Murder Takes Time (48 page)

“When was I gonna tell you? When you
didn’t
visit me in prison? Or in answer to the letters you didn’t write?”

Bugs was silent. There was no defending this.

“Besides, it was over. I was in prison.”

“You should have told me, Nicky.”

“So you could feel bad?” Nicky shook his head. “We weren’t raised like that, Bugs.”

Now all kinds of shit ran through Frankie’s head. Woodside—his fault. Nicky’s time in prison—his fault. Everything could be blamed on him. And Nicky’s wife getting killed—his fault for sure. And here he was trying to take Nicky into custody.

Nicky slowly shook his head. “Besides, you’ve got nothing on me. There’s more of your DNA at those crime scenes than mine. And don’t forget Tony, Paulie, and good old Tito.” Nicky stared. “All of them have ties to the scenes.”

A million thoughts ran through Bugs’ head. Nicky was right. Frankie had no real evidence on him, nothing that would hold up in court. He stared at Nicky, wishing he could take back the things he’d done. “Are you done with it?”

Nicky spread his arms and turned his palms up. “There’s nobody left.”

“I guess you’re right,” Frankie said. “I’m making a judgment call here. I don’t think we have enough evidence to do anything anyway, so get the fuck out of here. If I were you, I’d give it a couple of hours after the Feds leave, then I’d head out. And if I were you, I’d disappear for good this time.” Frankie opened the door and they both walked out.

“Might be hard to disappear with Feds all over the place.”

“Only if the Feds see you.”

“A friend might help me. I used to have friends I could count on.”

“Me too, Nicky.” Bugs pulled out a smoke, put it in his mouth.

“You can’t smoke here.”

“Yeah, well…let me worry about that.”

Nicky pulled out a pack of matches. He struck the match, cupped it, and offered the light to Frankie. “This is the way it should be, you know.”

Frankie sucked deep on that first drag, the best-tasting one of all. “What’s that?”

“Friendship. Honor. It should last forever.”

Frankie nodded, took two more quick drags, then crushed out the butt on the ground. “It does. You just have to trust it.”

He did another quick take to see if Maddox was anywhere near. “You know you’re leaving me in a rough spot. I’ve got no one to pin these murders on.”

“How about Tito?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Suppose you had Tito’s gun, with Tito’s prints on it?”

“That would be nice…but I don’t have it. Do you?”

He shrugged. “Not me. But I bet when they search Tito’s coat they’ll find it.”

“Another of those damn coincidences.”

“Yeah, and to top it off, I’d bet this gun was the one that killed a guy named Danny Zenkowski.”

“So who killed Tito?”

“Must have been a grieving family member of one of the ones he killed. Who knows?” Nicky stared past Frankie’s shoulder. “You’re the detective.”

“Yeah. I’m curious, though—how did you know I’d get assigned the cases?”

“I didn’t, but I knew Tito and Tony would be paying attention, since it was their guys getting whacked. And I knew as soon as Tony saw the clues, he’d tell you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, you know what Sister Thomas used to say—the Lord works in mysterious ways. Besides, I never counted on Tony being the one who betrayed me.”

Frankie nodded. “Just a suggestion, but you should leave here, maybe go on a vacation. Or better yet, go find Angela.”

Nicky winced at the mention of her name, but it must have also sounded nice to him—sweet and fresh. “She’s married, or did you forget?”

“I was married once,” Frankie said. “Didn’t take.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Maybe it didn’t take with Angie. Maybe she’s sitting around the house waiting for Nicky the Rat to rescue her. She sure as shit can’t be in love with Marty Ferris.”

They had been walking while they talked and were now back in the food court. Nicky nodded to the escalators. “They your buddies?”

Three Feds were heading toward them. Bugs winked at Nicky and smiled. “See ya, Rat.”

Frankie turned and walked toward Maddox. “You guys find anything?”

Nicky looked at him as they walked away.
Guess friendship and honor do last. Sometimes.

CHAPTER 74

OLD MEMORIES

Current Day

I
didn’t bother to clean out the safe deposit boxes. New York was as good a place as any to keep them. I did, however, take Bugs’ advice, and packed for a trip. I needed to get away. Think. Figure out what to do with my life. The mountains seemed like a good choice, so I headed into New Jersey on my way to the Poconos. I put the car on cruise control with music blaring.

I thought about what Bugs said—that I should go visit Angela. It kept eating at me. How stupid would that be, though, to show up at her house after all these years? She probably wouldn’t remember me. No, she’d remember, but she might not want to see me. I decided Bugs was crazy and continued driving toward the Poconos.

Five miles later, an oldie came on the radio, a song by the Tavares, “Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel.” It reminded me of Angela. I found myself smiling as I sang along.

Maybe it’s a sign.

But I tried talking myself out of it.
She’s probably got half a dozen kids. Hates my guts.

At some point, as I pondered the logical reasons why I shouldn’t go, I got off the interstate and took a turn toward I-95, heading south. Wilmington wasn’t that far. I could say hi and still be out in time to reach the beach by nightfall. Yeah, I’d go to the beach instead of the mountains. To Wildwood. I’d always loved Wildwood. Best boardwalk in the world.

I thought of a million reasons why I shouldn’t do what I was doing in the couple of hours it took to get to Delaware. Despite my internal objections, I kept the course, heading toward my old hometown. Once I got to Wilmington, I looked her up in an online phone book, but found no listing. I checked all the social networking sites and found nothing there. I decided to check at her father’s old house. I made the drive, slowing to a crawl as I drew near. I parked, sat in the car for a minute, then walked up to the door, nervous as hell. Suppose she was here?

An older woman answered. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Catrino,” I said. “Actually I’m looking for his daughter, Angela.”

