Brooklyn Justice

by J. L. Abramo

  At half past two I went back to the hotel, checked into my room, and did what I had developed quite a knack for lately.

  I waited.

  A response came within the hour.

  BE AT THE HOUSE AT 8. BRING THE PHONE.

  I immediately made the call.

  “Can you be down to the Resorts Hotel by six?” I asked.

  “I’ll be there. By the way.”

  “Yes?”

  “I reached out to police ballistics’ departments in both Ocean City and Egg Harbor Township. The shooter in Ocean City used 5.7x28mm SS197SR V-Max cartridges, common to the FN Five-seveN. The bullets that killed Charlie Mungo were thirty-two caliber, most commonly used with a Colt positive police special or a handgun out of India called the IOF thirty-two.”

  “Different weapons.”

  “Different shooters? I’ll see you at six.”

  I called John Sullivan

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m still in Atlantic City. I have a question.”

  “I have a hundred fucking questions,” he yelled.

  “The two bullets Corelli took in the chest, were they thirty-two caliber?”

  “Yes. Lucky guess? Do you know who killed Corelli?”

  “I’m working on it. I hope to have something for you later tonight.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “You’ll be a lot sorrier if I don’t hear from you tonight,” he said, and ended the conversation.

  One of the few useful lessons I picked up from my old man was that the decision to bluff was an educated choice, based on an intuitive understanding of when bluffing was advisable and when to rule it out.

  Unfortunately, at the meeting later that evening, folding would not be an option.

  25

  I rang the doorbell at eight. The door opened almost immediately.

  She was wearing silk pajamas. Two piece. Pure white.

  Probably cost more than my suit. White was clearly her color.

  “Surprised?” I said.

  “No. I couldn’t imagine who else it would be. The text message was very theatrical.”

  “It got your attention.”

  “It did. I was curious to see a cell phone worth a quarter million dollars. Are you coming in?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I followed Kitty Lincoln into the house and back to the kitchen.

  “Scotch?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I took a seat at the table and she sat opposite me.

  “Why are you still around?” she asked.

  If she was asking why I was still alive I could only call it luck.

  “You brought me around, when you approached me at that poker table right after your husband was killed. Remind me why you did.”

  “I told you, I wanted to find out who was responsible for my husband’s death.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Revealing phone calls, voice and text messages between you and Vinnie Corelli.”

  “I don’t believe they exist.”

  “Because they never existed or because you can’t believe Vinnie was too stupid to delete them all.”

  “The extent of Vinnie’s stupidity could never amaze me, but I’m no idiot. If you have what you say you have I would love to see or hear it.”

  Time to bluff and go all in.

  “You should have grabbed his phone when you had the chance. When did you and Vinnie decide you could have a future as a rich widow?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m guessing it was when you first caught Theodore Lincoln’s eye, while you and Vinnie were still hitched.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for starters.”

  “And?”

  “Some answers.”

  “Is that it?”

  “What else do you have in mind?”

  “Doesn’t the private investigator always end up in bed with the femme fatale?”

  “Business before pleasure. Who killed Vinnie?”

  “I don’t know. Charlie Mungo?”

  “If so, then who killed Mungo?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And with Corelli and Mungo gone, who enlisted someone to kill me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For such a clever girl, you don’t seem to know much.”

  “Educate me.”

  “A showgirl meets a blackjack dealer. Love. Marriage. No real prospects. Along comes a rich attorney with an eye for beauty and a false sense of charm. The perfect mark. Easy prey. Girl and boy find their meal ticket.”

  “Risky. The wife and her lover are always the prime suspects.”

  “Both have solid alibis. The shocked wife is in plain sight. The lover is somewhere up in Connecticut. Throw in several red herrings. Freddy Fingers, his father’s double-crossing ex-lawyer, a mob hit man, and a Brooklyn PI too curious for his own good.”

  “And?”

  “And as long as Mungo didn’t talk, it was clear sailing. Mungo had to be silenced, but Vinnie wouldn’t have signed on so Corelli had to go also. Freddy never knew enough to be a serious threat. He conveniently served to muddy the waters. And then there was me, I was the wildcard, a loose end. Mungo may have given me something damning.”

  “Did he?”

  “Vinnie’s cell phone.”

  “It’s a very imaginative story, but I don’t see how it implicates me. There is no real proof.”

  “The cell phone is enough to open up a whole new line of investigation. And there is Mario Grillo.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Mario Grillo is the man who killed two friends of mine in a failed attempt to murder me.”

  “That must have enraged you. I’m sure you would like him to pay.”

  “I dealt with Grillo, after he told me you hired him. Now I would like you to pay.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “That’s much too melodramatic, and it wouldn’t change anything. I gave you my price, two hundred fifty grand for the cell phone and then goodbye and good luck.”

  “It’s a deal, but I would still like to see the phone first.”

  I took Corelli’s cell from my jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Would you like that scotch now?” Kitty asked, rising and moving to the liquor cabinet.

  “Sure.”

