Murder Takes Time (39 page)

They were standing above her now, all pointing their guns. The first bullet shattered her skull, then…

I
WAS IN THE
middle of telling Father Amelio about a drug dealer I’d killed when I heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. I knew that sound too well, and it roared in my ears like cannon shot. I tore the curtain aside and ran. Father Amelio was ahead of me, racing for the front door. He must have taught track or something, because as fast as I was, he beat me to the vestibule. Fear dug a deep trench inside of me. My stomach felt as if it had ruptured. Images raced through my head, and in each one, Gina lay on the ground—dead. I had my gun in hand by the time I got to the doors. Father Amelio guarded the exit, arms spread wide as if he were Christ on the cross.

“Get out of the way, Father.”

He refused to move.

I pointed the gun at him. Priest or not, I had to get to Gina. “Get out of the way, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“And they will kill you if you go out there.”

I shoved him aside, pushed open the door and went out, low to the ground. Gina lay on the ground, blood staining the purity of the snow. Bullets flew into the door above me, some hitting the stone entrance. I rolled to the side, got off a few rounds before taking cover in an alcove. After waiting a few seconds, I knelt, peeked out and fired again, three shots. They were already heading for their cars. Two guys jumped into the farthest one up the street and sped away. The other two got into the car nearest me. The guy in the passenger seat had a distinct red birth mark on the right side of his face—Renzo Ciccarelli.

I’ll see you soon.

I emptied the gun, trying to score a lucky hit, but they were gone. I raced to Gina, praying for a miracle. When I reached her, I knew it was hopeless. Her head was covered in blood and she’d been shot either in the heart or next to it many times. I knelt next to her, took her hand in mine. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not for her. Not for me. Everybody I loved died.

I brushed her hair from her face. Cleaned the blood off using snow. I wanted to pick her up and take her home. Fix her. Make her new. But Gina’s beautiful brown eyes had no spark in them. I knew then she was gone forever.

I leaned down and kissed her lips—they were cold. Maybe from the weather, I didn’t know. All I knew was those lips were not Gina’s. I wasn’t bringing her back.

A hand touched my shoulder. Startled at first, I looked up to see Father Amelio, his head shaking. “The cops will be here any minute. I’ll have to say something.”

I kissed Gina on the lips again, whispered, “I love you,” then wiped my tears away and stood. “Tell them whatever you like.”

I got in the car and headed for home. With luck I could get everything cleaned out and make a break before they came looking for me. As I drove home, images of Gina kept popping into my head. With each one came an image of Renzo. Every breath I took whispered his name. I needed to get to him. If nothing else, to find out who ordered the job and who helped him.

Be seeing you soon, Renzo.
Real
soon.

CHAPTER 60

SAY GOODBYE TO CLEVELAND

8 Months Ago

I
raced home taking corners at speeds I shouldn’t have, cutting people off, even running traffic lights. Instinct told me I shouldn’t be doing this, but I had lost control. Between fits of crying and vows of vengeance, I found the will to slow down so the cops didn’t pick me up. All I could think of was Gina, on the verge of getting what she wanted, and it was taken away from her in the most brutal fashion. I prayed she was with God now. She should be.

When I wasn’t feeling sorry for Gina, I managed to drown in my own pity. After finally escaping the life my father lived, the one that ruined his own life, I found happiness. But they took that away when they killed Gina. Now
they
were going to pay. I always hated the looks in the eyes of the people I killed, that horrible realization just before they died, but there were several sets of eyes I was looking forward to seeing.

I parked the car, went into the house, and packed the few clothes I had. It took me longer than I wanted to gather Gina’s things, as I found myself staring at them and reminiscing. Pictures, notes she wrote. Suddenly even a scribble on a piece of torn paper behind a refrigerator magnet was a masterpiece. And it was; it was hers. As I was packing I came across a necklace I bought her. It was her favorite—St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost items and travelers. I smiled. We were a little of both. I closed my eyes, pictured her twirling that damn thing around her mouth, whisking little St. Anthony back and forth across the bottom of her chin. It was what stopped me that day I saw Gina through the gun sites. It was what saved me. How many times since then had I watched her twirling? Whenever she was nervous, excited, happy, sad—it didn’t matter; there seemed to be a special twirl for each emotion.

I tried smiling, but tears came instead. I brought the necklace up to my lips and kissed it. “They will pay, Gina. Trust me, they
will
pay.”

I walked about the house, reconfirming memories, then got out before my emotions took hold. By eleven on Monday morning I had been to the banks and got our cash from the safe deposits. Then I got the gun she had as evidence on Tito. I drove the car to long-term parking, took the shuttle to the airport and caught a cab to the bus station. Kansas City was on my list. I had to go see a guy named Minnow, one of the many connections I’d made in prison. He could get me whatever I wanted.

Five days later, I left KC with everything I needed: another new identity, new car, and a new gun. Several new guns. I drove the speed limit all the way. No sense risking being picked up for speeding with guns in the car. New York was a two-day drive, but that was fine. It would take me that long to figure out what I was going to do to Renzo when I found him. There was no way he was getting a quick death. And once I got Renzo, I’d find out who else was involved.

