CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (18 page)

CHAPTER 22 – COUSINS

I was up just before dawn. I had plenty of time to stop by my office to pick up all the Capriati photos, and even run by the 122
nd
Precinct in case there had been a FAX foul up. I love Mac, but even old technology isn’t his strong suit.

After showering and dressing, I clipped on my Taurus and dropped another gun in my pocket. It was a Bersa Thunder, an Argentine knockoff of the Walther that in some ways was superior to its German antecedent. The Nazi refugees who settled in Argentina after World War II probably had a lot of time on their hands to work out the kinks. It was an automatic and packed more punch than the revolver. I went downstairs and picked up the morning newspapers from the front stoop. I had
The New York Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
delivered and tried to read them cover to cover every day, even the respective editorials, which were written by people on different planets. Seeing the papers reminded me that I’d forgotten to stop delivery. I called Al Johnsen and told him to make sure they didn’t pile up.

“Sure. You making any progress?”

I drew a blank for a moment. How did he know what I was working on? Then I realized he was talking about the poison pen letters.

“Been tied up. But I’ll get to it. By the way, your lawn looks great.”

Once again, my car started without detonating. It’s hard to plant explosives in a car that has an alarm. Having a next-door neighbor with a dog that barks when a leaf falls also is a deterrent.

I stopped for coffee and a whole wheat bagel at a 24-hour 7-Eleven on Bay Street across from the waterfront ball park where the minor league Staten Island Yankees played in the summer. The baseball park cost $74 million and had faced fierce opposition from civic groups who thought the money could be better spent on affordable housing, transportation or potholes. But it had been rammed through by a Borough President who, everyone assumed, saw a piece of that $74 million. But just because a project is a boondoggle doesn’t mean it can’t be enjoyed. There are a lot worse ways to spend a summer night than drinking cold beer and eating hot dogs at a ball game. The stadium itself was a beauty, and the view, which included the Statue of Liberty and downtown Manhattan, had to be the finest of any ball park in the country. It would have been even better but for Al-Quaeda, a thought that crossed everyone’s mind, every game.

There was only one other vehicle in the fenced-in parking lot when I pulled in, a dark blue Ford Explorer. It was barely light out but I could see exhaust fumes. Whoever was in the car was staying warm. The Explorer was parked in the first slot nearest the building. I would have to walk past it if I parked anywhere in the front of the lot, as I normally did when coming in early. Instead, I drove down a lane and parked near the fence closest to the harbor. There was a side entrance to the lot and I used it.

There were any number of innocent reasons a car would be idling in the lot. And one not so innocent. I now suspected everything that moved, and a few things that didn’t. As I started walking toward the building’s front entrance I heard car doors open and close. Out of the corner of my eye I saw two men emerge from the Explorer and begin walking toward the building. They were both wearing long dark coats and had their hands in their pockets. They picked up their pace. I was reminded of the scene in
The Godfather
where Vito Corleone stopped to buy fruit. That hadn’t worked out all that well for the Don. I wasn’t buying fruit but suspected I might buy the farm if I wasn’t careful.

We would all probably reach the entrance about the same time. At which time they would either wish me a good morning and perhaps politely hold the door for me or shoot me many times in the face. I didn’t turn toward the entrance. I kept going straight toward a small alley that separated the building from a low seawall. I figured I could make the corner of the building before they got within shooting range, unless they had an S.A.M. missile, which I thought unlikely. I suppressed the urge to run. I had done nothing obvious to make them assume I wasn’t just using a side or back entrance to my building. If anything, they were probably happy I was heading into a darkened alley. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I read somewhere that was a holdover from our ancestors’ caveman days, presumably when a saber tooth tiger was gaining on them. That usually didn’t work out well for the caveman either.

I turned the corner leisurely and once out of my pursuers’ sight ran like hell to a dumpster about 20 feet in the alley. I jumped behind it. I could hear the men’s footsteps quicken. I put down the coffee and bagel, and pulled both my guns. I should have felt ridiculous. All I needed was a cowboy hat and some chaps and I could pass for Tom Mix. But I now had 12 rounds at my disposal and it has been my experience that people who are willing to look ridiculous often outlive those who aren’t.

I could hear the two men running now. I was debating whether to shoot them when they turned the corner into the alley, and hoped they weren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to give me a pamphlet, when I heard a car drive up rapidly and screech to a halt. Then a dozen or more coughing sounds, a couple of grunts and what could have passed for two sacks of grain hitting the sidewalk. I caught a glimpse of a black sedan making a U-turn and speeding away on squealing tires. Then all was quiet.

