Chapter 3: Ties to the Past
Chapter 3: Ties to the Past
CHAPTER 3
TIES TO THE PAST
D
etective Lou Mazzetti pulled to the curb and got out of the car, his creased Oxford loafers splashing slush onto frayed pant cuffs. He buttoned his coat, positioned his hat to cover a bald spot, then went up the walk toward the old brick house. The house was still in nice shape—most were in this neighborhood, a community of predominantly Italian and Irish, but with a good mix of Poles and a smattering of Jews. Lou nodded to a patrolman stationed at the door as he climbed the steps. Today he felt as tired as he was old.
“How is it?” Lou asked.
“Neighbors didn’t hear anything, but they didn’t get home till late.” The patrolman shook his head. “Looks the same as the first one.”
Same as the first one.
A disturbing thought, but as Lou examined the scene it proved to be true: dead male shot once in the head, once in the heart.
And damn near every bone in his body broken.
No shell casings, and he felt certain the crime scene unit would find hairs, blood, skin, and DNA from a wide assortment of people. Lou looked at the medical examiner, Kate Burns, a pretty girl with skin as pale and freckled as her Irish name suggested. “Anything?”
Kate shook her head, wrapped up her kit and tucked it into a bag. “I’m sure we got his DNA, but it’s mixed in with the rest.”
“Process it all.”
“I’ll process it, but unless you get something more, it won’t do you a damn bit of good.”
Detective Frankie Donovan stepped
through the door and wiped slush from his Moreschi shoes using a monogrammed handkerchief. He unbuttoned his cashmere coat, hung it on a rack behind the door, then surveyed the crime scene with the hazel eyes he inherited from his father. Rumor was he got the Irish luck from his father, too, but that’s where the gifts stopped. The dark skin, bold nose, and brown hair came from his Sicilian mother, along with a birthmark on his neck, which his grandfather swore resembled a map of Sicily. It was a dark pigment, almost black, and it sat just below and left of a solid, square jaw that looked as if it might shatter. He’d had it hit enough times to know it wouldn’t.
“I just ran into Kate. She said we got nothing.”
“Hey, Frankie.” Lou walked over and gave him a slap on the back. “They told me you were coming. Anybody fill you in?”
“The lieutenant gave me the basics. He said you’ve had three now.”
Mazzetti nodded. “Three, yeah, but this might be the worst.”
Frankie motioned for Lou to join him in the kitchen. “Lou, listen, I—”
“Donovan, don’t worry. I knew the captain was gonna give the lead to someone. I’m glad it’s you.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“Let me fill you in. First one was bad, like this. The guy makes them suffer. Kate says they’re dead before he shoots them.”
Frankie listened as Lou went over the details, then he spent time walking around. He checked the body, looked at the mess on the floor, picked a few things off the dresser then headed toward the kitchen. “What’s this?” he asked, looking at an evidence bag on the counter.
“Rat shit.”
“You said there were no clues.”
“I bagged it, didn’t I? But it’s no clue; it’s rat shit.” Mazzetti laughed. “You want more? We got cat hairs in the sink, but he doesn’t have a cat. There’s probably dog shit in the bedroom, or who knows, maybe in the fuckin’ freezer. But no dog. And we got enough DNA to represent half the criminals at Riker’s.” Mazzetti waved his hand in the air, as if to surrender. “It’s the same old shit. That’s why I got no leads after three killings.”
“Guess we got too many clues,” Frankie said, and picked up a brown paper bag at the end of the counter. “What’s in here?”
“Dead rat. Found it in the fridge. How’s that for a psycho? You think this guy ate them?”
Rat shit and a dead rat.
“Mazzetti, I want everything you’ve got on these murders. Every scrap of information. Every photo.”
“I just told you. We got nothing.”
“Get it ready for me.”
“You know something?”
Frankie remembered the time Nicky and Tony broke into Billy Flannagan’s house and stuck a rat in his fridge. “Maybe I do.”
“Don’t you think you ought to share?”
Frankie considered his answer carefully. Some things even partners didn’t share. “I’ll think on it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Is this how you work with a partner? I’d have been better off with Jumbo.”
Frankie opened the door, turning to Lou before leaving. “I think somebody sent me a message. If I’m right, you don’t want to know.”
