MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 24

Things in Common

Brooklyn—Current Day

Five in the morning is a terrible time to get up, but when you’ve been thinking of death all night, the morning is more welcome. Frankie managed to plant a smile on his face as he walked to the kitchen for coffee. He often wondered how people survived before coffee, but knowing at the same time there must have been a substitute. Even Mamma Rosa needed coffee to be fully alert and civil. 

As he waited for it to brew, thoughts popped into his head. He jotted them down then headed to the station. Carol met him at the top of the steps with more coffee. 

“How the hell did you know I was here?”

“Ted saw you pull into the lot. And if the coffee’s not hot, don’t bitch at me.”

“I’d never do that. Not to your face, anyway.” He ducked her punch, then asked, “Lou here?”

She nodded to the “war room,” as Lou called it, the place they’d set up to work on this case.

“About time you got here, Donovan.”

“You sleep much, Mazzetti?”

He lifted his feet from the chair where they rested and plopped them on the floor, shoving the chair toward Frankie so he could sit. “If you ever get married—which is doubtful, but if you do, and after it’s been thirty years—you’ll know why I’m here early.”

“You’re right. I’ll never know.”

Lou nodded toward the files in Frankie’s hand. “What have you got?”

“Some stuff I got thinking about this morning.” He set the notebook on the table, grabbed the files on the case, and spread them from left to right in the order the victims were killed. Frankie stuck his head out the door. “Hey, Carol, if you’re not too busy, we could use your magnificent handwriting in here.”

Mazzetti stared at Frankie as he stretched his neck. “Anybody ever tell you that birthmark on your neck looks like Sicily?”

“Only about a million times.”

“No shit, though. It really does. Goddamn amazing.” 

He continued staring until Carol came in a moment later, with the slight swagger that was both sexy and don’t-you-dare-try untouchable. At slightly over five feet, and a hundred pounds tops, she wasn’t physically threatening, but she carried herself as if she were an Amazon. And if someone pissed her off, the look in her eyes was usually enough to deter any repetition of whatever set her off to begin with. 

“What do you need?” 

Frankie pointed to the posters. “We need you to fill in the details.”

She sighed, but Frankie knew she loved doing this; she liked anything that took her away from the grind at her desk. “Okay, call them out to me,” she said. “But go slow. I don’t have a damned keyboard.”

Frankie picked up the file. “Renzo Ciccarelli. Groceries spread all over the floor. A lot of them crushed. Brought them home in a grocery bag.”

Lou had Devin’s file. “Tommy Devin—”

“Whoa,” Carol said. “Spell Ciccarelli.”

Lou spelled the name then continued. “Items at the Devin scene include a bottle of Jack Daniels, found on floor next to body, unbroken. No receipt, and it hadn’t been opened yet.”

Frankie moved to the next file. “Nino Tortella. Pizza box on the floor.” 

Lou got up. “We’ve been through this already, remember? The pizza place said Nino stopped once a week, religiously. Devin was in that liquor store every day, and Renzo went to the grocery store at least twice a week.” He looked at Carol. “You want more coffee?” When she shook her head, he continued. “And another thing. They weren’t killed on the same days of the week. They were about three weeks apart, but not exactly.”

“I just thought of this last night,” Frankie said. “If we look at the case like we have been, it doesn’t seem like anything—liquor, pizza, and groceries—nothing in common. Different days of the week. Different parts of town.” Frankie walked to the charts. “Look at where everything was found. Liquor bottle next to body, groceries spread all over floor—next to body, pizza box on floor—next to body. If we look at that from the killer’s perspective, every one of them had something in their hands when they came home. He wanted them to have their hands full, to make it easier to take them.”

Lou moved by the charts. “And that means he was watching them. Probably for a long time, so he could tell exactly when they’d have their hands full.”

“Which explains the three weeks or so between killings. This isn’t some nut bag killing random people; this is a serious-as-shit killer taking his time to do it right.”

Lou scratched his chin as he stared at the charts. “So this guy sits in the house waiting for them to come home, knowing their hands will be full.”

“Exactly.” Frankie said, and slapped Lou’s extended hand. 

“Good work, Donovan. Let’s find out where this guy watched from. We might get a lead to break this case.”

As they left the building, heading toward Lou’s car, Frankie’s adrenaline was pumping. At the same time, though, he was scared. A lead might point to the wrong people.