Outrage (28 page)

“The building is surrounded! Put the weapon down and come out with your hands up!”
she shouted, and crouched down in case the shooter started blasting at the wall.

There was the sound of something crashing in the apartment. Then silence, followed by the sound of a window sliding open. She realized what that meant—the fire escape—and started to get up to give chase but hesitated. The Cassinos might need medical attention.

Marlene lined up across the hall and then flung herself into the door as hard as she could. She was gratified to hear the sound of wood splintering but the door remained in place. Backing up and then running forward, she battered the door again. This time it gave around the molding, and on the third attempt it crashed inward and she tumbled forward into the semidark apartment.

Freezing in place, it took her a moment to realize that there were two bodies on the ground in front of her. As her eyes adjusted she recognized Vinnie Cassino, who was lying on a dark wet stain that she guessed was blood.

Too late
, she thought. Then she spotted Lydia Cassino, who groaned and tried to push herself up from the floor. She peered at her husband and cried out.
“Baby! Oh, what’s he
done to you!”
Lydia clawed at her husband’s body and rolled him over.

Marlene moved and Lydia’s head jerked up. Her face was a mask of rage and fear as she started to scramble for her husband’s chair and the shotgun leaning against it.

Realizing the woman might just start blasting, Marlene vaulted to her feet and across the room in time to wrest the gun from Lydia’s hands and toss it aside. She then slapped the woman hard. “Lydia, it’s Marlene,” she said. “What happened? Did you see who did this?”

The woman’s eyes cleared as she recognized Marlene. “I didn’t see him,” she cried. “I came in and saw Vinnie …” Lydia looked at the lifeless body of her husband and an anguished sob escaped her lips. But the anger returned immediately. “I screamed and went to check on Vinnie and the son of a bitch hit me from behind. But I know who the murdering piece of shit was … Ahmed Kadyrov … the guy you’re looking for.” Lydia looked over at the window. “He go that way?”

“Yeah,” Marlene answered as she dialed 911 on her phone. “A man’s been stabbed,” she then said into the phone, and gave the address. “Perpetrator: white male …” She looked at Lydia, who nodded and added, “Skinny. Dark hair. Not six feet,” which Marlene repeated before continuing. “Last seen leaving the building from the fire escape.”

As Marlene spoke, Lydia went over to the window and looked out. “Long gone,” she said, picking up the shotgun and walking to the door.

“Where are you going?” Marlene asked, hanging up with the 911 operator.

“To look for the man who killed my man,” Lydia said. Her face was grim in spite of the tears that leaked from her eyes. But then the façade cracked and she sobbed as she dropped the gun and covered her face. “Oh, Vinnie, what am I gonna do without you, baby?”

Marlene went over and wrapped her arms around the other woman. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You know there’s only one way to get the guy who did this. Vinnie deserves it, and so do Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins.”

Lydia broke the embrace and stepped back. She was breathing heavily and started to shake her head, but then she nodded as her shoulders sagged. “Come on, we need to go,” she said. “The medics will take care of my Vinnie ’til I get back. But if we’re here when the police show up, they might find some things and toss my ass in jail.”

“Where are we going?” Marlene asked.

Lydia wiped her nose with the back of her hand and half-grinned despite her tears. “Why, to see my elderly mom in Yonkers, of course.”

They started to leave the apartment but suddenly Lydia returned to her husband’s body. She leaned over and removed something from the top pocket of his overalls. She then pressed her fingers to her lips and his head. “Mama’s gonna take care of this for you, baby,” she said. “Then I’ll see you on the other side.”

P
REOCCUPIED BY
K
ADYROV’S LATEST MESS-UP
, D
ETEC
tive Joey Graziani didn’t bother to pick up the receiver when the newspaper reporter called his number at the Two-Six detective squad that afternoon and left a message. “I need to talk to you about the Yancy-Jenkins case,” the woman, who had identified herself as Ariadne Stupenagel, said.

He started to erase the message—there were a lot of reporters who called wanting an “exclusive” interview with the heroic detective who caught the Columbia U Slasher, an “officially off-the-record, but …” privilege he gave only a select few he trusted. However, what she said next made him stop and reconsider. “I might have some information about who killed that Bronx detective who was working on the Felix Acevedo case. Phil Brock.”

