Dirty Trouble (3 page)

A smile crossed Jonah’s face and he waved as the Crown Vic pulled into traffic. The trooper ascertained there was no immediate danger and left me to handle things on my own.
Thanks a lot, buddy.

Tony scuffed his feet in the gritty sand on the sidewalk as he glanced around and scratched his scruffy beard. It entered my mind that there might be vermin in there, and I stifled a shudder.

A grubby baseball cap rode the mop of bedraggled, matted hair. Again, I wondered what he’d been doing to let his appearance go to hell this way. The old Tony would never have looked or smelled this bad. Was that odor horse manure or a new men’s fragrance?

“So what have you been up to, Tony?” Not that I cared, but avid curiosity overcomes me at the worst moments. I figured this was one of them.

“After I got out of the booby hatch I couldn’t get a good job, so I went to work at a horse farm. I shovel shit now, thanks to you.”

With a shrug, I stared at him for a few seconds. No sense to deny I had anything to do with his mental incapacity plea. He wouldn’t believe it anyway.

“At what farm do you shovel this shit?” I asked, in hope that it was a farm far, far away. I knew there’d be no such luck.

“In Foster. There’s a horse farm along Hickory Road and the owner needed some help. My social worker got me the job and I live there in the stable apartment. Big switch from my former life, eh?” His eyes turned fierce.

“Indeed. It’s good to see that you’re doing well, though.” Sidling down the sidewalk toward home, I wished him well and started to turn away.

“Things could be better, Vinnie, and I haven’t been able to forget how you helped change my life. I’ll try to repay you somehow.” He called, and cackled a bit.

Thank goodness Hickory Road was over ten miles west from my house. It meant the chances of running into the nutball would be next to none. Hickory Road, an agricultural section of the town of Foster, borders the Connecticut State Line. I rarely ventured into that section of the town. The slim chance of any interaction with this man was a comfort.

In an effort to end the conversation, I hurried away, almost at a dead run. He gave me the creeps and I couldn’t shake the sense that this wasn’t my last encounter with the ‘nutter.’ Maybe my overactive imagination was on a rampage, but somehow, it didn’t seem so.

I hustled across the street and approached my home.

The phone jingled its tune as I entered the house through the side door. I quickly stepped to the counter and grabbed the receiver off the charger to answer the call.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it’s your mother. Where have you been? I’ve been calling for over an hour? Did your classes run longer than usual today?”

My mother, Bake Sale Queen and Chocolate Maker Extraordinaire, sounded a bit out of sorts. Now what had I done, or not done? Was this about the accident?

 “No, they didn’t,” I lied. “I took a walk and got waylaid coming back to the house. What’s up, Mom? Is there a problem?”

“You’re Aunt Mafalda is in a snit, and I need your help.”

“Aunt Muffy? What’s happened?” My aunt, the dater of mob-connected men, made life interesting for everyone except me. “Can you give me some idea of what the snit is about?”

“She and her new flame have been hauled to jail and she’s called to see if you can get them out.”

With a deep sigh, I paced the kitchen while my mind flew over the possibilities. Without information, I couldn’t help Muffy and hoped my mother would be more forthcoming.

“Why were they lugged?”

“It seems Antonio has been charged with racketeering and since Muffy was with him, she’s been charged as well.” Her voice hitched as she explained and I could envision her stress level at the overflow mark.

“Where are they being held? What police station?” I asked, then dragged fresh jeans and a sweater from the dresser and charged into the bathroom to change.

“They’re at the Providence Police Department. What can you do, dear?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll head down there now.”
Good grief. What was I, a miracle worker?

My mother uttered her thanks and disconnected the call. I set the phone down, then changed my clothes. Somehow, my encounter with Tony left me feeling soiled.

My Aunt Mafalda, ‘Muffy’ Ciano was the divorced mother of four grown children. They moved as far away from Rhode Island and Auntie as they could without leaving the country. Their father – bless his dead soul – was a smalltime hood from the Italian neighborhood of Federal Hill, in Providence. In the old days, the Hill gained fame as the hangout of a major crime boss and his crew of cutthroats, hustlers, and enforcers.

