Upon surveying the chaos, he leaves in the bathroom. A feeling of uneasiness comes upon him. “Why did I do this so close to home?” Leonard mumbles. When his urge for the warmth of a beautiful woman arose, Leonard would take a train headed south for Manhattan. In the big city, he felt confident that he could blend in well into the everyday crowd. There, he was able to pick his target amongst the many women hurriedly going about their business. He loved the feeling of catching a girl off guard and the thrill of being able to hop back on a train and disappear after he had his way with her. Today’s conquest, however, was much different. Leonard saw her sitting on the side of the tracks. For a second, he thought about rushing home to get a condom, so no trace of what he was about to do could be found. But he was afraid he would miss his window of opportunity. He couldn’t resist. It was as if she was waiting for him, and he took full advantage of her. Leonard was enticed by the thought of trying something new, some place new. But now, in the aftermath, the feeling of regret is unfamiliar to him. He doesn’t like it.
Leonard lives in a studio apartment directly above Taku. As he walks out with his food, he can still hear the screaming police sirens desperately searching for him. They will never find him sitting, eating his shrimp fried rice on the stoop leading into the lobby of his building.
Leonard has a strong urge to go back to the scene and gaze upon his adversaries. He is interested to know who will be looking for him. He wants to see what the detectives look like and if they are anything like his favorites from television. Leonard remembers his eBay auction is winding down in twenty minutes, so he darts upstairs to watch the bidding war unfold. As Leonard puts his gold key in his lock, the anticipation builds up in his mind.
He isn’t looking forward to the post office trip he would have to make in the next few days. Leonard despises public places and becoming infected with bacteria. His apartment is spotless. It is small, maybe three hundred square feet, but it suits his little frame. Leonard is only five foot three and weighs one hundred thirty pounds. His blue eyes are piercing and his small stature helps him look younger than his New York State driver’s license declares him to be. He’d turned forty months ago, and appears at first glance to be in his mid-twenties. He’d plucked out some gray hairs around his ears. He is thinking about shaving his head but is afraid to cut his scalp with the razor. The entire perimeter of his studio is occupied by large gold curio cabinets containing a magnificent transforming robot collection to rival anyone’s in the country. It is a gallery of glass and plastic that would be mesmerizing for any toy fanatic. Most of his collection is in its original packaging and from the eighties.
There is no bed in sight. The only furniture consists of a white desk with a small laptop and printer. Leonard sleeps on an air mattress that he puts away in the hall closet every morning after waking at about 5 a.m. Leonard is always too excited to sleep much, especially if he is meeting someone special for the first time.
****
The drive to the hospital is sad and infuriating for Donny. I’m not looking forward to seeing this battered girl either. I have to stay focused on Jessica’s situation and finding the animal that destroyed her world. Donny’s anger is boiling over. I know this will turn into a Cipriano remake, hopefully without me involved in any part. All we have right now is what we have seen with our own eyes. A short, white male wearing blue shorts, a white long sleeve shirt. That is it—for this despicable rape? Who called this in? Mike Francini said it was a female. It couldn’t have been Ms. Burton. She seemed too dazed, and we didn’t find a cell phone nearby. We really need more information from her. How did he get her down the tracks without anyone seeing them during broad daylight? Was she drugged?
Westchester Medical Center is a nationally recognized triage and burn facility—the perfect place for Jessica to heal. As we enter the emergency room lobby, we identify ourselves as detectives to the security guard, who clearly couldn’t care less who we are and what we are doing. He just waves his hand and directs his attention back to whoever he is talking to on the phone.
The ER is a ghost town. There are empty beds everywhere. The night I was shot, this place was buzzing with people. I instantly recognize some of the staff and warm hugs are exchanged. As fate would have it, Jessica is lying in the same station I found myself in when I was here. Scotty is sitting next to her, gently patting her right arm while Sarah strokes her left. A doctor is examining her.
