tell you is, be careful.”
I fidgeted, wanting to say something but not knowing what, so I grabbed my purse from the table. “Thanks. I appreciate everything.”
“If you must do this, get help. There is a man you can talk to within your own new department. His name is Donovan.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “Do you mean Frankie Donovan, the hero cop who broke Tito Martelli in Brooklyn?” I stepped closer to Dominic, suspicion digging deeper in my soul. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“I don’t want anything to do with your puppets. I know you mean well, but I’ve got to live my own life, and the last thing I need is to be seen hanging around with a dirty cop. For years I risked everything coming here to see you.”
“I know you did, and there is nothing I treasure more than your visits, but I don’t have Donovan in my pocket. Trust me. Trust him . He can help you.”
“Promise?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, bambina .”
“All right. I’m trusting you.”
“Thank you, and remember: La famiglia é tutto. ”
I kissed Dominic’s cheek. “I know it is. I never forget.”
***
Dominic showed her to the basement door, watched her walk down the steps, then closed the door as soon as she left his sight. The smile he wore vanished. “Fabrizio!”
A man with the look of a tiger came into the kitchen seconds later.
“Fabrizio, find out everything you can about these animals who almost killed my Concetta. I want to know who they are and who gave the orders.”
“Si, Signore.”
Chapter 8: New Job
Chapter 8
New Job
T he next day I got up earlier than normal, grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the car. It was a longer drive to get to work but the time seemed to fly. I put the top down on the convertible and let the wind blow my hair into tangles. Tangled hair didn’t matter today; I was starting a new job in homicide. God liked me after all.
I parked in the lot, walked the half a block it took to get to the front door, then up three steps into the station. It looked much the same as the old place—big room with worn linoleum floors, and cops who mingled in groups drinking coffee and chatting before the day started. A desk sergeant I didn’t know barked orders amidst the gossip that bounced around the room. Quite a different reception than the one I got at the old station. No cheers. No congratulations. I liked this better.
I noticed a young-looking cop standing by herself. “You know where to find Lieutenant Morreau?” I asked.
She tilted her head toward the stairs—old wooden ones which showed the wear in the middle. A few had marks from carpet tacks, but they didn’t creak, and that surprised me. I followed a narrow hallway to a door that said “homicide” and pushed it open. It was the old swinging type door. The place looked like the set of a television show: small metal desks; chairs with the wheels worn down; and a bunch of detectives with worn-out looks, like they were trying to make it until the end of the day, and the day had just begun.
I announced myself to the receptionist, a young lady named Carol according to the nameplate on her desk. She had short blonde hair and sported Prada glasses. Judging by the rest of her outfit, it appeared to be the only thing she spoiled herself with. I had no room to talk; I wouldn’t think of splurging on Prada.
I took a seat while waiting for Morreau, and made chit-chat with several of the detectives. Before long an older man walked in, bald, but with a smile on his face as big as the morning. He spoke with Carol then headed in my direction. A younger guy with intense greenish/gray eyes followed him. He made me want to lick my lips.
The older one extended his hand. “Lou Mazzetti,” he said, “and this smart ass behind me is Frankie Donovan. Some people call him Bugs because he bugs the shit out of them.”
I stood, shook Lou’s hand. He reminded me a little of Dominic; perhaps
I fidgeted, wanting to say something but not knowing what, so I grabbed my purse from the table. “Thanks. I appreciate everything.”
“If you must do this, get help. There is a man you can talk to within your own new department. His name is Donovan.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “Do you mean Frankie Donovan, the hero cop who broke Tito Martelli in Brooklyn?” I stepped closer to Dominic, suspicion digging deeper in my soul. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“I don’t want anything to do with your puppets. I know you mean well, but I’ve got to live my own life, and the last thing I need is to be seen hanging around with a dirty cop. For years I risked everything coming here to see you.”
“I know you did, and there is nothing I treasure more than your visits, but I don’t have Donovan in my pocket. Trust me. Trust him . He can help you.”
“Promise?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, bambina .”
“All right. I’m trusting you.”
“Thank you, and remember: La famiglia é tutto. ”
I kissed Dominic’s cheek. “I know it is. I never forget.”
***
Dominic showed her to the basement door, watched her walk down the steps, then closed the door as soon as she left his sight. The smile he wore vanished. “Fabrizio!”
A man with the look of a tiger came into the kitchen seconds later.
“Fabrizio, find out everything you can about these animals who almost killed my Concetta. I want to know who they are and who gave the orders.”
“Si, Signore.”
Chapter 8: New Job
Chapter 8
New Job
T he next day I got up earlier than normal, grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the car. It was a longer drive to get to work but the time seemed to fly. I put the top down on the convertible and let the wind blow my hair into tangles. Tangled hair didn’t matter today; I was starting a new job in homicide. God liked me after all.
I parked in the lot, walked the half a block it took to get to the front door, then up three steps into the station. It looked much the same as the old place—big room with worn linoleum floors, and cops who mingled in groups drinking coffee and chatting before the day started. A desk sergeant I didn’t know barked orders amidst the gossip that bounced around the room. Quite a different reception than the one I got at the old station. No cheers. No congratulations. I liked this better.
I noticed a young-looking cop standing by herself. “You know where to find Lieutenant Morreau?” I asked.
She tilted her head toward the stairs—old wooden ones which showed the wear in the middle. A few had marks from carpet tacks, but they didn’t creak, and that surprised me. I followed a narrow hallway to a door that said “homicide” and pushed it open. It was the old swinging type door. The place looked like the set of a television show: small metal desks; chairs with the wheels worn down; and a bunch of detectives with worn-out looks, like they were trying to make it until the end of the day, and the day had just begun.
I announced myself to the receptionist, a young lady named Carol according to the nameplate on her desk. She had short blonde hair and sported Prada glasses. Judging by the rest of her outfit, it appeared to be the only thing she spoiled herself with. I had no room to talk; I wouldn’t think of splurging on Prada.
I took a seat while waiting for Morreau, and made chit-chat with several of the detectives. Before long an older man walked in, bald, but with a smile on his face as big as the morning. He spoke with Carol then headed in my direction. A younger guy with intense greenish/gray eyes followed him. He made me want to lick my lips.
The older one extended his hand. “Lou Mazzetti,” he said, “and this smart ass behind me is Frankie Donovan. Some people call him Bugs because he bugs the shit out of them.”
I stood, shook Lou’s hand. He reminded me a little of Dominic; perhaps
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