Her face seemed to go blank. “I’m sorry, young man, but Mr. Catrino moved away years ago.”

“Sorry to have troubled you,” I said, and started down the steps.

“Young man,” she called after me. “Angela lives a few blocks from here. Let me think…1022—”

My step paused, and I turned around. “Clayton Street,” I said, finishing the address for her.

My old house.

“Why, yes. That’s the one. Are you from around here?”

Smiles and tears fought for control. “Yeah. Long time ago.” I extended my hand to say thanks. “I appreciate your help, and sorry again to have bothered you.”

“No trouble at all. Tell Angela I said hello.”

I couldn’t believe it. Was this a good sign or a bad one? Why was Angie living in my old house? Only way to find out was to go there and ask. I pulled up the street by the park, as much to bring back old memories as to stay hidden while I worked up the nerve to see her.

What if her husband answers? What the hell do I do then?

I watched from the car, waiting, but the house seemed empty. After an hour, I felt like a fool. What the hell? Was I a stalker? A bunch of kids passed by. One small girl, a skinny little thing, was rough-housing with a few boys, playing tag and chasing each other. It reminded me of old times. After a while, most of the smaller kids left. Then a few older girls came by and sat on the bench. They seemed to be just talking, probably mulling over the events of the day. That bench had seen a lot over the years. Laughter, joy, tears. Soon, two of the girls left; one remained. She sat staring at the trees and twirling her hair. It reminded me of Angela and the way I used to watch her in class.

A man came up the walk, heading straight for her, yelling. She planted her hands on her hips in a wonderfully defiant posture and yelled back. I smiled. This one was bold. Then he smacked her across the face. Hard.

I sat up straight. Gulped.

The girl reeled from the blow and turned to run. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

That’s it.

I walked briskly toward him. Reason reminded me of the dangers of interfering.
Don’t do anything stupid. You have a record.
Probably a brat kid who deserves everything she’s getting. Hell, Sister Thomas gave me worse.

She was crying. “No. Let me go.”

My pace increased. I wanted to run, but I didn’t want to draw attention. When he reared back to slap her again, I yelled. “Hey!” I ran.

He turned toward me, a scowl on his face. “This is none of your business.”

The guy was about six-two, maybe more, and well-built. I pegged him at early thirties. “Anytime I see a young girl being hit,” I said, “I make it my business.” I stood in front of him.

“Fuck you.”

I gritted my teeth. Looked around. A few kids were playing, and a few parents sat on other benches, paying no attention to us. No cops I could see. This man was vile, and he’d just broken a cardinal rule. There were rules for everything. Murder. Respect. Women. Children. And one of the worst was you didn’t say that in front of kids. Certainly not in front of young girls. I knew I was antiquated in my thinking, but that was me. It was the way I was, and I wasn’t about to change. “You shouldn’t use that language in front of the girl.”

“Fu—”

I grabbed his throat and squeezed until he gasped. He reached for my hand, trying to tear it off. I kidney-punched him. Dropped him to his knees. His gaping eyes begged for mercy as he fought to get free. His breaths came in short, quick gasps. He was struggling to stay alive. I locked onto his eyes. “Don’t
ever
touch that girl again.”

The guy was holding his throat, as if that would help him get his breath. I pushed him aside, then turned to the girl. “Are you all right?”

Tears were in her eyes. “Yes,” she managed through sobs.

I saw a scar above her left eye and wondered if he gave it to her. “Is that your father?”

“Stepfather.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

I sensed a presence behind me; I turned quickly to see him standing there.

“She’s coming with me.”

I glared at him, ready to do something—anything.

“I lost my temper,” he said. “It won’t happen again.” He held out his hand to the girl. “Come on, Rosa. I’m sorry.”

Rosa! Her name is Rosa?

The guy reached for her. She pushed him away. “I’m not going with you,” she said. “Not ever again.”

“You’d better leave,” I told him.

He walked away without another word. I turned and looked at the girl.

She spoke before I could. “Thank you. I’ll be all right now.” She walked away, heading down the street the way her friends had gone.

I walked back to the car, slid into the seat, leaned back and closed my eyes. Suddenly I sat up straight, opened my eyes and looked for the girl.
He called her Rosa.
I jumped out and yelled, “Rosa.” but she was long gone.

What an idiot I am? Her name is Rosa. She twirls her hair. That’s Angie’s girl.

“Oh, that fuck.” I thought of what I’d do if I saw that guy again.

I stared down the street at my old house. How many times had I raced to get home and change, then run up the street to see Angie? I pictured her with her green-and-white apron, cooking with Mamma Rosa and laughing. Always laughing. After almost another hour, I worked up the nerve to go to the door. What could she do but throw me out, curse me, and tell me she hated my guts?

My life was ruined either way. I got out and walked down the street and up the sidewalk. I tapped lightly on the door, then, realizing no human could have heard it, I knocked harder. I worried; I wasn’t a kid anymore. Probably looked like shit.

When the door opened, my heart stopped. Or it seemed like it did. She wore the apron—green and white as always, stained with red sauce. I smelled meatballs cooking, and the sweet aroma of red sauce and garlic. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“Hi, Angela.”

She stared, squinted against the sun, then stepped back. Her hands flew to her mouth as she gasped. “Nicky! Nicky Fusco.” She threw her arms around me, squeezed. “Oh my God, come inside. Please.”

I stepped into the living room, tentative. I had lived in this house, yet it seemed like today was the first time I’d ever been here. And it didn’t feel right. “Angela, I—”

She was crying, but trying not to. She shook her head back and forth. “Don’t say anything.” She cried more.

Finally I couldn’t take it. I wrapped my arms around her. “Angie, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”

She stepped back. “Sorry? Where have you been? I heard you got out. Why didn’t you come?”