1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “About the same. What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I’ve got reason to suspect one of our cases has ties to Cleveland. You have any murders in the last six to ten months that involve a female victim, early to mid-thirties?”

  A long pause. “Which doll do you want, Detective? You just hit my number one pain-in-the-ass case on the head.”

  “What have you got?”

  “It was about seven months ago, maybe eight. Right in front of a church. Female, age thirty-four. Mary Simmons-Krasner.”

  Krasner. They went to school with a guy named Krasner, and he was sure the guy’s first name had been Richie. Didn’t he die in a car wreck? Did Nicky take his name?

  “You there?” Pollard asked.

  “Yeah, sorry. I was thinking.” A short pause, then, “Detective, how was she killed?”

  “Shot.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Combination of .38’s and 9 mm. Multiple gunshots to the head and chest.”

  Frankie nearly fell off the chair. Once in the head. Once in the heart. How many times had he said that to himself? How many times had he wondered why these guys were killed that way? Now he had an answer. Nicky was killing them that way because of her.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None.”

  “That’s it? You got nothing else for me?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  Frankie made a note to have Carol search everything for Richie Krasner. Car rentals, hotels, plane flights. If Nicky was using Richie’s name, maybe they could track him that way. Frankie grabbed his smokes and headed for the door. It was time to see Tony. No matter what goddamn lies he spit out, Tony knew what was going on and Frankie intended to find out.

  CHAPTER 62

  PRECAUTIONS

  Current Day

  As Frankie drove to Tony’s house, his cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Frankie, it’s Carol. Detective Pollard from Cleveland homicide has been trying to reach you.”

  “Give me the number.” Frankie pulled over as soon as he could and dialed.

  “Pollard.”

  “Pollard, this is Donovan from Brooklyn.”

  There was an inordinately long pause, then. “Donovan, you’re going to be pissed, but I had to do this.”

  “What?”

  “Earlier when we talked, I told you there were no witnesses, but there was one. A priest.”

  “Why did—”

  “You know the drill. I don’t know you from shit, and you call all of a sudden wanting to know about a murder that, to me, sure as shit, stinks of New York connections. And you being from Brooklyn.” Pollard paused again. “I had to check you out first, which is why I’m calling back. We said in the papers that she was alone, but she was with a guy named Richie Krasner. Supposed to be her husband, but getting married again in the church, at least from what the priest said. And he said there were at least four shooters. Anyway, Richie vanished. We haven’t been able to find shit on him. Went to the address on their licenses, but the place was empty. I mean dead empty. Not a stick of furniture, a towel, a dish. Not even a fingerprint. I’d like to keep it that way, if you know what I mean.”

  “No problem, Pollard. I appreciate this. If you ever need anything, call.” Frankie was about to hang up, when he thought of something else. “Pollard, how did you swing it for everybody to go along with this charade?”

  There followed an even longer pause than before. “Shit, Donovan, you got to keep this quiet.”

  “You know it.”

  “FBI came in shortly after the incident. I don’t even know what brought them, unless they picked something up from her prints when we ran them. Said she had ties to someone in the Witness Protection Program. Since the whole thing stunk of mob connections, I believed them. They were the ones who wanted me to keep the guy out of it.”

  Frankie smiled. “Pollard, you’ve been a big help. I owe you one for sure.”

  “Whoa. Not so fast. How does what you’re working on tie in to my case? Let’s share, Detective.”

  Frankie hesitated, but decided that what the hell, the guy had played square with him. “We’ve got some murders up here. Four of them, and we think Krasner is the one doing it.” He took a deep breath. “Listen, Pollard, this can’t go anywhere. You’d cost me my job.”

  “Keep talking. I know how to use a lead.”

  “The girl was being hunted by some well-known mob types from Brooklyn, and I think I know why. If she had connections to someone in Witness Protection, it had to have something to do with that. We figure the guy was innocent, just protecting her.”

  “And you think this guy, Krasner, is now hunting them?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Are you shitting me? Who is this Krasner?”

