Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

“You still running?”

  “When I can. Five miles a day on nice days. No rain or shit.”

  “My man,” he said and flashed his gold. “You been back a while and just now come to see me. I’m guessing it has to do with Bobby Campisi.”

  “I was hoping you’d be connected like that. I need to know what happened, what got him killed, who he dealt with, and, of course, the ultimate, who killed him?”

  Monroe’s laugh was genuine, and loud, and contagious. I almost found myself laughing along with him. “And you expect me to give you all this? For what?”

  “Old times, I guess. I’ve got no money.”

  Monroe got up and came back with a few beers, tossing one to me. We talked about Campisi, about the state of the world, about old times, and we generally had fun. I liked this guy, despite what he did. Before I knew it, a couple of hours had gone by. He looked at his watch and stood. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll put the word out, see what I can do for you. I ain’t making no promises, but…I’d bet I can find out something.”

  I hugged him, thanked him for the beers, and made my way out.

  “You need an escort?” he asked as I walked out the door.

  It was my turn to laugh. I was still laughing halfway up the block.

  ***

  DuPree looked out the window at Nicky through cracked blinds. “What the fuck’s that white dude laughing about. I should have shut his fucking mouth when I saw him.”

  Monroe laughed so loud, the others joined him and didn’t even know why. Then Monroe leaned toward DuPree and stared at him. “Nigger, let me tell you something. You ever try to kill that white dude, he’ll take you out before your thoughts are clear. You know who the fuck that was?”

  DuPree said nothing, his face as hard as steel.

  Monroe smiled. “That was Nicky ‘the Rat’ Fusco. And there’s only one thing you need to know about Rat—he don’t care if you’re white or black or orange; he’ll kill you just the same. And when The Rat kills somebody, it ain’t fun.”

  DuPree swallowed hard. His eyes showed he recognized the name, or at least the reputation.

  Monroe nodded. “Yeah, that’s right, nigger. The Rat.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Dreams of Dying

  Brooklyn, New York

  Tom Jackson watched from across the street, checking to see who came and what they brought for backup. He saw the SWAT team and the other detectives, the old man and that young sexy black thing. Maybe he’d fuck her when this was all done with. Tie her up and show her what a real man was.

  He looked over at Lisa. “What do you think? Should I fuck the black bitch?”

  “I think you better tell me where my mother is, goddamnit.”

  Tom laughed. “You didn’t like me fucking the girl, did you?” Lisa didn’t answer. “I know you didn’t. But it serves you right for what you did. Maybe that’ll teach you a lesson.”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  Tom closed the blinds and turned toward Lisa. “I killed her.”

  Lisa narrowed her eyes. “Killed who?”

  “The old hag. Your mother.”

  Lisa’s head started shaking side to side, slow at first, then faster. Then she exploded toward Tom, hands outstretched, nails scratching at his face. “Noooo!”

  Tom grabbed one of her hands and twisted it behind her back. He kicked her legs out from under her, toppling her to the floor. She landed with a thud, and then he kicked her in the back. “If you rouse the neighbors, I’ll kill you.”

  A scream erupted from Lisa, but Tom silenced her by stomping on her stomach, taking all the wind from her lungs. He picked her up, dragged her to the bed, and gagged her. Afterwards he tied her hands and feet. “Guess you used up all your luck, old girl.”

  ***

  Frankie leaned on the railing, smoking his third cigarette since they arrived, and wondering what was taking Kate so long. “What do you think, Miller? What do the mea culpas mean?”

  “More importantly, where is Lisa Jackson? And who is this?” Sherri nodded back to the room. “That’s a young kid. No way she fits in with the other two.”

  Lou grabbed Frankie’s cigarette and took a drag then handed it back to him. “And did Jackson do it, or was she part of it.”

  Frankie looked at Lou as if he were nuts. “Did you just take my smoke?”

  “I think I did, yeah. I’m trying to save you, for Christ’s sake. Make you smoke a little less.”

  “She had to at least be part of it,” Sherri said. “The big question is how much a part.”

