The detectives handed off Tony to the guards, and he was taken back to a cell. Mario called it a suite, better than he had in some hotels. Cable TV, catered meals, phone use, although monitored, and no inmates gawking at you. It pissed Mario off just to think how comfortable he lived.
Howard glanced at the wall clock as he left the federal correctional building. He nudged Mario. “We need to get moving.”
The detectives met the chief at Jackson Square. She wanted an open-air meeting where they couldn’t be heard or seen by fellow officers. Mario briefly explained his game plan, and she wasn’t too accepting.
The clock was ticking on Lorenzo’s demand to get Gaspar Ricci back on the street. Mario planned to get Gaspar out of police custody while keeping him protected under his watch. It was imperative to show loyalty to the mobster kingpin for all the envelopes received, packed with cash. It was essential to keep their undercover appearance alive. The chief was prepared to shut the operation down, exposing their cover, rather than to take a chance finding Gaspar dead in the street. Maybe run over by a car, two to the back of his head, one way or another, he’d come up dead.
Mario fought hard, and the chief came up with a compromise. They agreed the worst that could happen was two or three thugs killed, if the plan didn’t work. Hopefully, the detectives could make the arrest and flip them into testifying against Lorenzo, adding a little frosting to the cake that would bring Lorenzo down.
The chief alerted everyone about Gaspar Ricci’s release to the hands of Mario DeLuca for transportation to a new safe house. The information was broadcast through the system and to some registered street informants, knowing it would find its way back to Lorenzo’s camp. Proving Mario’s information was reliable and living up to his representation as a dirty cop.
“Bring them in alive,” Chief Parks said to Mario. “Good luck.”
Wheels were in motion, except for one piece, and Mario handled that by dropping a quarter in a payphone where Pirate Alley met Jackson Square.
“Little Pete,” Mario said. “The traffic light at the corner of Tulane and Carrollton Avenue, in one hour. Gaspar will be in the back seat of a black SUV. You have one chance, bring your best men.”
“Done,” is all Little Pete said, then the phone went dead.
Mario dropped his old partner, Truman, at a motel on Airline Highway, where Gaspar was held by police. The security detail was released and instructed to return to the station house and wait for his call. Truman, responsible for Gaspar, made himself comfortable, continuing the game of cards he and one cop had been playing. Like Howard, Truman could be trusted with the most critical part of the plan, babysitting Gaspar.
Mario met Howard at the limousine barn in a part of the garage he’d never seen. A wall cabinet opened and was lined with guns, just about any weapon he could imagine. Dressed in black, the only thing visible were Howard’s eyes. He threw Mario his outfit with a pair of thin, black gloves. They both replaced their service weapons with guns from the cabinets choosing 9mm Glocks, the most reliable for their mission.
A horn sounded, and Howard expected that it was Big Gabe Chmura, one of Howard’s trusted friends introduced to him by Benny Stein, when he first came to the country. Chmura stood six foot nine, and no telling how much he weighed. Sporting a tricked-out, black Chevrolet Suburban with dark-tinted windows, the vehicle stopped in front of the overhead door as it lifted to the top of the garage. Big Gabe was Howard’s go-to guy for job assistance. He too walked the edge of the law and often crossed the line. Standing by the side of a black SUV, Big Gabe’s head was well above the roof. “She’s ready to roll. Keep her dry.”
“And what if it gets wet?” Mario asked.
“Abort,” Howard said. “But no rain in sight, so, don’t worry.”
Howard turned to Gabe. “Is the window ready?”
“Just like you asked,” he replied. Then handed Howard a garage remote. He snapped it on the sun visor.
The wall clock said it was time to go. Howard got behind the wheel, Mario sat in the back, and Big Gabe drove Mario’s cruiser, after pushing the seat to the max for leg room.
The black SUV slowly rolled on Airline Highway, where an overpass covered train tracks that flowed through the city. The traffic light was green, but Howard slowed and pressed the brakes, as a semitruck blew its horn for diving so slowly. He could see the driver’s frustration through the rearview mirror. Howard pushed the brake harder; he needed the light to turn red.