  “That’s just it. He’s not Richie Krasner.”

  “Damn. All right, Detective. Send me whatever you can, or at least keep me posted.”

  “I’ll keep you updated, I promise. And I really do appreciate what you did for me.” Frankie hung up and damn near sung a song. He was right about Nicky all along. He knew Nicky wouldn’t kill them without a good reason. Frankie suddenly realized something.

  Jesus Christ. He thinks it’s me. That’s what the rat shit is about. Nicky thinks I betrayed him.

  FRANKIE LOCKED HIS DOOR after he entered. It was no longer a simple precaution. If Nicky was on the loose and really after him, he needed every edge he could get, and he had to solve this fast. The problem was, he had no idea who was involved with killing Nicky’s girl. The priest said there were four of them, but there could be more. Frankie walked over and wrote on the chart.

  ‘Nicky must have known shooters. At least one of them.’

  He stepped back and stared at that. If Nicky only knew one—and Frankie would make that assumption for now—it had to be Renzo. He was the first one killed.

  And Nicky would have gone to Renzo to get the other names.

  He went back to the chart and wrote, ‘Renzo gave him other names?’ He put a question mark by it, but it felt right.

  Frankie smiled as if he had actually figured something out. Assuming Nicky knew Renzo, he could have gotten the other names from him. So that brought him back to the original question, where did Nicky know Renzo from?

  Frankie pulled up Renzo’s file. No occupation. Three arrests for gambling. No convictions. Killed in house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence at scene. Tortured before shot. A note had been added to the file about a suspected connection to Tito Martelli during his old days in Queens, but nothing proven. So the one likely connection between Nicky and Renzo was the chance they both knew Tito. One possibility. One thread. That’s all it took, though.

  One thread—Tony Sannullo.

  Frankie dialed Tony’s number.

  It took five rings for him to answer. “What the hell do you want, Bugs?”

  “Someone tried killing Nicky.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “I think it was you.”

  “Fuck you, Bugs.”

  “You know he won’t stop until he gets you, Tony. He’ll save you for last.”

  “Let him try. I’m not Nino Tortella.”

  Frankie laughed. “Oh, you’re dead, Tony. You’re dead, and you don’t even know it.” He hung up and cursed. He didn’t care about Tony anymore.

  But the stupid fuck might be taking me down with him.

  CHAPTER 63

  WHO’S NEXT

  Current Day

  Frankie jumped out of bed earlier than usual, gulped down his coffee and went to the office, marching up the steps to see Morreau.

  “What do you want, Donovan?”

  “I think I know who the killer is.”

  “This the rat-shit theory that Mazzetti told me about?” He said it without even looking up.

  It didn’t look as if Frankie would get cooperation on this. He sat in the chair. “You’d have to li
sten to the details. It’s not what Lou thinks.”

  Morreau leaned back. “I’m listening.”

  Frankie told him all he knew—which was very little, and all he suspected—which was a lot more.

  “So what are you asking for?” Morreau asked.

  “Manpower. I think he’s going to hit Tito Martelli.”

  “Let him.”

  “Yeah, I know, but we still have to protect him.”

  Morreau fiddled with his pen, took a sip of what had to be cold coffee by now—which forced Frankie to wince—then pulled out his duty schedule. After about half a minute, he shook his head and looked up. “You got Mazzetti. I can give you Higgins and Sapperstein.”

  Higgins and Sapperstein. They weren’t the best, but not bad either. “I appreciate it, boss. This might pay off.”

  “You got a week, Donovan.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Frankie said, and got out before Morreau changed his mind.

  “Hey, Donovan.”

  Bugs turned to see Mazzetti shuffling his way in. “Hey, Lou. We got help on the case—and some new leads.”

  Mazzetti didn’t laugh, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Hope it’s got nothing to do with rats.”

  “Stick it, Mazzetti.”

  “All right. Fill me in after I get some coffee.” As he walked off, he asked, “Who’d he give us for help?”

