Man-Killer: Gina Cototi Cases, Book I, page 4
The next claim had been presented by a burglar who’d gotten trapped in the garage of a house he was robbing while the family was away on vacation and had to survive on dog kibble and grape soda. He was suing for a cool million. The last file seemed outlandish, but it didn’t appear to be fraudulent. Still, like all cases the insurance companies sent me, the claim had to be investigated and a report filed. None of the above seemed like more than a few hours of work, which was good because the recovery of the Corvette put my time at a premium.
Sebastian’s name flashed on my phone. “Hi, Cuz,” I answered, “any news?”
“Listen, Gina, this is what I’ve got and it’s all I’m gonna get, so here you go and good luck,” he said irritably, setting the tone he’d use for the rest of the conversation. “A paisan by the name of Luca Mura operates a huge warehouse in Hunts Point under the name Mura Brands. This is no chop shop, Gina. Luxury vehicles are packed into shipping containers along with mattresses, furniture, and other things I don’t want to know about. The containers go right to the piers and from there are shipped all over the world—Venezuela mostly. It’s a seriously messed up county. The government officials, pillars of justice that they are, don’t give a rat’s ass about receiving stolen merchandise and aren’t above taking payoffs. If the Vette’s anywhere, it’s there, but it won’t be for long. These guys are pros and move at the speed of light.”
“I appreciate it, Sebastian. Got an address for me?”
“No, but I’ve got google maps and so do you. Fucking use it.”
The line went dead. Go figure. I guess I’d rubbed him the wrong way and that he probably wouldn’t be stopping by to break bread with the family anytime soon. Then again, my sense was that rubbing Sebastian in any direction would make him smile.
He called back a second later. “Hey, what now?” I asked. iPhones are good but they can’t help you spit in someone’s eye from miles away. Or do they now have an app for that too?
Sebastian was still very worked up, his voice intense, his tone dire. “I’m mad at you, Gina, really friggin’ mad, but I don’t want to see you get hurt. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill joy-riding chop-shoppers. Luca’s a ruthless bastard and I’ve heard that cars aren’t the only things he ships to Venezuela in those ocean-going containers. You’re much too young and pretty to end up as packing material for a high-performance automobile. If I were you, I’d watch my step.” Click.
CHAPTER 6
I should’ve had my head examined. I know people say that, but really, I should have. Headstrong and impetuous was one thing. Stupid was another. Rolling into Hunts Point after dark was eye opening in a terrifying way. I’d heard it was seedy. I’d heard it was unsafe and should’ve investigated Mura’s warehouse during daylight hours, but Sebastian had made a strong point of telling me about the great speed with which these criminals operated, and if there was an opportunity to recover the Vette I had better pursue it lickety-split.
My dad would’ve been proud of me. I had the Glock in a shoulder carry under my jacket and two backup clips on my belt. A sidearm could prove to be a double-edged sword. It might intimidate your adversary just enough to save your life or threaten the opposition enough to draw a barrage of bullets. I’d never shot anyone before—hadn’t even pulled my weapon in the course of an investigation, but knowing it was there provided a sense of security. I prayed it wasn’t a false sense of security, one that might result in my demise.
The Bruckner Expressway was dark and haunting. Coming off the expressway, the alleys and doorways that lined the streets were akin to the brothels of Denmark’s red-light district, where scantily clad women ground their hips and gyrated erotically in neon-lit windows. On display when the coast was clear, the Hunts Point hookers would withdraw into the shadowy doorways and alleys when the blast of a police siren sent them scurrying. Drugs were being sold most everywhere I looked. Aside from witnessing the exchanges, my presence drew the stink eye from some of the pushers’ lookouts. They didn’t know who I was but knew I didn’t belong on their turf. I wasn’t one of the denizens who frequented the area. Because of my appearance, I must’ve stood out like a sore thumb. I pictured Batman on the rooftop of a nearby building looking down on this filth-encrusted modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, shaking his head and grumbling, “How the hell am I supposed to clean up all of this?”