Once the FBI and the state police cleaned up the neighborhood, Federal Hill became a tourist trap for those who got a thrill from sitting in a ‘tratoria’ on the Hill. It gave the fools a charge to visit a place where there had been a cold-blooded hit by mob enforcers.
Go figure!

I called my best friend Lola, to ask if I could borrow her car. With a brief explanation of why I needed to do so, she readily agreed to let me take the MINI Cooper.

I was ready to leave when a knock sounded on the door. Aaron Grant, my upstairs tenant and an undercover FBI agent, strode into the house with a bag of sandwiches from the Salt & Pepper Deli on the corner. Lola owns the deli that serves the most scrumptious food imaginable. Aaron glanced at my face and stopped short.

“What’s happened now? You have an anxious look on your face, Vin.”

Dressed in khakis and a knit jersey, he looked as delectable as I knew the food was.

“My mother just called and said my aunt has been lugged by the Providence Police Department,” I said stuffing my feet into sneakers.

Thick, dark eyebrows shot up over warm chocolate brown eyes in the handsome face. He tossed the bag onto the counter. Aaron’s professional wrestler-sized frame leaned against the door casing and he folded muscle-bound arms across his massive chest. His tan skin and dark hair enhanced his easy sparkling smile. He reminded me of The Rock, a famous wrestler, turned movie star.

I stopped what I was doing and stared, “You know about this, don’t you?”

“I didn’t realize the woman with the ‘perp’ was your aunt. She’s in trouble, Vin. Resisting arrest is a serious offense.”

“You don’t say?” I rolled my eyes. “She resisted arrest, huh? Just how did that happen?”

“When the officers attempted to take Antonio down, she stepped up and gave them a verbal beating. A real tongue lashing, from what I understand.” Aaron chuckled a bit. “They tried to put her aside and she refused to allow it. The cops cuffed them both and took them to the station.”

“Great, just what I need. My aunt, the Mafia Moll.” I rolled my eyes. “Cripes, she’s in her sixties for God’s sake. I don’t suppose you can help me out, eh?”

“No, I’m afraid it’s in the PPD’s hands at the moment.”

“Well, in that case, I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

“Right. Come upstairs when you get back. You haven’t seen some of the place since I moved my stuff in. These sandwiches will wait, unless Marcus will be here tonight?”

“No, he’s on duty in Newport with the governor. Save me some food, and I’ll see you later.”

“Sure, I have an important matter to discuss with you. By the way, where’s your car?”

“That’s another story, but I haven’t the time to get into it right now. We’ll talk when I get home.”

In a rush, I brushed past and left him to lock up on the way out. I hustled to the deli on the corner down the street and drove Lola’s MINI Cooper to Providence.

Chapter 3

The two men in my life, Aaron Grant and Marcus Richmond, are both gorgeous to a fault, arrogant, and involved in law enforcement. Marcus saved my life not long ago, and gets testy with me on occasion. Though I can’t mind my own business, and I’m a thickheaded Italian woman, I think he loves me anyway.

My tenant, Aaron, a cool dude with a warm heart, never makes emotional demands on me. I consider him more friend than anything else, and never let his undercover FBI status interfere with my unconventional life and Italian family. Marcus, on the other hand, raises my blood pressure with just a glance and though deep down, he really accepts me, is always in my face about my behavior and my family.

I’m unfortunate enough to have an inner voice that screams at me constantly with dire warnings of the dangers of personal involvement with law enforcement agents. It rants on about how I’ll only be hurt by a cop, a cop of any kind. For the most part, I ignore it. I was good about remaining romantically uninvolved with cops in the past, until I met Marcus.

It’s been a challenge since I’m a Criminal Justice instructor at a local university and teach law enforcement officers of all types. Two Point Fives, real Five-Os, ‘flashlight cops’, and ‘wannabes’ participate in my programs every day of the school year. The Two-Point-Fives and ‘flashlight cops’ – nicknamed such by real cops – are security personnel from all walks of life.

Real Five-Os are the cops who patrol the streets to keep the American public safe. Wannabes are future recruits who further their careers in law enforcement through education while they wait for an opportunity to test for the police department. They’re a gregarious group of people, men and women alike. Coarse, crude, funny, protective, and dangerous are the descriptive terms I use for them.