  “Higgins and Sapperstein.”

  He shrugged. “We could do worse.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too.”

  FRANKIE WENT HOME EARLY, hoping to catch a short nap before dinner. He parked the car, grabbed the bag of groceries he bought on the way home, then headed for the apartment. As he was going up the steps to the front door, he stopped. Frozen. Next to the stoop on the sidewalk lay a dead rat. He shifted the bag to his left hand, undid his coat and loosened the strap on his gun. He checked the street, then looked up to his apartment window. The shades were drawn.

  Moving back to the sidewalk, he nudged the rat with his shoe, turning it over. It was soft—a fresh kill. No visible marks. Again, he looked around, then entered the apartment building. He took the steps slower than usual, cautious about every sound, every movement.

  When he reached his door he stopped, breathed deeply. As he pulled out his gun, he set the groceries on the floor, then, with his left hand, he grabbed the key and turned the lock as quietly as he could. He crept into the apartment, safety off, entering low. After a few steps, he knew no one was there. Could sense it. He stood, closed the door, and cleared the place, but found nothing. With his gun back in the holster, he checked the window, trying to see if he was being watched. The only likely surveillance spot was a bodega on the corner.

  Frankie opened the door, brought in the groceries—which he had damn near forgotten about—then went to the corner. He waited until a customer left the store then flashed a picture of Nicky at the guy behind the counter. “Ever see him?”

  The guy gave it a glance. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look again,” Frankie said, jabbing the picture with his finger.

  The guy looked again. “What do you want me to say, that I saw him? Okay, I saw him.”

  “I don’t want bullshit. You did or you didn’t.”

  The store owner leaned over the counter. “I don’t think so.”

  “Fuck.” Frankie handed him a card. “Call me if you see him.”

  He walked back to his apartment on full alert.

  I know that fucker is watching me. Tito might be next, but he’s coming here too. As he climbed his steps for the second time, he wondered if Tony was being watched. And Paulie.

  Well, fuck you, Nicky, if you think—

  “Hey, FD. How’s it going?”

  Bugs looked over to see Alex sitting beside the stoop, flipping a coin. He hadn’t noticed him coming up.

  “Hey, Ace. Going good here. What are you doing?”

  “Trying to decide what to do. Heads, I go steal some smokes from my mom’s boyfriend. Tails, I wait till he leaves and see if he left any money.”

  “Money?”

  “Sometimes he leaves me money if I go outside and wait while he’s…you know, with my mom.” He flipped the coin, but when he looked at it, a frown appeared.

  “What?” Bugs asked.

  “Tails,” he said, with a sigh.

  Bugs pulled a few smokes from his pack. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but here, take these. But you need to quit before you can’t make it up the steps anymore.”

  “You can still climb the steps.” His words carried the defiance of the young.

  “For now.” Images of Lou Mazzetti panting for breath came to mind; Frankie shuddered. “I need to quit too.”

  He trudged up the steps, slower than usual, perhaps not wanting to know if he did get out of breath. He opened his door and went in. He set his stuff on the table, grabbed a bottle of water, and sat on the sofa. Thoughts of Nicky and Tony rolled around in his mind. He was tired of their shit. What the hell was he—a cop, or a gangster? He couldn’t afford to live in the middle anymore. Bugs reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and flipped it, covering it up as it hit the back side of his hand. Heads he was a cop, tails a gangster.

  He kept his hand covered for a long time. First he couldn’t make a decision on his own. Now he didn’t even have the courage to let fate decide for him.

  “Fuck them,” he said, and put the coin back in his pocket without looking. “I’m a cop, and they’re both going down.”

  CHAPTER 64

  RULE NUMBER FOUR:

  MURDER IS INVISIBLE

  Current Day

  I got up early, drove to the park and let the car sit, then walked the rest of the way. All through the morning, I thought about how to kill Johnny Muck. He deserved something special. But he wouldn’t be easy. Johnny Muck was in a constant state of tension, ever-ready to strike out at someone. And if he struck, it was to kill. He had been a good teacher. Competent. Thorough. But everyone had a weakness. What was his?

