report and read it through. “Why didn’t I have these files before?”
“I don’t know, sir. But—”
“But nothing, look at this.” He tapped the folder with his finger. “Cat found in the bathroom with door locked. Food and litter box inside. Toilet bowl open.”
“Guess he kept the cat in the bathroom. So what?”
“You remember that house? Do you think someone could hear a cat crying if they were passing by on the sidewalk? With the cat in the bathroom?”
Vinnie took the report back and frantically went through it.
“Forget about that for now,” Frankie said. “How about Nino?”
“When he didn’t show up for work and they couldn’t reach him at home, somebody called the cops.”
“Somebody?”
“Guy he worked with.” Vinnie scrambled for the name. “John Hixon.”
“And that’s all? You sure there are no other calls?”
“No, sir.” He sat rigid after he said it.
Frankie thought about the cat, lit a cigarette, then laughed like hell. In fifth grade, Nicky found a cat at lunch and kept him in the coat closet all afternoon. He gave it a bowl of water and some food. Every time it meowed, the nun threw a fit trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. Several kids got beaten that day because she thought they were making the noise.
Judging by the look on Vinnie’s face, the laughter must have taken him by surprise. “Something funny, sir?”
“Nothing,” Frankie said, but chuckled to himself. Nicky always liked cats. Frankie’s smile disappeared as those nagging thoughts returned. Rat shit. Dead rats. Winstons. Now this.
More proof as far as he was concerned. No way Nicky the Rat was going to let that cat suffer, or be left alone with its dead master. Still, all this was circumstantial.
But someone called this in, and that someone was probably the killer. Time to see if it was anyone he knew. He poked his head out the door. “Carol, can you get me the 9-1-1 call from the Ciccarelli case? Not the transcript. I need the voice.”
“Might take a while, but I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” Frankie said, and returned to his files. He called Mazzetti, got another cup of coffee, finished that, then grabbed his coat. “Carol, I’m going to meet Lou. If you get that tape let me know.”
As Frankie drove to meet Mazzetti, another thought hit him. He had been leaning toward Nicky because no one had seen him in months, or even heard from him. Not since he called and said he was in trouble. But what if Nicky’s dead and someone is trying to make me think it’s him? He said a silent prayer, and, as he did, another question arose. When Nicky called he mentioned a girl. Where does she fit in?
CHAPTER 11
ANGELA
Wilmington—21 Years Ago
S everal months passed with little of importance. During late November, Angela Catrino started coming by Tony’s house to learn how to cook from Rosa. Angela’s mother died the month before and the responsibility fell on her to take care of her father. He asked Rosa to teach her.
Rosa had been blessed—or, as some said, cursed—with five boys, when all her life she dreamed of having a girl. When this opportunity came along, she welcomed Angela into her home.
Angela came by almost every day. She was a quick learner and a diligent worker. If Rosa said go to the store and get something, Angela ran. And when Rosa gave instructions, Angela memorized them as if they were a history lesson. She had the uncanny ability to watch Rosa do something once and, like a machine, copy it. That wasn’t as easy as it might seem. In Italian families, recipes were an ever-changing process; what was written down was seldom adhered to. During the cooking process, pinches of garlic, or cheese, or drops of olive oil…anything, were added. And all dependent upon the continual tasting that went on.
Angela was more than sharp; she was respectful. And because of that, Rosa taught her everything. Didn’t hold back like some of the old Italians. Angela even wore
“I don’t know, sir. But—”
“But nothing, look at this.” He tapped the folder with his finger. “Cat found in the bathroom with door locked. Food and litter box inside. Toilet bowl open.”
“Guess he kept the cat in the bathroom. So what?”
“You remember that house? Do you think someone could hear a cat crying if they were passing by on the sidewalk? With the cat in the bathroom?”
Vinnie took the report back and frantically went through it.
“Forget about that for now,” Frankie said. “How about Nino?”
“When he didn’t show up for work and they couldn’t reach him at home, somebody called the cops.”
“Somebody?”
“Guy he worked with.” Vinnie scrambled for the name. “John Hixon.”
“And that’s all? You sure there are no other calls?”
“No, sir.” He sat rigid after he said it.
Frankie thought about the cat, lit a cigarette, then laughed like hell. In fifth grade, Nicky found a cat at lunch and kept him in the coat closet all afternoon. He gave it a bowl of water and some food. Every time it meowed, the nun threw a fit trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. Several kids got beaten that day because she thought they were making the noise.
Judging by the look on Vinnie’s face, the laughter must have taken him by surprise. “Something funny, sir?”
“Nothing,” Frankie said, but chuckled to himself. Nicky always liked cats. Frankie’s smile disappeared as those nagging thoughts returned. Rat shit. Dead rats. Winstons. Now this.
More proof as far as he was concerned. No way Nicky the Rat was going to let that cat suffer, or be left alone with its dead master. Still, all this was circumstantial.
But someone called this in, and that someone was probably the killer. Time to see if it was anyone he knew. He poked his head out the door. “Carol, can you get me the 9-1-1 call from the Ciccarelli case? Not the transcript. I need the voice.”
“Might take a while, but I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” Frankie said, and returned to his files. He called Mazzetti, got another cup of coffee, finished that, then grabbed his coat. “Carol, I’m going to meet Lou. If you get that tape let me know.”
As Frankie drove to meet Mazzetti, another thought hit him. He had been leaning toward Nicky because no one had seen him in months, or even heard from him. Not since he called and said he was in trouble. But what if Nicky’s dead and someone is trying to make me think it’s him? He said a silent prayer, and, as he did, another question arose. When Nicky called he mentioned a girl. Where does she fit in?
CHAPTER 11
ANGELA
Wilmington—21 Years Ago
S everal months passed with little of importance. During late November, Angela Catrino started coming by Tony’s house to learn how to cook from Rosa. Angela’s mother died the month before and the responsibility fell on her to take care of her father. He asked Rosa to teach her.
Rosa had been blessed—or, as some said, cursed—with five boys, when all her life she dreamed of having a girl. When this opportunity came along, she welcomed Angela into her home.
Angela came by almost every day. She was a quick learner and a diligent worker. If Rosa said go to the store and get something, Angela ran. And when Rosa gave instructions, Angela memorized them as if they were a history lesson. She had the uncanny ability to watch Rosa do something once and, like a machine, copy it. That wasn’t as easy as it might seem. In Italian families, recipes were an ever-changing process; what was written down was seldom adhered to. During the cooking process, pinches of garlic, or cheese, or drops of olive oil…anything, were added. And all dependent upon the continual tasting that went on.
Angela was more than sharp; she was respectful. And because of that, Rosa taught her everything. Didn’t hold back like some of the old Italians. Angela even wore
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