It was close to eight P.M., a little late to go knocking on doors, but Mario and Howard had to rattle this witness’s cage. Mario drove, and Howard thumbed through Tony’s file. It showed the lady at that address was interviewed briefly, and her statement was cleared. She didn’t see or hear anything. At that specific time, she claimed to be in the back of the house washing a dog.
With Glenn locked in the back seat of the car, Howard climbed the five steps to the creaky, wooden porch and knocked on the front door. Mario observed from the walkway.
“Yes, may I help you?” a woman’s voice said through an intercom.
Howard identified himself and Mario and asked if they could ask a few questions. The door opened slowly to a dark living room. “Are you Roxy Blum?”
“Yes,” she said. “Is this about my neighbor, Mr. Hoffmann?”
Howard turned on the charm. “Yes ma’am. I just have a few questions.”
The dark living room, lit only by a candle on a small, round table in front of a window, made it hard to identify the woman who kept her distance, almost as if she was frightened to get close.
“Could we get some light in the room?” Mario asked.
“I wasn’t prepared for company,” she said. “I need to get my robe,” her voice muffled, as she stepped down a hallway.
Mario found a light switch, flipped it on, and two lamps brightened the room. The boldness of the room put a grin on the detective’s face. A nude painting of a woman stretched out on a backless couch hung over a fireplace. A marble sculpture that looked expensive sat on a pedestal next to a piano. If he looked at it long enough, his mind could run wild of the many lady parts it resembled. The room was exquisitely decorated, and Mario could only imagine the expense, but the look wasn’t for everyone.
“Sorry it took so long,” Roxy said, entering the room as flamboyant as the room décor. She took a seat on a crushed velvet sofa.
There was no doubt. Roxy was a raving queen, a full-blown transvestite. A sheer coverup with splits on the side accented her long legs, a slightly exposed bosom, and a beautiful complexion—most women had to work hard on—came naturally for Roxy.
Mario, a resident of New Orleans, knew the flair of the French Quarter. He’d interviewed his share of gay people, transvestites, men looking like women, and butch women looking like men. It was a mixed bag of people in the community, and Mario never judged.
“Roxy, I wanted to confirm what you told a police officer this afternoon. You said you were washing your dog in the back of the house when police arrested Tony Nazario.”
“That’s correct.”
“But that doesn’t coincide with what Glenn Macy said,” Mario said, then watched her reaction.
“Well, what did Glenn say?” Roxy said suspiciously.
“Roxy, you know you can get in a lot of trouble for not telling the truth.” Mario took a seat next to her on a sofa. “Do you know Glenn?”
Roxy looked everywhere in the room except at Mario or Howard. It was a dead giveaway. “Roxy, I’m your friend,” Mario patted her hand. “What did you see?”
She paused for a few seconds, fanned herself with her hand. Howard reached for a pitcher of water on the coffee table and poured a glass. “Here you go,” Howard said. “Take your time.”
“Thank you.” Roxy took a few sips of water, “I didn’t see anything.”
“Glenn is lying?” Mario put his arm around her. “What’s this all about?”
She was hesitant, then opened up to the detectives. Glenn told her he saw a woman and a man rush out of the house next door and jump into a limousine, right before the police arrived. She rambled a few times, and Mario roped her back to the subject. She kept to her story when police asked if she saw anything regarding Tony’s house. She didn’t see anything, and Glenn told her to stick to that story if asked.
Mario bent down in front of her. They held hands. Howard watched the master do his magic when Mario gently whispered. “Glenn was in your house. He saw the lady and the man rush to the limo, right?”
“Correct—Glenn is going to be so mad.”
Mario gave a head nod to Howard, and he responded by leaving.
“Roxy, look at me,” Mario continued speaking in a slow, soft voice. Her watery eyes ran tears down her flawless skin. “I don’t care what you and Glenn have going on. We’re going to make this right.”