After parking the Pontiac, I took to foot in search of an access point into Mura’s warehouse. Behind steel security gates, large warehouse windows were divided into small panes by dark metal sash bars and were blackened with paint. The doors I tried were locked and the roof was much higher than I could vault in my combat boots and jeans. At first blush, the building seemed to be an impenetrable fortress. A second reconnaissance proved no more promising. Obtaining entry seemed bleak until I felt a nudge, literally something prodding me in the small of my back. It was the muzzle of a gun.
“Don’t turn around,” a gruff voice said. “What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t this where they hold the Ralph Lauren sample sale?”
I felt the point of the gun push deeper into my back. “Try again.”
“Lululemon?”
He shoved me forward. “Move.”
“Hey, watch it! That’s a genuine Alexander McQueen leather biker’s jacket you’re pushing your piece into. Careful not to poke a hole in it.”
“I said move.”
He nudged me again. I turned back and fired off a death ray but it didn’t do any good. Before I knew it, he called someone on a handheld radio, one of the entrance doors opened, and we were marching into the warehouse. Not exactly the stealthy entrance I was hoping to make, but I was getting inside after all and that’s all that was important.
Walking through the door, I realized at once that I was in the right place. The edifice’s interior was the size of a football field. One half of the building was filled with super luxury cars and exotics, Ferraris, Lambos, and the like. Located in front of the loading dock on the other half of the floor was what looked to be a staging area. In the thirty-seconds I was standing there, a Bugatti was rolled into a shipping container and packed front, back, top, and sides with foam mattresses. Next, a forklift placed two container-width crates, one on top of the other, behind the Bugatti. The exotic car was completely hidden from sight when the container was sealed. I heard the release of truck air brakes and a semi pulled the container out of the bay. Within minutes, a new tractor trailer backed up to the loading bay and the process was repeated with an Aston Martin Superleggera in place of the Bugatti.
Meanwhile, the lug standing behind me was still pressing his gun into my back and punching 9mm circles into the fine leather pelt of my jacket. “Hey, is that necessary? I got a little lost. Is that any reason to hold a gun on me?”
I was hoping he’d say, “No, I guess you’re right.” but apparently we weren’t thinking along the same lines.
I heard the clack of metal against metal and looked up. A guy with dark hair and a long ponytail looked down on us from the loft office area above. He knocked a big-ass gold ring against the metal safety railing signaling for my gun-toting friend, who I’d given the moniker Silent Bob to bring me upstairs. He grabbed me tightly by the hair and led me toward the metal staircase. Reaching the top rung, Silent Bob shoved me forward. I almost collided with ugly Mr. Ponytail.
“Who are you?” Ponytail asked, his eyes like laser beams burning into my eyes.
“Me? I’m nobody. This is the Hunts Point produce market, isn’t it? I’m an institutional buyer for Costco, and I heard you had a fresh supply of delicata squash.”
The creep reached out and squeezed my cheeks until my lips were pushed out like the lips on a blowup doll. “You’ve got a pretty mouth to go with your sharp tongue but it won’t be enough to keep you from ending up in a landfill.” He stared into my eyes, then pushed my head away. “I asked who you were.”
“Gina Marie Cototi—what’s it to you?”
He seemed to mull over what he’d heard. “Cototi, huh? I once knew a cop named Cototi, a bulldog cop over in Bensonhurst. I wouldn’t say he was a prince but I suppose he wasn’t the biggest piece of shit I ever ran into. You wouldn’t by any chance be related?”
I could’ve lied but Ponytail seemed as serious as a heart attack and I figured sharing the same blood with a police officer might be just enough to buy me a pass. “Yeah, he’s my dad.”
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Yeah, it’s so. Now, who the hell are you?”
“I’m Mr. Mura.” He accidentally on purpose grazed my leg with his gropey hand, “and you can call me Mr. Mura.” He gestured to the warehouse filled with exotic cars. “You like my little operation? There’s more value here than at the New York Auto Show.”
“It’s all right. You some kind of car collector like Jay Leno?”
“No, smart ass, I’m an exporter.”
“Oh yeah, you export any mint condition ‘63 Vettes lately?”