The light switched from green to red, and the SUV came to a stop. A dark sedan pulled to the passenger side of the SUV. The plan worked. Lorenzo had sent his best hitman—Chester Philips and his two-man crew. The driver of the car had his hands locked on the steering wheel. One thug stood in front of the SUV, his gun pointed at the windshield. Chester was at the passenger window, gun in hand, demanding the window down and the driver’s hands in the air. Chester shouted for Gaspar to come out.
Mario with his right hand in the air, pushed a button with his left. The passenger window slowly came down. “Hold on, cowboy,” he said. “You can have this scumbag.” Keeping both hands up, Mario had to trust Howard. He shouted toward the back seat. “Let him out.”
The rear door lock clicked open. With one hand, Chester reached and gradually opened the door, the other hand pointing a gun.
Only a shadow of Chester could be seen through the tinted glass, but that was all Howard needed. With Howard’s left hand, he hit a button that dropped the rear passenger side window instantly and fired two rounds into Chester’s body. Mario, with both hands in the air, pulled a 9mm that Big Gabe had planted in a roof pocket of the SUV and fired two into the chest of the other thug. Howard jumped out, crossed over the two bodies on the ground, and put one bullet in the back of the getaway driver’s head.
The light stayed red for twenty seconds, and that was all they needed. The SUV roared off at a high rate of speed. Most people didn’t know what happened until the vehicle pulled away and made visible the two bodies lying on the street.
The SUV arrived at a building on Banks Street, only a few blocks away. Painted in blue and gold letters across the front of the building was Big Gabe’s Collision Center. They pulled into the building and the overhead door closed. Mario and Howard stripped off their black outfits, gloves, and rested the weapons on top. They both walked casually out the front door and jumped in Mario’s cruiser, which Gabe had parked in the right direction. With lights and sirens blaring, Mario took the turn on Carrollton Avenue and make it to the scene just as the first patrol car arrived.
Back at the garage, the SUV’s license plate was removed and reduced to fifteen pieces with a cable cutter, then placed in an incinerator. Ten minutes with a highspeed pressure washer, and the black, synthetic wrap was washed down a drain. The Chevrolet Suburban returned to its original platinum silver metallic color. Big Gabe’s chop shop was an asset for making things disappear.
At the crime scene, crowds gathered, and extra cops were called in to barricade around the bodies. Just what Mario didn’t need at the time was a call from the chief. He didn’t have a choice and answered her call. She wanted to know what happened.
He explained that Lorenzo’s guys never showed, so his plan was botched. While waiting, he came across two dead guys in the street, and one in a car stopped at a traffic light. He gave her a believable story that a drug handoff must have had complications. She bought it and wanted him to report back to her office.
Mario locked eyes with Howard. “The chief wants us back at the station.”
“We crossed the line?” Howard said.
Mario nodded his head. “Absolutely. We bought Olivia a few more days and got two thugs off the street.”
Howard smiled. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Chapter 22
At police headquarters, Howard departed the back stairway, and Mario strolled the main hallway leading to Broad Street. Not being seen together was most important at this point in the investigation.
“Can you believe she made us go through all that crap?” Howard said, when they reached Mario’s car.
“Just doing her job,” Mario replied. “Covering her ass.”
Internal affairs were called in to check both detectives’ guns for firing shots and their hands were checked for gunshot residue, both came up clean.
Chief Parks covered herself, with Leah Cook as a witness, when drilling Mario and Howard about the shooting on Tulane Avenue. She had planned to lure Lorenzo’s thugs to the motel on Airline Highway, a room near where Gaspar was kept. Arrest them on attempted murder and hope they would flip on Lorenzo giving the order. Just something to add to the case when they took him down.
Mario’s answer was simple. He said he called Little Pete and gave directions to the motel. He was a professional and said it with a straight face and convincing. They never showed up. On his way back to the station, he came across the two bodies on Tulane Avenue. That’s why he was first on the scene.
