Bad Blood (5 page)

“Hey, I told Ivers straight out. If you can't get me a halfway decent partner, I'm going back into retirement. Give me Tozzi or else I'm gone, I said to him. Just like that. He caved right in. The asshole's got no backbone.”

In his thirty years with the Bureau, Gibbons had rarely had a partner who lasted more than three days with him, except for Tozzi who'd been his partner for six years, right up until Gibbons retired. Tozzi sighed. It was nice to be wanted.

Tozzi glanced at Mrs. Carlson who was by the front windows, making believe she wasn't listening. “I thought Ivers was dead set against putting me back in the field. What really changed his mind?”

“Who knows? He's a shitty judge of character, though, if you ask me. One, for listening to me, and two, for letting a wacko like you back on the streets. Just get your ass back down here by five. Ivers wants to have a little talk with you before he sends you back out.”

“Oh, yeah? Is he packing my lunchbox, too?”

“Yeah, with Twinkies. He may even give you a big kiss to send you on your way,” Gibbons said with a snarl. “In his office at five—
comprende, goombah?”

“I hear you.”

“I'll fill you in on the case when you get here. A real Sherlock Holmes deal. Just your kind of thing.”

“Why don't you give me a preview right now? I can't stand the suspense.”

“You've got no patience, Tozzi. That's your whole problem. I bet you're even a premature ejaculator.”

“Nope. No problems in that department.” All I need is someone to do it with.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, are you gonna tell me about it or what?”

Gibbons broadcast his annoyance with a long sigh into the phone. He seemed to be working harder these days at maintaining his image as a mean son of a bitch. God forbid anyone should think he was finally getting cooperative as he approached his golden years. Wouldn't want it to get around that he was getting soft.

“Okay, listen up, Tozzi. A VW Bug floated in with the tide and wound up in a Staten Island ferry berth in lower Manhattan yesterday, two stiffs inside. The bodies were nearly cut in half.”

Tozzi's first thought was a magician sawing a woman in half. Then he thought of the mess of blood and guts, and he stopped breathing for a moment.

“The car had Jersey plates,” Gibbons continued, “which is how the police managed to unload this thing on us. I ran down the plates with Motor Vehicle, and just as I figured, the car was stolen. The owner reported it last Saturday night to the Kearny police, ten hours before the estimated time of death.”

“Is the owner a suspect?”

“No, his alibi checks out. He was at a chess club meeting in the Village that night. Witnesses confirm that he was there till at least ten-thirty. He got a ride home with a buddy of his from the club. His car, the VW, wasn't in the driveway when he got there.”

“Why didn't he use his own car?”

“He says he only takes it to the grocery store. The guy's a retired math teacher, an old fart. He's not our man. I know it.”

“A retired old fart, huh?” Tozzi laughed through his nose.

“Shut up and listen, will ya, Tozzi? The killer was definitely no rocket scientist. He closed all the windows in the car before he dumped it into the river. Beetles are airtight. They float. I thought everybody knew that. Christ, I think they even used to advertise them that way.”

“Maybe he's not everybody.”

“Obviously not. Not everybody has the crust to slice up two bodies like Thanksgiving turkey, then stick them in a car and dump them in the river.”

“You put it so eloquently, Gib.”

“Thank you. I just got a copy of the medical examiner's report. It's right here in front of me. One of the victims was cut on the right, the other one on the left. Initially we thought it was two cuts, but the ME says it was the same cut and that it was done
after
death. He thinks they were laid out on top of each other, or maybe even stood up face to face when it was done. Chew on that for a while.”

“Sounds ritualistic to me.” He lowered his voice, looking around for Mrs. Carlson. “You checking out the devil-worship angle?”

There was silence on the line.

“Gib? You still there?”

“Devil worshipers, huh? Why did I know you were gonna say that? Maybe it was Druids who did it. How about that?”

“Come on, give me a break.”

“Five minutes on the case and you've already come up with one of your
Twilight Zone
theories. I knew you'd love this one, Sherlock.”

“I have no theories or opinions until I see for myself what the labs come back with.”

“And
then
you can start busting my balls with the cult shit.”

Tozzi stretched the cord and looked down the hallway. Mrs. Carlson was poking through the linen closet now. “I'll see you later, Gib. I'm holding up a busy lady here.”

“Oh, yeah? That sounds interesting.”

“A real estate agent.”

“She good-looking?”

“A very nice personality.”

“Too bad. So how's that going? You find a place yet? And does the real estate lady come with it?”

“I hope the hell not,” he mumbled. “This apartment search is a real pain. I just want to get it over with.”

“So take a place, for chrissake, any place. All you need is three rooms and a bed. If it's clean, just take it. You're not Prince Charming, you don't need Buckingham Palace.”

“Thanks for the advice. I'll see you at five. And by the way, thanks.”

“For what?”

“Getting me back out on the street.”

“Oh . . . you're welcome then. I'll see you later.” Gibbons hung up.

Tozzi was grinning as he put the phone on the hook, then walked over to the front windows. The teenage mommy was still having a ball with her kid.