“So that’s what this is about. I didn’t think you were here to make a bulk buy of gourds.”
Silent Bob actually spoke. “I don’t think squash is a gourd, Mr. Mura.”
Mura flashed the back of his hand. “When did you become a fucking farmer?”
“Your boss is right, Shit-for Brains,” I said. “They’re the same family of fruit. Don’t you know nothing?”
Mura rolled his eyes. “Great, everyone’s a fucking genius. He don’t know fruit and you don’t shit about the mess you’re in. Anyway, honey, take a look around. You see any General Motors shit boxes rolling around in here? This is strictly top end, honey—Bentleys, Rolls, Maybach. I don’t deal in anything under a quarter-mil. Why don’t you check the chop shops down in Staten Island? That’s your best bet.”
“I don’t think you get the picture, Mr. Mura. I’m talking a concourse condition ‘63 split-window Stingray with fuel injection. That float your boat?”
He pursed his lips. “That’s a hot car and I’d be excited about it if I had one but I don’t and I haven’t seen one in years. Goodbye.” He turned to Silent Bob. “Send her on her way.” Mura turned and moved off waving to me as he departed. “Nice meeting you, Cototi. It’s been real.”
Silent Bob poked me with a gun. “Down the stairs.”
I glared at him. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop shoving me around?” Studying his face, I noticed his dark eyes, not dark but black, tunnels to the depths of hell. He looked every inch a henchman. Something in his gaze told me he’d shoot me soon as let me go. I felt his eyes burning into me as he followed me down the stairs.
You’re not out of the woods yet, Gina. This fucker is trouble. At the base of the stairs, I turned toward the door we’d entered through and felt his monkey paw dig into my shoulder.
“Not that way,” he barked, then turned me toward the loading bays at the back of the building and gave me a hard shove.
I didn’t like the way things were developing and took some comfort in knowing I still had the Glock. Any asshole worth his salt knows the first thing you do is check an intruder for weapons. I guess this guy wasn’t just any asshole.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Silent Bob once again fell silent. He shoved me again and again. The loading dock was coming up on me. There was an empty container at the far end of the dock. Looming directly in front of me, I could see that the container was empty, dark, and cavernous. Not a place I cared to visit at any time and certainly not with this wordless pervert.
“Think again, doofus. There’s no way I’m going in there.”
“You’ll go where I tell you to.” He shoved me again.
“I’m telling you for the last time—don’t fucking touch me.”
“Or what?”
Or what? It was one hell of a good question. I wasn’t a martial arts ninja with a black belt, and I didn’t want to get into a shootout in a warehouse full of goons. Next thing I knew, the sole of his shoe was up against my butt, thrusting me forward. I stumbled forward, then turned and faced him, up on my toes, staring him down. “Touch me again and I’ll stick that gun right up your ass.”
He snorted. “Yeah, right. I’d like to see—”
I brought all my weight down on the top of his foot. I only weigh about one-ten, but I stomped on him with my left leg, the one I use to depress the Vette’s heavy-duty clutch. It was plenty strong.
The pansy shrieked, and I took off like a jet, down the stairs and out into the lot. Two tractor-trailers were rolling away from the warehouse in tandem. I ran between them all the way to the border of the property. I was past the security fence when the first shot rang out. The bullet whizzed right past my ear and tinged off the metal chain-link fence. Evidently, Silent Bob, Ignorant-about-fruit-and-veggies Bob, was a crack shot. A second bullet sliced through the fence and shattered the side window of a Prius parked on the street. I ducked behind it, pulled my Glock, and took out the sodium lamp on the overhead streetlight. Darkness fell on the immediate area. I hunkered down behind the Prius, gun ready, praying I wouldn’t have to use it. Another crack of Bob’s gun and the window above my head exploded, showering me with glass. I heard footsteps on the street, the slap of leather against asphalt, approaching and growing louder. Another gunshot. I heard birds squawk and take to flight from a nearby tree, announcing that Silent Bob was approaching, a prelude to my death.