  The sound of footsteps brought their attention to the end of the walk. Kate Burns and a few of her lab techs were coming up.

  Kate waved. “Good to see you again, Frankie. You, too, Sherri.” Kate frowned. “And even you, Mazzetti.”

  “I get the picture now,” Lou said. “It’s Frankie and Sherri on a first name basis, but then it’s Mazzetti.”

  Kate smiled and smacked him on the arm. “What have we got today?”

  “Same killer. Different type of vic. This one’s a young girl.”

  “Messages?”

  “Mea maxima culpa,” Lou said.

  “So, our Latin is expanding. If he keeps going, we’ll run out of body parts.”

  “This one was stretching it,” Sherri said. “She was still a teenager from the looks of it, and as skinny as they all are nowadays.”

  Kate walked into the room and shook her head. “Damn shame is what it is. I hate to see the young ones.”

  Sherri studied the body, then looked to Kate. “Could a woman be doing this?”

  Kate cocked her head, her eyebrows raised. “I want to say no, but it’s possible. It would be a first for me to see a woman doing such brutal killing, but it’s happened before.” She removed her gloves and put them in a bag. “She could be the accomplice, though. I’m still convinced it’s two killers, although the second vic didn’t show signs of that.”

  “You really think a woman could be the accomplice?” Frankie asked.

  “As I told Lou before, it looks to me like two people are doing this. I’d almost bet on one of them being a woman. Or…”

  “Or what?” Lou asked.

  “Or it could be the male lover of the other.”

  “Tell me about it,” Frankie said.

  “The wounds are tentative, as if the second person doesn’t want to do it. So either they aren’t into it, or they’re being controlled by the other person.”

  Frankie turned to Sherri. “Suddenly I’m feeling like a stupid ass. We need to get into Jackson’s apartment.”

  Lou put a smoke in his mouth but kept it unlit. “I already called for a warrant. Morreau said he’d have it hand-delivered to the judge. No problem getting one now, not with Lisa being either a suspect or a potential vic.”

  Frankie cracked his knuckles while he thought. “Okay, Lou. Tell them to meet us at her place with a warrant. We’re going over now.” He turned to Kate. “If you get anything exciting, call me.”

  Kate made eyes at him. “Could I just whistle, Detective? I do know how to whistle.”

  Frankie’s laughter echoed as he raced down the steps. “That’s why I love you, Kate Burns. You’re the only M.E. I know who can recite old movie dialogue.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Eyewitnesses

  Wilmington, Delaware

  Jimmy Borelli stopped by our house around dinner time the next day. People always seemed to stop by our house at dinner. I wondered if it was because of Angie’s reputation for great cooking, and of inviting everyone in to eat. Angie greeted him as if he were a long lost friend.

  “Jimmy Borelli, what a surprise. Come in, please.” Angie opened the door and stepped aside. “We’re just getting ready to eat. You must be hungry.” Angie wiped her hands on her apron and steered him to a chair at the head of the table, opposite me.

  “Mrs. Fusco, I—”

  Angie shot him a look that said everything, one of those “don’t you dare call me Mrs. Fusco” look
s. Nothing else was required. “Rosa, get Mr. Borelli a glass of wine, please.” She emphasized the mister, so Jimmy got the point quickly, settling into his chair with no more objections.

  Rosa held back a chuckle. “Sure, Mom. Hi, Detective Borelli. How are you?”

  Jimmy shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “Fine, Rosa. Thanks.”

  He looked to me. I shrugged and raised my eyebrows—one of those universal signs that men have to let the other guy know things were now beyond his control. “So what brings you, Jimmy?”

  Angie was just setting the last of the dishes on the table as I said this, and it earned me a smack on the arm. “Time enough for that after supper,” Angie said.

  She sat and folded her hands, another silent signal that it was time for me to say grace. I didn’t know if the girls had special classes after school that we didn’t know about, or if it was something their mothers taught them, but somewhere, somehow, they learned their signals. And they were all good at making them. I made up my mind that in a later life, I’d find out. For now, though, I folded my hands to say the blessing.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”

  We started eating after grace and Jimmy dug in as if it were his first meal of the day, stuffing ravioli in his mouth one after the other. “I swear, Angela, these are fantastic.”

