Angel Face, page 6
Erin could see the fleeing man, but the sidewalk was full of startled New Yorkers. There was no way she was going to start shooting into a crowd. She dropped a hand to her belt and popped the release on the Charger’s rear compartment.
An instant later, Rolf exploded out of the car, ninety pounds of fur and fangs. The Shepherd was at Erin’s side in two running strides.
“Fass!” she snapped.
That was all the K-9 needed to hear. He could see a lot of people in front of him, but only one of them was running away. That man was violating a basic rule of self-preservation: never run from a police officer or a dog. They would always, always chase you.
On a straightaway, over flat ground, no human being on Earth could outrun a German Shepherd. Rolf caught the running man before he’d gotten more than twenty yards, threading his way through the bystanders like they weren’t even there. He coiled, sprang, and snapped, and then the man was on the ground screaming and the chase was over.
Erin took a second to make sure Calley had his man under control. That guy had hit his head on the windshield and had been momentarily stunned. Calley reached into the car, grabbed the shotgun by the barrel, and pulled it out of reach. His target was no threat, didn’t even seem to be aware of what was going on, so Erin left Calley to it and ran after her dog.
Rolf had the perp’s right arm in his teeth. He stood proudly over his prey, tail whipping enthusiastically back and forth, ears perked to full upright position. He hadn’t really hurt the man, just bitten down hard enough to bruise the flesh and immobilize the limb. It was a flawless takedown.
“You’re under arrest,” Erin said to the driver. She was breathing hard from the adrenaline rush.
“I didn’t do nothing,” the man on the sidewalk predictably said.
“You caused an accident,” she retorted. “The charge is reckless endangerment and fleeing the scene of an accident. Not to mention your buddy’s illegal firearm. You have the right to remain silent, so why don’t you shut the hell up?”
Down the street, Headley’s Towncar turned a corner and disappeared from view. Erin figured she’d connect with him and Alfie later. In the meantime, it was a safe bet nobody else was following them.
The two guys from the van were obviously Mafia goons, from their sullen, sneering faces right down to their alligator-skin shoes. The driver had a license which listed him as Kevin Pileggi. The gunman had no ID on him. He not only refused to identify himself, he didn’t say a single word. With two suspects in custody and no good way to hold or transport them, Erin had to call for backup after all.
It took very little time for a pair of squad cars to roll up. They’d already been on their way to the scene of the dual accident even before Dispatch relayed her request. Soon the pair of thugs was securely tucked away in the back of one of the blue-and-whites and on their way to the Eightball. Erin had to go that way too, since she needed to process the prisoners and fill out the accident and arrest reports.
She was stretched way too thin. At current count, she had three places she urgently needed to be: taking care of the two losers she’d just arrested; with her squad handling Isabella Romano’s murder; and at the Marshals’ safe house, looking after Alfie. There was an engineer’s saying that went, “Everybody wants it fast, they want it good, and they want it cheap. Pick two.” Erin didn’t even have that luxury. She’d have to make do with one. But which one?
Vic and Lieutenant Webb ought to have a handle on the murder, at least until they got Levine’s report and CSU’s evidence. And Headley seemed pretty competent, so he should be able to manage Alfie Madonna for a little while. That left the two mopes in the back of the Patrol car.
“I shouldn’t drag you into this mess,” she said to Calley. “We can swing by the safe house if you want, or I can drop you somewhere else.”
“Just pull over anywhere,” he said. “I’ll take a cab and expense it. I can text you the address of the safe house.”
“Better just show me on your phone,” she said. “Don’t send it to me. That’d leave an electronic trail.”
“Wow.” Calley smiled slightly. “You are paranoid.”
She didn’t return the smile. “The guy you’ve got almost died in police custody,” she said. “Another man connected to this case did die. In a holding cell. The people we’re after are extremely dangerous and they know their way around the Department.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Calley had been amused. Now he looked alarmed.
“Yeah.”
“That changes things.”
“Why did you think I brought the Marshals in on this?”
