Follow the Money (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 3)

by Gina LaManna

  “This was just before it happened,” I breathed, letting my fingers run down the edges of the photograph. “How could we have been so happy? How could you have let us be so happy if you knew it would all come crashing down?”

  “I have done things I’m not proud of.” My father approached from one side, the floor creaking under his weight. “But I’ve done many things I’m proud of, too. You girls—all three of you—are my proudest accomplishments.”

  I stared longer at the picture of happiness.

  “I can’t take credit for raising you girls. That was all your mother, but I have to say, she did a wonderful job.”

  “How would you know?”

  “This picture isn’t a lie,” he said, his voice falling thin and raspy. “I loved your mother more than life itself. I still love her; those feelings don’t just go away because we’re no longer together.”

  “But you left her.”

  “No, I didn’t. She left me.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was for the best,” my father said. “I could see that. So, I didn’t send post cards. I didn’t write letters after the first few. Your mother asked me to keep my distance, and that was the least I could do for her. For you and Jane.”

  We stood in awkward silence for an extended moment.

  Eventually, I caved, let my hands fall to my side. “What do you want me to say?”

  My father watched me carefully, scanned my eyes and my face and my posture. I couldn’t tell if it was because he was my dad, or because he’d been a cop, or because he had a knack for reading people—both good and bad guys alike—but it felt like he’d X-rayed my very soul.

  He turned abruptly, gestured to the picture next to the one of our family on the wall. “This was your great-grandmother’s house. The one you’re standing in right now.”

  “Really?”

  “Your great-grandparents were first generation immigrants. They came over here when the neighborhood was barely a neighborhood at all—at best it was a low-income Italian slum. This house has been standing since... oh, I dunno. 1880.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s been in the family ever since.” My dad raised his hand, much like I’d done, and ran it along the edge of the photo frame. The image was weathered, black and white, showing a young couple who barely looked old enough to drive. My great-grandmother had a soft smile on her lips, my great-grandfather a serious frown. “When I got out of prison, I had a choice to make. Stay where it was familiar, or go somewhere else.”

  “You stayed.”

  He shrugged. “I debated leaving. Jetting over to California. Hunkering down in the Colorado Rockies. Heading out of the country.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “It’s what I know,” my dad shrugged. “It’s where my family is, even if we’re not together.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re still my daughter.” His eyes looked eerily into mine. “Whether I’m a killer or a saint, we’re related.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I know you feel it too. And you can let this case fall to someone else, but it’s already brought you back here, to me. You can’t let it go. Blood runs deep, Kate.”

  “You underestimate me. I can let it go if I want.”

  “Maybe, but you won’t,” he said. “I know you better than you think.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  “Kate, if you want to give up the case, go ahead. It’s your right. But if not, I want you to know one thing. I didn’t kill Peg Leg. I do have an alibi, but I’m not going to share it—for anyone.”

  “You’d go away again instead of forking over an alibi?”

  “Oh, Kate.” My father gave a coarse laugh. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You’ve got nothing on me. I’m not going anywhere. You’d need evidence to put me away, and that doesn’t exist.”

  I felt my fists clenching in frustration, but I couldn’t do anything about it because he’d hit on an elemental truth. “Not yet, I don’t.”

  “You’re wasting your time if you’re looking to pin this one on me.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said wryly. “I’ll make sure to add that in my report to the chief. I’m sure he’d love to see your name pop up.”

  “You haven’t put my name in reports?”

  “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt first.”

  He gave a tender smile, his eyes sliding back to the family photo. His point was clear. The bonds of family ran deeper than even I’d like to admit. It was just a shame my family tree was as confusing college math classes.

  “I’m a good cop, dad,” I said. “I am the job. I love my work, and I wouldn’t give up being a detective for anything.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “We might be family, but we’re not the same person. And if I find any evidence that links you to Peg Leg’s murder, I’m not going to cover it up.”

  “I’d never ask you to do any such thing. I’ve never asked anyone to cover for me.” My father looked me in the eye. “If I make a choice, I understand the consequences, and I serve them.”

  “That doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

  “It absolutely doesn’t,” he said. “My only point was that in some ways, you are like me. I’m your father whether you like to admit it or not. And if you decide to work the case, I’ll be as honest with you as I can.”

  “With the exception of your alibi.”

  “I’m not giving you my alibi. That’s honesty in and of itself. I didn’t lie, did I?”

  I crossed my arms over my body and stepped back. Eyed him carefully. “How did you know Peg Leg was murdered? I only told you I was here on a case.”

  “Word gets around,” he said. “Just because I’m innocent doesn’t mean I’m oblivious.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to share from your connections?” I asked. “It’d be much appreciated.”

  My father smiled. “No, but if I think of anything I forgot—I’ll give you a call.”

