“Yeah, what do you want to know?”
“Describe him,” Mario said.
“For sure well dressed, all the time. Must have had twenty suits, all pinstripes. Always a rosebud in the lapel, the color of the rose highlighted his tie. Never a hair out of place, and hands like a woman, perfectly manicured. When he got older—”
“That’s enough,” Mario said. “Look at this house. It’s too perfect. Not a blade of grass out of place. A rose garden of a variety of colors,” Mario paused. “Tony’s been living right under our nose, all this time.”
As they pondered their next move, a limousine stopped in front of the house, and a well-dressed woman got out and approached the front door.
“Holy shit, Mario,” Howard said, tapping the dashboard. “That’s Julie Wong.”
Mario hardly believed his eyes, “What the hell?”
She knocked on the front door twice, and it opened. They were sure of one thing, whoever opened the door was expecting her. By Mario’s count, they had to have at least three people in the house, counting Julie. Even if he was off by one or two people, Mario and Howard could easily handle the situation.
They made it up the drive on foot to a half-open window. Julie stood in the living room talking to who they suspected was the woman at the park, but she was to the side of the drapes and couldn’t be seen.
Julie waved a stiletto knife; the same one Howard saw her use on a client a year earlier. She knew her way around a blade. “Lorenzo paid me fifty thousand to cut your heart out,” she smiled. “That is if you had one.”
The detectives crouched down under the window, listening to the drama unwind.
“Stop the crap,” a not-so-feminine voice said, coming into view for Mario to catch a glimpse from the corner of the window. The woman from the park took off a scarf and a brown wig.
“You make a terrible-looking woman, Tony,” Julie said, closing the knife, slipping it back into her purse.
Mario tapped Howard on the leg, as they watched the woman transform into Tony Nazario.
“You know we expected Lorenzo to come forward someday,” Tony said, flipping off a woman’s size ten shoe, then peeling out of a dress.
“Wire me the hundred large, and Lorenzo will disappear,” Julie said. “He will be my last job in this city for a while.”
“Getting hot?”
“Too hot,” Julie said. “Lorenzo wants me to off a cop; it’s time for him to go.”
The detectives made their moves. Howard came in through the rear, and Mario kicked in the front door, both with guns pointed. Mario took Julie’s purse and patted her down.
“Enjoying yourself, Detective?”
Mario didn’t respond. “Spread your legs. No telling where you might keep a weapon,” he said, running up her legs with one hand and a gun pointed at her back with the other. Mario sat her next to Tony on the sofa, while Howard searched the house.
“Clear,” Howard said, when he returned with his gun extended and pointed toward Julie and Tony. “First to move—first to die.”
Mario called for backup to take Tony into custody. A quick decision had to be made about Julie. She would never testify against Lorenzo in court. Besides he knew too much of her dirty past. Plus she was the prime suspect for the death of Alton Simmons, but most of all she knew too many of Howard’s dark secrets.
Benny Stein apparently gave up Howard to gain the international business that Julie brought to his company. Leaked, during a background check, the things they wouldn’t find about Howard through normal channels. It was right up their alley to hire Howard as Julie’s driver, being a lousy undercover cop who fled his own country, leaving a trail of bodies behind. He had to put his trust in Benny and now in Julie or kill her. He decided on trust, she was just too skilled and pretty to kill.
Sirens could be heard from a distance. “You need to go,” Mario shouted.
“You’re sure this is how you want to play it?” Howard asked.
“Yes, get her out of here.”
Howard and Julie pulled away from the house in the limo and were a few blocks away when the first cop car pulled into Tony’s drive. Before Julie was handcuffed in the back seat of the limo she arrived in, Howard made her call ahead and have the jet ready to go the moment they arrived. The limo driver sat petrified in the passenger’s seat; he was just an everyday driver, unlike the code-red title that Howard carried. With Howard at the wheel, the limo sped through the guardhouse open gate and stopped with brakes shrieking at the steps of the aircraft.
Howard waltzed her up the stairs, unlocked the handcuffs, and placed the purse on a seat. The engines turned over.
