Suspect picked up at 8:30 a.m. at home. Driven in limo, New York license 65183-LV, to butcher shop. At 1:45 p.m. driven home to lunch and then returned to work at 3:30 p.m. Driven home at 7:30 p.m. Didn’t go out anymore that night.
“These summaries don’t contain much information,” I complained.
Coyle said, “It’s the best I can do.” He took a big bite of his burger.
“Do you know if Persico uses any other limos besides this one when he rides to work?” I asked.
“Persico stopped driving years ago after someone tried to assassinate him in his family car. The limo is the only vehicle that he rides in: it has armor plating and bullet-resistant windows.”
I flipped through the daily summaries, stopping when I reached the stack that covered the month of October 1979. I was specifically looking for notations that would show if Persico had visited the Midland Apartments every Tuesday and Friday afternoon during that month.
I scanned them quickly. There was no record of him ever being followed to the apartment complex in October. None for November, either. But when I got to the December summaries, there was a mention of the Midland Apartments.
Persico’s car had been observed leaving the butcher shop at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday. The FBI agent shadowing him had followed the vehicle to the Midland Apartments. But the passenger who got out of the limo’s backseat wasn’t Persico. The agent had mistakenly assumed the mobster had been riding in the vehicle. Realizing his error, the agent had rushed back to the butcher’s shop, where he’d observed Persico sitting inside the deli speaking to a customer. Unfortunately, the summary didn’t identify who the passenger was who had ridden in Persico’s armored car to the Midland Apartments.
I turned the daily log summary around on the table so that Coyle could read it.
“According to this notation, someone besides Persico used his limo in December to drive to the Midland Apartments on a Tuesday afternoon,” I said. “Do you think the more detailed daily log for that Tuesday might help us identify who that person was?”
“Only if the agent recognized him. But I’ll check that specific log when I go into the office tomorrow.”
I continued flipping through the December entries, stopping on December 31, 1979, the afternoon when Isabella was murdered. The summary confirmed what I’d already been told. Agent Coyle had visually observed Persico entering the Midland Avenue building at 2:30 p.m. Persico’s driver had remained outside in the limo. The mobster had exited the building at exactly 5:30 p.m.
Glancing up from the papers, I asked, “Did you write additional information in the daily log about Persico’s visit?”
“Of course,” he said. “I wrote that Persico had appeared to be in a hurry when he left the apartment building. I also noted that he’d changed his clothes later that afternoon before he went home. I found that to be suspicious.”
I closed the file. “Persico was not meeting Isabella twice a week,” I said, “because there’s no mention of him going to the apartments on a regular basis. However, the logs show that he did visit the apartment on the day of the murder. These logs also tell us that someone else used Persico’s limo to drive to the apartment on a Tuesday in December. Who else, besides Persico, has access to his personal car?”
“I don’t have a clue and it doesn’t really matter,” Coyle said. “I saw Nicholas Persico at the apartment when Isabella was murdered. Case closed. It’s immaterial whether he was having an affair with Isabella or someone else from the butcher’s shop was using his car to meet her.”
“You’re wrong. Persico told me he didn’t even know the name of the woman in that apartment. That means he was either going there because he’d been asked to—by the person who normally visited Isabella—or to talk to her about something that was important to him—maybe this other person’s relationship with Isabella.”
“You’re wasting time worrying about it,” he said.
Coyle reached over and gently touched my hand, which was resting next to my plate. “Listen, Dani,” he said softly, “I’ve been dealing with these Mafia guys for a long time and you never really know what is happening with them. They operate in a closed society. The only facts we can be certain of are that Isabella was killed and Persico was there when it happened. The coroner puts her time of death at between three-thirty-five p.m. and six o’clock. He’s our only viable suspect.”
I pulled back my hand and said, “No, actually he’s not.”
“There’s someone else? Who?” Coyle asked, visibly surprised.
