A Bullet for Carlos (29 page)

After forty-five minutes of grueling cardio his lungs screamed for relief, but he would have none of it. That wasn’t the way to build strength, or character. With his hands taped, he started on the bag with easy jabs, slowly working up to medium, then heavy strikes, until all he saw was a haze. Images of
her
crept into his mind, raising his blood pressure. With each bark of her voice he hit the bag harder. Much harder. He slammed his fist into the bag, wishing it were her face, or her gut. Or her tits, or her pussy. No, not that. He wanted to be in her while he punished her. He stopped to breathe. Focused.

Patience. All in good time.

Chapter 34

Bad News From Brooklyn

C
arlos came into the kitchen ready for breakfast, his favorite meal of the day. The love for it hearkened back to childhood, when he and his sisters used to sit at the table with their parents and laugh and eat. His mother, saint that she was, insisted on starting the day with laughter.

The servant nodded to him as he passed. He seemed nervous, even though he had been with Carlos for a while. “Everything is ready, señor.”

“Gracias,” Carlos said, and took his seat.

“Señor Tico is waiting.”

Carlos looked to the patio, Tico pacing as if he were a big cat at the zoo. “I see him, Manuelo.”

Manuelo poured coffee from a carafe into the cup in front of Carlos. “Si, señor. I will go now.” He disappeared, though he kept watch from the other side of the room.

Carlos placed the napkin on his lap, took a sip of the coffee, and smiled, nodding to Manuelo. On the plate before him were pieces of bananas—always
broken
into chunks, not sliced—and sitting next to the bananas lay berries and melon balls. A small sweet roll occupied a plate to his left, next to the morning paper. To the far right sat a tall glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed, and two packets of sugar to accompany it. His mother had always put sugar in their orange juice and Carlos never grew out of the habit. Breakfast was a ritual, and Carlos stuck to it as religiously as the old priests who insisted on saying mass in Latin.

Manuelo cleared the plate and moved the sweet roll in front of Carlos, then refilled his coffee and lit his cigarette. When Carlos was done, he nodded to Manuelo. It was time to hear what Tico had to say.

Manuelo opened the sliding glass door and motioned for Tico to enter.

Carlos moved his chair to the side. “Come in, Tico. Tell me the bad news.”

Tico took long strides across the room coming to a stop in front of Carlos. Tico kept his head bowed. “It is Brooklyn. We lost three more men and still no information on the missing drugs.”

Carlos ignored his own orders to smoke American cigarettes, and pulled a Fortuna from a pack on the table, rolling it between his fingers before putting it in his mouth. By the time it hit his lips, Tico had a match ready. He struck it against the pack, cupped his hands and held it under the cigarette. Carlos hated lighters.

He drew a strong first drag, tilted his head back and exhaled, blowing smoke rings. “Tell me again what we lost.”

“We lost Juan, Paulo—”

“They can be replaced. How much product?”

“Twenty-five kilos.”

Carlos pushed his chair back and stood, quickly beginning his customary pace. Smoke leaked from his mouth and swept behind him as he walked. “That is almost three quarters of a million dollars.” He stopped, crushed his butt out in the ashtray. “And we still do not know who did this?”

“Some people say it was Dominic Mangini.”

“You mean Manny Rosso.”

“No,” Tico said. “They say Señor Mangini, from the Bronx.” When Carlos said nothing, Tico continued. “Our men say it is retribution for what we did to the girl. Some even say it was him who killed our men the night of the bust, not the cops.”

This news piqued Carlos’ interest. “Where does this information come from?”

“From inside.”

Carlos rubbed his chin. “Why would Señor Mangini bother with an undercover cop? Is she on his payroll? Even so, why would he care? Cops on the take are not uncommon.”

“We could cause him trouble. He has operations in—”

A waving hand forestalled him. “No, Tico. We will do nothing like that. If Señor Mangini cares so much about this cop, we need to know why.” A thin smile appeared on his face. “Find her, Tico. I want you to find out where she is and bring her to me.”

“Señor, you already told us to kill her.”

“Now I want you to bring her to me.”

“Si, señor.” He turned to leave, but Carlos stopped him.

“Have you found me a girl yet?”

“None that would suit you.”

“I want a brown one, with skin like silk.”

“Si, señor.”

Chapter 35

The Dead Can’t Speak

T
ip was down after hearing about Tony. I was too, but for different reasons. I got back to my desk and started digging through the files, searching for anything similar to what we had on Patti’s case—a delivery of some kind, or anything that didn’t fit. Tip kept busy double checking cameras around the store where the iPod was bought. He got the ATM records from nearby machines, too.

As I dug through the files on the Mason case, I saw something. “Hey Tip, take a look at this.”

He scooted his chair next to mine. “What?”

“This record in the files shows an inventory of her mailbox, the real one, not her e-mail in-box, and there were tickets to the theater in there.
Phantom of the Opera
.”

“What’s strange about that?”

“Look at the scan of the tickets. It’s tough to see, but it looks like the date on them is for the night before she died.”

Tip got real close, studying the image. “Son-of-a-bitch. We need to get the original, or a better copy.”

I picked up the phone to dial.

“And find out if
she
bought them.”

I nodded while dialing.

“And see if she had season tickets, or if this was a one-time thing.”

I held up my hand, pausing him. “Carol, this is Connie Gianelli.”