  I thought about it. He lived his life on alert. Never did anything as routine. Didn’t shop on the same days, not even in the same places. Went to different gas stations, laundries, fruit stands. He seldom took the same routes anywhere he went, even if it meant going miles out of the way. He always suspected tails, so he was nearly impossible to follow. He would slow down, wait until a light turned yellow, then run it, all the while checking to see if anyone followed.

  I tried to think of what Johnny liked. He ate almost any kind of food, so he didn’t frequent one restaurant. He never went to the movies, not that I knew. As I pondered the situation, it finally hit me. Johnny loved his windshield to be clean. He always complained about dirty windshields, and was one of the few people who liked the window-washers who used to assault people at the streetlights. After Giuliani cracked down on them, it was tough to get your windows cleaned. Johnny used to look for guys who still did it. That could be my ticket. I just had to think of a plan.

  It took me a while to figure it out, but after having no luck trying to follow Johnny, I narrowed my scope down to a few streets where I knew that sooner or later, he would go by. One of them was Flatbush Avenue by Prospect Park. Johnny loved to drive by the park, though I don’t think he knew it was a habit. Once I remembered that, I used Johnny’s own rules to catch him. I disguised myself as one of the homeless window washers with old clothes from Goodwill, let my beard grow out to be scruffy, and pulled a dirty cap down far enough to cover my forehead. Dirt smudges on my face combined to round out the effect. I waited on the corner of one of the routes he’d probably take to get out of Brooklyn from Tito’s place, one that took him by the park. Had to wait eight days to finally catch him coming that way, and to get him at a red light. When I saw his car coming, I got up, made sure to use my best limp, and moved toward his car.

  “Window washed, mister?” I asked as I pointed toward his windshield.

  “If you can hurry.”

  I washed as fast as I could while
faking the limp, and all the while, making sure my face was above his range of view. I pretended to drop something, and as I fumbled, I slipped a magnetic GPS under the wheel rim. By then the light was changing. I grabbed a few bucks from him and beat a hasty retreat.

  Three hours later, I found the car, removed the GPS, then waited until morning to see him come out of his house. It was a nice little neighborhood in Valley Stream about fifteen miles from Tito’s place. Single home with a well-kept yard and a detached garage out back.

  You’re mine now, Johnny.

  That weekend I went to the hardware store just off Interstate 87 in New Jersey. It was a Saturday morning. No one would remember a face from a busy day like this. Aisle four had some of what I needed. I picked up one pound of sixteen-penny nails, four one-inch eye hooks, and a small drill, and put them all in the basket. The tool section had a nice twenty-two ounce claw hammer. Good grip on it too. Duct tape, superglue and rope rounded out the shopping list, which I paid for in the longest line, then loaded it in the trunk and returned to New York.

  I prepared things meticulously. One of my prison contacts had hooked me up with a guy who worked at Animal Control, and through a simple exchange using P.O. boxes, he got me a handgun with tranquilizer darts, ones guaranteed to put down a two-hundred pound animal within seconds. I figured it would work on humans, too.

  I WATCHED FOR A week. Johnny didn’t seem to have any particular routine when he got home. No traps seemed to be set, no alarms needed to be turned off. He simply parked the car, got out and walked in. When he got there, he used a key to get in. Nothing unusual. I went to the house twice during the day when he wasn’t home and knocked on the door—no dogs, and no one else answered. I risked going in. It might be safer to take him somewhere else, I figured, but I wanted it done here.

  I checked the neighborhood for escape routes—always good to know the area. The whole neighborhood was full of single-family houses with detached garages and open yards—perfect for getting out easy. Six blocks away was a subway station, and maybe twelve or thirteen blocks in the other direction was a mall. Either would be good for what I had in mind. With my preparation done, I decided to move ahead.