  “Thanks,” Angie said, “but Rosa actually cooked these. She helps me all the time.”

  I smiled at Angie. These were leftovers, which most women would have been embarrassed to serve to begin with, offering apologies, and excuses, but Angie never was that type. She offered a guest what we had and never looked back. I checked off another reason I loved her.

  Jimmy turned to Rosa. “I can’t believe you cooked this. My kids—” He stopped suddenly and seemed uneasy, then he regrouped and continued. “Let’s just say they can’t cook like this.”

  “Detective Borelli, how is Pete?” Rosa asked. “The kids at school said he was sick.”

  Jimmy swallowed hard, and looked away from Rosa, sipping his wine. “He’s doing better. Thanks for asking. But tell me, how did you make this ravioli? I need to tell Cindy about it.”

  As we finished the meal, Rosa made us coffee and brought two cups to the table. “Would you like some grappa in it, Mr. Borelli?”

  Jimmy’s eyes lit up. “That would be great, Rosa. Thanks.”

  We made idle chat for a few more minutes, and then, when Angie finished, she got Rosa to help her with the dishes. After we finished the coffee, I poured more wine and invited Jimmy out front to talk. Play time was over. As we stepped onto the stoop and closed the door, I turned to him. “What the fuck is going on?”

  He held up his hands. “Hold on. You—”

  “All I know is you had a couple of fucking imbeciles following Rosa around and scaring her half to death.” I was shaking I was so pissed. “They’re goddamn lucky I didn’t kill them.”

  Borelli raised his own voice, going into protective mode on his men. “They made a mistake. I know that and I chewed their asses out.”

  That settled me down a bit, but there was still a lot more to answer for. “So why were you following her?”

  Jimmy gulped, again, like he had at dinner. “Rumors are that Rosa knows something about Bobby’s killer, that—”

  “Bullshit. And you know it.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just telling you what’s on the street. You don’t believe me, check it out. You’ve got contacts.”

  Borelli handed me his wine glass. “Tell Angie and Rosa thanks for the dinner. I’ve got to go. And by the way, I heard from Marty Ferris. I guess you didn’t kill him after all.”

  “So that’s it? No apology?”

  I watched him go down the walk and wondered if there was even a shred of truth to what he said. I hated to question Rosa on something that would get her angry; we’d had enough trouble of late, but I couldn’t leave this alone, either. After taking the wine glasses to the kitchen, I turned to Rosa. “We need to talk.”

  Angie looked at me, surprised, but Rosa didn’t seem surprised at all. That told me a lot. We went to the living room, where Rosa sat on the sofa opposite my chair. Her mother sat next to her. I leaned forward, hands folded and resting on my legs. “Rosa, Detective Borelli said the reason those officers were following you is because you know something about Bobby Campisi’s murder.”

  She sighed and turned her head while Angie denied that Rosa could have any involvement.

  “Angela Fusco,” I said, commanding her attention. “I’m not an interrogator for the Nazi regime. I’m Rosa’s father, and I’m asking her a question. No need for your protection.”

  I turned to Rosa, waiting for an answer.

  “Maybe he means because I’ve been asking around the school a lot.”

  “Why have you been asking around school about it?”

  She still wouldn’t look at me. “Just because.”

  “Just because is not good enough. I need answers.”

  Tears formed in her eyes, and she fought to hold them back, but they came out, mixed with her words. “I’m trying to clear your name.”

  It was my turn for confusion. “Clear my name? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, God.” Frustration had risen to the surface now. “People talk, Dad. They say you killed Bobby.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” I stood, pacing.

  Anger replaced her frustration. Rosa stood, facing me. “Bullshit or not, that’s what they’re saying. Some of the kids can’t even hang out with me.”

  “Do you know something or not?”

  She hesitated, cooking up a lie is what I figured. “I heard some kids might have seen something by the railroad tracks that night.”

  I perked up at that. “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t tell me? This is serious.”

  “These are my friends. I rat them out, and I’m shit from then on.”

