1 Murder Takes Time
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Rule Number One—Murder Takes Time
Chapter 2: A Big Mistake
Chapter 3: Ties to the Past
Chapter 4: With Life Comes Death
Chapter 5: Coppers
Chapter 6: Confession
Chapter 7: Investigation
Chapter 8: The Oath
Chapter 9: Mikey “The Face” Fagullo
Chapter 10: More Evidence
Chapter 11: Angela
Chapter 12: A Stacked Deck
Chapter 13: What’s in a Name?
Chapter 14: Roach Races
Chapter 15: Forbidden Fruit
Chapter 16: More Charts
Chapter 17: A New Direction
Chapter 18: A Gathering of Friends
Chapter 19: Thoughts of Death
Chapter 20: Death Is Forever
Chapter 21: Confinement
Chapter 22: Bad News Never Stops
Chapter 23: Another Funeral
Chapter 24: Things in Common
Chapter 25: Reformation
Chapter 26: Marriage Lasts Forever
Chapter 27: Release
Chapter 28: A Cleansing of the Soul
Chapter 29: Where Is the Evidence?
Chapter 30: Reunion
Chapter 31: Questioning
Chapter 32: A New Job
Chapter 33: Very Good Friends
Chapter 34: Johnny Muck
Chapter 35: Johnny Muck Takes an Apprentice
Chapter 36: Donnie Amato
Chapter 37: An Unexpected Call
Chapter 38: Special Delivery
Chapter 39: DNA Doesn’t Lie
Chapter 40: Motives
Chapter 41: A Busy Year
Chapter 42: Oaths and Friends
Chapter 43: Happy Birthday, Tony
Chapter 44: A New Assignment
Chapter 45: Advice
Chapter 46: A Long-lost Letter
Chapter 47: Rule Number Two—Murder Has Consequences
Chapter 48: Tough Decisions
Chapter 49: Indianapolis
Chapter 50: Tony and Tito Have Lunch
Chapter 51: Shattered Oath
Chapter 52: Where to Now?
Chapter 53: A New Life
Chapter 54: Late-night Call
Chapter 55: Rule Number Three—Murder Takes Patience
Chapter 56: Who Is Watching?
Chapter 57: Things in Common
Chapter 58: You Can’t Hide Forever
Chapter 59: Caught
Chapter 60: Say Goodbye to Cleveland
Chapter 61: Call from Cleveland
Chapter 62: Precautions
Chapter 63: Who’s Next
Chapter 64: Rule Number Four—Murder Is Invisible
Chapter 65: Martyrs and Saints
Chapter 66: Begging for Help
Chapter 67: Rattus Rattus
Chapter 68: Watching the Watchers
Chapter 69: Judgment Day
Chapter 70: A New Shopping List
Chapter 71: A Long Wait
Chapter 72: Rule Number Five—Murder Is A Promise
Chapter 73: Trapped
Chapter 74: Old Memories
Epilogue
MURDER
TAKES
TIME
Giacomo Giammatteo
INFERNO PUBLISHING COMPANY
© Copyright 2012 Giacomo Giammatteo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Electronic Edition
Inferno Publishing Company
For more information about this book, visit
www.giacomogiammatteo.com
Print ISBN 978-0-9850302-0-9
Electronic ISBN 978-0-9850302-1-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
It is not the oath that makes us believe the man, but the man the oath.
– Aeschylus
CHAPTER 1
RULE NUMBER ONE:
MURDER TAKES TIME
Brooklyn, New York—Current Day
He sipped the last of a shitty cup of coffee and stared across the street at Nino Tortella, the guy he was going to kill. Killing was an art, requiring finesse, planning, skill—and above all—patience. Patience had been the most difficult to learn. The killing came naturally. He cursed himself for that. Prayed to God every night for the strength to stop. But so far God hadn’t answered him, and there were still a few more people that needed killing.
The waitress leaned forward to refill his cup, her cleavage a hint that more than coffee was being offered. “You want more?”
He waved a hand—Nino was heading towards his car. “Just the check, please.”
From behind her ear she pulled a yellow pencil, tucked into a tight bun of red hair, then opened the receipt book clipped to the pocket of her apron. Cigarette smoke lingered on her breath, almost hidden by the gum she chewed.
Spearmint, he thought, and smiled. It was his favorite, too.
He waited for her to leave, scanned the table and booth, plucked a few strands of hair from the torn cushion and a fingernail clipping from the windowsill. After putting them into a small plastic bag, he wiped everything with a napkin. The check was $4.28. He pulled a five and a one from his money clip and left them on the table. As he moved to the door he glanced out the window. Nino already left the lot, but it was Thursday, and on Thursdays Nino stopped for pizza.
He parked three blocks from Nino’s house, finding a spot where the snow wasn’t piled high at the curb. After pulling a black wool cap over his forehead, he put leather gloves on, raised the collar on his coat then grabbed his black sports bag. Favoring his left leg, he walked down the street, dropping his eyes if he passed someone. The last thing he wanted was a witness remembering his face.
