Judge & Jury Page 15

  “Wait in the car,” Cavello said, tucking the handgun he had taken from Nordeshenko into his belt.

  “This isn’t what you’re paying me for,” the Israeli said. “This is the kind of thing that can get us killed.”

  “In that case,” said Cavello, opening the door and turning up his collar, “think of it as on the house.”

  He went around the side and pushed open a metal chain-link fence leading to the backyard. He was excited now.

  He kept his promises. That’s what made him who he was. People knew, when the Electrician promised to do something, it always got done. Especially this promise.

  He walked up close to the house until he came to a porch in back, screened in by wire mesh. Then he stopped. He heard the sound of a TV inside. A children’s channel. He listened to the singsong voices and some happy clapping. He saw the back of a woman’s head. She was sitting in a chair.

  Cavello climbed the porch steps and opened the screen door. He had to laugh. Nobody needed alarms in this neighborhood, right? It was protected. It was protected by him! You pull something in this neck of the woods, you might as well keep on running for the rest of your life.

  “Rosie, how do you like your tea?” a woman’s voice called from inside.

  “A little lemon,” the woman in the chair said back. “There should be some in the fridge.” Then, “Hey, look at the little lamby, little Stephie. What does a little lamby say? Baaah . . . Baaah.”

  Cavello stepped in from the porch. When the woman in the chair saw who it was, her face turned chalk white. “Dom!”

  She was bouncing a baby girl, no more than a year old, on her lap.

  “Hi, Rosie,” Dominic Cavello said, and smiled.

  Panic crept over the woman’s face. She was in her early fifties, in a floral shift, with her hair up in a bun, a St. Christopher medal around her neck. She wrapped her arms around the child. “They said you’d escaped. What are you doing here, Dom?”

  “I promised Ralphie something, Rosie. I always keep my promises. You know that.”

  There was a noise from behind them, and a woman walked in carrying a tray with tea on it. Cavello reached out his hand and shot her with the silenced gun, the wound opening where her right eye had been.

  The woman fell over, and the tray hit the floor with a loud crash and clatter.

  “Mary, Mother of God.” Ralph Denunziatta’s sister gasped. She hugged the child close to her breast.

  “That’s one cute kid there, Rosie. I think I see a little of Ralphie, with those fat little cheeks.”

  “It’s my granddaughter, Dom.” Rosie Scalpia’s eyes were flushed with panic. She glanced at her friend lying on the carpet, a red ooze trickling out of her eye. “She’s only one year old. Do what you came here to do, just don’t hurt her, Dom. She’s Simone’s daughter, not Ralphie’s. Please, do what you have to do. Just leave my granddaughter alone.”

  “Why would I want to hurt your little nipotina, Rosie?” Cavello stepped closer. “It’s just that I owe your little prick-faced brother a favor. And there’s nothing we can do about that.”

  “Dom, please.” The woman looked terrified. “Please!”

  “The problem is, Rosie, even though I wish your little granddaughter here a long and healthy life, after I square things a little.” He leveled the gun in the woman’s face. “Truth is, hon, you just never know.”

  He pulled the trigger, and the top of Rosie’s forehead blew out, sending a spatter of tapioca-like bone and brain over the drapes.

  Ralph Denunziatta’s little grandniece started to cry.

  Cavello knelt down and stuck his finger into the baby’s belly. “Don’t cry. You’re a cute one, aren’t you, honey?” He heard the teakettle whistling on the stove. “Water’s ready, huh? C’mere.” He lifted the child up out of her dead grandmother’s arms. She stopped crying. “Thatta girl.” He stroked her back. “Come, let’s take a little stroll with your Uncle Dom.”

  Chapter 74

  THEY RELEASED ME from the hospital at my own request later that day, with a large bandage over my ribs, a vial of Vicodin, and the doctor’s order to go right home and rest.

  Truth is, I was lucky as hell. The bullet had barely grazed me. But I still had one hell of a rug burn on my side.

  Two agents from Internal Affairs debriefed me after I was treated. They drilled me over and over about the events at the courthouse, from the moment I had seen what was taking place on the security screens to my run out to the lobby. I had discharged my gun. One of Cavello’s men was dead. And what was making it particularly ugly was that I wasn’t on active duty.