With his gut clenching, Graziani called the reporter back and nonchalantly asked her to elaborate.

“I got a call yesterday from a guy named Vinnie Cassino,” Stupenagel explained. “He said he told Brock something about the real killer in the Yancy-Jenkins murders in Manhattan and the Atkins case in the Bronx, and the next day Brock gets murdered. He said the only other person who could have known about what he told Brock would have been another Bronx cop.”

“So why call me?” Graziani asked, trying to keep his voice calmer than his wildly beating heart.

“Well,” she said, her voice trembling, “it was you and Brock who caught the Columbia U Slasher and I thought you ought to know. I mean, you could be in danger, too, and if something happens to me tonight, at least I told someone.”

“Tonight? What’s tonight?”

“I was supposed to meet Cassino this morning,” Stupenagel told him. “He said he was going to bring me something that would prove the case against the ‘real killer,’ whatever that means; he didn’t elaborate. And he said he wanted the reward money so he could get out of town. But he didn’t show, so I thought it was all a bunch of bullshit until his wife called and said her husband had been murdered. But she still wants to meet tonight and give me this ‘evidence.’ Well, ‘give’ as in I give her two thousand dollars and she gives me what she calls ‘the story of the century.’”

“You trust her?” Graziani asked.

“No,” Stupenagel admitted. “To be honest, I’m scared. And that’s really why I’m calling you. Even if she’s legit, it means that two men have been killed over this already, one of them a cop.”

Graziani thought quickly. “You did the right thing. If it’s okay
with you, I think I should tail you to this meeting tonight. If it’s legit, then the worst thing that happens is she gets a couple thousand bucks out of the detective bureau kitty. But if there’s a bad cop, and something goes down the wrong way, I’ll be there.”

“Oh God, I was hoping you’d say something like that,” Stupenagel replied, the relief in her voice palpable. Then she hesitated. “I still get to break the story,” she said. “I’m not risking my neck with no payoff.”

Graziani agreed. “Of course. You’ll deserve it.”

Deserve a bullet between your eyes
, he thought six hours later as he checked the chamber of the .380 before screwing the silencer onto the gun.
You and the Cassino bitch.

The night was dark and the lighting sparse near the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument in Riverside Park. It was easy to remain in the shadows as the tall female reporter paced about waiting for her meeting with Lydia Cassino. He shook his head; it was surreal, though necessary, that he was contemplating murdering two women with no more conscience than he’d feel killing a couple of alley rats.

Just to get out of the Bronx?
The words continued to mock him.
No
, he thought,
now it’s more than that
, and he was too far down the road to turn back.

The night before he’d met, as arranged, with Kadyrov at Grand Central Terminal. That’s where he heard the story about Vinnie Cassino’s death but that Lydia Cassino was alive.

“These other two women got there ahead of me,” Kadyrov
said. “Probably from the city, slumming and looking for a little meth for a night on the town. So I had to wait until they left, but they took Cassino’s ugly bitch wife with them. So I went and did Vinnie and waited for her to come back. She’d be dead too but the cops showed up at the door.”

Kadyrov was adamant that Lydia Cassino had not seen him before he knocked her out. He saw her get dropped off and then hid in the bedroom until she was distracted by her husband’s body. “Dealers are getting whacked all the time,” he said. “It was just a robbery killing for all she knows. Somebody must have heard her scream and called the cops.”

“Yeah, I checked,” Graziani had replied. “Someone called nine-one-one. They must have seen you going down the fire escape, too, because they got a physical description. So what about the shirt?”

“I couldn’t find it,” Kadyrov said.

Graziani cursed the murderer. “That shirt can sink us both,” he said.

“She’ll get the hint,” Kadyrov said. “Stay out of this or you’ll get the same thing your husband got. And maybe they don’t even have the shirt anymore. I went through everything.”

“Yeah, well, that’s too many maybes,” Graziani said, handing Kadyrov an envelope. “I think it’s time you took a little trip upstate. There’s four hundred bucks and a bus ticket in there. As well as instructions on where I want you to stay so I can reach you. Do what you’re told and there’s more where that came from, and I’ll keep our asses out of hot water.”

