MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 62

Precautions

Current Day 

As Frankie drove to Tony’s house, his cell phone rang. “Hello.”

“Frankie, it’s Carol. Detective Pollard from Cleveland homicide has been trying to reach you.”

“Give me the number.” Frankie pulled over as soon as he could and dialed. 

“Pollard.”

“Pollard, this is Donovan from Brooklyn.”

There was an inordinately long pause, then. “Donovan, you’re going to be pissed, but I had to do this.”

“What?”

“Earlier when we talked, I told you there were no witnesses, but there was one. A priest.”

“Why did—”

“You know the drill. I don’t know you from shit, and you call all of a sudden wanting to know about a murder that, to me, sure as shit, stinks of New York connections. And you being from Brooklyn.” Pollard paused again. “I had to check you out first, which is why I’m calling back. We said in the papers that she was alone, but she was with a guy named Richie Krasner. Supposed to be her husband, but getting married again in the church, at least from what the priest said. And he said there were at least four shooters. Anyway, Richie vanished. We haven’t been able to find shit on him. Went to the address on their licenses, but the place was empty. I mean dead empty. Not a stick of furniture, a towel, a dish. Not even a fingerprint. I’d like to keep it that way, if you know what I mean.”

“No problem, Pollard. I appreciate this. If you ever need anything, call.” Frankie was about to hang up, when he thought of something else. “Pollard, how did you swing it for everybody to go along with this charade?”

There followed an even longer pause than before. “Shit, Donovan, you got to keep this quiet.”

“You know it.”

“FBI came in shortly after the incident. I don’t even know what brought them, unless they picked something up from her prints when we ran them. Said she had ties to someone in the Witness Protection Program. Since the whole thing stunk of mob connections, I believed them. They were the ones who wanted me to keep the guy out of it.”

Frankie smiled. “Pollard, you’ve been a big help. I owe you one for sure.”

“Whoa. Not so fast. How does what you’re working on tie in to my case? Let’s share, Detective.”

Frankie hesitated, but decided that what the hell, the guy had played square with him. “We’ve got some murders up here. Four of them, and we think Krasner is the one doing it.” He took a deep breath. “Listen, Pollard, this can’t go anywhere. You’d cost me my job.”

“Keep talking. I know how to use a lead.”

“The girl was being hunted by some well-known mob types from Brooklyn, and I think I know why. If she had connections to someone in Witness Protection, it had to have something to do with that. We figure the guy was innocent, just protecting her.”

“And you think this guy, Krasner, is now hunting them?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Are you shitting me? Who is this Krasner?”

“That’s just it. He’s not Richie Krasner.”

“Damn. All right, Detective. Send me whatever you can, or at least keep me posted.”

“I’ll keep you updated, I promise. And I really do appreciate what you did for me.” Frankie hung up and damn near sung a song. He was right about Nicky all along. He knew Nicky wouldn’t kill them without a good reason. Frankie suddenly realized something. 

Jesus Christ. He thinks it’s me. That’s what the rat shit is about. Nicky thinks I betrayed him.

#

Frankie locked his door after he entered. It was no longer a simple precaution. If Nicky was on the loose and really after him, he needed every edge he could get, and he had to solve this fast. The problem was, he had no idea who was involved with killing Nicky’s girl. The priest said there were four of them, but there could be more. Frankie walked over and wrote on the chart. 

‘Nicky must have known shooters. At least one of them.’

He stepped back and stared at that. If Nicky only knew one—and Frankie would make that assumption for now—it had to be Renzo. He was the first one killed. 

And Nicky would have gone to Renzo to get the other names. 

He went back to the chart and wrote, ‘Renzo gave him other names?’ He put a question mark by it, but it felt right.

Frankie smiled as if he had actually figured something out. Assuming Nicky knew Renzo, he could have gotten the other names from him. So that brought him back to the original question, where did Nicky know Renzo from? 

Frankie pulled up Renzo’s file. No occupation. Three arrests for gambling. No convictions. Killed in house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence at scene. Tortured before shot. A note had been added to the file about a suspected connection to Tito Martelli during his old days in Queens, but nothing proven. So the one likely connection between Nicky and Renzo was the chance they both knew Tito. One possibility. One thread. That’s all it took, though. 

One thread—Tony Sannullo.

Frankie dialed Tony’s number. 

It took five rings for him to answer. “What the hell do you want, Bugs?”

“Someone tried killing Nicky.”

“Why tell me?”

“I think it was you.”

“Screw you, Bugs.”

“You know he won’t stop until he gets you, Tony. He’ll save you for last.”

“Let him try. I’m not Nino Tortella.”

Frankie laughed. “Oh, you’re dead, Tony. You’re dead, and you don’t even know it.” He hung up and cursed. He didn’t care about Tony anymore.

But the stupid shit might be taking me down with him.