  I gave a defeated sigh. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “I’m not. And if you’d like to come by sometime just for coffee, I’d love that. Please consider it.”

  “I don’t know.” I made my way down the hallway and opened the front door.

  My father stopped me when I made it to the cracked front steps. A pained expression crossed his face. “I wouldn’t go looking at a professional job. This was personal.”

  “Are you talking about Peg Leg?” My curiosity got the better of me, and I stalled. “Was he into something closer to home that got him killed?”

  “Let’s just say nobody would’ve spent the money to put a hit on Tony. He wasn’t making enough trouble for that. He didn’t have a great sense for business.” My father expelled a breath that told me even this vague confession was difficult for him. “I knew him from back in the day. He was quite a bit younger than me, and I helped him out a bit. All I will say is that if it were me on the case, I’d think the motive was more of a personal matter.”

  Chewing on my father’s nugget of advice, I made my way to the car and let myself inside. I lowered the windows, let the cool air brush over the beads of sweat that had appeared on my forehead.

  I had a choice to make. The easy choice would be to pass off the case to Jimmy and team. I could take off the rest of the weekend and spend it holed up with Russo, forgetting about death and murder and complicated family ties.

  Or, I could dive fully into the investigation. I could find out the truth about my father’s involvement, for better or for worse.

  My musings were put on hold as my phone jingled. I hit answer when I saw my mother’s name on the screen.

  “I need you at the café,” she said urgently. “As soon as you can get here. It’s important.”

  I sighed. Dialed Russo. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’ll be just a little bit longer.”

  Chapter 5

  I barged int
o Seventh Street Café, the coffee shop run by my mother. Several patrons looked up from their Saturday pastries and scanned me up and down. Most of them recognized me and turned back to their food.

  “Ma?” I called when I reached the counter. Her trusty help in the way of Elizabeth was waiting at the register. “Do you know where my mother went? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Elizabeth said. “She’s in the back putting the final touches on the York birthday cake.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Elizabeth stepped to the side and let me behind the counter.

  I made my way into the back kitchen and instantly inhaled the sweet scent of sugar and butter and flour mixing to create tantalizing concoctions.

  My mother stood behind a counter up to her arms in dough. Flour scattered across the stainless-steel countertop, and a mixer was running on high behind her. When she saw me, she leaned over and shut it off.

  “That was fast,” she said, wiping her hands on a flowery pink apron. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “It sounded like an emergency.”

  “Well, it’s not life or death. But it is time sensitive.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What is it?”

  “I need a favor from you. My favorite daughter.”

  “Yeah, right. Jane’s been your favorite since she came out of the womb.”

  “Nonsense. I love you both equally. But I do have a favor to ask.” My mother’s face sobered. “I need some information.”

  “That’s what Google is for.”

  “On a person.”

  “Let me repeat—Google.”

  “No, more serious information.” My mom lowered her voice and leaned in toward me. “I need you to check someone out for me.”

  “Um, why?”

  “He’s a...” she hesitated. “I’m thinking of bringing on another employee. One of the candidates looks great, but I want to make sure he’s...you know. Squeaky clean.”

  “Mom, no offense, but this is a small coffee shop. I think a simple background check should do the trick. There aren’t national security secrets passing through here.”

  “You don’t know that for certain. We get a lot of cops—and federal agents—coming by.”

  The way she was staring at me made me uneasy. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “The question is what you aren’t telling me?” My mother rested a white-powdered hand on her hip. “You never mentioned that agent of yours was back in town.”

  “Russo?” I groaned. “Don’t tell me he stopped by for a coffee.”

  “Well, where else would he get coffee?”

  “Nowhere, ma. You’ve got the best caffeine in the state.”

  “That’s true,” my mother agreed. “So, are you telling me you haven’t seen your agent yet?”

  “I didn’t say that. And he’s not my agent.”

  “You’re being evasive.”

  “Says the woman asking me to spy on an innocent man,” I said. “What’s his name?”

  “Greg Roman. I bet his real name is Gregory, but maybe you can figure that out.”

  “Do you have his application? It should say on there.”

  “Well, no,” my mother said. “We do things sort of informally around here.”

  “What do you want me to find out?”

  “The basics,” she said. “If he has criminal charges, job history, that sort of thing. Maybe peek into his dental records.”

  “What do teeth have to do with your bakery?”

  “Do you want to eat cake served from a man with no teeth?” my mother snapped. “I thought not. Now, go on. Call me when you find something. By the way, I’ll need to know if you find anything alarming before tomorrow at five p.m.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s his first shift?”

  “Something like that.” My mother shifted uncomfortably. “Can you hand me a piping bag? I’ve got to finish this York cake.”

  I handed over the requested supplies and watched as my mother leaned over a two-tiered beauty, her tongue stuck partially out of her mouth as she concentrated on perfecting a frosted flower.

  “Are you going to see your agent again?”