“Howard,” Julie shouted over the engines roar. “I owe you, big time.”
He gave a head nod with a mysterious smile, then a crew member locked the aircraft door.
He stood on the tarmac and this time watched the steps close into the belly of the plane. The plane rolled to the edge of the tarmac and waited for orders from the tower for takeoff. It was a matter of one or two minutes before the Gulfstream jet roared down the runway at a fast speed. Airborne, it quickly disappeared through clouds.
Howard exhaled—Julie was safe, and his sordid past.
Chapter 19
That evening, Chief Gretchen Parks, the mayor, the district attorney, and numerous staff members sat around a conference table combing through details of what could and what could not be said at the press conference to start in an hour.
Mario got credit for the capture of Tony Nazario, and some bolstering words on his behalf would be said to the press. Howard, a significant part in the takedown, would remain anonymous until he was reassigned from the ongoing investigation.
Chief Parks stepped away from the decision-makers of the city and moved to a small office, where she joined Mario and Howard. For the last hour, three FBI agents had interrogated the detectives as if they were the criminals.
The agents sat across from Mario and Howard and repeated the same questions in a different form, much like Mario did hundreds of times with a suspect.
“I need these detectives,” Chief Parks said, standing in the doorway.
“When we’re finished,” the lead agent said, pushing his card with “FBI” embossed in gold across the table. “This is the capture of a bank robber. It’s been a federal case since it happened,” Agent Frank made his point directed to the chief.
Chief Parks viewed the business card; she wasn’t impressed. His rank was the same level as hers. Only the FBI thought they walked on water. “It’s my detective’s catch—hard work on a cold case is what got Tony arrested,” she took a pause. “Like I said, I need my detectives,” looking down at the card, “Special Agent Larry Frank.”
Mario, frustrated with the FBI agents, called them the three stooges several times, pointing out which ones were Curly, Larry, and Moe. He left them to deal with Howard.
Towering over the FBI agent, Howard rested his hands on the table. “If any of you get a whole thought that relates to this case—feel free to call me.”
“It’s not wise to be at odds with the FBI,” Agent Frank said.
Howard made a nasty face, then gave a smile. “No one ever accused us of being wise.”
The press gathered in Chief Parks’ conference room. She sat at the center of the table with the mayor on one side and the DA on the other. Mario stood behind the chief with her staff, who always seemed around for press events. Anything to get their face on the nightly news.
The questions fired one after another, and the chief stuck to the script, giving little sound information, everything pointed to Tony Nazario, until a reporter asked if there was an arrest warrant for Lorenzo Savino.
“Tony Nazario is the mastermind behind the bank heist. Lorenzo Savino is not a suspect.” She paused, as cameras clicked. Mario gave a one-hand squeeze to her elbow, an indication she handled the questioning well. She’d been on the job for years and knew how to handle the press.
“Thank you all for coming,
” Chief Parks said, and stood. Mario took her by the arm and weaved her through the crowd.
A reporter burst in front of the chief. “An eyewitness saw a woman scuttled by a tall man to a limousine moments before the police arrived to arrest Tony Nazario,” he said, pushing a microphone in front of her.
Mario impulsively slapped the mic to the ground. Pushing his shoulder into the reporter, making sure he understood the questioning was over. They made it into the chief’s office, where Howard was waiting.
Chief Parks fixed her hair and touched up her makeup in the mirror of her private powder room. “What was that all about?” she spoke loudly around the open door.
“What?” Mario said.
“The woman coming from Tony’s house,” she raised her tone.
Mario gave a profile glance to Howard and took the lead. “You know reporters,” Mario said, looking out the window. “They make shit up—just for a story. We didn’t see anyone come from the house.”
“Well, canvas the area, maybe across the street again,” the chief said, taking a seat at her desk. “We don’t need reporters making shit up just for their ratings—check it out.”
“No problem, Chief. I’ll swing by there before I knock off,” Mario assured her. “First, we need some arrangements made.”