  But what was hurting me a lot more than my side was that it had been more than five hours now and there was no sign of Cavello or the black Bronco. We had the escape routes blocked as well as we could. We had Cavello’s known contacts blanketed. But somehow, even with the tightest security ever for a trial, the sonovabitch had gotten away.

  Against my protests, a nurse had wheeled me down to the lobby at Bellevue, and I stiffly climbed into a waiting cab.

  “West Forty-ninth and Ninth,” I said, exhaling, resting my head against the seat and shutting my eyes. Over and over I saw the black Bronco speeding away, disappearing into traffic. And me, unable to do a thing. How the hell had they pulled this off? Who was the gunman in the elevator? How, under all that security, had they been able to get a gun inside?

  I slammed the heel of my hand into the driver’s barrier so hard I thought I broke my wrist.

  The driver turned—a Sikh in a turban. “Please, sir, this is not my cab.”

  “Sorry . . .”

  But I wasn’t completely sorry. I felt packed in a pressure cooker. My blood surged with this restless, clawing energy, about to explode. We had turned on Forty-fifth, heading crosstown. I realized what was really scaring me. Going back to my apartment, shutting the door, facing the empty rooms—the useless stacks of evidence, just worthless paper now. Alone.

  I was about to blow. I honestly felt like I could.

  We turned onto Ninth. From the corner I could already see my brownstone. This nervous, tightening rush swelled in my chest.

  I rapped on the glass. “I changed my mind,” I said. “Keep driving.”

  “Okay.” The driver shrugged. “Where to now?”

  “West One eighty-third, the Bronx.”

  Chapter 75

  I RANG THE BUZZER repeatedly—three, four times, and I knocked on the door.

  Finally I heard a woman’s voice. “Just a minute. Coming . . . just a second.”

  Andie opened the door. She was wearing a robe with a pink ribbed cotton tank underneath, her hair still loose and damp, presumably from the shower. She stared at me, surprised.

  My left arm hung limply at my side. My clothes were rumpled. I probably had a wild, crazed look in my eyes.

  “Jesus, Nick, are you okay?”

  I never answered because I really couldn’t at that moment. Instead, I backed Andie inside and pressed her against the wall. Then I kissed her as hard as I could. Whatever came of it, well—

  Suddenly, she was kissing me back just as feverishly. I tugged the robe off her shoulders, ran a hand underneath the ribbed tank, hearing her soft moans. She had a sweet, citrusy, just-out-of-the-shower scent that I inhaled deeply.

  “Jesus, Pellisante.” She sucked in a breath. Her eyes were as wide and flaming as torches. “You don’t even give a girl time to breathe. I kind of like that.”

  She started to pull my shirt out of my trousers. Then she went to unbuckle my belt.

  That’s when I winced—in pain. It felt like sandpaper raking across my side.

  “Jesus, Nick, what’s wrong?”

  I swung away from her, propping myself against the wall. “Something ran into me today . . . at the courtroom.”

  Andie gently raised my shirt and came upon the large bandage. Her eyes went wide. “What happened to you?”

  “A bullet happened.” I sniffed, letting out a frustrated groan. />
  “A bullet!” Andie didn’t seem to find that amusing. “Nick, you were shot?”

  “I was. I guess I still am.”

  She helped me over to the couch, where I slowly eased myself down—crumpled, actually. She gently unbuttoned the rest of my shirt. “Oh, God, Nick.”

  “Truth is, it just grazed me. It actually looks worse than it feels.”

  “Oh, right, I can see that,” she said, nodding. She propped up my feet on the coffee table. “You were on the way to the hospital. That’s where you were when I called. Nick, what are you doing here? What’d the doctor say?”

  “He said go straight home and take it easy.” I curled a contrite smile.

  “So what were you thinking that brought you here?”

  “I guess I was thinking you might find it sexy. Or take pity on me?”

  Andie’s incredulous stare burned a hole through me. I guess she didn’t find that funny either. She unbuttoned my shirt all the way and ran her hands across the edge of the bandage and shrugged. “I don’t know . . . maybe it is a little sexy.”

