MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

What’s in a Name?

Brooklyn—Current Day

Frankie drove home with the heater cranked up to 75. He circled the block looking for a parking spot, then saw Keisha and Alex playing step ball. He picked up energy drinks and beef jerky, which Keisha loved, then came around again. On this pass, Alex flagged him down. Frankie lowered the window. “What’s up?”

Alex pointed to construction cones blocking part of the street next to the curb. “Saved you one, FD. Figured that might be worth something on a day like this, knowing how you hate the cold and all.” 

Frankie laughed as Alex cleared his spot. The kids called him FD. He didn’t know if it stood for his initials or “fuckin’ dick” but he didn’t care; they said it with respect. 

“Who’s got five for old FD?” Frankie said as he got out of the car.

“Sure as shit ain’t me,” Alex said, and held his hand out to bump fists. “You know we don’t do that slap-five shit no more. How old are you?” 

“Too damn old, I guess.” Frankie tossed a pack of jerky and handed them the drinks. “How’s my best girl?” Keisha was an adorable kid, twelve years old, with smooth chocolate skin and long hair she wore in pigtails. 

“Waiting for you to make my day. You’re the only one who laughs, besides me and Alex.”

“You’re both full of shit.” Frankie started to walk away but Alex called him back. 

“Hey, FD. How ’bout you stay and share a smoke with your little buddy?”

“You’re too damn young to share a smoke,” Frankie said, but he stopped at the stoop and handed one to Alex, then stood around to talk.

“FD, why you always jiggling change in your pocket?”

“To remind myself that I need real money. Cheese. Green. Whatever you want to call it.”

“If you don’t think that change is real, hand it over to Alex.” 

Frankie laughed, but he gave Alex his change and went inside. The steps to his apartment were worn from years of tired feet scraping them. He was tired, too, and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But he knew he’d end up working; he couldn’t get his mind off the girl. If Nicky had anything to do with this, the girl was a key. When Nicky called, he said she was in trouble, and not the kind of trouble that got solved in a back room of a dark alley. This was mob trouble, and these killings had mob written all over them. Of course that brought Tony Sannullo into play too. Tony knew about the girl. And he knew a lot more than what he was saying.

Three cold beers later Frankie quit work, thought about popping in an old movie, but decided to open his mail instead. He had the normal assortment of bills, and a large padded envelope addressed to Mr. Mario Francis Donovan. 

Who the hell sent this? 

He pulled the tag on the envelope, opened it, then reached inside, drawing his hand out immediately. “What the hell?” Several roaches lay next to the package. Frankie grabbed the envelope by the bottom and shook it. More roaches came out. “Eleven,” he said, and remembered the significance. There was no question now that this was someone from the old neighborhood. Only a few people knew about that—Tony, Paulie, and Nicky. Maybe a couple of others. Frankie thought about it until his brain felt fried, then went to bed, falling asleep in minutes.

#

When images of the roaches woke Frankie for the third time, he decided to get up and take notes. Years ago, he started keeping notepads by the bed, a little thing called the NiteNote. Greatest thing his ex ever bought him. He pulled the pen from the NiteNote, which kicked on a battery-powered light, then wrote on the 3x5 cards it held. 

Bugs and roaches. Not coincidence.

Frankie decided to make a few charts.

Nicky:Tony:

FriendsFriends

HonorHonor

GirlsGirls

NunsNuns

PrisonMob

FearlessConniving

SmartSmart

RosaRosa

TitoTito

ClevelandBrooklyn

Frankie learned early on that this line of thinking proved successful. As he went through the case, he would write down anything that coincided with these words, adding more as he went along, and perhaps scratching some off. Already he could fill something in, and he wrote next to the “Smart” column—killer is definitely smart. Has us confused. Knows police procedure. As more thoughts came to mind, he filled in the chart. When he hit a lull, he stepped back to look at it from afar. Sometimes it made a difference. 

Right now Frankie wished he could distance himself from the case. But this was his first big homicide, and he needed to trust that his legendary Irish luck would pull him through. It had done a good job so far: it had helped him survive gang fights, a broken marriage, seven years on the force—street duty, robbery, drugs, back in robbery—all without compromising his morals. 

He lit a smoke, vowed to quit once again, then laughed at his predicament. At least he could still laugh. Nicky could laugh too, but not Tony. A laugh from him was as rare as a curse word from Mamma Rosa. 

Frankie got up to make coffee. Might as well take advantage of all the vices. He needed to be sharp for this analysis. He owed both of them that much, especially Nicky. And if this was Nicky, then Frankie had to help him. Nicky would do the same. He had done the same, many times. Frankie laughed at the memory of when Nicky backed down four guys just by staring at them. Never said a word. Of course he did have his father’s eyes. That was a scary man. Frankie often wondered about him, ever since that day in Schmidt’s back yard, when Nicky thought Mikey the Face was going to kill his father. It was the day of the roach races.