I summoned the guts to raise my eyes above the level of the door sill. Staring past shards of shattered glass, I saw him coming, his image growing larger as he drew near. The cocky son of a bitch didn’t think I was a worthy challenge and had his gun down at his side. He must’ve figured I didn’t have what it took to shoot him. He wasn’t half-wrong. My hand was shaking like a leaf with the Glock in it, and I knew the courage to kill a man, even a piece of garbage like Bob, was still buried way down deep. Do something, I thought, or you’re a dead duck. I got to my feet. Holding the Glock with two hands I crouched in a combat stance and steadied my weapon on the roof of the car. “Don’t give me the excuse,” I hollered, “because I’m just begging to put a slug between your eyes.”
Bob sauntered over to the car nonchalantly, his gun still at his side.
The bastard didn’t take me seriously. Lob one over his head, I thought. At least let him know you can pull the trigger.
“Give it a rest,” he said, as he came to a stop at the entrance to the freight yard. “If you were even remotely capable of hitting the broad side of a barn, you would’ve fired long before now. Besides,” he began, wetting his lips as he cradled his crotch. “I’m gonna grant you one last request before you take a dirt nap.”
Oh, hell no. I was about to put one in his leg when I heard him grunt.
What the?
Bob dropped like a stone, exposing the dark figure that had been standing behind him, a gladiator with fists still clenched after walloping Bob on the base of the skull. Benelli threw his shoulders forward. Cocky to a fault, he dusted his palms one against the other, gloating. He picked up Bob’s gun, ejected the clip, and emptied the bullet in the chamber before throwing the gun in one direction and the clip in the other.
“Thanks,” I said, panting. I had a pocketful of zip-ties. I tugged one tautly around Bob’s wrists, then used another to secure the jerk to the post of a street sign.
“Not getting along with your boyfriend?” Benelli was grinning as he shook his head. “Classic Cototi, always pissing off the pope.”
Folding my arms, I stepped up to him. “What the hell are you doing here, Benelli?”
“Me?” he asked, tapping his breastbone. “What are you doing here? Don’t you trust me to get the job done?”
“Honestly, Rocco, I don’t have a clue what in hell you’re talking about. Someone ripped off my Vette, and I heard this was the place to look.”
His eyes grew large, bulging like hard boiled eggs in contrast to the evening darkness. “What? Someone took your old man’s Vette? Marone, there’s gonna be hell to pay when Pete finds the guy.”
“Actually...” My chest rose and fell. “I was hoping to locate said muscle car before it got that far.”
Benelli’s mouth fell open. “You’re saying Pete doesn’t know? Cototi, you got a death wish?”
Lips pressed shut, I shook my head. “Nope. But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“Just doing my job, boss.”
“What? Here?” A deep engine rumble filled the air. A car was rolling down the block. I heard the pop-up headlights snap into place as the low beams kicked on. As the vehicle drew closer, the roar out of the lake pipes became unmistakable. It was the ferocious growl of a mechanically fuel-injected V-8. I turned to Benelli, “Holy shit. Could it be?”
The moment felt surreal. I was paralyzed as my silver-blue Vette rolled past us and turned into the lot. The car slowed before hitting the curb to prevent the chassis from bottoming out on the concrete apron. It gave us an unobstructed look at the driver.
“That’s what I’m doing here,” Benelli said. “That’s the guy we’re looking for. That’s Rzhevsky.”
I was speechless. Well, almost. “He’s the guy who ripped off my car?”
“I guess so,” Benelli said in an unassuming tone. “I’ve heard he does a lot of bad shit.”
CHAPTER 7
Dumbfounded, I stood flatfooted and watched the Vette cross the lot. It was driven up a steel ramp into the warehouse. I saw the taillights go dark, then the rumble of the engine died off. Two men got behind my car and pushed it into the bowels of the enormous edifice.
“Son of a bitch. Those bastards better be careful with my car. If they so much as scratch the lacquer, I’ll—”
“Don’t sweat it, Cototi. At this moment a hairline scratch is the least of your problems.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m just saying.”
“Anyway, not bad, right?” Benelli said. “I located Rzhevsky and rescued you from the clutches of an assailant all in one fell swoop. Maybe I should get a bonus.”