“Because witness protection is what we do?”
“Because I trust you more than I trust my own people right now. And I shouldn’t even be talking about this in my car.”
He blinked. “You mean—” he began. Then he bit off what he’d been about to say and chewed on it for a while.
After a couple of minutes, he said, “Why don’t you stop here.”
Erin pulled over and stopped. Calley unfastened his seatbelt. Then he showed Erin his phone’s screen. She memorized the address on it.
“Got it?” he asked.
“Got it. Thanks for the help. Try to keep Alfie alive until I get there.”
“My pleasure. We’ll do what we can.” He got out of the car and she drove away.
Chapter 7
Back in the Precinct 8 parking garage, Erin let Rolf out of his compartment. Then she did a quick walk-around of her Charger. She grimaced. A PIT maneuver was relatively low-impact compared to, say, ramming another vehicle head-on, but it still involved making hard contact with another car at speed. The Charger sported a bright, shiny gouge and a significant dent right next to the left headlight. She’d need to put in a maintenance request to the motor pool, which meant even more paperwork.
“What was I supposed to do?” she asked Rolf. “That guy was playing demolition derby on Fifth Avenue! If I hadn’t stopped him, he’d have wiped out some pedestrians or something.”
Rolf cocked his head. Chasing down bad guys was the right thing to do in his book; the only thing to do. He saw no problem here.
She ruffled his fur and led him inside. The Patrol officers who’d transported the suspects were at the front desk, getting the initial processing done. Erin thanked them for their help and took over.
“Lawyer,” Pileggi said as they were getting him set up for his mugshot.
“That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?” Erin asked.
“Phone call,” he added.
She rolled her eyes. “Not your first dance, is it? How about your friend Silent Bob?”
Pileggi smirked. His comrade’s expression didn’t even change.
Since Pileggi had lawyered up, Erin couldn’t legally question him without counsel present. She got him his phone call. He called a Manhattan number which Erin mentally noted, though she was sure it wouldn’t lead anywhere useful. The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds and basically consisted of Pileggi saying he’d been scooped up by the police. Then he went into a holding cell with the resigned, bored attitude of a man who’d done it many times before.
Since the other guy hadn’t asked for a lawyer, Erin could freely interrogate him, assuming he even spoke English. She left Rolf in the observation gallery and went into the interrogation room. The man watched her with dark, cautious eyes.
“You’re screwed, buddy,” Erin said.
He made no reply.
“You attacked an NYPD detective,” she went on. “With an illegally modified shotgun, while driving recklessly and causing a major accident. We’ll know who you are in a matter of minutes, since I’ll bet a week’s pay we’ve got your prints on file. If you’re on parole, which I’ll make another bet you are, and your friend Pileggi’s also a convicted felon, which he is, then you’re looking at three major violations, minimum. You’re going back inside. And you know that already. So lose the stupid old-fashioned Mafia omerta bullshit and tell me who sent you after Alfie Madonna.”
At that name, the man’s eyes flickered slightly. But his face remained impassive.
Erin leaned forward. “Think, buddy,” she said. “He’s the second witness guys like you have tried to make disappear. This was your bunch’s second try at Alfie. You won’t get a third. We’ve got him squared away by now, safe and sound. You’ve screwed up, and you’ve been caught, which makes you both useless and a danger to the guys you work for. You can talk to me now, or you can wait for them to make their move. Once you hit genpop at Riker’s Island, someone may find a way to stop you talking for good.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked. His voice was soft, but there was a nasty edge to it that Erin didn’t care for.
“Detective O’Reilly,” she said. “Major Crimes. Now what’s yours?”
“Nicky Spillano,” he replied. “I thought it was you. Why didn’t you keep your nose out of this?”
“Out of what?” she retorted.
“Why don’t you ask the guy we both work for?” Spillano suggested. “You should’ve let us take care of our business. Now get me out of here. I got nothing more to say.”