“A man who lives in the Midland Apartments was stalking Isabella. He’s got a criminal record for rape but he beat the charge. He used a knife to cut off that woman’s clothes, just like Isabella’s clothes were removed.”
“How’d you find this guy?”
“By not assuming Persico was guilty and by doing some police work.”
Coyle frowned. He didn’t like my dig.
I said, “Our new suspect first met Isabella and her husband at a swingers club in Scarsdale. But she refused to sleep with him. He became obsessed with her and began stalking her—to the point that he actually moved his family into the Midland Apartments so that he could keep an eye on Isabella.”
“Let’s assume he was stalking her like you said,” Coyle said. “When was there time for him to kill Isabella? I mean, Persico was with her.”
“Your report says Persico left at five-thirty,” I said. “The coroner estimates that she was killed between three-thirty-five and six o’clock. That means our suspect could have gotten into that apartment after Persico left. How long does it take for someone to torture and kill a woman?”
“I’m not an expert in torturing and killing women,” he said, grinning. “But I suspect thirty minutes is long enough.”
I didn’t think his comment was funny and he noticed.
“There’s just one little hole in your theory,” he said. “I read the reports and the killer used an electrical cord cut from a clock to tie her hands. That clock stopped at three-thirty-five p.m. And that was when Persico was in that apartment. He didn’t leave until five-thirty, remember?”
He was right. “I can’t explain that,” I said. “But I think our new suspect is worth further investigation.”
“I agree,” he said. “What’s his name? I’ll run a background check on him.”
I hesitated. “Thanks, but our guys can handle that. Besides, I don’t think my boss is ready to invite the FBI into our investigation just yet.”
“He might not have a choice,” Coyle said, “especially if Tiny Nunzio killed Marco Ricci. He would have had to cross state lines and that gives us the jurisdiction to jump in.”
I checked my watch. It was nearly midnight and I needed to get some sleep. Mom was expecting me for breakfast and Mass. Whitaker was expecting O’Brien and me at 2 p.m. and he wasn’t going to be happy to hear that I’d met with Coyle without first alerting Chief of Staff Steinberg—despite the late hour.
“It’s late and I need to get some sleep,” I said. “It has been a hell of a day.”
“I’ll follow you home.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s too late for you to be driving around alone. Besides, the drive back into Manhattan from your house isn’t that much out of my way back to Manhattan.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “You’ve never been to my house—have you?”
“I was talking about White Plains in general.”
There was something about the way he said it that made me think he was lying. He’d warned me that he was aggressive when it came to women. Driving by my house was downright creepy. On the other hand, he was an FBI agent and used to investigating people. I wasn’t sure what to make of Agent Coyle.
“I don’t want you following me home,” I said.
“It’s what a gentleman would do,” he replied.
There was a slight edge to his voice, which made me think that his comment was supposed to be a slight against Will
. That reminded me of the FedEx package that I’d brought to give back to him.
“Here’s the background information that you sent me,” I said, sliding it across the table.
“Your boyfriend is a real piece of work,” Coyle said. “I’m not sure you should trust him.”
I slipped out of the booth and said, “And you, Agent Coyle. Are you someone I should trust?”
26
As I unlocked my car in the IHOP parking lot, I began second-guessing myself.
Was I being too harsh on Coyle? Was I upset with him because he had shattered my image of Will? If I knew something horrible about one of my girlfriend’s boyfriends, would I tell her about it or keep it quiet?
I noticed a black sedan fall in behind me as I pulled away from the parking lot. It looked like an unmarked police car and any second doubts that I had about Coyle vanished. If he was tailing me after I had specifically told him that I didn’t want to be followed home, I was going to be furious.
The sedan stayed well behind me until I reached the driveway to my house. Then it sped up and kept driving down my street. It was nearly 1 a.m. by now and I had never felt so tired. What a day. Going directly into my bedroom, I kicked off my shoes, stepped out of my pants, and heard the doorbell rang.
Damn it!