Howard returned with Glenn. He sat across from Roxy. Mario did his usual, roamed the room. “Maybe you can help me, Glenn. I came in the back door of the house, I don’t know who went out the front.”
“I do. A woman and a man,” Glenn said.
“Could you identify the woman?”
“Probably not, I just saw the side of her.”
Mario glanced over at Howard. “How about the man?”
“No—just that he was big and tall.” Glenn pointed to Howard. “Maybe your size.”
“That’s all you got?” Mario asked.
“Yep. It makes a good story. It’s information that the big newspapers didn’t have, and they would pay well for my story.”
“Correct, but you would have to tell why you were with Roxy at four in the afternoon,” Mario paused and walked the room again. “Might not sit well with your wife.”
“Roxy, what am I going to do?” Glenn said, giving her a hug.
“We can fix this,” Howard said. “We don’t need our boss knowing we missed out on an arrest when whoever ran out the front door, and the world doesn’t need to know you and Roxy—well, you know what I mean.”
“So, everyone keeps quiet,” Mario said. “I’ll make it up to you by giving you an exclusive story. I’ll give you a couple of stories forty-eight hours before anyone else gets the news.”
“You will?” For the first time, the color in Glenn’s face went back to normal.
“You cover my back, and I’ll cover yours,” Mario said. They hugged it out, and Glenn assured Mario the story was dead.
Chapter 20
It was late when Mario returned to his condo with a Venezia Restaurant pizza in hand. He propped himself up with a pillow on the arm of the sofa and pulled the first slice from the box. The pizza was still warm.
The nightly, local news was on auto record every night, something his buddies said that Mario did to see himself on TV. Mario was like a Saints football player after a game watching mistakes, missed blocks causing quarterback sacks or a dropped pass by a receiver. In Mario’s case, he was checking what he said, the DA said, the chief said, and anything a news reporter might have said to embellish the story. Just like a quarterback, he wasn’t watching himself; he observed how people reacted to questions and watched the crowd. When a big story like Tony Nazario breaks, the creeps come out the woodwork wanting to hear firsthand what witnesses say or the official statement by the police spokesperson.
It was important that the press put out only the information the police gave them, not some lowlife with an opinion on what happened so some reporter can slip him twenty bucks. He could record two TV stations at a time, and he ran the tape for both twice, and nothing was said out of line. One channel only gave a one-minute clip, and it wasn’t the lead story. It always helped when a story got bumped. One TV station featured an overturned chemical truck on I-10, which was a better lead story than a fifteen-year-old armored car robbery. It worked for Mario; the less publicity the case got at this stage of the investigation was best.
Out of habit, Mario still ordered a large pizza, from the days when his girlfriend, Kate, lived with him. She was a nurse and worked the eleven at night to seven in the morning shift at Charity Hospital. She would help finish the pizza before leaving for work, but those days were long gone. Felipe Cruz, a thug who Mario put behind bars for life shouted out at his sentencing, “I will make your life a living hell,” and he lived up to his promise.
Shortly after Cruz went to prison, Kate was attacked during her shift at the hospital. Even from jail, Felipe controlled the streets of New Orleans and put a hit out o
n Kate. She lived. A few months later, an attempted kidnapping almost took Kate down in her front yard. That’s when she realized life with Mario was too dangerous and moved to Paris. As much as he loved her, he had to remove every picture of her in the condo. The memories of them sitting on the floor eating pizza and him drinking beer until she left for work would never go away.
Mario couldn’t eat over two slices that night, the memories of Kate haunted him until he lost his appetite. He buzzed the doorman to come up and handed off the rest of the pizza. The night guard was appreciative, working two jobs, he rarely got much of a dinner break.
When morning came, Mario’s bed was tossed, the fitted sheet pulled off from two sides, the top sheet mostly on the floor, and a pillow across the room. He blamed it on late-night pizza, but deep down he knew the memories of Kate had caused another restless night. This wasn’t the day for him to roll around the bed and catch a few more winks, so he forced himself into the shower.
