “I want a brown one, with skin like silk.”

  “Si, señor.”

  Chapter 35

  The Dead Can’t Speak

  Tip was down after hearing about Tony. I was too, but for different reasons. I got back to my desk and started digging through the files, searching for anything similar to what we had on Patti’s case—a delivery of some kind, or anything that didn’t fit. Tip kept busy double checking cameras around the store where the iPod was bought. He got the ATM records from nearby machines, too.

  As I du
g through the files on the Mason case, I saw something. “Hey Tip, take a look at this.”

  He scooted his chair next to mine. “What?”

  “This record in the files shows an inventory of her mailbox, the real one, not her e-mail in-box, and there were tickets to the theater in there. Phantom of the Opera.”

  “What’s strange about that?”

  “Look at the scan of the tickets. It’s tough to see, but it looks like the date on them is for the night before she died.”

  Tip got real close, studying the image. “Son-of-a-bitch. We need to get the original, or a better copy.”

  I picked up the phone to dial.

  “And find out if she bought them.”

  I nodded while dialing.

  “And see if she had season tickets, or if this was a one-time thing.”

  I held up my hand, pausing him. “Carol, this is Connie Gianelli.”

  I told Carol what we needed, then got off the phone. “She’ll get it to us soon, Tip. I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna have something strange on this one, too.”

  Tip was sorting through papers. He scooted some my way. “This is the Gardner file. Start looking.”

  We spent most of the afternoon going through the Gardner files and making calls, but we came up dry. It wasn’t surprising, since the case wasn’t a model for good documentation. Kind of sparse. Tip was right when he said “Old Bud” was just waiting to retire.

  Carol called back near the end of the day and we got the enhanced images, as well as the envelope the tickets came in. “Take a look at the postmark, Tip. It was mailed after Mason was dead.”

  “I’ll be a donkey’s ass,” he said. “She buy them?”

  “No. She didn’t buy them, and it doesn’t look like she was a regular at the theater. If she was, she didn’t buy tickets on credit.”

  “See if we can find out who bought these tickets.”

  “Already asked my Lieutenant if he’d put somebody on that. He said he would.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Tip said. “We got theater tickets and iPods being bought for dead women. What’s the connection?”