A Bullet for Carlos

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “I don’t know, but we’re getting somewhere,” I said.

  “Yeah, we’re getting somewhere, but not very fast. And that son-of-a-bitch is still out there.” He dug his nose back into the Gardner file. “Let’s find something, Gianelli.”

  I got into the station early the next day, and got a call from the guy Morreau had put on the case. I was still talking to him when Tip came in.

  “Okay, good. Yeah, thanks anyway, and let me know if something comes up.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Tip said.

  I shook my head. “They found the guy. He’s a season ticket holder, but he didn’t go that night and he sold his tickets to a place that scalps them. And yes, he’s got an alibi for the night of the murder. They’re trying to find out who sold the tickets, but it would be a miracle if they remember anything.”

  “Been thinking about this all night,” Tip said. “The Phantom is a musical, and we got the iPod connection…”

  “Music!” I said.

  Tip smiled. “And remember what Patti’s boss told us, about her meeting a jogger who invited her to a concert?”

  “Son-of-a-bitch. We need to find that jogger.”

  “Grab your shit. We’re on our way. I’ll get Patti’s photo.”

  We talked to about thirty people at Cypresswood Park, where Patti jogged, but nobody remembered anything. One or two of them thought they recognized her photo, but no one recalled seeing her talking to anyone or running with a partner. We stopped at a place called Strack’s for a barbeque sandwich and reviewed what we had. I sensed the tension between us since Tony’s death, but we’d been so busy it hadn’t been an issue. Yet.

  I thought about what we had for evidence and tossed it out to make conversation. “So this guy spends money to buy an iPod and theater tickets then has them delivered to dead women…for what?”

  Tip took a long sip of ice tea. “He sent them as a taunt—to us.”

  It didn’t take long to sink in. “You’re right. He’s playing with us.”

  “What pisses me off the most is we didn’t know it until now.”

  “So what are we gonna do about it?”

  Tip rapped his knuckles on the table. “Remember that reporter at Patti’s house—“

  “The one that hates you?”

  “Hell no. The one that loves me.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I remember her. Short, blonde, busty.”

  “That’s the one,” Tip said. “We’ll get her to run a story, see if anyone can place this jogger Patti met.”

  “Sounds good,” I said through a mouthful of barbeque.

  The next day was Tony’s viewing. I met Tip in the morning, working on the case, though we had developed no additional leads.

  “Are you going to the viewing?” he asked.

  Tip’s question caught me by surprise. He knew something or he wouldn’t have asked. “I’ll be there. You want to pick me up?”

  “You don’t have to go,” Tip said.

  Now I knew he suspected. “I want to go. What time?”

  “Around seven. I’ll call when I pull into the complex.”

  “See you tonight,” I said.

  “Yeah, see you at seven.”

  Tip picked me up on time, but he didn’t say three words all the way down. Even worse, he drove under the speed limit. I worried about how I’d react to seeing Tony. The last time I saw him he was vibrant, alive, and full of optimism. But as much as the idea of seeing him dead bothered me, I worried more about meeting his wife.

  The funeral home was packed when we got there, a lot of cops in uniform, and a whole lot of family. I murmured a silent prayer for Tony as we walked toward the casket, amidst tears and wailing from relatives. An older couple sat in the front row, crying uncontrollably—his parents, I assumed. And a young woman with two small children sat next to them. She sat erect, perfect posture, maintaining calm. Regal described her best.

  “That’s Belinda,” Tip whispered. “Tony’s wife.”

  We went to the casket, me following Tip. I blessed myself and said a few prayers, asking God to take care of Tony. I asked for forgiveness, too, for bringing Tony into this. He was a cop. He knew what he was doing. But maybe he wouldn’t have ended up dead if I’d kept him out of my problems. I felt the tears coming and pulled a tissue from my purse, then finished the prayers. Afterwards, I got in line with Tip.