Who knew I was in Cleveland? Who could have known? I had no contact with anyone.

That’s when it hit me.
Bugs. I called Bugs about the gun. He must have tracked the call to Cleveland.

Not only had they killed Gina, but Bugs broke the oath. I pounded the steering wheel, wanting to break it. After all I did for Bugs, and he does
this!

As I drove over the Pennsylvania line, I realized the old Nicky Fusco was dead. There was just Nicky the Rat now. And as I thought about the things I was going to do to Bugs, I realized that I had no funny feeling in my gut. Sister Thomas might have a hard time explaining that one.

CHAPTER 61

CALL FROM CLEVELAND

Current Day

F
rankie woke in the middle of the night, thinking about Nicky, once again wondering what this was all about. What the hell had happened? The missing package bothered him too. Why would Nicky call, say he’s sending something, then not do it?

He wouldn’t.

So that meant something happened to Nicky. Cleveland never turned up anything regarding the material witness request. So where was he? Had Tito killed him?

Where are you, Nicky?
Anxiety kept Frankie up for another hour or so, but he finally went to sleep, catching a few hours before the alarm went off. After an invigorating shower, he made coffee, grabbed a bagel, and headed out the door.

It took him longer than usual to get to the station, and that put him in a foul humor. He got a good parking spot and rushed into the station, taking the steps two-at-a-time to the second floor. “Hey, Carol, anything on that report yet?”

“I already called and put pressure on them. They said I’ll have it this morning.”

“Bring it in as soon as you get it.”

Carol walked in before his coffee even got cold. “Here you go, Detective. Six possibilities.”

Frankie grabbed the report from her hand. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“You keep saying that, but I never see anything.”

He sat back down, eying the papers instead of her. “Yeah, well…”

Carol walked out, smiling. “You’re welcome, Detective.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Frankie said, but he was already deep into the report.

Six murders fit the description. There had been thirteen shootings, but seven had already been solved. He scanned through the remaining six, but nothing jumped out at him. Muggings, jealousy, domestic violence…none of them fit. He threw the papers down on the desk and walked back out to see Carol. “I need you to go back further. Maybe a year. And I only want unsolved cases.”

This time didn’t take as long. She returned within half an hour with new reports. There were four.

The first one was from Utah, and it looked like a family feud of some type. Some guy from an off-shoot Mormon sect shot one of his wives for having sex with another man. “What the hell?” Frankie said aloud. Didn’t seem right that this guy could have multiple wives, but she couldn’t have some fun on the quiet. Oh well…

This case definitely wasn’t what he was looking for.

Next one was from Portland, Oregon. Young woman, maybe early thirties, shot in the back of the head and the chest. Boyfriend was missing. He scrambled through the papers. Boyfriend was reported to be about average height and weight. Brown or black hair.

Could be Nicky,
he thought, but then he couldn’t picture Nicky in Portland. Still…so far things fit. He laid that aside to check up on later. Too early to call the west coast.

The third one was from Cleveland. Frankie came to full alert. He never got to case number four. He looked at the case closer. Young woman killed at a church. Victim shot in the head with multiple chest wounds. He popped his head out the door.

“Carol, get me a number for Cleveland homicide.” Carol loved it when cases were breaking. She thrived on the challenge and the excitement that ran through the office when a detective was closing in on something. Damn good, Carol was. Within minutes, she came in with the number.

After three calls, Frankie got hold of the right guy in homicide, Eddy Pollard, Detective First Class.

“Pollard.”

“Detective Pollard? This is Frankie Donovan, Detective with Brooklyn homicide.”

“What’s up in the Big Apple?”

“A lot of goddamn killing. How about you?” He didn’t know if Cleveland had a nickname, but if it did, he felt certain they weren’t proud of it.

“About the same. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’ve got reason to suspect one of our cases has ties to Cleveland. You have any murders in the last six to ten months that involve a female victim, early to mid-thirties?”

A long pause. “Which doll do you want, Detective? You just hit my number one pain-in-the-ass case on the head.”

“What have you got?”

“It was about seven months ago, maybe eight. Right in front of a church. Female, age thirty-four. Mary Simmons-Krasner.”

Krasner.
They went to school with a guy named Krasner, and he was sure the guy’s first name had been Richie.
Didn’t he die in a car wreck?
Did Nicky take his name?

“You there?” Pollard asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking.” A short pause, then, “Detective, how was she killed?”

“Shot.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Combination of .38’s and 9 mm. Multiple gunshots to the head and chest.”

Frankie nearly fell off the chair.
Once in the head. Once in the heart.
How many times had he said that to himself? How many times had he wondered
why
these guys were killed that way? Now he had an answer. Nicky was killing them that way because of her.

“Any witnesses?”

“None.”

“That’s it? You got nothing else for me?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Frankie made a note to have Carol search everything for Richie Krasner. Car rentals, hotels, plane flights. If Nicky was using Richie’s name, maybe they could track him that way. Frankie grabbed his smokes and headed for the door. It was time to see Tony. No matter what goddamn lies he spit out, Tony
knew
what was going on and Frankie intended to find out.