Howard and Mario arrived at the courthouse early. They combed through Tony’s file in the car, hopeful to find something they’d missed. They snooped through the pages, then exited the car separately, each going in a different direction to enter the courthouse.
Inside the courtroom, lawyers representing the FBI case against Tony Nazario huddled in the corner, dressed in dark suits and three-hundred-dollar ties, one of many things Mario hated about them. One guy kept flipping his coat open, showing the bright blue lining. The lining matches his tie. Mario snickered at his thoughts. If they practice law as good as they concentrate on their threads, they might win more cases.
Gustavo Martino strutted down the center aisle and sat at a table to the left of the FBI lawyers, or fashion attorneys, as Mario liked to call them. Howard took a seat on Gustavo’s side of the courtroom and Mario sat on the FBI side, much like a wedding where each sat behind their respective parties.
Howard had exposed himself as a cop when he and Mario arrested Tony, but he quickly covered his tracks by calling Lorenzo. He was the first to inform Lorenzo of the bust and how he saved Julie from being captured and questioned by the police. Lorenzo might have believed him, but there was still speculation on what Tony might say.
It was odd that Gustavo Martino would represent Tony. He was known as Lorenzo’s personal attorney. Raised by the Savino family, they paid for law school, top-notch Ivy League schools, the best money could buy. It paid off and benefitted the family when Gustavo graduated top in his class and passed the bar exam on the first try.
The bailiff came from the chamber and arranged files on the judge’s bench, an indication the arraignment was close to starting. The bailiff stood by the chamber door, and when Judge Bernard appeared, he announced for everyone to rise.
Once the formalities were done, Judge Bernard, known for little toleration of any bullshit from cocky defense lawyers, clarified this was an arraignment. The only things he wanted to discuss were charges and Tony’s plea. Then he would set bail and move to the next case.
“Mr. Martino, have your client state his name,” the judge said.
Gustavo stood, looking down at folders spread out on the table, “Your Honor, during my client’s life, he’s gone by two official names.”
The judge already showed frustration, by folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, plus the deep frown lines across his forehead were more noticeable.
“Mr. Martino, my records show this man was given the name of Anthony Nazario at birth and throughout most of his life called Tony,” he paused. “Is Anthony Nazario in the room?”
Gustavo looked at Tony. Gave a head nod and Tony slowly stood.
“State your name, sir.”
Looking at the judge like he could rip his head off, Tony stated. “Anthony Nazario.”
“Now, wasn’t that easy?” Judge Bernard said. “You’re charged with robbery of a Crescent City armored car and the National Bank, using high explosives on the streets of New Orleans, first-degree murders of Leon Giordano and Frank O’Neil, and faking your own death.” He paused again, this time shaking his head. “How do you plead?”
Gustavo gave a corner eye glance at Tony. He took his time in answering. Then gave a turned-up nose answer, “Not guilty.”
“The charged is set without bond pending trial,” the judge slammed down his gavel. “Next case.”
“Your Honor? May I approach the bench?”
Judge Bernard’s face displayed annoyance but motioned Gustavo to approach the bench along with the opposing side. They spoke softly. Mario strained to hear but couldn’t and neither could Howard. The legal men broke their huddle and returned to their respective areas.
“For the record,” Judge Bernard said, as a court reporter typed notes. “Tony Nazario will be allowed to attend his wife’s funeral under the custody and supervision of the FBI.”
The lawyers packed up files, allowing another case to be heard. Mario glanced over at Howard, gave an upward head nod to follow as he exited the courtroom.
Often prisoners were allowed before a trial date to attend a family funeral, especially a wife. Tony? He had too many charges against him, and bail was denied. The whole purpose of no bond is to make sure the accused can’t run. Plus this guy had been on the run for fifteen years, he would try again, if offered the opportunity.