Frankie pulled into a
parking space and walked toward his apartment. Alex and Keisha, two of the kids from the building, were sitting on the stoop. He was in a hurry to get upstairs, but he always made time for these two. Alex was ten years old and, like a lot of young street kids, he was nothing but ribs and skin. Keisha was twelve and going through one of those slightly chunky phases that young girls hated. “What are my two favorite brats doing out in this cold?”
Alex didn’t bother to look up. “Not everybody hates cold like you, FD.”
“You know why we’re here,” Keisha said.
Frankie sat next to them, shivering when his ass hit the concrete. He reached over and rubbed Alex’s head. “Your mom got company?”
Alex’s chin rested on his hands. “Yeah.”
“Besides that, how’s it going?”
That drew a smile. “Not bad, FD, how ’bout you? Still catching bad guys?”
“Not so much catching as looking for, but it keeps me busy.” Frankie put as much enthusiasm as he could muster in his voice. “I’ve got to get out of this cold. Why don’t you two come up? I’ll make dinner.”
“I’ve tasted your cooking,” Alex said.
“Guess it’s just me and my girlfriend.”
Keisha straightened her skirt, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand and walked inside.
Alex followed. “I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. Your cooking’s bad, but it’s better than what I’ve got.”
Frankie kept his smile as they walked up the stairs. What he wanted to do was bust Alex’s mother and haul her ass to jail. He
would
if he could figure a way to keep Alex out of child services.
When they hit the second floor landing, Keisha’s mother poked her head out the door. “Keisha, time to eat, baby.”
“We’re eating with FD.”
She stepped into the hallway, hands on her hips and a stern look on her cocked head. “Girl, how many times have I got to tell you—Detective Donovan doesn’t need you and Alex keeping him from work. Lord knows we need some people arrested in this city. We could
use
some arrested right here in this building.” She gave Frankie a raised-eyebrow stare when she said that.
Keisha protested, but her mother put a stop to it. “No arguing.” As she walked back into her apartment she turned. “Bring Alex if you want.”
Alex sniffed the air then looked at Frankie. “FD, I’m taking a pass on your invite. You smell that pot roast? Gonna be
way
better than what you make.”
“Don’t be surprised if I come down to eat with you guys,” Frankie said, and started up the steps toward his apartment. He was relieved to have the night free, but sad the kids weren’t joining him. Some people had soft spots for dogs or cats. For Frankie, it was kids. He couldn’t refuse a kid in trouble. Maybe because of his own troubled youth, or maybe he just thought he could make a difference.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he had his tie off and his shirt unbuttoned, despite the chill of the stairway. He turned the key and pushed open the door, greeted by a vast emptiness.
An empty house for an empty person.
That’s what Mamma Rosa used to say. He shrugged, as if accepting the inevitable, made his way to the kitchen, opened a bottle of Chianti, then took a shower.
When he came out, clad in shorts and a T-shirt, he poured a glass of wine and sat at his desk. Writing opened his mind and let him think differently. He thought about the day and the crime scene.
Rat shit and a dead rat.
The rat held special significance. To any other detective it would have been nothing, but to Frankie it said a lot. If someone from the old neighborhood was involved it reduced his suspect list from millions to a handful. At the top of that handful were two people—Tony Sannullo, crew boss for the Martelli crime family; and Niccolo Fusco, otherwise known as “Nicky the Rat.”
He clicked the top of his rollerball pen, took a narrow-lined notebook from the drawer and started. Frankie used computers for almost everything, but he preferred to write the old-fashioned way, with a pen on paper. The pen felt comfortable in his hand. Even the nuns back in grade school told him he’d be a writer someday.
Anyone with penmanship like yours will learn to write
. That’s what Sister Mary Thomas told him. Maybe her inspiration kept him going when he wanted to quit. Frankie sipped the wine, put ink to paper and wrote:
‘This story started about thirty years ago, down by Philly. But that’s a long way off and a lot of years past. Even so, my memory is clear on this—how you ask—it’s easy for me. Tony, Nicky, and I were best friends. So how did Frankie Donovan, a Brooklyn Detective, and Tony Sannullo, a mob boss, and Nicky “The Rat” Fusco, come to be best friends?’
Frankie set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t feel right telling this story. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get started. People say that the past holds the key to the future. Frankie didn’t know how much of that was true, but he knew someone from the old neighborhood was involved with these crimes. If he hoped to solve them he’d have to figure out where things went wrong. Frankie put his hands behind his head and kicked his feet up.
If this is about the old neighborhood, then it’s really Nicky’s story. Maybe he should tell it.