I could have strangled Coyle. Didn’t he know that no meant no? I slipped back into my jeans and marched across the living room, where I checked the door’s peephole. No one was outside on my front porch.
Unbolting the door, I opened it a crack and peeked outside. There wasn’t anyone there. The porch felt cold on my bare feet when I stepped out and called: “Hello? Who rang the bell? Coyle, are you out here?”
No answer. Back inside, I threw the dead bolt and headed to my bedroom. Just as I was about to enter it, someone grabbed me from behind. A leather-gloved hand swept across my mouth and a deep male voice said, “Don’t fight!”—which is exactly what I did.
I immediately kicked backward with my right foot, but hit only air. I tried to bite the intruder’s hand, but the glove was thick. Making a fist, I punched backward, but he dodged my blows and, having wrapped his left hand around my waist, swept me off the floor. I grabbed his right hand with both of mine and tried to pull his fingers away from my face so that I could scream. He jerked my head sideways, pinning it against his shoulder, and said, “I’ll break your neck.”
A second man appeared wearing a ski mask. He grabbed my hands and quickly handcuffed me. That didn’t stop me from swinging at his head but he jerked my cuffed hands back, shoving them against my chest. He’d stepped closer when he did that and I kicked him in the groin as hard as I could with my bare feet, causing him to step back and groan.
He recovered, raced forward, and punched me in the gut, knocking the air out of me. As I was gasping for breath, I felt the jab of a needle into my left arm and within seconds, I felt woozy. I fought to stay focused but whatever it was was too powerful.
I woke up. I had no idea what time it was. I opened my eyes and saw only black. Ink black. Nothing. Terrified, I gasped for air and the blackness covered my mouth, causing me to gag and immediately cough, sending it away from my mouth. I realized that I had a black hood covering my head. It was a heavy cloth that I had sucked toward me.
Dozens of questions raced through my mind, although it was still running slowly because of the injection. Where was I? What time was it? How much time had passed? Who had abducted me? Why? Were they going to kill me?
I took inventory. My hands were now behind my back and still handcuffed. I felt ropes on my chest and realized that I was tied to a chair. My legs had been tied together at my ankles. I couldn’t move. I listened and heard a humming noise that sounded like the buzz that comes from fluorescent lights. I was helpless.
A door opened and I heard a man’s voice. “That cunt awake yet? You gave her too much juice.”
Even though I couldn’t see his face, I recognized who it was. Giuseppe Tiny Nunzio.
I remained perfectly still.
A different male voice said, “I’ll take care of it.”
I heard the door close but knew I was not alone. Suddenly I felt ice-cold water splash down on me, causing the heavy fabric of the hood to cling to my skin, forcing me to gag for air. I was petrified and if I was going to survive, I was going to have to be tough. I needed to take command of the situation.
“I don’t know who you are,” I said, after catching my breath. “But I am an assistant district attorney. Do you have any idea what kind of shit you are going to have coming down on you?”
“I know you,” a male voice—not Nunzio’s—replied. “You answer a few questions and you go home. No trouble. You don’t, you die. Got it?”
So much for me taking command of the situation. I was glad, however, that he hadn’t removed my hood. That was a good sign. My kidnappers didn’t know that I had heard and recognized Nunzio’s voice. As long as they thought that I didn’t know who they were, I had a chance of surviving.
“What sort of questions?” I asked.
“Easy ones.”
“Then you could have called me on the phone.”
I heard him chuckle. “Funny,” he said.
Something sharp poked against my neck. He moved it slowly across the front of my neck and I realized it was a knife blade.
“No more jokes, got it?” he said.
“Got it,” I replied.
I heard his footsteps as he stepped away from the chair. That sound was followed but a loud click—as if a big button had been pushed down—and I heard a soft whirling noise.
“Talk into the microphone,” he said, coming forward. I felt what apparently was a microphone being taped against my chest.
He began. “Did Nicholas Persico kill Isabella Ricci?”
