Chapter 7: Investigation
Chapter 7: Investigation
CHAPTER 7
INVESTIGATION
Brooklyn—Current Day
F
rankie finished his wine, sat back in the chair and relaxed. He thought about what Nicky used to say about confession.
Do something bad, tell God about it, then start all over.
That defined Nicky’s whole life. He was the one who bought into that confession bullshit, but he would do it himself, with God. And it was always on a Saturday, as if it were a magical day for confessing.
Frankie wanted to sleep but couldn’t get that dead rat off his mind. He headed to his desk, spread the files, and sorted them by date. Renzo was killed nearly two months ago. The second murder, Devin, followed three weeks later and had as many differences as it did similarities. Devin was Irish, not Italian. Lived in an apartment, not a house. And most puzzling of all, he wasn’t tortured, just shot—once in the head, once in the heart. But the preponderance of evidence at the scene was the same. Frankie felt certain both murders were mob-related. It was a shame that people thought that way, but if two guys named Tortella and Ciccarelli got shot in Brooklyn, people assumed they were connected even if they were wearing priests’ collars and carrying chalices.
Whoever did this had powerful motivation. Frankie just had to figure out why.
Why kill a person like this?
Why make them suffer? Why shoot them after they are already dead? Why shoot them in the head and heart?
A new thought occurred. Based on Mazzetti’s statement, Frankie had assumed they were already dead, but he needed confirmation. Frankie scrolled through his contact file until he found the listing for Kate Burns. He dialed her number, recalling the days when she was on his speed-dial list, back when he thought he might finally have a relationship that would last. At least they still got along.
The phone rang a few times before she picked up.
“Hello.”
“Kate, it’s Frankie.”
“And I mistook you for the shy type.”
“I need to know if these guys were already dead when he shot them.”
A pause followed. “You mean Mazzetti’s murders?”
“Yeah, there were three.”
“I know how many there were, but the first two weren’t the same. The second guy was just shot. But the first one…”
“Renzo,” Frankie said.
“Thanks, the names are always a blur to me. I remember wounds.”
“That’s what makes you so attractive, Doctor.”
“Screw you,” Kate said. “Anyway, the first guy, Renzo, he got it bad. He was definitely dead before he was shot.”
“And Nino?”
“I haven’t confirmed it, but I’d bet on it.”
“Thanks. Sorry I bothered you at night.”
“Before you go, I thought you’d like to know that the actual murder weapon was a Louisville Slugger. I’m guessing we’ll find the same with Nino.”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks again.”
“Goodnight,
Detective
Donovan.” She cooed the title.
“I love you, too,” he said, and hung up. He regretted saying that to her—didn’t want to make her think…
Nah, she won’t.
As he went through Tommy Devin’s file, he saw something in the inventory that stopped him cold—thirty-two packs of Winstons.
Thirty-two packs.
Another link to the past.
If he assumed the murderer was Nicky or Tony, that still left a big question—how did they know the victims? To figure that out, Frankie had to know the victims. After picking up his favorite fine-point marker, he started making a chart. “Who are you, Nino? And what did you do to piss someone off so bad?”
There was no doubt that someone was sending Frankie a message, but were they warning him off, or giving him clues? Was this
really
tied to the old neighborhood, or was he reading too much into it? Maybe the guy bought four cartons and happened to have thirty-two packs left.
Frankie pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table. He lit it and sucked hard on that first drag. A memory brought laughter along with the smoke, damn near choking him. Nicky hated it when Frankie strained the cigarette. But that was back when cigs were important. Hell, back then they were
everything
.