  “See!”

  “You’re crazy.” She took off my shoes and placed a pillow behind my head. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. I’m loaded with painkillers.” I pulled her into me. “You. I need you.”

  “Oh, now I see. You catch a little drug buzz, you knock on the one door where you figure you can get something?”

  I shrugged. “So? Was I right?”

  She leaned forward and placed a kiss softly on my face; another kiss brushed my lips. “Maybe. A bottle of wine would’ve worked, though. You didn’t have to go and get yourself shot.”

  “Damn.” I groaned, disappointed. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  I pressed my thumb softly into the nape of her neck. “I couldn’t go home, Andie. I didn’t want to be there right now.”

  She nodded, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Just stay here. We don’t have to do anything.” She rested her head against my shoulder.

  I closed my eyes, shutting out the horror of what had happened today, and my anger at watching Cavello escape. My side was aching like hell. And honestly, I didn’t know what I’d been thinking, coming here now. “Thank God,” she whispered against me, “thank God you’re okay.”

  “One thing about these Mafia douche bags—they’re mean as shit, but generally, they’re poor shots.”

  “Please don’t joke with me, Nick. This is very unnerving. Somebody tried to kill you.”

  I shut up, and I felt a tear, her tear, land on my chest.

  “Cavello’s gone,” I said. “I can’t believe it, but we don’t know where he is.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  For a while we just sat there. I was starting to get woozy. Maybe from the Vicodin. Maybe from the stress of the day. “I won’t let you down, Andie. You know that, don’t you? We’ll find a way to get him. I promise, whatever it takes.”

  “I know,” she said again.

  This time I felt she did believe me.

  Chapter 76

  THE NEXT MORNING, I found myself on Andie’s couch when I woke, a quilt pulled around me, pillows under my head. I had to leave.

  Andie was asleep in the bedroom. I peeked in. I was about to leave a note, but I sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair. She opened her eyes.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?” she said, reaching for my hand from under the covers.

  “I made you a promise last night. Gotta go deliver.”

  Andie nodded, eyes glistening. “C’mere.”

  She had a sexy, early morning voice that was proving tempting, and my side suddenly felt 100 percent better. For a second I thought about taking off my clothes and climbing into bed with her.

  “I owe you one,” I said, and squeezed her back.

  “One, two, three . . . whatever you want. How’s your side?”

  “Better. All I needed was a little TLC.” I raised my arm. But not too far.

  “What are you going to do, Nick?” She looked at me, a little more seriously.

  I knew what I was going to do first. It was no longer possible to stay on the sidelines. “Cut my class.” I smiled. I squeezed her shoulder, got up, and went to the door.

  “Pellisante,” she called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do me a big favor. Try not to get yourself shot. Or even shot at.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” I smiled.

  I went back to my place to shower and change. Sabbatical was over now. I was heading down to the Javits Building. On the cab ride I checked in with my buddies at the Bureau.

  No sign of Cavello. That didn’t shock me. I knew, with the kind of planning they’d had, they’d have a perfect out.

  We had located the getaway vehicle, though. The black Bronco was found in a vacant lot on Henry Street, not four blocks from the courthouse. Turned out it had been heisted two days before from a shopping mall on Staten Island. And the Jersey plates were pilfered too. We had the entire Eastern Seaboard virtually closed down. Every airport and bridge. Every port from Boston to Baltimore.

  But Cavello could be just about anywhere now.

  “There’s something else, Nick.” Ray Hughes exhaled. “Ralph Denunziatta’s sister was found late yesterday. She was shot in her home—right between the eyes. A neighbor who was apparently visiting with her was shot dead, too.”

  “Christ!”

  “Nine millimeter, same caliber that was used at the courthouse. We’re checking the ballistics now. But listen, it gets worse.”

  “Worse? How can it get worse?”

  “There was a kid there. The police found Denunziatta’s one-year-old grandniece in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, come on, Ray.”

  “She’s alive. But listen to this. She’s got severe burns over her face and hands. Hot-water burns, Nick. What kind of creeped-out monster is this, anyway? There was a note scribbled on the kid’s bib. The handwriting people are looking it over now.”

