Brooklyn—Current Day
Frankie got to the station before Mazzetti did, before any of the morning shift except Carol. It was tough to beat her in. “Morning, Carol. You’re looking sharp.”
“Compliments are not necessary, Donovan, but yes, I did get your tape. It’s on your desk.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You really are the best.”
Frankie pretended not to see the blush on Carol’s face; instead, he got coffee then hurried to his desk. He was listening to the tape when Mazzetti came trudging in. “What are you listening to?”
“The tape of Renzo’s 9-1-1 call.”
Lou waited while Frankie played it twice more, his ear in close. “Anything?”
Frankie sat on the edge of the desk. “I didn’t tell you this before, because I wasn’t sure.”
“Yeah, I remember. Crazy thought and all.”
“That’s right. And I’m still not sure. I thought this might be a guy I knew leaving me clues. I wanted to see if I recognized the voice.”
“And?”
“I want to say no, but one time I thought I detected a Philly accent.”
“There are plenty of guys from Philly up here. You can’t pry that accent loose with a crow bar.”
“Don’t I know it,” Frankie said. “Been trying to lose mine for years.”
“So we’re back to the grind.”
Frankie tossed his cup into the trash. “Guess we are, partner.”
They worked the rest of the day, catching up with the few people they hadn’t interviewed yet from the neighborhood and on pestering Kate Burns about DNA evidence. She had turned up some stuff, but there was an inordinate amount of it at the scenes and the system was already bogged down. By late afternoon, Frankie called it quits. Lou had already left for a dentist appointment. “Going home early, Carol. See you tomorrow.”
#
The chart was where Frankie had left it, hanging on the wall to the right of a poster featuring Bogart and Mary Astor that he picked up at a garage sale. Looked good keeping company with Casablanca. He grabbed a marker and started writing. It was time to find answers.
Nicky:
Friends—Who are friends? Me, Tony, Suit. Anyone else?
Honor—Don’t ever run. If this is Nicky, he definitely isn’t running.
Girls—There is a girl, but who is she? And what does she have on Tito?
Nuns—Sister Thomas—does she know anything? Would Nicky tell her?
Prison—Have no idea what he did in there.
Fearless—No shit.
Smart—Has us confused. Knows procedure.
Rosa—Her teachings would have affected him.
Tito—What’s the connection with him?
Cleveland—What the hell were you doing in Cleveland?
Then he stared at Tony’s chart:
Tony:
Friends—Me, Nicky, Suit, Tito, Manny.
Honor—Not sure if it still means anything to him.
Girls—Has wife, Celia. Others.
Nuns—Never had the respect for them that Nicky did.
Mob—Seems to be in tight.
Conniving—Can no longer trust Tony.
Smart—Smartest guy I know.
Rosa—His mother—but did he learn from her?
Tito—Does he obey? Or just work for him?
Brooklyn—Knows what’s going on.
Okay, enough of that, he thought, happy with what he accomplished.
Time to look at the files again. Files usually held the key to a case. They just had to be reviewed over and over again. Just like the nuns taught them in school. Never give up. If you are stuck, go to the beginning and start over.
First file: Renzo Ciccarelli. No occupation. Three arrests for gambling. No convictions. Killed in a house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence. Tortured before shot.
Second file: Tommy Devin. A plumber in the union. No convictions. No arrests. Killed in a house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence.
Third file: Nino Tortella. Car Salesman. Twelve arrests, all minor. Three convictions. No jail. Killed in a house. No one heard or saw anything. Tons of evidence. Tortured before shot.
Donovan stared at the data. Not much to go on. At least he hadn’t found it yet. It was there, he felt sure, but he had to sift through it. He drew three columns on a new sheet of paper: Renzo. Tommy, Nino. Underneath them, he penciled in the things they had in common and what was unique.
Several things caught his eye: Rat shit. Shot in head and heart. Killed at home. Preponderance of evidence. All of these went under each name as common to all.
A few items stuck out. Torture—only Renzo and Nino got penciled in.
Dead rat—only Nino.
Unless they just didn’t find one at the other scenes.
Frankie made a note to ask about that. He stared, flipped through the papers, then read again.
Cigarettes at Tommy’s house. Picture of mother turned down at Nino’s. Nicky would never dare let anyone’s mother see them be hurt so bad. Not even as bad as he must have hated poor Nino. Frankie wrote two more notes.
If this is Nicky, why did he hate Nino?
‘Check and see if pictures turned down in other two houses. See if there were pictures.’
That was one more clue on the bad side for Nicky. After working two more hours, Frankie quit. His eyes were tired and things were not making sense. He jotted down one final note:
‘Find everything these three had in common. Need the link.’
He thought about what he had learned. On one side it pointed to Nicky: rat shit, rat in the fridge, the 9-1-1 call, cigarettes, roaches, picture of Nino’s mother turned down.
But Tony also knew about the rat, the cigs, and the roaches. He wouldn’t have bothered calling about the cat or turning the picture down, but…he was smart enough to have thought about it if he was framing Nicky. And of the two of them, Tony was the one Frankie pictured doing this. Either way, the killer was sending Frankie a message—but what? Was he telling Frankie who would be next? And if it was Nicky, why was he killing these people? Why had he disappeared to begin with? Why had he never called back?
Frankie wrote another column on the paper. Who else? Under it he scribbled more thoughts. If someone else was doing this, they would have to know Nicky’s habits. Have to be from the neighborhood.
He settled onto the cushion, deciding to sleep on the sofa tonight as he thought about what to do. He knew what he should do. He should go in tomorrow and tell the lieutenant that he wants off the case, that he suspects one of his old friends is the killer. Frankie scratched his head, closed his eyes and imagined the scenario. None of it good. How does he tell them that his absolute best friend is an ex-con and might be the one killing these people? And what if they ask about the rest of his friends...the ones who were mobsters. Either way he was fucked, but then again he’d been fucked from the moment he was born into that hellhole of a house.
He remembered times growing up when he wished his father would just go away, not come home one day from work. After some of the beatings he wished that he would die. When he was little and still believed in shit, he got scared that God would do something to him for thinking such thoughts. Later, when his hate had turned to his mother, he didn’t care. At that point the only friends he had were Nicky and Tony. Now Nicky was missing and Tony…well, Tony was still Tony. He always had a way of being a prick and he knew just how to get under Nicky’s skin.