  She pulled out a couple of glasses. Then she reached into the cabinet again, pulled out a handgun and aimed it at me.

  “I never saw one like that before,” I said.

  “It’s called an IOF thirty-two. I understand it is a favorite of the Singapore Police Force. My husband picked it up on a trip to India. Theodore gave it to me for protection. And so here we are, Mr. Ventura. The frightened woman alone in her home and the terrifying intruder.”

  “It wouldn’t be smart using the same weapon that killed Vinnie Corelli and Charlie Mungo.”

  “You are absolutely right. Lucky for me the police arrived just in the nick of time,” she said, looking past me over my shoulder.

  I turned to discover Detective Lawrence of the Atlantic City PD standing behind me gripping a .44 like Dirty Harry.

  Talk about being between a rock and a hard case.

  “Are you going to shoot me in the back?”

  “I would rather you stood up and faced me,” Lawrence said.

  I did.

  “Love or money?” I asked.

  “Love of money. Take out your weapon and put it on the table.”

  I took out the .357 and placed it next to the cell phone.

  “I wouldn’t trust her,” I said.

  “I’m really not interested in your opinion,” Lawrence said, just before the gunshot that brought him to the floor.

  Kitty turned to the shooter and po
inted the IOF.

  “Don’t,” he warned, staring straight into her green eyes, and she dropped the gun to the floor.

  Lawrence was moaning at my feet. He had taken the bullet just above the knee. I kicked his gun away and wrapped my tie around his thigh to slow the bleeding. Then I turned to Angela DiMarco’s father.

  “You didn’t identify yourself first,” I said.

  “I forgot. Call an ambulance, and find the local police,” Detective DiMarco said, producing a pair of handcuffs. “And you, Mrs. Lincoln, lock your fingers behind your head.”

  I unbuttoned my shirt and removed the wire while he cuffed Kitty and sat her in a chair. I placed the transmitter beside my gun and Corelli’s cell phone.

  “I’m guessing from your timely arrival that it did the job.”

  “Angela used only the best equipment. We got everything we needed, loud and clear. Unfortunately, we missed a little of the conversation you had with the suspect right before she pulled the gun.”

  All mention of Mario Grillo and his just reward.

  We both joined the stunned woman at the kitchen table and waited for reinforcements to arrive.

  It was going to be a long night.

  FINALE

  Pocket Queens

  The Margate City police arrived as the EMTs were preparing to transport Detective Lawrence to the hospital. Lawrence was read his rights and formally arrested, charged with aiding and abetting a felon. The detective was talking a blue streak. Convinced I was somehow involved in the death of Theodore Lincoln, Lawrence had been staking out my hotel in Egg Harbor when he witnessed Katherine Lincoln put two bullets into Charlie Mungo’s back. Instead of doing his sworn duty, he approached the widow to suggest a lucrative deal for his silence. Now, before they could get him into the ambulance, Lawrence was offering to make a new deal in exchange for testimony against Mrs. Lincoln.

  We probably saved Lawrence’s life. The detective had as little chance of surviving Kitty’s housecleaning as Mungo and Corelli did. They were doomed from the start, Katherine Ann Harris “Kit Kat” Corelli Lincoln was entirely prepared to eliminate anyone and everyone who could possibly stand between her and her full inheritance.

  DiMarco and I handed Kitty over to the Egg Harbor police, along with the weapon used to kill Charlie Mungo.

  I called John Sullivan to inform him that Vinnie Corelli’s assassin was in custody.

  DiMarco said he would send copies of the conversation in Kitty’s kitchen to both Egg Harbor and the NYPD.

  Dominic DiMarco drove me back up to the Resorts Hotel.

  “I’m very sorry I put your daughter in harm’s way.”

  “It wasn’t you who brought her into to it, and Angela always made her own choices. I’m sorry about your friend, and I respect you for not turning your back on them and for doing what needed to be done. We have a family reunion in Ocean City every Labor Day weekend. Angela would have wanted us to keep the tradition. You’re welcome to drop in.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  I walked down to the waterside to stare out over the Atlantic, sizing myself up—a small man facing a mighty ocean trying to hold my own and live with my own choices. A huge world filled with little people capable of causing monstrous damage or, for too short a time, shining a faint light in the darkness. Where guilt was often quantified and being innocent could never guarantee victory. And no one was equipped to keep score.

  Demons and angels, and those in my business who thought they could jump into the muddy fray and stay clean.

  I was too wired to consider sleep so I found myself at a poker table. I was doing well. Not wishing to press my luck, I decided to play one final hand. Two cards were dealt down to each player. I looked at my pocket cards.

  A pair of queens.

  I folded.

  BUICK IN A BEAUTY SHOP

  I was sitting at the table that served as the desk in my office above Neptune Avenue in Coney Island sipping a drink and waiting for a prospective client when I heard the screeching tires followed by what could have been a vehicle backfiring but proved to be gunshots. Then the violent impact shaking the building and sending my desk lamp to the floor. I caught the scotch bottle in midair.