Kadyrov reached out and grabbed the envelope, but Graziani held on for a moment as he looked in the younger man’s eyes.
“Don’t fuck with me, Ahmed,” he said. “Get on that bus and you be where I can find you. Or if they don’t get you for the Yancy-Jenkins murders, I’ll kill you myself.” He released the envelope. “And I know you’re thinking,
They get me, I’ll turn on him.
Just remember who’s the cop here when it comes to your word against mine. You’d never live to testify against me anyway.”

With the envelope clutched in his hands, Kadyrov disappeared into the bowels of Grand Central. Meanwhile, Graziani had spent another sleepless night wondering how to find Lydia Cassino and the blue silk shirt.

Then the reporter called with the answer. He was sure Lydia Cassino would be showing up with a blue silk shirt. A couple of bullets at close range, and he’d have only one more problem to deal with. And that would entail only a quick trip to upstate New York and another bullet for Ahmed Kadyrov.

Then the Acevedo trial would proceed unabated. He’d be a hero, doted on by the public, the NYPD brass, and his young wife.
It’s all under control
, he told himself for the thousandth time as the small dark figure approached and walked up to Stupenagel.

The weight of the .380 in his hand was a comfort as he crept forward. He regretted that after tonight’s business, the weapon was going in the East River, since it could tie him to Brock’s murder as well as these women. He’d have to pick up another one to finish Kadyrov.

Graziani waited until the two women had talked for a moment. When the smaller woman handed Stupenagel a package, he moved.
The shirt
, he thought with satisfaction as he stepped from the shadows with his gun trained on the women.

“I’ll take that,” he said.

“What’s going on?” the short woman exclaimed in fear.

“It’s okay,” Stupenagel replied. “He’s a cop and he’s with me.”

Graziani snorted a humorless laugh. “That’s right, we’re together, but not for long, I’m afraid,” he said as he trained his gun on Stupenagel’s face.

The reporter looked stunned. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then a look of understanding came across her face. “It was you.”

“It was him what?” the other woman cried out.

“He’s the one who killed Brock and your husband,” Stupenagel replied.

“As usual, the press gets it wrong,” Graziani said. “If you want to be accurate, I finished off Brock when my boy Kadyrov messed up. But Ahmed is the one who sliced and diced that pig husband of yours, Lydia.”

“Lydia?” the woman said, suddenly standing up straighter and looking him in the eyes as she smiled. “Actually, the name is Marlene Ciampi, you son of a bitch, and your ass is under arrest. Put the gun down unless you want the sharpshooter who has a nice little red laser light from his scope trained on the side of your head to pull the trigger. Clay, you want to come get this asshole?”

His mouth hanging open, Joey Graziani slowly lowered his gun at the sound of running feet. “How?” he asked.

“A little detective work,” Marlene said. “I talked to an officer, Dave Drummond, who confirmed Cassino had wanted to talk to Brock about a blue silk shirt. Then you were seen talking to Brock at the Lino Tavern. My guess is you didn’t like hearing that your case was about to go down the tubes, though to be honest, it was already finished. We found out about the ring, you dolt. But
now it’s over. Detectives working for my husband followed you to Grand Central, and they picked up Kadyrov as soon as you were out of sight. I just don’t get it—was it really worth killing another detective, much less Vinnie Cassino and, what … two women?”

Graziani looked down at the sidewalk but he was seeing Brock’s scornful face.
Just to get out of the Bronx?
Then the image of his wife in bed with another man came to him, followed by the image of himself in prison and what that would be like for a cop, especially a cop who killed another cop—even the guards would enjoy making his life hell. He raised his gun to shoot Marlene.

Instead, a rifle shot rang out in the night and Graziani’s head exploded from the force of the fifty-caliber bullet, his gun striking the pavement only a moment before his body did. Even so, Clay Fulton kept his gun trained on the lifeless man as he kicked the .380 to the side. “Bag that,” he told another approaching officer before turning to Marlene and Ariadne.

“Boy, I didn’t like using civilians on that one,” he said.

“Too much of a chance he might have seen Ariadne’s photo in a newspaper,” Marlene said insistently, repeating the argument she’d used earlier that afternoon in her husband’s office. “And there was no way you were keeping me off this one.”