I told Carol what we needed, then got off the phone. “She’ll get it to us soon, Tip. I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna have something strange on this one, too.”

Tip was sorting through papers. He scooted some my way. “This is the Gardner file. Start looking.”

We spent most of the afternoon going through the Gardner files and making calls, but we came up dry. It wasn’t surprising, since the case wasn’t a model for good documentation. Kind of sparse. Tip was right when he said “Old Bud” was just waiting to retire.

Carol called back near the end of the day and we got the enhanced images, as well as the envelope the tickets came in. “Take a look at the postmark, Tip. It was mailed
after
Mason was dead.”

“I’ll be a donkey’s ass,” he said. “She buy them?”

“No. She didn’t buy them, and it doesn’t look like she was a regular at the theater. If she was, she didn’t buy tickets on credit.”

“See if we can find out who bought these tickets.”

“Already asked my Lieutenant if he’d put somebody on that. He said he would.”

“What the hell is going on?” Tip said. “We got theater tickets and iPods being bought for dead women. What’s the connection?”

“I don’t know, but we’re getting somewhere,” I said.

“Yeah, we’re getting somewhere, but not very fast. And that son-of-a-bitch is still out there.” He dug his nose back into the Gardner file. “Let’s find something, Gianelli.”

I got into the
station early the next day, and got a call from the guy Morreau had put on the case. I was still talking to him when Tip came in.

“Okay, good. Yeah, thanks anyway, and let me know if something comes up.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Tip said.

I shook my head. “They found the guy. He’s a season ticket holder, but he didn’t go that night and he sold his tickets to a place that scalps them. And yes, he’s got an alibi for the night of the murder. They’re trying to find out who sold the tickets, but it would be a miracle if they remember anything.”

“Been thinking about this all night,” Tip said. “The Phantom is a musical, and we got the iPod connection…”

“Music!” I said.

Tip smiled. “And remember what Patti’s boss told us, about her meeting a jogger who invited her to a concert?”

“Son-of-a-bitch. We need to find that jogger.”

“Grab your shit. We’re on our way. I’ll get Patti’s photo.”

We talked to about
thirty people at Cypresswood Park, where Patti jogged, but nobody remembered anything. One or two of them thought they recognized her photo, but no one recalled seeing her talking to anyone or running with a partner. We stopped at a place called Strack’s for a barbeque sandwich and reviewed what we had. I sensed the tension between us since Tony’s death, but we’d been so busy it hadn’t been an issue.
Yet.

I thought about what we had for evidence and tossed it out to make conversation. “So this guy spends money to buy an iPod and theater tickets then has them delivered to dead women…for what?”

Tip took a long sip of ice tea. “He sent them as a taunt—to us.”

It didn’t take long to sink in. “You’re
right
. He’s playing with us.”

“What pisses me off the most is we didn’t know it until now.”

“So what are we gonna do about it?”

Tip rapped his knuckles on the table. “Remember that reporter at Patti’s house—“

“The one that hates you?”

“Hell no. The one that loves me.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I remember her. Short, blonde, busty.”

“That’s the one,” Tip said. “We’ll get her to run a story, see if anyone can place this jogger Patti met.”

“Sounds good,” I said through a mouthful of barbeque.

The next day was
Tony’s viewing. I met Tip in the morning, working on the case, though we had developed no additional leads.

“Are you going to the viewing?” he asked.

Tip’s question caught me by surprise. He knew
something
or he wouldn’t have asked. “I’ll be there. You want to pick me up?”

“You don’t have to go,” Tip said.

Now I
knew
he suspected. “I want to go. What time?”

“Around seven. I’ll call when I pull into the complex.”

“See you tonight,” I said.

“Yeah, see you at seven.”

Tip picked me up
on time, but he didn’t say three words all the way down. Even worse, he drove under the speed limit. I worried about how I’d react to seeing Tony. The last time I saw him he was vibrant, alive, and full of optimism. But as much as the idea of seeing him dead bothered me, I worried more about meeting his wife.

The funeral home was packed when we got there, a lot of cops in uniform, and a whole lot of family. I murmured a silent prayer for Tony as we walked toward the casket, amidst tears and wailing from relatives. An older couple sat in the front row, crying uncontrollably—his parents, I assumed. And a young woman with two small children sat next to them. She sat erect, perfect posture, maintaining calm. Regal described her best.

“That’s Belinda,” Tip whispered. “Tony’s wife.”

We went to the casket, me following Tip. I blessed myself and said a few prayers, asking God to take care of Tony. I asked for forgiveness, too, for bringing Tony into this. He was a cop. He knew what he was doing. But maybe he wouldn’t have ended up dead if I’d kept him out of my problems. I felt the tears coming and pulled a tissue from my purse, then finished the prayers. Afterwards, I got in line with Tip.

Tip had already begun offering condolences. When I got there, he turned. “Belinda, this is Connie Gianelli, my partner.”

Belinda’s beautiful eyes hardened. “You’re the one from New York?”

I swallowed hard.
This
was what I had been fearing. “Yes.”

I stepped back, Belinda’s accusing eyes stabbing me. From the corner of my eye I saw Tip’s jaw tighten. “You’re the reason he went to that club,” she said.

Tip moved between us. “I’ll call you later this week, Belinda. You know how sorry I am.” He grabbed me by the arm and headed for the door. He got the car, pulled out and punched the accelerator, racing down the road. “You want to tell me what that was about.”