When Erin got back from Holding and went to retrieve Rolf, Lieutenant Webb and Vic were waiting for her in the observation room. Vic was holding Rolf’s leash and rubbing him between the ears.
“Heard you brought us some fresh perps,” Vic said. “We had to come see what was going on.”
“You catch any of that?” Erin asked.
“Just the tail end,” Vic said. “Something about being partners in crime, I think.”
“Who did he mean?” Webb asked. “Who’s the guy you both work for?”
“I think he meant Vinnie the Oil Man,” she said. “But I don’t work for him. Obviously.”
“You’ve already got a job,” Vic said.
“Why does he think you work for Vinnie?” Webb asked.
Erin glanced out into the hallway to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear. Then she closed the door firmly. “Vinnie wanted me to take out Alfie Madonna’s dad.”
“Mattie Madonna died without you doing anything,” Webb said.
“Yeah, but Vinnie didn’t know he was going to die in that ambulance.”
“Wait a second,” Vic said. “Let’s go back to the part where Vinnie the Oil Man, Vinnie the Mafia boss, thinks you’re his personal hitman.”
“I’m a woman,” Erin said.
“It’s a goddamn gender-neutral term!” Vic snapped. “It’s not my fault your sex wasn’t properly represented in the field of contract killing when they made up that word! How come Vinnie’s coming to you with contracts? And if he is, how come we haven’t busted his sorry ass?”
“Not so loud,” Erin murmured.
“Vinnie wouldn’t have done it in person,” Webb said. “That’s not the way the Mafia do things. He’d have used an intermediary.”
“It was a phone call,” Erin said. “Unfamiliar voice, burner cell.”
“Then how do you know it was the Oil Man?” Webb asked.
“He sent one of his personal goons to take out Mattie,” Erin said. “He’s the only logical choice.”
“And you didn’t report this at the time?” Webb asked.
“Of course I did.”
“Not to me you didn’t.”
“No, sir. Not to you.” She met his stare steadily.
“Right, the other thing.” Webb sighed. “Isn’t there something in the Bible about not being able to serve two masters?”
“Don’t know, sir,” Vic said. “I goofed off a lot in Sunday school. All I remember is something about doing unto others before they get the chance to do unto you.”
Webb rubbed his temples. “So who are these guys, anyway?”
“I thought they were just trying to scope out Alfie,” Erin said. “But it turns out they were ready to take a shot at him.”
“How many times do I have to say this?” Vic said. “This kid doesn’t matter! He’s just a basement-level Mob grunt. Why go to all this trouble?”
“He’s going to kill Vinnie,” Erin said.
“Yeah, and I’m going to be Police Commissioner,” Vic said, rolling his eyes. “Shouldn’t he learn how to tie his own shoes first? Or maybe get out of diapers?”
“Take it easy, Neshenko,” Webb said. “O’Reilly’s got a point.”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s able to take Vinnie out,” Erin said. “All that matters is whether Vinnie thinks he’ll try. If he’s perceived as a threat…”
“Who cares if he actually is?” Webb finished for her. “Maybe we can use this.”
“How?” Erin asked.
“To bait Vinnie out,” Webb said.
“Hold on,” Vic said. “If Vinnie thinks Erin’s in his corner, which doesn’t make any damn sense, but whatever, how come he didn’t go to her on this? She could’ve taken the punk out, no fuss.”
“He didn’t know I had access until today,” Erin said. “But he’ll hear about me from Spillano. Then, who knows? Maybe he will.”
“If he does, get it on tape,” Webb said grimly.
“Yeah, then we can burn his slippery Sicilian ass,” Vic said.
“Weren’t you listening?” Erin shot back. “He won’t give me the order himself.”
“He’s not gonna be happy you grabbed two of his guys,” Vic said.
“I didn’t know they were his guys! It’s not like these punks wear name tags!”
“Okay, okay.” Webb held up his hands. “We’ll let that be for the moment. We have a murder to solve, remember? Let’s go upstairs and discuss this like reasonable people.”
“I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Vic said, doing his best Pacino impression. It wasn’t a very good one.