A witness confirmed seeing a black SUV at the traffic light and produced a partial license plate number. When gunshots were fired, the witness took cover and when she looked back up two bodies were dead in the street. Mario told the chief it was a typical drug drop gone bad or retaliation. Either way, they were heading to Lorenzo’s compound for answers.
Mario had to finish the act and called Little Pete. Said he was on his way and to make sure Lorenzo was available, then hung the phone up. They took the Causeway Bridge to Mandeville and arrived at the front gates. The guards had them sign in and directed them to follow the road through the massive iron gates. It turned Mario’s stomach every time he drove through the gates and saw the wealth this thug had accumulated. He wanted to walk up to Lorenzo, stick his revolver in his mouth, and pull the trigger, but that would be too easy a death.
The police cruiser came to a full stop in front of the main house. He looked at Howard as they nodded their heads. Mario smiled and said, “Show time.”
Lorenzo stood at the front door. He waved his bodyguards off. “Come in, gentlemen.”
Little Pete joined them in the office.
Lorenzo took control and sat behind the desk. “What the fuck happened?” Lorenzo pounded the wood top.
“I don’t know,” Mario said. “Why don’t we ask Little Pete?” Mario stood over him like he was interrogating him. “What were your guys doing on Tulane Avenue?”
Little Pete got even shorter, slumping into his chair. “You said to meet at the traffic light at the corner of Tulane and Carrollton.” His eyes were as big as eggs with dark circles. “Look for the black SUV, you said.”
Howard lunged at him. “You stupid son of a bitch.” Mario waved him off.
“Did you think you were making a hit in the middle of the street?” Mario gave a side view to Lorenzo hoping for a reaction. He gave up nothing. “I said the Tulane and Carrollton motel. Look for a black SUV; he’d be in the back seat. You fuck,” Mario shouted, then gave another side look at Lorenzo.
This time he showed expression. “Pete, did you think a cop was going to make the switch at a fucking traffic light?”
“Exactly!” Howard shouted. Sinking Little Pete to a new low in his chair.
“You might check your crew; something smells,” Howard said.
Mario took his last shot at convincing the two. With both hands resting on the desk, he glared into Lorenzo’s face. “You had your chance at Gaspar. Don’t ever put me in that position again.”
The detective left and headed down the hall. Throughout the house, Lorenzo’s voice echoed insinuations and allegations. Lorenzo undoubtedly knew about his crews’ fuck up.
Before Mario exited the house, he heard Lorenzo’s voice bellow out once more. “Just don’t fuck up the funeral.”
The police cruiser pulled away from the house in a huff. Throwing gravel onto the manicured lawn, he grinned at Howard. “How was that performance?”
Howard laughed. “You had me believing Little Pete fucked up.”
It was two hours before Virginia Hoffmann Nazario’s funeral. The FBI agents said they had everything under control. Tony Nazario was well protected, with six agents mixed in the crowd, and just in case, he was outfitted with a body armor vest. No one would get to Tony, the lead agent boasted when the funeral arrangements were made.
With proof that Lorenzo would attempt to take Tony out at the funeral, Mario insisted on uniform cops to show presence. The chief denied his request. It was the FBI’s case, and she wasn’t overstepping their decisions.
Lake Lawn Metairie Funeral Home planned a short viewing of the body, a few prayers by a Catholic priest, then burial on the grounds, a decision made and paid for by the deceased when she was of sound mind. From the rear of the room, Mario and Howard scrutinized every person who went to the casket, viewed the body, then turned to Tony and offered condolences. He stood as if he was the devoted husband who stood by Virginia’s side throughout her illness.
“What a creep,” Mario said, his eyes scanning the room.
Howard gritted his teeth. “He’s using her to be on the outside, just one more day,” Howard paused and then asked, “What if we’re wrong?”
“About what?” Mario glanced his way.
“What if no one planned to kill Tony?” Howard pulled Mario by the arm. “What if Tony planned to use the funeral for an escape?”
“How?”
“That’s the part I’m not sure, of,” Howard said. “He has lots of cash to cause a distraction and slip away.”