  I raced down the two flights of stairs to the avenue. The red 1971 Riviera had crashed through the storefront, only its classic boat end remained out on the sidewalk. Most of the car now sat inside the beauty shop, having taken out the front reception desk, two haircutting chairs, and a shelf of styling products which covered the floor around the Buick.

  I carefully climbed into the shop to check the driver. He was as dead as Abe Lincoln. He might have been killed by the crash, but I was guessing it was the bullet holes in his head and neck that had done the job. I pulled out my cell phone and hit 9-1-1. Then I noticed the letter-sized white envelope on the dashboard with the name Nick Ventura handwritten on the front.

  Since it was addressed to me, I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

  I climbed back out onto the avenue and waited for the heat to arrive.

  I had received the phone call thirty minutes earlier. The caller had never identified himself.

  “I need to employ your services,” he said.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Someone wants me killed.”

  “I suggest you phone the police.”

  “I believe it’s the police who want me dead.”

  “I really don’t think I can help you,” I said, meaning I would rather have my wisdom teeth extracted.

  “Will you at least hear me out? I can meet you at your office in less than an hour.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Why not? Wisdom teeth were overrated.

  I now suspected the caller was the dead man in the Buick in the beauty shop. I was about to pull the envelope from my pocket to test my theory when the patrol car pulled up in front of the building. Two uniforms—Officers Crimi and Gomez. Crimi questioned me while Gomez entered the shop the way I had, negotiating the broken glass and demolished brickwork. I gave Crimi nothing but a timeline. The screaming tires, the gunshots, and the collision.

  Gomez came back out to the sidewalk.

  “Call it in to homicide.”

  “Do we have an ID?” Crimi asked.

  Gomez held up the victim’s identification.

  It was an NYPD detective’s shield.

  I called Carmella Fazio with the unhappy news.

  I had known Carmella my whole life. She was like an aunt to me. Her father and my grandfather had been longtime friends. Carmella owned the building that housed my office and the beauty shop below, as well as the one story adjacent storefront where she operated a well-known pizzeria that had been in the family for generations. She said she would send her two sons down to deal with the situation. I told her I would wait until they arrived and do all I could to assist.

  Tony and Richie arrived as a tow-truck was pulling the Buick out onto Neptune Avenue, the body still in the car. The brothers were both around my age and both a lot larger. They came in a pickup loaded with recycled plywood, two-by-four studs and a compressor, ready to get down to the business of securing the property as soon as the police were done.

  “Nice Riviera,” Tony said.

  “Was,” Richie said.

  “Want me to stick around?” I asked.

  “We got it, thanks,” Tony said.

  “Call me if you need help.”

  “Will do,” Richie said, surveying the damage. “Thank God it missed the pizzeria.”

  I climbed the stairs back up to my office, rescued the desk lamp from the floor, helped myself to another drink and locked up. When I came down to the street again, the body was being moved into an ambulance.

  Two more uniforms from the 60th Precinct had arrived to help Gomez and Crimi keep pedestrians at a distance.

  I stood and watched the ambulance pull away, followed by the truck towing the Buick.

  I noticed Detectives Jack Falcone and Marina Ivanov talking with a man I
didn’t recognize. Ivanov spotted me and walked over.

  “What do you know, Nick?”

  “Only what I told Officer Crimi,” I said. “And that the victim was NYPD.”

  “Kevin Morrison from the Ninetieth.”

  “Williamsburg?”

  “Yes, but forget you heard it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Two weeks left and I catch this nightmare.”

  “Changing careers? Going into show business?”

  “I wish. This is show business. I’m moving over to the Sixty-First.”

  “Good move. Who’s that jawing with Falcone?”

  “Dale Gibson, Morrison’s partner. Try to stay out of trouble, Ventura,” Ivanov said, and she returned to the others.

  I headed to my Monte Carlo, parked safely behind the pizzeria, and drove home to my crib. I heated a few slices of Totonno’s pizza, washed them down with more scotch, watched The Big Sleep until I couldn’t keep my eyes opened any longer, and I hit the sack.

  I forgot all about the envelope until the next morning.

  The next morning, over coffee and Little Debbie’s snack-sized chocolate covered donuts that were as stale as Bob Dylan’s Christmas album, I spotted the white envelope peeking out of the inside pocket of the jacket I had thrown over a kitchen chair the night before. I slit it open with a steak knife.

  A newspaper article clipped from The Daily News, a sticky note with a series of letters and numbers written in long hand—and a dollar bill.

  The newspaper article reported a recent narcotics sting operation which had led to a gun battle and resulted in the deaths of two alleged drug dealers.

  The writing on the sticky note could have been anything from a Kings County Criminal Court Docket number to a WalMart gift card activation code to random selections from a ping pong ball cage at a church bingo game.

  The late Detective Morrison had left me a few cryptic clues and a modest retainer.

  And he had left me holding the bag.

  Of course, I could have handed the envelope and its contents over to Brooklyn’s finest—but my short conversation with Morrison led me to believe his colleagues in the department might not be the most suitable confidants.