“So, back to our murder,” Webb said.
“And away from O’Reilly’s routine traffic bust,” Vic said, grinning.
“I’m going to be finding parking tickets on my desk for the next month, aren’t I,” Erin said gloomily.
“Oh yeah,” Vic said. “At least a month. Maybe longer. I could maybe get you one of those meter-maid reflective vests.”
“Give me one of those and the next time your doc gives you your colonoscopy, he’s going to wonder why the light he shines up your ass is shining right back at him.”
“Isabella Romano,” Webb said patiently.
“What did Levine say?” Erin asked.
“She’s got our victim downstairs on the slab right now,” Webb said. “But her preliminary hypothesis is death by blood loss due to a massive number of stabs and lacerations.”
“I thought she might’ve fallen down the stairs,” Vic said. “Or maybe cut herself shaving. Shows what I know.”
“The weapon was not found at the scene,” Webb went on. “But based on the diameter of the stab wounds, it was most likely a large kitchen knife, probably a butcher knife.”
“Classic,” Vic said. “We should put out a BOLO for Michael Myers.”
“CSU searched the apartment and found a knife block in the kitchen. The butcher knife was missing.”
“So it was probably a crime of passion,” Erin said. “Not a serial killer.”
Webb nodded. “A pattern killer would’ve brought his own weapon,” he said. “I’m thinking a domestic dispute that turned ugly.”
“Really, really ugly,” Vic said. “We’re not talking broken plates and shouting at each other.”
“How about the blood trail?” Erin asked.
“It’s almost certainly the victim’s blood,” Webb said. “CSU is running a match.”
“And the trail stops at the curb outside,” Erin said. “The downstairs neighbor knows something, but she’s not talking.”
“The large number of wounds on the victim is indicative of rage,” Webb said. “And then there’s the word on the wall.”
“Puta,” Erin said, remembering. “According to the victim’s mother, Isabella was really into boys. She may have cheated on her boyfriend.”
“And if he found out, maybe he got mad,” Vic said.
“Unfortunately, she had a bunch of boyfriends, according to Ms. Romano,” Erin said. “Any one of them could be our killer. And we don’t have any names or descriptions, except for the last boy. Angel or Angelo, polite, well-dressed, very good-looking.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Webb said. “Neshenko, you want to see how many Angelos are in the phone book?”
“I really, really don’t, sir,” Vic said.
Webb sighed. “I hate to say it, but you’re right. That’s just shooting in the dark. Forget I asked. There’ll be hundreds of them, and without a last name, we’ve got no idea who we’re looking for.”
“Fingerprints?” Erin asked.
“They’re all over the apartment,” Webb said. “But it looks like the killer was smart enough or lucky enough not to leave any in blood, so any given boyfriend could just claim his prints were from a previous visit. Textbook reasonable doubt.”
“We should run them anyway,” Erin said. “The mom said Isabella hung out with a wild crowd. I’m guessing at least some of the boys will be in our system. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find an Angelo.”
“Good idea,” Webb said. “Get on it.”
“Anything from the uniforms who were canvassing the area?” she asked.
Webb shook his head. “If anyone heard anything, they didn’t call us then and they won’t admit it now.”
“I have some DD-5s to fill out,” she said. “Along with the accident and arrest reports.”
“Fine,” Webb said. “Do your paperwork. Neshenko, you run the fingerprints. I’ll be looking through cold cases, seeing if we’ve got anything that matches this MO.”
“But we agreed it wasn’t a series,” Erin said.
“It probably isn’t,” he agreed. “But we’re covering all the bases, just in case.”
So Erin went to work on her reports. She’d always thought essay exams in school were a stupid waste of time, until she’d joined the NYPD. Then she’d learned that some organizations really were built on a foundation of poorly-worded essays written by overworked, stressed employees. Not that penning a discussion of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s view of Puritanism in early America as depicted in The Scarlet Letter was the best rehearsal for filling out an arrest report, but it was better than nothing.
