Giabatti pursed his lips and nodded, as if debating whether to reveal what he knew. “Maybe this is related,” he said, “or maybe it’s not, but a couple years ago I heard that someone was making trouble for the mayor’s reelection campaign. Someone who claimed to be his son.”
Ray lifted an eyebrow. Nothing like that had ever hit the papers. “What kind of trouble?”
Giabatti grinned. “What’s it worth to you?”
Garrison fixed Giabatti with a steely gaze. “If you’ve got something that could damage Flaherty or the mayor, I’d call it a win-win for all of us. And let’s not kid ourselves—if Jack Flaherty goes down, that’s a big boon for your business.”
“Maybe so,” Giabatti said. “But should the day ever come when I need your help, I’d want you boys to remember my generosity.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Ray said, “but you know we can’t promise anything outside of the law.”
Giabatti shrugged. “You expect me to accept such a terrible deal?”
“It’s not meant to be a deal,” Ray said.
Giabatti stared at the table and nodded slowly. And just when Ray thought he was going to clam up, Giabatti leaned forward and whispered something that broke the case wide open.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“What is it?” Garrison asked as they exited the café. “And don’t tell me nothing, because I saw the way your eyes popped out of your skull back there.”
Billy fell into step beside them and gestured to Garrison. “What’s he talking about?”
“Giabatti says some guy claiming to be the mayor’s son blackmailed the mayor during his reelection campaign,” Ray said. “The mayor allegedly got him a new identity in exchange for not going public with some damaging secrets.”
“What secrets?” Billy asked.
“Giabatti didn’t know,” Garrison said, “but I think Ray might have a hunch.”
“Do you?” Billy asked.
“It just so happens I do,” Ray said. He led them across the street to the tow-away zone where he’d parked the Explorer. He fished his phone from his pocket and dialed the precinct before climbing inside.
Billy eyed the number as Ray placed the phone on the console and hit speaker. “You calling Costanza?”
“You know he hates that nickname,” Ray said.
Clint picked up on the third ring. “What can I help you with?” he asked after a brief exchange of greetings.
“Remember that search you ran on Suzie Coleman’s college stalker?” Ray asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Clint said, rustling paper in the background. “Brendan Taritello.”
“You said he died in a car crash three years ago.”
“That’s right.”
“What else do you have on his background?” Ray asked. “Any priors?”
“Uh, let’s see… a couple citations for drunk and disorderly, a DUI, and an assault charge against his college professor.”
“Coleman never mentioned anything about that,” Ray said. “This happened at the College of Art and Design?”
“No, the BU School of Medicine.”
“Wait a minute,” Ray said. “He was a student there?”
“Looks that way,” Clint said. “After the incident with Suzie, he transferred to BU. I guess he did well enough to get into their medical program after undergrad.”
“Did he finish med school?” Garrison asked.
“He got expelled for assaulting the professor.”
“Do me a favor,” Ray said. “Check to see if the professor is still alive.”
Clint clacked away at his computer. “He was found dead last April. Looks like he hung himself in his office.”
“Suicide?” Ray asked.
“Yes, although friends and family said they didn’t believe it. But do they ever?”
“Anything unusual about the professor’s body?” Ray asked.
“Hang on, let me read the rest of the report.”
The line went silent for over a minute before Clint returned. “The professor was found swinging naked from a rope with a rolled-up diploma shoved up his ass.”
“A suicide?” Garrison asked. “Really?”
“There were no signs of forced entry,” Clint said, “no evidence of a struggle.”
“Maybe he had a gun to his head,” Billy said.
Ray nodded. He was thinking the same thing. But without proof, it went on record as a suicide, and he knew from experience that people sometimes killed themselves in bizarre ways. “Hey, Clint,” he said, “what do you show for the name of Brendan’s mom?”
“Uh, let’s see. Evangeline Taritello.”
“I’ll be damned,” Billy said. “Angie T.”
“Was that your hunch?” Garrison asked.
Ray nodded. “It clicked for me after Giabatti mentioned the new identity. What do you show for Angie’s address?”
“Um, didn’t I tell you? Angie was in the car with Brendan the night of the crash. Neither survived.”
“Not on paper, they didn’t,” Ray said. “Just out of curiosity, who does Brendan’s birth certificate list as the father?”
“It’s blank.”
“Do you have a last known address?” Ray asked.
“All I show for Brendan is his BU campus address, so I assume he moved back with his mom after getting expelled.”
“And where was that?” Ray asked.
“Wait,” Billy said, “let me guess. Somewhere in East Boston?”
***
The Taritellos last known address was a low-income housing complex near East Boston’s Maverick Square. Ray, Billy, and Garrison climbed out of the truck and gazed up at the five-story brick building on the corner of Chelsea and Emmons streets, where the entire block was boxed in by a wall of buildings that trapped pedestrians like rats in a maze of concrete. A few gangly trees attempted to brighten the landscape, but they were so stunted and sparse that they only succeeded in making the street seem more depressing.
As they headed for the front door of the complex, a low-flying plane roared overhead on its approach to Logan Airport, so near to the ground Ray could see faces peering out of the windows.