  The question came out of the blue, caught me off guard. “Um, probably. We tend to cross paths.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Well, you’re not being totally honest about this Greg fellow,” I said. “So why should I spill the beans if you don’t?”

  “Because I’m your mother.”

  “Okay, mother. Good luck on your cake. I’ll give you a call if I find anything.”

  My mother leaned over, gave me a kiss on the forehead that felt like it was dusted in sugary buttercream frosting. “You’re my temporary favorite child.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m breaking all sorts of rules for you.”

  “I’ll make you a special birthday cake.”

  “It’s not my birthday.”

  “Fine, then I won’t.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I said. “The cake will be sufficient payment.”

  I left my mother’s café and made the short walk to the precinct. Jimmy was out—either interviewing suspects or taking a lunch break. My money was on the latter. The office had quieted from the morning, and I made my way over to Asha’s desk. The computer whiz was still at work, bobbing her head along with music I couldn’t hear.

  She peeled one headphone away when she saw me coming. “That was fast.”

  “I have a new favor to ask of you.”

  “Gee whiz.”

  “I’ll share my birthday cake with you.”

  “I thought your birthday wasn’t for a while?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay,” Asha said. “I love your mom’s baking. What do you need?”

  “Greg Roman,” I said. “That’s all I’ve got. My mom wants to hire him at the bakery, and for some reason, she’s not seeming satisfied with the basic background check.”

  “Oh-kay.” Asha didn’t look convinced.

  “Birthday cake,” I reminded her. “Don’t ask too many questions. Probably, my mom forgot to do the check, and it’s too late or something. He’s starting tomorrow. Is there something you can do really quick to put her mind at ease?”

  “There’s plenty I can do quickly,” she said. “I’m assuming you don’t need a full workup? Just the quick creep-o-check?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “Not a problem.” Her fingers flashed across the keys. “I do it before all my dates. And sometimes on my friends. And whenever I run into an awful driver. It won’t take more than an hour or two once I finish up something for Jimmy.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Better be a good cake,” she said. “By the way, Melinda’s done downstairs.”

  Asha was already back into the groove of her music by the time the elevator doors opened, and I climbed inside and pressed the basement button. I ran into Melinda as I was about to step out.

  “No need,” she said, holding up her hand. “Let’s walk and talk.”

  I rode the elevator back up to the main floor with Melinda. Together, we waved to Asha and made our way out of the building. Melinda led the way to yet another new, shiny car. The woman seemed to trade them in monthly.

  “Anything good?” I finally asked.

  “Nothing earth shattering, I’m afraid.” Melinda beeped her car unlocked, threw her purse in the front seat, then closed the door. She tilted her head back, basking in the sunlight.

  I waited impatiently. There was no way to rush the doctor when it came to her work.

  “Ballistics came back,” she said finally. “There was a suppressor used, but it was a homemade one. They found markings on the bullet from some sort of oil filter that’d been rigged up to silence the shot.”

  “That would have worked in Bellini’s to mask the shot?”

  “There was enough chatter and music, and the doors of that refrigerator were q
uite thick,” Melinda said. “It’s possible the shot was muffled enough that people could have written it off as a dropped pot—or something of the sort—in the kitchen.”

  “More realistically, anyone who recognized the shot for what it was isn’t talking,” I said glumly. “All night spent interviewing and nothing.”

  Melinda must have sensed my frustration. Her face softened, and her eyes flashed.

  “What is it?” I pressed. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “What I’m about to tell you didn’t make it into the report.” Melinda hemmed and hawed, not making clear eye contact. “There wasn’t enough scientific evidence to support my hunch.”

  “Aha. And this hunch?”

  “A few years back, before the TC Task Force had been created, I worked a somewhat similar autopsy. A cheap oil filter suppressor was used to mask a close-range gunshot wound to the back of the head.”

  “Who was it?”

  “The victim was Jonny Sacchetti,” she said. “He was found dead on the floor of his kitchen. The strange thing was that he was hosting a barbecue when it happened.”

  “Let me guess. Nobody heard the shot.”

  “Exactly,” Melinda said. “The case was never closed.”

  “But?”

  “But there were a lot of rumors about who’d done it. From what I could find, one name in particular had been tossed around.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me his name?”

  She sucked in a breath. “You know I hate to make assumptions.”

  “It’s worth a quick peek,” I said. “You know you can trust me. I won’t throw someone under the bus just to close a case. But if this guy is out there and has been killing for decades, he’s got to be locked up.”

  “The name’s Joe Ricci,” she said. “He’s affiliated with the mob if his records are to be believed but nothing has ever stuck.”

  “You’re in luck,” I said, offering Melinda a grin. “I heard that name last night, so I’m already looking into it. You’re off the hook, and I never have to tell a soul about your hunch. I was going to check him out anyway since I’ve got nothing better to do.”