He counted the joints in the concrete as he walked. Numbers forced him to think logically, kept his mind off what he had to do. He didn’t want to kill Nino. He had to. It seemed as if all of his life he was doing things he didn’t want to do. He shook his head, focused on the numbers again.
When he drew near the house, he cast a quick glance to ensure the neighbors’ cars weren’t there. The door took less than thirty seconds to open. He kept his hat and gloves on, walked into the kitchen, and set his bag on the counter. He removed a pair of tongs and a shot glass, and set them on the coffee table. A glance around the room had him straightening pictures and moving dirty dishes to the sink. A picture of an older woman stared at him from a shelf above an end table. Might be his mother, he thought, and gently set it face down. Back to the kitchen. He opened the top of the black bag and removed two smaller bags. He set one in the fridge and took the other with him.
The contents of the second bag—hair and other items—he spread throughout the living room. The crime scene unit would get a kick out of that. He did one final check, removed a baseball bat from the bag, then sat on the couch behind the door. The bat lay on the cushion beside him. While he stretched his legs and leaned back, he thought about Nino. It would be easy to just shoot him, but that wouldn’t be fair. Renzo suffered for what he did; Nino should too. He remembered Mamma Rosa’s warnings, that the things people did would come back to haunt them. Nino would pay the price now.
A car pulled into the driveway. He sat up straight and gripped the bat.
There was a black sports bag on the kitchen table. Wasn’t there before, Nino thought. A shiver ran down his spine. He felt a presence in the house. Before he could turn, something slammed into his back. His right kidney exploded with pain.
“Goddamn.” Nino dropped the pizza, stumbled, and fell to the floor. His right side felt on fire. As his left shoulder collided with the hardwood floor, a bat hit him just above the wrist. The snap of bones sounded just before the surge of pain.
“Fuck.” He rolled to the side and reached for his gun.
The bat swung again.
Nino’s ribs cracked like kindling. Something sharp jabbed deep inside him. His mouth filled with a warm coppery taste. Nino recognized the man who stood above him. “Anything you want,” he said. “Just kill me quick.”
THE BAT STRUCK NINO’S knee, the crunch of bones drowned by his screams. The man stared at Nino. Let him cry. “I got Renzo last month. You hear about that?”
Nino nodded.
He tapped Nino’s pocket with his foot, felt a gun. “If you reach for the gun, I’ll hit you again.”
Another nod.
He knelt next to Nino, took the shot glass from the coffee table. “Open your mouth.”
Nino opened his eyes wide and shook his head.
The man grabbed the tongs, shoved one end into the side of Nino’s mouth, and squeezed the handles, opening the tongs wide. When he had Nino’s mouth pried open enough, he shoved the shot glass in. It was a small shot glass, but to Nino it must have seemed big enough to hold a gallon. Nino tried screaming, but couldn’t. Couldn’t talk either, with the glass in there. Nino’s head bobbed, and he squirmed. Nothing but grunts came out—fear-tinged mumbles coated with blood.
The man stood, glared at Nino. Gripped the bat with both hands. “You shouldn’t have done it.”
A dark stain spread on the front of Nino’s pants. The stench of excrement filled the room. He stared at Nino, raised the bat over his head, and swung. Nino’s lips burst open, splitting apart from both sides. Teeth shattered, some flying out, others embedding into the flesh of his cheeks. The shot glass exploded. Glass dug deep gouges into his tongue, severing the front of it. Shards of glass pierced his lips and tunneled into his throat.
He stared at Nino’s face, the strips of torn flesh covered in blood. He gulped. Almost stopped. But then he thought about what Nino had done, and swung the bat one more time. After that, Nino Tortella lay still.
He returned to the kitchen and took a small box from the bag on the counter then went back to the living room. Inside the box were more hairs, blood, skin, and other evidence. He spread the items over and around the body then made a final trip to the kitchen to clean up. He undressed and placed his clothes into a large plastic bag, tied it, and set it inside the black bag. He took out a change of clothes, including shoes and plastic covers for them. Careful not to step in any blood, he went back to stand over the body.
Nino lay in his own piss, shit, and blood, eyes wide-open, mouth agape.
You should never have done it, Nino.
He blessed himself with the sign of the cross while he repeated the Trinitarian formula. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Then he shot Nino. Once in the head. Once in the heart. An eye for an eye. And then some.
Before stepping out the door, he removed the plastic covers for his shoes, placed them into the bag, then closed and locked the door behind him. The wind had picked up since he arrived, bringing a cold bite with it. He turned his collar up and tucked his head into his chest.
Forgive me, Father, for what I have done.
He walked two more blocks, almost to the car, when an image of Donnie Amato appeared in his head.
And for what I still have to do.
CHAPTER 2
A BIG MISTAKE
Four of Tony Sannullo’s men waited outside of Cataldi’s restaurant, alert for signs of trouble. A gold Lexus pulled up, and a big man dressed in a Brioni suit stepped out. Paulie “The Suit" Perlano straightened his blue silk tie, ran a comb through a full head of dark hair, then walked up to the guys gathered by the door.
