Left Kebar’s car at the scene, caught the train, then grabbed a cab, had him go past Fernandez’s club, saw Gino was in place. I had his apartment from traffic citations.
I had the cab drop me about five blocks from there and then strolled over. Easy to boost his door, the dumb fuck, didn’t he ever hear of deadlocks?
Boy, did I get lucky, found the envelope with the picture of me accepting the money from Morronni under a pile of dirty socks.
I cleaned the Ruger, still smelled the cordite from the recent firing, and I stashed it in a rag under his mattress, and reluctantly, my last two remaining sets of green rosary beads alongside.
Hated like hell to let them go.
Walked another five blocks, then made a call to 911, reported shots from Fernandez’s address.
Then I caught the train to Brooklyn, had me a large Jameson and chicken on rye, put lots of mayo on, I love that stuff, I turned on the TV and caught an episode of Veronica Mars, jeez, she is so hot.
I wondered how she’d look with the beads.
Turned in shortly after, man, I was beat.
Next day, all kinds of shitstorms had erupted.
I was summoned to O’Brien’s office, where regretfully, he informed me that Kebar had been killed after he attempted to arrest Fernandez. As a matter of form, he asked where I was and I said I’d been home watching the ball game, this was the two hours before Veronica Mars.
I asked if I could see the head of the task force.
O’Brien was surprised but made the call.
Peters arrived, mumbled something about sorry for the loss of my partner, he almost sounded sincere.
Almost.
I said,
“I’ve been following Gino for a while and I jotted down some of the neighborhoods he was cruising in.”
Peters said,
“So?”
“I checked the papers, those are the places the girls were strangled.”
He chewed my arse about going out on my own and when he was done, I asked,
“You want to hear the rest or not?”
He did, begrudgingly.
I said,
“Kebar had told me Gino was always playing with a worry beads and I didn’t make the connection till the other night when I realized Gino is Italian, he wouldn’t have a worry beads but he would have a rosary beads.”
Peters was on the phone, yelling to get him Gino’s address and to have the task force suit up and get ready to roll.
He looked at me, said,
“Sit tight, this pans out, you’re in fucking clover.”
I’d swear he was grinning.
Gino was charged with not only the stranglings but also the murder of Kebar, the slugs in Kebar’s head matching the Ruger.
The papers went to town on it and my photo was plastered all over, I looked pretty good, serious face, intense expression, and the mayor said I was exactly the type of young man the department was now recruiting.
Kebar was given a hero’s funeral, and in full uniform, I attended. As he had no family, I got the flag, thought that was a neat touch.
And... I got my gold shield.
In Kebar’s apartment, they’d found tapes of Morronni’s threats and bribes and he was currently under indictment.
He’d asked to see me.
Yeah, like that was going to happen.
He claimed he had evidence of me taking bribes but none came to light.
I was given two weeks’ compassionate leave for the loss of Nora and my partner and I went to Miami, lay on the beach, watched the gorgeous women, well, mainly I watched their necks, so delicate, just crying out for ornamentation.
I had to fight the urge, and the department doctor had given me some tranquilizers which I doubled up on, add a half bottle of Jameson and I could bite down, swallow hard and resist the impulse.
The odd time I thought of Lucia, and by now, they’d have transferred her to some state place.
I remembered her lovely neck and the Miraculous Medal I’d put on it.
She’d be left to rot, I figured, and then said,
“Shite happens.”
No matter how I tried to summon it, I couldn’t get a picture of me killing Nora and cutting her finger off, that crap would never occur to me... I think.
I’ve not got much time for the cops, but I feel sorry for them with all those violent crimes.
Seventeen
Joe Mulloy was
Once
...a
...cop.
In New York.
He’d done eight rough months on the streets and it bruised him in ways he still hadn’t fully come to terms with.
Staring down a guy, flying on angel dust, he had an epiphany.
His thirst for investigation was of the written kind.
He wanted to write and use words to track down the dirt.
And he wrote a semifictional account of his time, he’d had a wonderful Rilke title for the book but the publishers told him to get real.
And it appeared as:
Cop Out.
Jesus.
Sold modestly, Publishers Weekly said it had promise.
Translate as... Don’t give up the day job.
He was still earning back the advance.
But it did lead to an offer on a small paper outside Fort Lauderdale and he honed and perfected his craft which led to a bigger paper and finally, to being an investigative reporter.
Made him a great journalist, killed his marriage.
Brooke saying,
“You’re like a dog with a bone, when you’re on a story, nothing else matters.”
’Tis sad ’tis true.
She married a dentist two months later.
And then his beloved adored sister was murdered in New York.
A victim of the strangler.
Nora had been all lit up before this, in her weekly call, she had said,
“Met Mr. Right, not only is he a cop, he’s Irish.”
He’d never heard her so hopeful.
And best, the evening she rang to say the guy had given her his gold Claddagh ring.
Irish women see that as:
Signed.
Sealed.
Delivered.
Then she was strangled.
He was bereft, hit the bottle for a bit then got himself in some sort of shape and went up there for the funeral.
And that’s how it began.
The Mr. Right never showed for the funeral.
The fuck was with that?
Something odd.
The guy was an Officer O’Shea and lo and behold, he was the one who cracked the strangler case.
Hello.
How convenient.
And digging more, Shea’s partner was killed in a very dubious drug bust.
When Joe tried to get in touch with Shea, he learned he was on vacation.
Vacation?
His partner is killed, his girl is strangled, and he takes a holiday?
Hero cop.
The blues joined ranks, closed out questions, especially from a goddamned reporter.
And... Mr. Right got his gold shield.
Nora got a cold grave, his partner got the same, and Shea got to make detective.
Joe went back to his job and began to dig.
Eighteen months of solid research and he had some names to work with.
Gino.
Morronni.
Fernandez.
And a total blackout from the NYPD.
He wrote to Gino, said he was doing a book on the Brooklyn strangler and would Gino like to give his version?
A guy doing three life sentences, he’ll talk to anyone.
Joe traveled up to the max security pen, brought lots of cigs and candies.
He’d been to the joint before and knew what passed for currency there.
He was put in a small room and they brought Gino in, manacled from head to toe, in a green prison uniform.