  Tip had already begun offering condolences. When I got there, he turned. “Belinda, this is Connie Gianelli, my partner.”

  Belinda’s beautiful eyes hardened. “You’re the one from New York?”

  I swallowed hard. This was what I had been fearing. “Yes.”

  I stepped back, Belinda’s accusing eyes stabbing me. From the corner of my eye I saw Tip’s jaw tighten. “You’re the reason he went to that club,” she said.

  Tip moved between us. “I’ll call you later this week, Belinda. You know how sorry I am.” He grabbed me by the arm and headed for the door. He got the car, pulled out and punched the accelerator, racing down the road. “You want to tell me what that was about.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me nothing. We’re supposed to be partners. Or did you forget that bullshit about telling partners the truth.”

  For the next five miles or so, we rode in silence, Tip racing up the freeway.

  “Slow down. You’re going to kill us.”

  “Buckle up if you’re scared.”

  “I am buckled, you idiot. Slow down.”

  “So how did you know Tony?” His tone accusatory, almost violent.

  I knew this was coming but it still caught me off guard. “What?”

  “There’s no way you should have run into Tony. And was I wrong, or did Belinda say you’re the one that got him killed.”

  “Don’t say that. I didn’t do it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I cringed. Shrunk into my seat and turned my head. There was a lot of contempt riding on that one word.

  For half a mile or so we rode in silence, then I got enough nerve to tell him the truth, or some of it. “It’s about what happened to me in New York. The trail led to the guy who owns El Paradiso.” I took a deep breath. “I told Tony about it and he went to check it out a few nights ago.”

  Tip hit the gas harder. The car screamed around a curve and headed toward a bridge over another freeway. “So where’s that trust you talked about? Or is it a one-way street with you? Did you come down here to work the cold case or get this drug guy?”

  “Look, I got assholes in New York who want my badge, and they’re likely to get it if I don’t clear my name. Now Tony’s gone, and…”

  “Yeah, Tony’s gone. And his wife and kids are alone, and his mother and father lost another son to drugs.” Tip shot me a glare. “And all you care about is yourself.” He slammed the blinker on and moved into the left lane. “Selfish bitch.”

  I sat silent, holding back tears. Tony was dead. I was a selfish bitch. “I swear, Tip, I thought Tony was just going to check the place out.”

  Tip gripped the steering wheel with both hands, gritting his teeth as he drove.

  I tried getting control of myself but the emotions were running wild. “Tip, all I have in life is this badge and my name.” I almost cried, but I didn’t. “I can’t lose the badge. I can’t.”

  Tip cursed at a slow driver in the left lane, swung around the car and glared as he passed. He must have sensed my desperation. “I’m sorry I said that.”

  “You had a right,” I said. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Maybe it’s time to make a new chart,” Tip said, then grabbed his cell phone. He punched in a text, and half a minute later his phone rang. He put it on speaker. It sounded like Julie answering.

  “Hello.”

  “Julie, you home yet?”

  “Tip, what are you doing calling.”

  “I need some research.”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  “Need anything you can find me on a gu
y named…” he looked to me.

  “Carlos Cortes,” I said, but at the same time I shook my head at him. No way I wanted him involved.

  “Guy named Carlos Cortes. He’s from Mexico but he probably has a residence in Houston and he supposedly owns a club called El Paradiso.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Tony?”

  “It might.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “I hate to ask you at night…”

  “Don’t worry. Brandi can watch the kids.”

  “Thanks, Julie, you’re a doll.”

  He hung up and put the cell away. I stared at him. “The lieutenant said—”

  “I don’t give a shit what he said. If you think I’m letting Klein and Massey handle this investigation, you’re nuts.” He pulled into the right lane to pass a truck, then back left again. A few minutes later we pulled into my apartment complex and I got out. “Goodnight, Tip.”

  “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” he said, and drove off.

  It had been a bad day, one that I wanted over. I felt like talking to somebody. Anybody. Julie came to mind. I knew she was up; we just talked to her. I got her card from my purse and dialed her number.