  Angie jumped up. “Rosa, watch your mouth.”

  She turned to Angie. “It’s true, Mom.”

  I was ready to hit the wall. “So you’d take sides against family? If that’s the way you want to be, fine. From now until I say differently, you can’t see your friends and you can’t see Mike Riley. You’ll learn. These kids are only your friends; we are your family.”

  Rosa’s laugh cut deep. “Is that a joke? Mom worries and prays every day, and people say you’re a killer.”

  I moved quickly to her, almost slapped her, but stopped myself.

  “Go ahead, slap me,” Rosa said.

  “I’ve never been convicted—”

  “I know, Dad. Never been convicted of murder. So deny it.” She glared at me. “I dare you to swear on the Bible and deny it.”

  “Get the Bible.”

  She started for the dining room, where her mother kept it in a drawer. Angie’s cry stopped her.

  “Enough! I won’t have this in my house. There will be no swearing on Bibles in this house. Not now. Not ever.”

  Rosa was not placated. “Forget the Bible. Swear to it on Mamma Rosa’s soul. Go ahead.”

  Angie smacked her so hard and so fast, it knocked Rosa to the side. Then she advanced on Rosa with death in her eyes. “You want someone to swear. I’ll swear. I’ll swear that if you ever say anything like that again I’ll make you wish you were…”

  Rosa was holding her cheek and crying. She reached over and hugged her mother, laying her head on Angie’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean it.”

  “You need to tell your father that.”

  Rosa turned to me and bawled even more. She was at that stage where emotions were all over the place, the teenage rollercoaster ride. “I didn’t mean it, Dad. Promise I didn’t. You know I love you.”

  I hugged her back and buried my face in her hair, mostly to hide my own tears. “I know. I didn’t mean it either. Sometimes we just get carried away and say thing
s we don’t mean.” I hugged her some more then said, “I love you, Rosa. More than you could know.”

  The rest of the evening was tense. We had a lot of forced conversation and fake laughter, but by the time we went to bed, things had gotten better. As I lay in bed that night, I thought about quitting on Frankie, calling him up and saying I couldn’t do it anymore. This case was tearing my family apart and that was something I couldn’t allow.

  CHAPTER 39

  Everyone Trusts a Nun

  Wilmington, Delaware

  At breakfast Rosa told me that Jimmy Borelli’s kid hadn’t been to school in almost two weeks. Strange to be out sick so long, I thought, and made a note to ask around. Last night, I noticed something wasn’t right when Rosa asked him how his kid was doing. Too many things weren’t adding up, and they were all connected to this case.

  Sister Thomas called while I was at work and said the kids who witnessed what happened wanted to meet me. I told her I couldn’t make it until after work, so we agreed to meet then. I parked the car at my house, deciding to walk since it was such a nice day. I grabbed a small notepad and pen before heading out the door. I walked up Beech Street to Clayton and took a right toward the school. A smile popped on my face as I passed Canby Park. What fun we had there as kids, climbing rocks that seemed as big as mountains. I looked down toward the old pool; the rocks were still there, looming above the sidewalk in front of the swimming pool, but as I looked at them I realized they were no more than three or four feet high. An insurmountable climb for a little kid.

  The small stone wall was there too, the one we used as the judgment for a home run when we played step ball. Hitting the wall was a double, and going over was a home run, just like in the majors. A far cry from the fields kids played on nowadays. I shook my head as I thought about it. We were happier then, playing on a sidewalk or in the street with sticks, than the kids now with all the equipment money can buy.

  I looked to the left, at the church standing tall atop the hill, and blessed myself. It held many memories too, not all of them fond. Taking advantage of a lapse in traffic, I crossed the street at a leisurely pace, then walked up the steps into the school. I felt ten years old again, walking into that building again, going to see Sister Thomas. I smiled at the thought of her. She’d be sitting at her desk, working on papers, or, she’d be cleaning the room, even at her age. I wondered if that was what kept nuns so alive and healthy—their penchant for keeping busy, both physically and mentally. Mamma Rosa used to say so, and I put a lot of faith in what she said.