I knew what the coughing sounds had been. Silencers aren’t completely silent, especially on what had to be a machine pistol of some sort. I walked to the corner of the building and cautiously peeked around. Both men were sprawled face up on the sidewalk. They would have turned at the sound of the car. I recognized them both. It was Benny and Jerry. Benny was obviously a fast healer, for all the good it did him now. If I’d hit him harder in the throat he might still be in the hospital, and alive. Maybe his injury slowed his reflexes because he never drew a weapon. His cousin managed to get his handgun out. It lay beside him. I checked for pulses, but the neat pattern of holes in their chests suggested I wouldn’t feel any. They were very dead. My guardian angel – given the equal spacing of the shots I knew it was a single shooter – had been expert. There was little blood. The bullets were tightly grouped around their hearts which stopped pumping almost immediately. A real expert. I don’t know why I felt bad about two cousins getting killed together. After all, they were going to kill me. But I did.

“A rocky road, boys.”

I assumed that Nando Carlucci had abandoned the accident scenario. He seemed to be escalating exponentially. The next step was probably a neutron bomb. But who rubbed out the rubber-outers? I looked around. Not a creature was stirring. I went back to the alley, picked up the bag with the coffee and bagel. It had my fingerprints on it. Besides, I was still hungry. I then walked to my car, got in and drove away. With any luck nobody would notice me. I couldn’t see any downside in having Nando think I aced two of his shooters and got away with it. It might give him second thoughts.

I debated catching my flight. But I had to be sure no one could put me at the scene of a double homicide. Leaving town then wouldn’t endear me to the cops. I’d wait it out.

On the way home I opened the coffee. It was still hot. And it had never tasted better.

CHAPTER 23 – BLAMING MOSSAD

By the time I got home my own pulse rate had slowed to near normal. I think it was Churchill who said that getting shot at to no effect was exhilarating. The same was apparently true for being almost shot at. Of course, I had also in the past been shot at with effect, but fortunately not to the extent of the two stiffs. Better exhilarated than aerated, that’s my motto. I quickly changed into a different colored jacket and slacks. There wasn’t anything I could do about my car but I was counting on the parking lot at my building to be part of a crime scene by the time I got back. I was right. There were squad cars and emergency vehicles everywhere and cops waving cars away. I parked down a side street and walked back. One of the cops asked me what I wanted and I told him I worked in the building. It was just 9 AM.

“What’s going on?”

He asked for I.D. and wrote down the particulars. He wanted to know what floor I worked on and my office number. I told him. Since a lack of curiosity can be suspicious, I again asked him what was up. When he looked annoyed I said, “I used to be on the job.”

“Couple of guys got popped. That’s all I know.”

I walked toward the lobby entrance. Everything past it was cordoned off and alive with detectives and uniforms. Several people who worked in the building were staring at the morgue guys, who were just lifting the two bodies into their van. I started chatting with the other gawkers and tried to look both concerned and perplexed. No one pointed at me and screamed, “That’s him! I’d recognize him even without his bagel!”

One of the detectives spotted me and walked over. His name was Paul Vocci and he was one of the guys who replaced Cormac on the D.A.’s squad. We didn’t like each other very much.

“What the hell are you doing here, Rhode?” He would have said “fuck” but I was standing among a group of civilians that included some women.

“I work here, Paulie. What are you doing here? You’re not homicide.”

“Who told you it’s a homicide?”

“One of the uniforms. I might have caught on anyway, considering there are the dozen squad cars, the Medical Examiner is loading a couple of stiffs in the meat wagon, the place is crawling with detectives and they’ve stretched enough crime scene tape to circle the globe.”

One of the women laughed and Vocci reddened. 

“You always were a wiseass, Rhode.”

“Guilty as charged. But let’s forget how much we mean to each other, Paulie. What have you got?”

Vocci motioned me away from my little group to a spot where my rapier wit could do less damage to his pride. He was a pain in the ass, but lingering professional courtesy forced a grudging reply. Besides, the homicide dicks hated the D.A. squad. They’d probably been pissing on Vocci all morning. Compared to them I was a friendly face.

“Pakistani guy who runs the newsstand in the lobby spotted the bodies when he came in around 7. Both shot multiple times. M.E. is guessing an Uzi. Both stiffs were armed. One of the homicide guys recognized them. Said they worked for the Carluccis.”

The fact that the dead men were typecast so quickly worked in my favor.

“A hit?”

“Maybe.”

“Funny place for it. Anybody see or hear anything?”

“No. It was pretty early.”

I wanted to be helpful, so I said, “There’s a guard in the lobby.”

“He’s a hundred fucking years old,” Vocci said.