“Better hope no one flushes a toilet,” Billy said. “I’d hate to get killed by a hunk of brown ice after twenty-five years on the force.”
“Don’t worry,” Ray said. “Ten-to-one you’ll die of a heart attack instead.”
“I always pictured him choking on his own vomit in a seedy motel room,” Garrison said, “while a hooker rifles through his wallet.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “You guys are a riot.”
“Just for the record,” Ray said, opening the door to the apartment building, “that plane’s not high enough to freeze a turd.”
As Ray crossed the threshold, the stench of urine wafted toward him and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Christ,” he muttered. “How do people live like this?”
“Reminds me of Billy’s place,” Garrison said.
Billy shrugged. “I’d be insulted if it wasn’t true.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have spent all your money on a flashy car,” Ray said.
“Are you kidding? The ladies love the Corvette. And by the time they see my place, it’s already too late.”
“Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Garrison asked.
“It’s all part of my charm,” Billy said. “Besides, we can’t all have a perfect family like some cops I know.”
“I think that’s supposed to be a dig at you,” Garrison said.
“Yeah,” Ray said, “I’m feeling the burn. What’s the matter, Billy? I thought you loved the bachelor life.”
Billy shrugged. “When your kid and your ex hate your guts, you do what you can to fill the emptiness.”
“Tyler doesn’t hate you,” Ray said. “He’s a twelve-year-old boy. That’s just how they act.”
Garrison nodded. “I was the same way with my old man, but we’re good friends now.”
“If you say so.”
Billy pressed ahead, finished with the conversation. He motioned to the elevators at the end of the hall. Someone had spray-painted a grinning skull and crossbones over the doors. It was smoking a joint and had a black swastika scrawled on its forehead.
“Not exactly what I’d call inviting,” Garrison said. “Why don’t we take the stairs.”
“As long as Billy’s old ticker can handle it,” Ray said.
Billy gave him the finger and headed into the stairwell.
A light was out somewhere, and it took a while for Ray’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. He reached into his sports coat and drew the Glock from his shoulder holster. Billy and Garrison did the same, and they ascended in silence.
The odds of the Taritellos still living in the same apartment were pretty much zilch, but a place like this wasn’t exactly cop friendly, so there was no telling who they’d find in apartment 431. And while he hoped they were ready for anything, sometimes you just never knew.
When they reached 431, Ray rapped his knuckles against the door. “Boston Police. We want to ask you a few questions.”
Garrison pressed his ear against the door and gave Ray a thumbs-up, indicating he’d heard movement inside.
“We know you’re in there,” Ray said. “Open up. We just want to talk.”
When they got no response, Billy pushed Ray aside and pounded on the door. “We can do this all day!” he shouted. “So open the goddamned door or get used to hearing this sound. I get paid either way.”
“Hold your horses,” an elderly voice said from inside the apartment. “Give an old lady time to put on a robe.”
They could hear shuffling feet approaching the door.
“Now step back so I can see your badges.”
They took turns holding their badges up to the peephole, and a few moments later, they heard chains jingling and locks clicking. The door swung open to reveal a heavyset woman in a tattered pink robe. She had stringy gray hair and milky blue eyes. Judging by the wrinkles on her face and the spidery veins on her calves, Ray guessed her to be in the vicinity of eighty years old.
“Now, what’s so damn important you’re disturbing an old lady’s afternoon nap?”
“I’m sorry about that,” Ray said. “My partner is not what I’d call a patient man.”
The old lady scowled at Billy. “No wonder everyone hates cops.”
Billy shrugged. “I’m not in it to make friends.”
“Mind if we come in?” Ray asked. “We want to ask you a few questions.”
The woman motioned them inside and locked up behind them. “A lot of degenerates in this building. You ought to go door-to-door and put a bullet through their heads.”
Billy chuckled. “I’m starting to like this lady.”
“Ma’am,” Garrison said, “I’m Trooper Garrison with the State Police, and this is Detective Hanley and Detective Devlin from the Boston Police. Would you mind telling us your name?”
“Greta Buntzman. Now come on and grab a seat. I’m not as young as I used to be.” She led them into a small kitchen, where every inch of shelf space was cluttered with knickknacks, ceramics, or old photos. A collection of recently washed pots sat in a drying rack beneath the vines of a Devil’s Ivy, which grew wild from a planter hanging from a ceiling hook.
Ray gestured to the old man sitting on the couch in the TV room. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank and had his eyes glued to the TV. The man had yet to glance in their direction. “Is that your husband, Mrs. Buntzman?”
“Going on sixty years. Except now he’s half-mad with dementia and just sits there soiling his pants and staring at the tube. Watches the daytime soaps, mostly. Gets his rocks off ogling the young women.”
“Mrs. Buntzman,” Ray said, “how long have you and your husband lived in this apartment?”
“Oh, I’d say about three years now. Would you care for some tea?”
“No thanks,” Ray said. “Did you know the previous occupants?”
“Got some nice tits on that one,” Mr. Buntzman said, cackling from the couch.