  An explosive, tightening rage balled up in my gut. “What did it say?”

  “It said, ‘I keep my promises.’”

  Chapter 77

  I WAS BURNING NOW, on fire.

  I went home and took that shower. The whole time I kept thinking of Ralphie’s sister and that poor little one-year-old kid. On top of all the other things I was close to exploding about, now this horror. I sat there in my towel, staring at the photos of that animal Cavello I had stuck on the kitchen wall. The piles of useless accumulated evidence.

  Until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  I dressed and went and got my Saab out of the lot on Eleventh Avenue. But I wasn’t headed to the office.

  It didn’t matter anymore about what was right or “appropriate” behavior.

  I crossed the river through the Lincoln Tunnel and turned onto Route 3, to Secaucus, New Jersey. Secaucus was what came to my mind when they called New Jersey the “armpit of the universe.” Miles and miles of drive-in, big-box malls and fast-food franchises, stuck in between a toxic swamp and the Jersey Turnpike.

  About a mile down 3, I pulled into the lot of a drab, two-story cinder-block building I knew well. United Workers of Electrical Contractors of New Jersey.

  Local 407. Cavello’s outfit.

  I opened the glass door and went straight past the startled receptionist, flashing my FBI shield. “I’m going up to see Frankie Delsavio.”

  The receptionist jumped up. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t just. . . .”

  I didn’t even wait for her to finish the sentence.

  Two broad-shouldered men, who figured this as their job description, jumped out of their chairs to block my way.

  “Don’t even try it,” I said as one of them stretched an arm out in front of me. My eyes were flashing and probably a little crazy. “You understand?”

  “Mr. Delsavio’s not around,” the goon grunted, looking as if he had flunked the screen test for The Sopranos. T
oo fucking large.

  I shoved my ID in his face. “This is the last time I say this nicely. Get out of my way.”

  I hustled up the stairs, moving on pure adrenaline. Everyone in the building was probably connected. Feds didn’t burst in here alone, without backup.

  The second floor was filled with union offices. Cavello’s people who got the cushy assignments, doing nothing but collecting cash. I went down the hall as the bozos from the lobby followed behind. A few secretaries looked up, trying to figure out what was going on.

  Another guy stepped in my way. Dark glasses and an open, wide-collar shirt over a polyester suit. “’Scuse me, sir!” He flipped open his jacket, exposing his piece. I didn’t even wait for him to pull it. I pulled mine.

  I stuck the muzzle under his nose and pushed the startled gangster against the wall. I pressed my FBI ID close to his face. “This says, ‘yes, I can.’”

  People started getting up from their desks behind me. I saw that the two goons who’d followed me from the lobby had their pieces out.

  “This is a legitimate, private business,” the guy against the wall declared. “Our corporate counsel is down the hall. You’re here without an appointment or a legitimate business purpose. Show me a subpoena or a warrant, Special Agent, or get the hell out.”

  I pressed the gun into his cheek. “I asked to see Frank Delsavio.”

  “As you were told”—and he looked at me straight on—“Mr. Delsavio is not on the premises. You can’t see him if he’s not here.”

  Just then, a door opened at the end of the hall. A heavyset man stepped out, ruddy cheeks, hair combed over, in a short nylon jacket and an open plaid shirt.

  “Agent Pellisante,” Frank Delsavio said in a raspy voice. “Sallie, why didn’t you just tell me it was Special Agent Pellisante? I just came back in. C’mon, step into my office. They musta not known I was here.”

  Chapter 78

  “IT IS STILL SPECIAL AGENT, isn’t it?” Delsavio grinned. “Or maybe we should call you Professor. I hear you were teachin’ a class.”

  Frankie was Dominic Cavello’s longtime number two, but in the big boss’s absence, he was running the show. On the family chart he was known as the Underboss. He’d been married for thirty years to one of Vito Genovese’s nieces. Royalty, Cosa Nostra-style. But not exactly one of the Five Good Emperors. He’d probably ordered ten to twenty murders we couldn’t pin him on.