Mario detested the use of payphones at the courthouse. He wasn’t a germophobe, but he’d watch every type of lowlife girlfriend, relative, or dope-shooting partner use the phone to call a bail bondsman. He faced his fear and wiped the receiver with a handkerchief the best he could and called Chief Parks. After explaining the judge’s decision, allowing Tony to attend his wife’s funeral, she agreed to make calls. Calling the DA’s office was her best move to pressure the judge and hope he’d reverse his decision. If not successful, she’d give the mayor a try, but that would be her last option.
Out on the street a short time, even under supervision, Tony was at risk. There was no way Lorenzo Savino could allow Tony to cut a deal for himself by explaining a killing ordered by Lorenzo. He’d run or be killed, Mario was sure, and the chief believed he was right.
A vibration on Mario’s belt reminded him his beeper was still in silent mode from the courtroom. He unhooked the device and viewed the screen.
Howard reacted to Mario’s expression. He knew the look. “Bad news?”
“Little Pete,” Mario said, biting his bottom lip. He didn’t want to talk to Little Pete just yet, but he had to keep the charade of playing the bad cop, especially with Tony getting out of jail for a few hours.
Again, Mario had to put his hands on the nasty phone. He punched the numbers with one finger. “Little Pete?” Mario said, when he answered on the second ring.
“Mario!” he replied in an unusually loud tone.
Mario quickly picked up on Little Pete’s overzealous behavior, a dead giveaway that Lorenzo was present. He mentioned nothing about Tony’s arrest but questioned if the arrangements were made to release Gaspar Ricci. Mario danced around the question for a minute, when Little Pete cut him off.
“Mario!” Little Pete shouted into the phone. “Get Gaspar on the street. Today! You’ll have something extra in your envelope.”
That meant an extra five hundred on top of the grand he received every Friday, it was to keep him obligated. Mario hadn’t counted, but the envelopes had to add up to over ten thousand by now. They were safely held in the chief’s office. Bad cops get paid a lot more than civil servants ran through Mario’s head often. He’d bend the law but never cross the line between servant and corrupt cop.
When the conversation finished, Little Pete was confident Mario would handle Lorenzo’s demand and get Gaspar on the street, even for a few hours. Mario just didn’t know how he would pull it off.
Chapter 21
Mario DeLuca was a detective whom Judge Bernard didn’t welcome with open arms in his courtroom. The DA’s office left Mario’s name off as the arresting officer purposely, not to sway any decisions by the judge. Th
eir hatred ran deeper than most people knew. Judge Bernard stood firm on his decision, coming back with the same answer each time some city official asked—he’d give their request consideration.
As long as the FBI was in agreement, the judge would side with the feds. They had more power than the DA’s office, and he never knew when he might have to call on them. Tony not visiting his wife but a few times in the last ten years didn’t sway the judge; he stood solidly on his decision.
The FBI allowed the detectives to interview Tony at a federally secured holding cell. Around a metal table, in a sterile room, Mario and Howard questioned Tony. He waved his rights of having his attorney, Gustavo Martino, present. and Mario soon learned why. All Tony wanted to talk about was a deal, to give up Lorenzo and his entire outfit. A deal that only favored Tony. He admitted to nothing, not even the bank heist, and said that Lorenzo masterminded the robbery and had the money stashed in safety deposit boxes all over town.
“Trust me,” Tony kept saying. A criminal with a résumé filled with murders, lies, thievery, and deception. Trust entered no one’s mind when dealing with Tony. Besides Gaspar Ricci stepped up first, giving up Lorenzo as the trigger man who killed White Jerry. The prosecutor didn’t need Lorenzo charged with multiple homicides, one would get him a life sentence. Maybe a few more charges to seal the prosecution’s case, but they had no plans to cut deals for information.
Gustavo got wind of the interview and was delivered to the room by a guard. The conversation with Tony ended abruptly, put Tony got his point across.
Gustavo said his friends called him Gus and asked Mario and Howard to do the same. Mario dropped his chin to his chest, looked up at Gustavo like Lucifer took over his body, “I have all the friends I need,” he snarled. “Gustavo!”
Vieux Carré Detective Page 11