“Hey, Suit,” one of them called.
“Hey, Paulie,” another said.
“Anyone tell Tony yet?”
Four heads shook at once. “You fuckin’ tell him,” one of them said.
Paulie stood on his toes and peeked in the window. Tony “The Brain” Sannullo sat alone at a round table that seated six, his back against the wall. An espresso sat to the right of his crossword puzzle, and he chewed on the end of a ballpoint pen. Despite the advice he’d received all of his life, Tony was a creature of habit. On Friday mornings he took his espresso, along with breakfast, at Cataldi’s.
Paulie shook his head then walked up three steps to go inside. “He’s not gonna like it.”
Anna Cataldi greeted him. “Buongiorno, Paulie. Beautiful day, huh?”
“That depends,” Paulie said, but then he laughed. He had an easy laugh, the kind that came from frequent use. “How you doin’, Anna? How’s that new baby?”
“Good, Paulie. And your kids?”
“Hey, Anna, kids are kids. They’re always good. Pains in the ass, but good.” As they walked toward the back, Paulie asked, “He in a good mood?”
Anna raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “It’s February.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Yeah,” she said, and waved Paulie on.
He headed toward Tony’s table, the rumbling in his gut a combination of hunger and nerves.
Tony scratched in one of the final answers of his crossword as Paulie came to the table. “When are you gonna dress like the rest of us, Paulie? Nobody wears suits anymore.”
Paulie fidgeted with his silverware while he stared at Tony’s crossword. “Still got a few to do, huh?” Nobody liked to interrupt Tony’s crosswords.
“You got a seven-letter word for radiant or dazzlingly bright?”
“Sure, Tony. It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”
“Starts with an ‘f.’”
“Yeah, I got one—fucking—as in fucking brilliant.”
“That’s my buddy Paulie. I knew I could count on you.” Tony chewed on the end of his pen while the waiter brought another espresso for him and a new one for Paulie. “Fulgent. That’s the word I was looking for.”
Paulie fidgeted more. Might as well spit it out. “Okay, Mr. Fulgent, if you can take your nose out of that puzzle for a minute, I got something to tell you.”
“What?”
“Nino Tortella got clipped last night.”
“Shit.” Tony slapped the table. “How?”
“Same as Renzo.”
“You know what this means.”
“Yeah, I know. There’s no way Nino didn’t talk. Might be a couple of guys smart enough not to talk, but not Nino.”
“Anybody seen Donnie Amato?”
Paulie sipped his espresso. “I called. Got no answer.”
“Send a couple of guys to warn him.”
“You know how hardheaded Donnie is. He thinks he can handle himself.”
Tony slugged the last of his espresso. “Fat chance of that.” He tossed two twenties on the table. “I’ve got to call Tito. Catch up with me later.”
Paulie narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”
“You know who’s doing this.”
“We shouldn’t have done it, Tony. It was wrong from the get go.”
“Tell me about it,” Tony said, and headed for the door. Lot more people are gonna die now.
CHAPTER 3
TIES TO THE PAST
Detective Lou Mazzetti pulled to the curb and got out of the car, his creased Oxford loafers splashing slush onto frayed pant cuffs. He buttoned his coat, positioned his hat to cover a bald spot, then went up the walk toward the old brick house. The house was still in nice shape—most were in this neighborhood, a community of predominantly Italian and Irish, but with a good mix of Poles and a smattering of Jews. Lou nodded to a patrolman stationed at the door as he climbed the steps. Today he felt as tired as he was old.
“How is it?” Lou asked.
“Neighbors didn’t hear anything, but they didn’t get home till late.” The patrolman shook his head. “Looks the same as the first one.”
Same as the first one. A disturbing thought, but as Lou examined the scene it proved to be true: dead male shot once in the head, once in the heart. And damn near every bone in his body broken. No shell casings, and he felt certain the crime scene unit would find hairs, blood, skin, and DNA from a wide assortment of people. Lou looked at the medical examiner, Kate Burns, a pretty girl with skin as pale and freckled as her Irish name suggested. “Anything?”
Kate shook her head, wrapped up her kit and tucked it into a bag. “I’m sure we got his DNA, but it’s mixed in with the rest.”
“Process it all.”
“I’ll process it, but unless you get something more, it won’t do you a damn bit of good.”
DETECTIVE FRANKIE DONOVAN STEPPED through the door and wiped slush from his Moreschi shoes using a monogrammed handkerchief. He unbuttoned his cashmere coat, hung it on a rack behind the door, then surveyed the crime scene with the hazel eyes he inherited from his father. Rumor was he got the Irish luck from his father, too, but that’s where the gifts stopped. The dark skin, bold nose, and brown hair came from his Sicilian mother, along with a birthmark on his neck, which his grandfather swore resembled a map of Sicily. It was a dark pigment, almost black, and it sat just below and left of a solid, square jaw that looked as if it might shatter. He’d had it hit enough times to know it wouldn’t.
“I just ran into Kate. She said we got nothing.”