  “Julie, it’s me, Connie.”

  I could tell she wasn’t expecting the call. “Oh, Connie. Hi.”

  “Listen, Julie, I know it’s late, and I’m sure it’s not the right time, but…”

  “Come on over.”

  “What?”

  “I said come on over. The kids are just going to bed.”

  She gave me directions and I headed out.

  Julie lived in a ranch house at the back end of a subdivision with a thousand other ranch houses. I was nervous. Something felt as if it was moving around inside my stomach as I parked the car and walked to the front door. I hadn’t talked to anybody in so long the thought of opening up terrified me. I rang the doorbell and waited. Within a few seconds it opened, and I was greeted by Julie’s smiling face.

  “I’m so glad you came.” A hug accompanied her greeting, and it was as genuine as her voice.

  “Me too. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Don’t worry, the kids are sound asleep. My friend Brandi was watching them, so now we have the house to ourselves.”

  I stepped into a small entrance hall with a tile floor. A dining room sat to the right and a small living room to the left. “Where’s your husband?” I knew as soon as the words came out I shouldn’t have said it, but I seemed to have no control over my mouth of late. Despite the gaffe, Julie didn’t seem to mind.

  “He left long ago. I don’t know whether it was me, or the kids and the responsibility. Maybe it was a combination. Who knows?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. We have more fun without him.”

  Julie led me through an arched doorway, brushing aside strings of beads like the ones in all the sixties movies. In the background a familiar beat drummed from a pair of speakers. It didn’t take me long to recognize it as one of the Grass Roots’ songs. An appropriate choice. I half expected to be overpowered by the smell of weed, but I wasn’t.

  “Want something to drink?” Julie asked.

  I almost said no, but changed my mind. “Coffee if you have it.”

  “You’ll love my coffee,” she said, and we walked into the kitchen where she started a pot boiling, then ground up some beans.

  “Smells good. What kind is it?”

  “I get it from a place called Turtle Creek. I think they’re in South Carolina.” She cocked her head to the side, thinking. “One of the Carolinas. But I know it’s called Turtle Creek.”

  We made small talk while the coffee brewed, then headed to the living room after she poured it.

  Julie plopped down on the sofa, a beige one, with fluff hanging out one side. I sat in a chair next to her, by the end table. She got right to the point.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  The directness threw me. I blushed. “Oh nothing. I just stopped by to visit.”

  Julie laughed. “Nobody stops by to visit me. Unless they want to see if I have any weed, or something.”

  She stunned me again. Julie was full of surprises.

  “I might look like a space-head, but I know something’s bothering you, and it’s not the normal ‘cowboy cop gets tough on the new girl’ issue. I can put that much together.”

  Julie continued to impress me. I had to get rid of these first-impression biases. I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “This has got to stay between us. If my lieutenant—”

  She laughed again. “Connie, I grew up with two parents who never left 1969. We had a garage out back full of weed and people stopping by at all hours, and when my mom stops by on the weekends I can tell she’s been sampling some of her herbs. Trust me, I know how to keep a secret.”

  “What about your father?” I said, and sipped on the coffee.

  “He’s in Huntsville.”

  Huntsville didn’t ring a bell with me, but I assumed it was another city. “Divorced?”

  Another laugh. “Huntsville is where the prison is.”

  “He’s in prison?”

  “Dealing drugs. He did it all his life and finally got caught.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “Every other week I take the kids up. Mom goes every week.”

  “How do you handle that with the kids? What do you tell them?”

  “The truth,” she said, as if there was no other option. “As you get to know me more you’ll realize I always tell the truth. My parents taught me that.” She stared off at the wall, distracted momentarily. “Seems strange doesn’t it, that they would teach me to tell the truth and all the while be doing drugs?”

  “Don’t you find this a conflict? I mean, you work for the cops and your parents do drugs.”