“Zip it, Hank, we’ve got company.” Mrs. Buntzman shook her head. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“I asked if you knew the previous occupants.”
“The Taritellos?”
“That’s them.”
“We lived across the hall from them for years.”
“You moved into this apartment when they left?” Ray asked.
Mrs. Buntzman nodded. “A place like this doesn’t open up every day. The bedroom’s got a wonderful view of the harbor.”
“Do you have any idea where the Taritellos went?” Garrison asked.
“I’d imagine straight to hell. Angie was a sex worker, after all, and her boy—what was his name?”
“Brendan.”
“Yes, that was it. Brendan. He was an odd duck. Never said much, but he gave me the creeps. Anyway, they died in a car crash.”
“Mrs. Buntzman,” Ray said, “we have reason to believe the Taritellos are still alive.”
“Alive? How?”
“We think they faked their deaths.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They got into trouble,” Garrison said, “and were looking for a new start.”
“That’s right,” Ray said, “and it’s very important that we find them. Do you have any idea where they might be?”
Mrs. Buntzman frowned. “I can’t say that I—”
“Check the morgue!” Her husband cackled, and ripped a wet fart.
Mrs. Buntzman shot him a dirty look. “I’m sorry, officers, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. Even if the Taritellos are alive, I wouldn’t know where to find them.”
***
After making the rounds with the Buntzman’s neighbors, they returned to the precinct and gathered in the briefing room.
“We should’ve taken the old lady’s advice,” Billy said, “and spread a few bullets around.”
Ray was about to respond when Captain Barnes strode into the room with Spinonni and Sergeant Callahan. “What’s this breakthrough?” the captain asked.
Ray brought them up to speed on Brendan Taritello. “We can link him directly to Danny the Mule and Suzie Coleman. And with his stint at art school, it’s not much of a leap to connect him to Finkleton. We also know that he completed a couple years of medical school, so that explains how he could mutilate his victims and keep them alive for so long.”
“Plus,” Sergeant Callahan said, “there’s no formal police report on the accident that allegedly killed the Taritellos, and the death certificates look like forgeries.”
Captain Barnes nodded thoughtfully. “We need to make a full-court press on this. I want you to interview former colleagues and any known associates. Get the phone records, see who they were in the habit of talking to before they went off the grid.”
“What about the mayor?” Ray asked. “Giabatti said—”
The captain cut him off. “We’ll engage the mayor once we’ve exhausted all other avenues. We can’t risk career suicide on the word of a mafia boss. Until we can prove otherwise, it’s just as likely that Taritello went to Giabatti for help with obtaining a new identity. Could be that killing Danny was part of the bargain.”
“Captain, I think you’re making a mistake.”
Spinonni glared at Ray. “You’re out of line, Hanley.”
Captain Barnes ignored the outburst. “Detective Hanley, your opinion is noted but overruled. You did great work today—all of you—but it’s important not to let impatience cloud your judgement. Go home and get some rest. There’s not much more that can be done tonight.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Ray lurked outside of City Hall Plaza, cloaked in the shadows of a broken streetlight, and kept watch on the mayor’s private entrance. At nine o’clock, the light in the mayor’s office winked out and a black Chevy Tahoe pulled up alongside the building. A security officer climbed out of the SUV and greeted the mayor at the exit.
They
made it halfway back to the car before Ray stepped out of the shadows. “Mr. Mayor, Detective Hanley from the Boston Police. I’d like a word with you.”
The security officer thrust himself in front of the mayor and drew his gun.
The mayor whispered something to the officer and then called out to Ray. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, detective. I thought you’d learned your lesson.”
Ray shrugged. “I guess that makes me a slow learner. Can we speak privately for a moment?”
“No, detective, we may not.” The mayor continued toward the car.
“It’s about Brendan Taritello.”
The mayor stopped dead in his tracks. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“From the way your jaw just dropped, I’d say you know exactly who he is.”
“Give us a minute,” the mayor said to the officer.
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”
“Just wait for me in the car.”
The officer lingered for a moment and glared at Ray before trudging to the SUV.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” the mayor asked.
“Someone who’s not afraid to do his job.”
“Really? Or are you just a dumb cop with a conspiracy theory?”
Ray handed the mayor a copy of Brendan’s student ID photo. “Call me crazy, but I think this kid looks an awful lot like you. Same blue eyes, same sandy brown hair, same—”
“You ought to get your eyes checked. I’ve never seen this kid before in my life.”
“You helped him fake his own death and get a new identity.”
“You’re crazy.”
“There’s two ways we can do this, Mr. Mayor. One, you tell me Brendan’s new identity, or two—”
“There is no two, and you know it.”
“Here’s what I do know. We’ve got the Taritellos’ falsified death records and we’ll chase that paper trail wherever it leads. And I can guarantee it’s only a matter of time before we find something that points back to you. In the meantime, if Suzie Coleman turns up dead and the press learns you withheld evidence that could’ve saved her life, then you can kiss your political career goodbye. But if you give me a name, and I happen to forget where I heard it from, then nobody needs to go after the paper trail. So, last chance, Mr. Mayor… what’s it going to be?”
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 25