“No way,” Mario said, but in his head, the idea and the possibilities lingered.
A priest entered the parlor, and all eyes were on him, as the funeral director asked everyone to say their last goodbyes before he closed the casket. Mario picked out all six FBI agents in the room, as they closed in on Tony in a tight circle. A short line formed at the casket, for most of Virginia’s friends had died or were too ill to come to the funeral. A few of her caretakers, people from the front office, and Alma, assigned to Gloria Stein, came to the funeral.
Mario rolled his head, as Alma introduced herself to Tony. Taking his hand, she said, “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Virginia had called Orleans Care Facility home for over fifteen years, and this was the first time Alma had met him.
Anyone could easily read Mario’s lips. What an asshole.
The casket closed, and two men rolled it through a side door to the hearse. The vehicle moved slowly down a narrow, gravel road to the final resting place for Virginia. Tony sat in a limousine, the first behind the hearse, with some distant cousin of Virginia along with two FBI agents. The rest of the crowd walked behind the procession. Howard and Mario took to the green grass, marking the edge of the street. Step by step, the two detectives’ eyes roamed the area as they walked. The vaults that lined the street were like little tiny houses, and some were over ten feet high. It was the ten-foot vaults that concerned Mario. He stepped faster, making sure no one came out between the stone walls and highjacked the funeral.
You could quickly tell the crypt by the number of flowers draping the front. Chopper blades could be heard from a distance. Mario turned back to the crowd of about twenty people and saw a helicopter flying low, directly in line with the marchers. Howard pulled his gun and kept it under his coat. Mario did the same and moved to the back of the people. The cars stopped in front of the tomb.
Two agents stood on the outside of the rear doors of the limousine. The chopper got closer and lower to the point that dust swirled. Howard, at the rear of the crowd, pulled his weapon and pointed at the helicopter. Mario concealed his gun and ran to the limousine. Every indication directed to a sniper firing from above, killing Tony with one shot, as he exited the car. Mario supported his arm and aimed his gun at the chopper. An agent shouted, “Stand down,” as the helicopter veered to the right, gained altitude, and pulled away.
“Ten-four, copy,” an agent said over his radio. “That was our chopper making sure everything was safe when Tony exited the car.
”
“You assholes,” Mario said, clenching his teeth. “You could have let us in on your plan.”
“Not your case,” the agent said. “No need to keep you in the loop.”
Things calmed down. Tony exited the limo and stood ahead of everyone at the gravesite. The casket handled by some of the Orleans Care Facility employees moved Virginia to her final resting place. The coffin slipped into the top slot of the crypt. The priest stood next to the casket and said the last prayer and blessed the tomb. Agents in the crowd watched everything but the priest, making sure the service ended with Tony alive. Knowing Tony was evil, the priest still shook his hand and gave him words of encouragement to live on without his wife of over fifty years.
“This makes me want to barf,” Mario said to Howard. He replied with a disgusted look on his face.
Behind the priest, friends of Virginia gathered to offer Tony a final word, mostly how they endeared Virginia, for most had never met Tony. Alma took the longest in front of Tony. Mario overheard Alma say, “Gloria Stein wanted to be here, but she is not well. Virginia and Gloria were close friends.” Tony smiled and held Alma’s hand.
“Look at this asshole,” Mario said, with an elbow nudge at Howard. “All smiles, like he gives a shit about any of these people.”
The guests moved quicker, as most people gave handshakes and a smile as they passed Tony. Near the end of the line, an older man stepped up. Well up in age, he was dressed in a linen suit, with wingtip shoes, and a Panama hat.
“Look at this dude,” Mario said, with a head nod to Howard.
“Sharp dresser,” Howard said. “Gives Tony a run for apparel competition.”
The older man shook hands with Tony. With visible tears in his eyes, he hugged Tony. Then he came away with a broad smile. At that moment, Mario realized something was wrong. Before Mario could step forward, the man pulled a snub-nosed .38-Special from his breast coat pocket and shot Tony once in the head, blowing particles of Tony’s brains on the guests.
Vieux Carré Detective Page 12