Scotty walks up to me and explains the pertinent details. I love when he is all business. The rape kit has been taken and it will be some days for the results to materialize. I thank Scotty and Sarah, who hug Ms. Burton before leaving. There is no sign of her parents anywhere. She can’t live alone in the house she resides in unless she hit the Lotto on her eighteenth birthday. The taxes on it are more than I make in a year.
As Donny and I question Jessica, my cell phone vibrates on my belt. It is Chris Finley calling, so I let it go to voicemail. Before I can ask Jessica anything, he calls again.
I answer, annoyed. “Yeah, Chris, just in the middle of something. What’s so important?”
Chris is panting, unable to catch his breath. I leave the emergency room to calm him down.
Chris just started his mid tour of 4 p.m. to 12 a.m. His stomach always gives him problems as he is the target of Chief Ramsey’s onslaught of humor. He catches his breath finally and says he went to Taku to order Chinese food because he didn’t have any breakfast. I am getting more and more frustrated with his sputtering when he finally says: “Long sleeve white shirt.”
My ears perk up and my heart flutters faster, wanting more information. Chris tells me he ate his Chinese food too fast because he was worried the desk would send him on a call. He needed to use the restroom. Chris walked in, slipped on the wet surface, and crashed into the wicker garbage can, tipping it over and exposing the contents. He saw the white shirt and immediately called me.
I ask Chris if he could check with the restaurant to make sure they didn’t throw out any clothing.
Chris quickly whispers into the phone, “I did. They didn’t. Wait, someone is knocking on the door.”
Before I get as excited as Chris, I need to be definite we have something credible. I don’t want to pull Donny away from Jessica. I walk back inside the emergency room to inform Donny. He agrees to stay while I head back to meet Chris.
I inform Chris that I am heading his way, and to not let anyone in the bathroom until I get there. I hear Chris talking to someone. “Yah, you don’t want to come in here, pal,” he says as I hang up the phone.
Taku is less than ten minutes away. I have to make sure no one sees me enter in case our suspect is lingering nearby. I park my undercover car around the block from Taku and proceed on foot with my camera bag strapped over my shoulder and an evidence bag under my arm. Nobody makes eye contact with me.
I enter Taku and head to the bathroom. Someone yells something in Chinese. Chris opens the door and spots me heading his way. Instant relief appears on his face. An Asian woman stands at the door, crazily knocking on it. I show her my tin and she immediately goes back to the front counter.
I enter the bathroom and almost fall down from the smell.
“I got so nervous I had to go,” Chris says.
The white shirt is lying on the floor. I take several photographs and snap on a pair of gloves in order to place it into a paper evidence bag. It is a Rolling Stones concert shirt from a show at the Carrier Dome in Syracuse, N.Y., on December 8, 1994, from their Voodoo Lounge Tour.
Scotty had attended the show and called me afterwards to break my chops. A Sociology 101 final exam had kept me from seeing Mick Jagger live.
I walk outside the bathroom and meet the little lady who had been banging on the bathroom door. She is nice as pie now after seeing the shield.
A surveillance camera hangs on the ceiling. I ask if it is operational. Ms. Kim identifies herself to me and then gestures to follow her into a back office, which smells like fish and is the siz
e of a powder room. A pair of televisions is hooked up to a digital video recorder. Ms. Kim says the cameras have been recording all day. It is now around five o’clock in the afternoon, so I need all video feeds from 12 p.m. until I walked in the door a few minutes prior. Not only does Ms. Kim know what she is doing, she burns me a DVD on the spot. I am impressed by her state of the art surveillance equipment. I thank Ms. Kim, refuse an offer of dinner, and promise to take Officer Finley out of her restaurant so she can clean the bathroom. Ms. Kim keeps fanning her wrinkled face and calling Chris “stinky woo.” It is always refreshing to capture a nickname in the making. Chris Finley is now Chris Woo and I love it.