Mario gave a recap of the body trail since Olivia’s attack. It was two cases, but somehow, they were intertwined. Paul Castalone—the Cadillac driver who pushed Olivia’s car into the bayou—dead. Manny Ruiz—the bartender—dead. Alton Simmons—a cop on the job, a dirty cop Mario pointed out—dead. Brandon Asher—more than likely thrown from Lorenzo’s yacht washed up in the lake—dead.
“There are only two people left,” Mario said. “Gaspar Ricci and Tony Nazario. If they come up dead, Lorenzo will walk again.”
“Gaspar Ricci is well protected,” Parks said. “Two officers, twenty-four hours a day. He doesn’t go to the bathroom without the door cracked open.”
“What about Tony Nazario?” Howard asked.
“I’m going to let the feds take him,” she said, then watched the detectives’ eyes for any pushback. They didn’t blink. “You’re cool with that? He’ll move tomorrow after his arraignment.”
“Federal jail,” Mario said, looking at Howard. They agreed he’d be safe. The feds wanted Tony alive as much as they did.
“What are Tony’s charges?” Mario asked and looked over at the chief.
“Numerous, one, for sure—appearing in public as an ugly woman,” she said.
Mario made friendly with the FBI agents still waiting in an adjoining office. Agreeing he and Howard would interview Tony and turn over any statements that might help.
The elevator doors closed and immediately Mario said, “We need to find this woman.”
“When I walked Julie out to the car, I saw no one. Not walking, on a porch, or a balcony, there was no one visible,” Howard insisted.
“One thing for sure, this reporter has an eyewitness,” Mario said. “Woman and limo is not a lucky guess.”
The elevator doors opened to the basement of the police building. The hallway to Tony’s cell was lined with security; they were prepared for anything. Tony was taken to a soundproof questioning room with a small, one-way mirror on the far side of the room.
Mario checked the other side of the glass, the room was empty, for now.
They found Tony with his feet shackled and hands cuffed to an iron bar going across a table in a small room. The escorting officers stood post in the hallway.
“Tony, I’m Mario DeLuca.” Then he pointed at Howard. “This is Detective Howard Blitz.”
“Sorry, you got the wrong guy. My name is Robert Hoffmann.”
“Yeah, good try. Your face and fingerprints say you’re Tony Nazario,” Mario said. “I’ll go with that assumption.”
The detectives watched Tony sitting, gazing at the single, recessed light in the ceiling, his mastermind seemed to work overtime.
“Tell me my charges, then give me a phone,” Tony said, without looking at either of them. “I want an attorney.”
“To start with, you’re Tony Nazario who robbed the National Bank armored car, of which you still have a lot of the money,” Mario said, sitting on the table right in Tony’s face. “Then there’s the murder of Leon Giordano.” He got closer. “And fabricating your own death and presenting yourself in public as one fucking ugly woman.”
“Mario Deluca? You’re that prick who walked the beat in the French Quarter. Maybe fifteen years ago,” Tony said. “Used to bust my customer’s balls in my bar.”
“That’s right. Couldn’t get you on drug charges but busted enough powder-nose customers so eventually no one came in your place,” Mario said, taking his stand across the room.
“Correct. I closed down and opened two blocks away under a different name,” Tony said, then spit across the room, just missing Mario. “Back in business a few days later.”
Mario looked at Howard; he knew the drill. Walked across the room and rested his broad shoulders and arms across the mirror, blocking Tony completely. If someone did watch, they were in for a surprise. Mario turned a knob, cutting the sound off to anyone who might be listening in the room behind the mirror-looking window.
“Yep, I’m that prick of a cop,” Mario said, reaching one hand around Tony’s neck. “And you know what? I grew up to be a bigger prick.” Mario squeezed his neck tightly until Tony’s face turned red, his eyes bulged, and he had a problem breathing. “You spit at me again, and that will be the last breath you take,” Mario gave one more squeeze and let him go.
Tony gasped for air. “You’re fucking crazy!”
“Absolutely!” Mario said. “I’m three-quarters nuts, and one quarter doesn’t give a fuck if I kill you right here. Now give me some answers!”