With that one question, I understood what was happening. Tiny Nunzio had kidnapped me to get the evidence he needed to prove that the Butcher had murdered his daughter. I’d been told that the five families in New York would not sit idly by and allow a capo from New Jersey in the Gaccione family to take revenge against the de facto acting head of the Battaglia family without some sort of evidence, especially when the Nunzios and Persicos had been responsible for earlier family disappearances and murders. Kidnapping a prosecuting attorney seemed extreme. But what better evidence for Nunzio to show the five families. He would not only convince them, he would be showing off by kidnapping a court official. They’d get a good laugh out of it. A prosecutor being called as a witness by the mob to help Nunzio make his case.
“We’re not confident that Persico killed her.”
“What?” the male voice said, clearly surprised.
“There are other suspects.”
“Persico was with her in that apartment. A witness saw him go there. The newspaper said so.”
“Yes, we had an eyewitness, Roman Mancini,” I said. “But someone murdered him, remember?”
“Mancini told you Persico was there. That’s why Persico killed Mancini. It fits.”
I knew I was taking a chance, but I decided to answer truthfully. “Maybe it fits for you, but not us. We think Tiny Nunzio killed Roman Mancini.”
For a moment, my interrogator didn’t speak. Then he said, “You said Nunzio. You mean Nicholas Persico.”
“No, I said Tiny Nunzio and that’s who I meant.”
I heard a short click and the soft whirr of the tape recorder became quiet, causing me to believe that he had stopped recording. There was a high-pitched whirling noise, which I recognized from my office, when the secretaries rewound tapes on a reel-to-reel recorder. He was going to erase what I’d said about his boss.
Without any warning, a fist punched me in the abdomen, knocking the air out of my lungs.
“We’re gonna try this again,” he said softly. “Only this time, don’t say Mr. Nunzio killed them. Got that?”
Panting, I said, “You want me to lie? I’m answering your questions.”
I braced myself for another b
low but instead I heard footsteps and the door opening and closing. He had left the room.
As I was sitting there, an odd thought popped into my head: Charlie’s Angels, one of Will’s favorite shows, probably because its three main characters often appeared wearing bikinis. But for whatever reason, the image of actress Jaclyn Smith appeared to me. She would find a way to easily escape from her captors by slipping her hands free from handcuffs. Unfortunately, I knew that neither Smith nor her scantily clad cohorts would be racing in to save me. Still, it was a nice fantasy. If they could escape each week, didn’t I have a chance at being rescued? I shook it off. It must have been a combination of the drug and desperation.
I thought about my mom. I was supposed to meet her for breakfast and Sunday Mass. I didn’t know how long I’d been knocked out, but if I’d missed breakfast, she would know something was wrong. Will had also said he would call me in the morning. Plus, I was due at Whitaker’s meeting at two o’clock. Someone—besides Wilbur—had to realize that I was missing. Surely they would be searching for me.
I heard the door open and footsteps.
The same male voice that had been questioning me earlier said, “Forget about the Mancinis being killed. But just so you know, Tiny Nunzio ain’t killed no one—yet.”
He meant that as a threat, but I saw it as an opening.
“Tell that to his dead son-in-law,” I said, again bracing for a blow.
“You ain’t too smart if you think Mr. Nunzio whacked Marco Ricci.”
Turning the tables, I asked, “Who else would want him dead? Of course Mr. Nunzio killed him.”
He was quiet for a moment, clearly pondering the question, and then he said, “Yeah, he ain’t shedding tears. But like I just told you, Mr. Nunzio ain’t killed nobody yet.”
He knew I was a prosecutor and there was a chance he was lying, especially if he was serious about freeing me after our interrogation. But there was something about his answer that rang true. You get a knack as a prosecutor for knowing when someone is lying. I didn’t think he was, which made me wonder: Who in the hell had killed Marco Ricci if Tiny Nunzio hadn’t done it?
Clever Fox Page 17