They share theories and get involved in classroom discussions to the point where yelling becomes a common occurrence. Sometimes things run out of control, but they blow over, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I often consider my job to be that of adult babysitter rather than instructor of Criminal Justice.

As I cruised along the highway into Providence, I turned toward the newly built police department complex. I lucked out when I pulled into the lot. One skinny slot stood open, and I squeezed the small car into it. An available parking spot was an incredible find.

Locking the doors, I edged sideways between the other cars to get out into the lot. It’s a good thing I’m tall and lean. When I glanced back, I realized the passenger side of the car was nearly up against the cruiser next to it. With a shrug, I hustled into the police station.

Once inside, it was necessary to pass through metal detectors, where Officer Fernando Petronio stood guard. ‘Nando’, currently enrolled in one of my classes, grinned when he saw me. These guys never pass up a chance to act out, so I knew he’d put me through my paces. He’d go through my purse and probably search me if the alarm went off when I went through the detector.

“Step up and place your bag on the counter, ma’am.” He grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up, will ya?” I chuckled, even though I wanted to race onward and find my way to lockup.

“Walk through, Ms. Esposito.” He waggled his brows as I went through the gate.

When the alarm didn’t go off, I turned and laughed at his crestfallen face.

“Sorry, Nando, you can’t have everything.”

“What brings you to the PPD, Vinnie?” Nando handed me my purse.

“My mother called and said you have my aunt in lock up. Help me out here, will you? It’s Mafalda. Mafalda Ciano.”

He hauled a sheaf of papers toward him and scrolled down the list of names. “Go see Bellini in the interview rooms on the third floor. He’s handling the investigation. Patrolman Dixon will escort you to his office.” Fernando cocked his head toward a patrolman who loitered at a second metal detector, not fifteen feet away. He motioned the man over.

“Dixon, take Ms. Esposito to see Bellini. I’ll call upstairs to tell him you’re on your way. Good luck, Vinnie,” he said with a grin.

Detective Bellini was a hard-ass in the detective division. I ran into him on several occasions. We have a tolerance-type working relationship. He liked me when I didn’t fail his fledglings. Sometimes, when one of his prodigies was on the brink of failure, he called and we’d go three or four rounds on the phone.

For the most part, Bellini and I have mutual respect for one another. I don’t tolerate his crap and he doesn’t take any from me either. If I had to choose someone to be on my side in a tight situation, his name would top the list.

In the elevator, Dixon glanced at me with disdain, as though I was a perpetrator. I glanced back and gave him ‘the face.’ It’s the face your mother gives when you’ve done something that she isn’t happy about. Usually it works like a charm to make someone change his or her attitude and this time was no different.

“Do you know Detective Bellini, ma’am?”

I really dislike that ‘ma’am’ thing. It makes me feel so ancient and I’m not, honest. There are times in life when good manners rub the wrong way.

“Mmm, we’ve been acquainted for ages.” I also lie by omission and am darned good at it, too. It’s a natural talent I received at birth, I think, a God-given talent so to speak. Bellini and I have known one another for a year or so – only our acquaintance is through the university and much discord. This cop didn’t need to know that, though.

“Oh,” he said, and fell silent.

The elevator door slid open and we left the confines of the cubicle. Dixon motioned me down the corridor on the right. Several interview rooms, or ‘boxes’ as they are called, sat to my left.

A hallway door opened and Detective Michael Bellini, a rugged man with a small roll of fluff lolling around his waist, stepped into view. His cropped hair was graying at the temples and the skin on his face sagged a tad, as did his chest, and he had a rounded bulb on the tip of his nose. He was five foot ten and we stood eye to eye.

I stood lean and leggy in comparison. I’m well endowed breast wise, and hold my own in the looks department. Thanks to my Italian heritage, I have good skin and an attitude to match it. But, I’m not Bellini’s age either.

“Ms. Esposito, come in. You can go, Dixon,” he said. His dark eyes measured me and he offered no smile or indication of friendliness.

His off-hand attitude indicated I might be in for a difficult time. I strode forward after thanking Dixon, and stepped into Bellini’s office.