If it had been Abby on post I might have been in trouble. I looked over at the Ford Explorer which was swarming with technicians.

“That their car?”

“It was the only one in the lot when the Pakistani came on. No one reported another one coming or going around the time of the murder.”

Bingo. So far I was in the clear. Nobody knew I’d been at the scene except probably whoever iced my assailants. And they weren’t going to call the cops. Just to have something to say I asked, “You’ve established the time already?”

“Bodies were still warm. Had to be just before they were found.”

“What’s your interest in all this, Pauli?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Rhode, but the squad likes to stay on top of this kind of thing.”

That was bull. Given the time frame, there was no way homicide would have clued in the D.A.’s office by 9 AM. And even if they had, the D.A. wouldn’t have sent Vocci alone to a double homicide. The publicity hound would have come himself with several detectives and a camera crew.

“Those homicide pricks will want to talk to you and everyone else in the building,” Vocci said.

“That should really narrow it down,” I said. “But who knows? Law office on the top floor has some mob clients. Maybe they overbilled.”

“What about you? Got any clients they’d be interested in? Or should I say, do you have any clients at all?”

“You were just passing by on the way to work, weren’t you?”

I thought he’d get mad. Instead he smiled.

“Yeah.” 

I went into my building and chatted with the security guard for a minute. As advertised, he has seen and heard nothing and was plainly worried about his job. Not noticing two guys being whacked out front of his building might be considered a reflection on his powers of observation.

“I wasn’t goofing off, Mr. Rhode. I just didn’t hear anything.”

I didn’t tell him about the silencer but reminded him that nobody on the nearby streets apparently heard anything either.

“You were inside with the doors closed. You’d have heard less than anyone. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“But I am worried. I need this job. They might think I’m too old.”

The truth was everyone in the building probably would have preferred a younger guard. But I kind of felt responsible for what happened on his watch. I was obviously getting soft. First Porgie, then this security guard.

“Listen, if your company hassles you, play the age discrimination card. I can talk to the lawyers on the top floor. They own the building. They love cases like that.”

He was very grateful. And it didn’t cost me another hero sandwich.

When I got to my office I cancelled my flight and went about my business looking innocent, even if nobody could see me. It’s good to practice. I called a new stencil guy who, surprisingly, came right over. Of course, he wanted to talk about the shooting, and I feigned astonishment. He also wanted to know what the problem was with my middle initial. Not his concern, I said, and watched him like a hawk. Just after he left Cormac Levine called.

“Did you shoot them?”

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck around, Alton.”

“Oh, the two guys out front? No.”

“Two Carlucci hitters get smoked outside your office when the Carluccis are following you around like Brad and Angelina?”

“They were waiting for me. Somebody intervened before they could turn me into Swiss cheese.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know. Cops said it was an Uzi. Maybe it was Mossad.”

“Always blame the Jews, right. Maybe it was Immelberger, or whatever that Kraut pilot called himself. Nando will think you did it.”

“Works for me. Thanks for the photos, by the way. Your guy did a good job.”

“What now?”

“I have to go get your oranges.”

I spent most of the rest of the day moving stuff around my office, paying bills and conducting more unproductive Internet searches. I ordered in lunch and waited around for Homicide.

Finally, around 4 PM, two detectives showed up. They knew who I was and that I knew the drill, so they settled in and made themselves comfortable. They looked like they had all the time in the world. I gave them both coffee, played dumb and lied a lot. When I wasn’t doing either, I invoked client confidentiality, just for the hell of it. That always angers homicide cops and despite the excellent coffee they threatened me with everything from subpoenas to waterboarding. So I grudging let it slip that I only had one client: a woman looking for the father of her child. I didn’t think either of the dead men was him. The cops almost looked sorry for me. 

Did I have any idea who killed the two men?

I mentioned the lawyers upstairs and hinted at shady characters. They didn’t even bother writing that down. I’m sure it explained to them why I had only one client. I asked if they had identified the victims. They said no, which made me feel better about my own lies. We sat there a few more minutes lying back and forth. One of them complimented my selection of plants. We exchanged cards. They left. I exhaled. I rebooked my flight for the next morning.

When I finally left, Abby was working the guard desk. I noticed that her regular sign-in book had been replaced by a lined yellow pad.

“Cops took it. They wanted to check whose been coming and going for a month.”

“That’s good detective work.”

“Remember when Staten Island got the dregs of the Police Department?” She pronounced it
po-leece
. “They’re getting their shit together.”

“We always had some good cops, Ab. But with a half million people now we’re getting more. But tell me, and don’t get insulted, but why do black people say,
po-leece
?”

“I’m not insulted. You honkies mispronounce it. We trying to educate you.”