As Chris and I leave, we make no small talk. He is in uniform and if someone is watching us, I don’t want to get made. I am in plainclothes as usual, with my Yankees cap pulled tight just above my eyes.
It takes some time to arrive back at the hospital. Donny is waiting for me directly in front of the emergency room entrance. Donny hops in the passenger side and fills me in on the pertinent details of Ms. Burton’s attack. He sighs, wiping his hands with antibacterial wash as he paraphrases her official statement. “She likes to draw and is pursuing art in the fall at SUNY Purchase. She was sitting off to the side of the tracks drawing sketches in her book. A young man hopped the fence behind her. He came close and began to make small talk. She noticed he wore black gloves and thought that was odd clothing to be wearing in the summer. He asked her for a cigarette. Things went bad for Jessica before she could even get out the words that she didn’t smoke. She remembers getting punched in the face and blacking out. Her parents are at their summerhouse in East Hampton. Captain Grassio sent a patrol car out to the island to notify them of their daughter’s condition.”
Donny doesn’t seem too interested in Chris Woo’s discovery. But I know better. Donny never lets his excitement show. He holds it deep within himself, not letting you know what he is thinking. This is a trait not taught at the police academy. It is something learned at birth for a family trying to survive in the mafia lifestyle.
“So, he’s local,” I say to change the subject, getting excited we might catch this scumbag.
Donny agrees, and I realize tomorrow will be a long work day for certain.
Donny looks exhausted, and he seems different. Can he still be mourning his grandfather’s death, or is he upset we have no definite suspect to kill? If he gets his hands on this guy, it is over for sure. I ask him about Zia Maria and how she is handling her brother’s death. He says he doesn’t want to talk about it.
I am getting pissed. I want to know who shot me. Why all these games? I am intimidated by Donny and do not want to make his shit list so I keep my thoughts inside. Tiptoeing around is not how I was raised but I can’t afford the alternative. Death is not something I want to encounter and certainly not by the hands of my friend.
I can’t hold it in any longer. “Fuck it,” I blurt as we arrive at headquarters. “Who shot me Donny, and why?”
Donny smiles again, but the smile turns stone cold in seconds. His five o’clock shadow hides any creases left lingering from it. I can only imagine the torture I would be subjected to had the roles been reversed. In that instance, it would have definitely been an associate of Don Carlo visiting my place. A fresh zip from the mother country arriving to question a small town police detective. That would have really pissed me off. I would have told Donny everything up front; there would have been no secrets. This situation makes me start thinking about the possibilities. Was my partner involved, and if he was, what was his role? Is Special Agent Shyler protecting me without telling me her assignment?
My first day back has been total chaos. Nothing happens in this town, I think as I head to the locker room. I laugh knowing the drastic untruth of that Hutchville stigma. If the townspeople only realized how different this town was becoming, they would panic at night.
Chapter Fifteen: Inside Job
August 28, 2007
I can’t sleep. My mind is all over the place. Thoughts about everything that has happened are overwhelming. Donny is playing games. How the fuck does he know who shot me? He was playing grab ass in Italy while I had the weight of the world resting unremorsefully on my shoulders. Maybe Donny shot me to tie up all loose ends here in the states before he made his grand exit to the mother country. That long hug and the tears he laid on me in our office could have been pure bologna—an act for Captain Grassio’s eyes only. This way, if he is successful next time, he won’t be a suspect to the police hierarchy.
