MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 31

Questioning

Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

The next day Agent John Harding reviewed his surveillance tapes with other members of the Organized Crime Unit. At first no one recognized the two men accompanying Tony and Paulie, then, a young agent spoke up, if tentatively.

“I think I know that guy.”

“Which one?”

“The one with Mr. Sannullo. He—”

“Mr. Sannullo?” Harding shot him a glare to kill. “He’s not a damn celebrity, Agent. The man is a gangster.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Harding calmed down. “Which one do you recognize?”

The young agent gulped and pointed. “The one between Tony and Paulie.”

“Go on.”

“Well…I don’t want to be wrong, but…he looks like Frankie Donovan, a detective in Brooklyn.”

“Are you certain?”

“No, sir. I’m not certain. That’s what I was trying to say. He just…looks like him.”

A quick twist of the head brought Harding face-to-face with Agent Kent. “I want an answer before I leave here. And no mistakes. I don’t want to accuse one of their own kind without something solid.”

“Yes, sir.”

#

Frankie had been out all morning, checking leads on a case. About ten o’clock he pulled into the lot, parked, then went into headquarters. 

“Morning, Detective,” the desk sergeant said.

“Hey, Ted. How’s it going?”

“Got visitors upstairs. And the lieutenant wants to see you.”

Frankie bounded up the steps and into Lieutenant Morreau’s office. It wasn’t a big office, enough room for three guest chairs and a small sofa, one plant in the corner and a file cabinet. A working man’s office is how Carol described it, and the paperwork spread on every square inch of flat surface showed it to be true. Morreau worked his way up from patrolman to detective, then made the big jump to lieutenant. 

“You wanted me, sir?” Frankie asked as he entered.

“Sit down.” 

Frankie looked to the side. Two of the guest chairs were occupied by grey suits—never a good sign. Frankie sat, stared at them, then back to Lieutenant Morreau. “What’s going on?”

One of the suits stood up, walked over with his hand outstretched. “John Harding, Special Agent with the FBI Organized Crime Unit.”

Special Agent John Harding had a face made for geometry class—all sharp angles with a curve thrown in now and then, and topped off by a jutting forehead. His eyes were too small to be called beady; they looked as if his mother had stolen them from a weasel. Frankie reached out and took his hand. “Frankie Donovan.”

“I know who you are, Detective.” His voice dripped with attitude.

“Guess we’re even now…Agent.”

The other suit, Maddox, offered a handshake. He seemed genuine. “Good morning, Detective Donovan. It sure is a fine day.” He enunciated every syllable in a slow cadence that marked him as having migrated north from somewhere at least as far south as Tennessee, maybe Mississippi. Maddox was a Southern gentleman, a sharp contrast to Harding, and while his voice didn’t drip with a Southern drawl, that cadence was there. And the way he ended sentences made it obvious that all that was missing was the “ma’am or sir” so commonplace down South.

Harding put on a false smile. “Detective, I’ll get right to it. Last night we caught you on a surveillance tape associating with known members of a criminal organization.”

Screw me. Frankie looked to Morreau, then to Harding, letting his gaze linger. “That’s a mouthful for saying I ate dinner with Tony Sannullo.”

Harding’s eyes went wide. He turned, staring at Lieutenant Morreau, as if to say, “I told you so” then he focused on Frankie. “You don’t deny it?”

“I just told you. I had dinner with Tony. I’ve known him since I was five years old.” There was a moment of silence before Frankie spoke again, more deliberate this time. “And as far as I know, Agent Harding, Tony has never been convicted of anything.”

“Being convicted and doing nothing wrong are two different things. I think you know that.”

“I didn’t say he’s never done anything wrong. Just that he’s not what you accused him of.” Frankie shook his head. “I know how this looks, but these guys were my friends growing up. I’m not dirty, and I’m not associating with them. We had a few drinks.” He looked behind him and took a seat in the chair across from Morreau’s desk.

“Who was the other one?” Harding asked. 

“He’s not with them,” Frankie said quickly.

“Who is he?”

“None of your business.”

Harding looked to Frankie’s boss. “Lieutenant Morreau?”

Morreau wore his most frustrated expression as he stared at Frankie. “Donovan, this is no goddamn game.”

Frankie sat silent for a while, then stood. “Okay, listen. I’m telling you exactly how it is. Tony called me because our old friend, Nicky Fusco, just got into town. That’s the first time I’ve seen Nicky in ten years, and maybe the second or third time I’ve seen Tony or Paulie in probably three.”

Harding stared while his partner took notes. “All right, Detective, I’m going to check you out, but in the meantime I’d suggest you…” He stopped, as if in thought. “Actually, I’d suggest you continue associating with them. Don’t do anything different. Then—”

Frankie reached for him, but the lieutenant grabbed him.

“Detective.”

He shook off Morreau’s grip. “If this asshole thinks I’m gonna be a rat planted in with my friends, he’s as big a dick as he looks.”

Harding nodded. “Come on, Maddox. We’ll take this up with the commissioner.”

Frankie realized he was in deep shit. If the Feds wanted to make it look like you were dirty, they could—and would—do it. He had to make a quick decision. “What are you guys after anyway? I don’t know shit about what Tony or Paulie do.”

Harding smiled, a shit-eating grin that irritated the hell out of Frankie. “That’s better. I knew you’d come to your senses.”Harding faced the lieutenant. “I’ll get back to you on how we’ll handle this.” As he and his partner left, he stared at Frankie. “We’ll be in touch.”