  Julie sipped on her coffee, leaned forward and looked at me. “How about you and your Uncle Dominic?”

  I almost fell out of the chair. “What?”

  “I check out everybody that comes here, Connie. And I’m good at what I do. I found the rumors pretty quick.”

  All I could say was, “Oh.”

  “So? What about it? Does it bother you about Dominic Mangini?”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  She looked me in the eyes. “As Tip would say, ‘That dog don’t hunt.’”

  I was silent, not knowing what to say. I was sitting with a crazy hippie girl, leftover from the sixties—when she hadn’t even been in the sixties—and she was probing my mind like an interrogator with truth serum. I looked at her, and her face was…peaceful, exuding a Tibetan-monk calm. It relaxed me, made me feel as if somebody cared. As if she cared.

  Julie must have sensed when I was ready. Before I could say anything, she said, “What are you scared of, Connie?”

  Those words hit me like a hammer. Julie had missed her calling. She should have been a shrink. I said nothing, but she wasn’t quitting.

  “Spit it out, girl. It’s me. Julie.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t clear my name…if I don’t get this guy—“

  “What? What’s gonna happen if you don’t get him?”

  “I don’t know. I could get thrown off the force. I could—“

  “Bull, and you know it. They’d have already done that if they wanted you off. You’re just worried about what people might think.”

  Julie was starting to piss me off.

  “Who do you care about in this world?” she asked.

  It didn’t take me long to think about that. “My uncles—Dominic and Zeppe. And Zeppe’s family.”

  “Who else?”

  She had pushed me to a list, and now that I was here, I realized that list was a short one. Very short. A month ago I would have put Sean on the list, and Chambers, and maybe even Jerry Rafferty. Not now.

  “Anyone else?” Julie asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe Tip. And you.”

  “Did you take the drugs?
Are you dirty?”

  I set the coffee down, maybe a little too hard. “Hell no.”

  “Then what are you worrying about. Your family isn’t going to believe you took the drugs. Tip won’t. I won’t. The rest of the world you don’t care about. So your worries have nothing to do with clearing your name. The only thing clearing your name will do is take away the embarrassment.” She leaned close to me. “Connie, I know all about embarrassment, and the only thing you should ever be embarrassed about is something you did yourself. You can’t be embarrassed about what somebody else did. That’s not your job.”

  What she said made me think of Mom, and how I got embarrassed about her. God, I made myself sick. And that made me think of Uncle Dominic, and how he didn’t care if the whole world saw him out with a disabled woman. He treated her like a queen—alone or in public—feeding her, wiping her chin, brushing her hair.

  Julie was right. All my life I’d been embarrassed about one thing or another. Mom, then Uncle Dominic, now this problem with the drugs. Who cared if somebody thought I was tied to Uncle Dominic’s family. I wasn’t, so the hell with them. And who gave a damn if someone said I took drugs. I didn’t. The only thing that mattered was I had a serial killer to find, and that was a hell of a lot more important than getting Carlos Cortes.

  I felt truly great for the first time in a long, long while. I got up and went to hug Julie. “You’re a miracle worker. You should quit the force and start a practice.”

  “Yeah, the purple-haired psychiatrist strikes again.”

  I took my coffee cup to the kitchen, then Julie walked me to the door. “You never answered my question, Connie. About what are you scared of?”

  “Maybe next time,” I said. “I gotta go.”

  I felt good about myself for the first time in a while. Really good. And now I knew what I had to do—catch that killer no matter what. Tomorrow was going to be a great day.

  Chapter 36

  Looking For Paradise

  I got into the station long before Tip and was reviewing the files when he walked in with his coffee.

  “Morning, Denton. Ready to kick some ass today?”

  “What are you in a good mood about? Something happen after I dropped you off?”

  I smiled and looked up at him. “Yeah, something did. I realized I was doing everything wrong, so I’m in. All in. I’m going to help you get this guy if we have to work all day and all night.”