I need to calm down. My nerves are getting the best of me once again. Donny is my friend. Yeah, but why wouldn’t he tell me why the FBI is looking for him? One thing is for certain, Donny doesn’t talk about anything. He lives by the mafia code of ethics more so than the New York State Penal Law. Forget about the Criminal Procedure Law; he throws that book right out the window. He stomps on the Bill of Rights. I am no better, I think, as I slouch into my living room leather chair. I did something really bad and karma paid me back in the form of a shotgun shell. My mother always told me to be a good Catholic. I don’t know if she or God will ever forgive me for what I have done. Maybe Special Agent Cynthia Shyler is shaking trees and making noise. They would need a lot of evidence to get a search warrant for our cell phones. Donny doesn’t talk on his, so it’s a waste of time for them, but warranted for their investigation. I am left to wonder if they are using spy drones to surveil us as major targets of organized crime. Nah, there is no way that’s happening. I am getting way ahead of myself here. Paranoia is not a trait I am accustomed to. This is all just my mind playing a severe case of trickery. My head is drooping and I am too tired to keep it steady and straight. I dive into my bed and am asleep before I can say Donny better come through or we will not be friends forever.
The next day I am awakened at 6 a.m. with my cell phone ringing off the hook. My personal ring tone is Pearl Jam’s “Better Man.” Eddie’s voice is surprisingly soothing to my ears at this early hour. I don’t recognize the 212 area code, but I know it’s a call from New York City.
“Hello,” I say and wait as some wrong number call turns into a wonderful exchange of profanities. “Detective Longo, this is Special Agent Cynthia Shyler, FBI. Are you available today for a meeting?”
If I was standing, I would faint. Since I am lying in my bed, only shock ensues.
Agent Shyler continues, before I say a word, “I know about the rape case you had yesterday, so if it’s a bad time we can schedule it when you’re less busy.”
My thoughts shift to Cipriano and I feel compelled to say something, but my tongue can’t form the words. Before I make a fool out of myself, I have Cynthia hold on for a second. I sit straight up in my bed, staring at the wall across my room and wondering how screwed I was about to become. I tell Cynthia I am swamped all day with this rape and am completely thrown off guard by her response.
“I am outside your apartment, Matt; can I come in for a while? I really need to talk to you, and I would be doing you a disservice to wait any longer.”
I request ten minutes to change and before I am dressed, there is a knock on my door. Although I wasn’t expecting this surprise visit, I do remember how pretty Cynthia is so I throw on a pair of blue jeans, black T-shirt, and my Yankees cap. I brush my teeth and rinse faster than she can knock again. The last thing I want is death breath. I open the door to find Special Agent Shyler, fully dressed in business attire and carrying a black briefcase. She apologizes for her intrusion and lack of prior notice. The look on my face must be shocking as she smiles nervously and invites herself inside.
I gently close the metal door and promise myself not to look guilty about anything. Cynthia sits on my couch and before she says anything, her briefcase is open and her hands are rummaging through a stack of black and white photographs. I joke with her about how cheap her department is that they can’t invest in color. The look on her face is too serious, which reminds me again that the FBI doesn’t arrive at your home at six i
n the morning to shoot the bull. Cynthia is here for a reason, and it isn’t to show off her legs and tight ass.
“These photographs were taken in Italy by INTERPOL,” Cynthia says, becoming more serious by the second. “Matt, what I am about to show you is highly classified, but I feel compelled to let you know how much danger you are in at this very moment. I cannot give you too many particulars, but I can see you are a smart guy and are capable of reading between the lines. I am here on my own accord. My supervisors in New York City don’t know I am here. Can I trust you?”
“Of course,” I say, not fully understanding the question.
Cynthia sets out the photographs on my coffee table as I start to feel different about my friend, Donny. I instantly recognize him in the pictures walking with a guy I have never seen before. Cynthia lays out the particulars regarding Donny taking over for Don Carlo upon his death. The guy walking with Donny is Fabrizio Demarco, Don Carlo’s right hand man in Sicily. Fabrizio is a captain in the Mello crime family that runs all illegal enterprises in Sicily and southern Italy. Fabrizio is usually the one called upon to “take care of” any problems the family has. The family’s grasp reaches several different countries including the United States. Agent Shyler makes it clear she couldn’t care less what these guys do in Italy; her only concern is their involvement here in the States.
In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1) Page 11