“I want a lawyer,” Tony shouted.
Mario jumped into Tony’s face, with one hand pulled a chunk of greased-back hair and yanked his head to the back of the chair. “Wrong answer! You don’t want an attorney. Do you?”
Tony spoke in a whisper, “No—no attorney.”
Mario motioned to Howard. He moved from the window, then flipped the volume on.
Mario sat across from Tony, hands folded in front of him, and spoke in a monotone voice “Now—state your name.”
“My name is Tony Nazario, also known as Robert Hoffmann,” Tony quickly said.
“Very good. Do you want an attorney?”
Tony’s eyes fluttered rapidly. “No—not at this time.”
A knock on the door paused the interview. The door opened, and Chief Parks stood with one of the FBI agents. She waved them into the hall.
“We have a problem,” Chief Parks said. “Tony’s attorney is downstairs.”
“He just waved his right to an attorney and confirmed he’s Tony Nazario with an alias of Robert Hoffmann.”
“Doesn’t matter, this guy said he represents Tony,” the agent said.
Mario dropped his head. “You guys take the rules too seriously.”
“It’s the law—Mario,” the chief said grinding her teeth.
Without another word spoken, Mario and Howard hit the elevator button and watched the numbers decline until the doors opened. The doors closed, and Mario pressed the lobby button. “Fuck, I had him talking.”
Howard gave him a side look. “Probably can’t be used in court.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mario said, as the doors opened. “It’s information we could follow up with and build a case.”
The station house was full of cops well-wishing Mario as he strolled to his office. Backslapping and congrats on the capture of Tony Nazario came from the cleaning lady to the desk sergeant. It took a few minutes to make it to his office, where Howard who had used the rear entrance waited.
The detectives talked over coffee and soon were interrupted by Truman. “I reviewed the tape of the press conference and got the name of the reporter who got in the chief’s face,” he said. “Zoomed in on his name
tag.”
Mario raised his coffee mug. “Great job,” he said and gave a smile.
“His name is Glenn Macy. Works for this underground paper,” Truman flipped through his notepad, “called the—Big Easy Voice.”
Mario and Howard talked over some details about Tony’s case, finished their coffees, and headed out to visit this Big Easy guy.
The Big Easy Voice occupied one-room on Rampart Street. The lights were on when they arrived. The door was locked, so Mario tapped on the glass. Glenn, slumped over a typewriter, looked up. Mario recognized him as the reporter. The door was a distance away, but Glenn could easily see Mario’s gold shield pressed against the glass.
“Can I help you?” Glenn said politely, when opening the door, before he recognized Mario. “You? Nice move at the press conference; you almost broke my camera.”
“Detectives DeLuca and Blitz. May we come in?” Mario took the friendly approach.
Glenn offered them each a chair in the cluttered makeshift office. Mario’s eyes shifted around the room that seemed to be set in the 1970s—black desk phone, IBM typewriter, rolltop desk, and a Rolodex overflowing with business cards.
“You do your copy here?”
“I type it up, and my wife proofreads, we can’t afford fancy computers at this point,” Glenn said. “It’s just my wife and me, doing the work.”
“We canvassed the area twice and didn’t come up with an eyewitness who saw a lady leaving Tony Nazario’s house.”
“Well, I spoke to someone.”
“Glenn,” Howard said, resting against the rolltop desk. “Let’s not play games; if you have a person of interest, I want the name and address.”
Glenn became a little skittish. Mario picked up on it when the notepad slipped out of the reporter’s hand and hit the floor. “Nothing gets printed until we check the story out, okay.” Glenn nodded his head. His attitude profoundly changed from the cocky reporter Mario saw at the press conference, to this jittery man falling to pieces in front of him.
Glenn gave up the name and address of the witness and agreed not to publish anything regarding Tony’s story. His promise wasn’t enough for Mario, and he demanded Glenn come with them. He put up a fuss but gave in quickly when the two detectives all but picked him up and skated him to the car.
Vieux Carré Detective Page 10