He could hear Charlene Chan's heavy footsteps coming down the hall behind him. The mommy flicked her cigarette butt into the street and hugged the baby tight, rocking him inside the open flaps of her leather jacket.

“Everything all right, Mr. Tozzi?” Mrs. Carlson asked.

“Oh, fine, fine.” Then he remembered his lie to her. “Just a minor software problem.” Dead flesh is soft . . . at least until rigor mortis sets in.

“So, what do you think?”

“How much did you say the rent was again?” The baby was arching his back, sticking his face into the folds of his mother's sweatshirt, laughing his head off.

“Eight-fifty. Not including heat and hot water.”

He knew he wasn't going to find anything cheaper, not this clean. Anyway, he was sick of looking. He just wanted to get back to work now, real work. “I think I'll take it,” he finally said, pressing his lips together and nodding.

“Good for you,” she crooned with a well-practiced gush of enthusiasm. “I'm glad you like it, Mr. Tozzi. There is just one final thing we must do before I can draw up a lease. The landlord likes to know who his tenants are, and he does prefer married tenants. Since he does live in the building himself, and there are fewer than five units in the building, he is legally entitled to screen tenants and accept or reject them as he sees fit. But I'm sure there won't be a problem. There is a Mrs. Tozzi, I take it?”

“Oh . . . yes. Of course.” His ringless hands froze in his pockets. “She couldn't make it today. Business.”

“Oh, I understand. You must be
DINKS
.” She smiled with all her teeth.

“Excuse me?”

“Dual Income, No Kids:
DINKS
. You've never heard that before?”

Tozzi shook his head and forced a smile. Bitch.

“Please forgive me. It's just an expression. No offense was intended.”

“None taken.” Offensive bitch.

“Your wife isn't a lawyer, is she? Mr. Halbasian doesn't rent to lawyers.”

“No. She's not a lawyer.” Fucking offensive bitch.

“Good. I'll get in touch with him today and we'll arrange for you all to meet. All right?”

“Sure, fine.” Shit.

He glanced back out the window at the teenage mother and considered the possibility, then instantly rejected the idea. She'd never pass for a
DINK
.

Shit.

NAGAI DIDN'T LIKE the way D'Urso was acting. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something wasn't right. He was too friendly, too smooth, not so arrogant. And too much smiling, considering why they were all here. He was up to something. Nagai looked to Mashiro for an opinion, but the samurai was preoccupied now, staring at his own hand. It was understandable. He's never done this before. Americans can just say “I'm sorry.” Not so easy for us.

“Here, use this.” Bobby Francione threw down a copy of
The New York Post
on the counter by the dirty sink. “And don't get blood all over the place.”

Nagai picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headline:
DEATH BUG FOUND IN HARBOR
. A picture of the Volkswagen hanging over the water from a cable was under the headline. Very subtle, Bobby.

Mashiro stood off to the side as Nagai opened the newspaper over the old linoleum counter for him. The samurai put the small silver knife on the counter on top of the paper, then resumed his position, cradling one hand in the other like a small pet. Nagai looked at the man's thick, fleshy fingers. They reminded him of starfish arms. The one grimy window and the dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling in that dingy backroom recreated the ominous gray light that precedes a storm. It seemed too appropriate.

“I'm all confused,” Francione said, pointing to the small knife with the three-inch blade. “Is all this necessary?”

“It's a yakuza tradition,” D'Urso said calmly. “Isn't that right, Nagai?”

Nagai nodded. “It's called
yubitsume
. When a man has made a serious mistake, traditionally this is how he must atone for it.” He raised his right hand and showed his own mutilated pinkie and ring finger.

“It's like when we break legs,” D'Urso said to his brother-in-law.

Francione suddenly snapped the newspaper closed and pointed to the headline. “For a major-league screwup like this, the fuck-up would be lucky if he was still breathing when we got through with him. If he was one of our guys, he'd be dead by now.”

Why the hell did D'Urso have to drag that little asshole along wherever he went? Nagai wondered to himself. “How was Mashiro supposed to know that the car those kids stole would float? Floating cars. Who ever heard of such a stupid thing?”

“That's no excuse. You shoulda known. Now the cops must be all crazy about this. And why the hell did you have to cut 'em up like that? We don't need this kind of aggravation now. You people are walking liabilities as far as I'm concerned.”

Nagai stared at Mashiro's hand. “And how is that?”

“Just look at yourselves for chrissake. I mean put yourself in our position. We're supposed to keep the law off your backs—right?—but you guys may as well wear signs around your necks, you're so damn obvious. Most of you yak guys dress like my Uncle Nunzio with those loud sports jackets and the gooney hats. Then there's the freakin' body tattoos all you guys have, even on your dicks . . . and this finger thing.” He gestured at Mashiro's hand. “If any of you guys ever gets caught, they'll deport you in no time. You're all dead giveaways.”

“Enough, Bobby,” D'Urso said.

Nagai shrugged, unconcerned. He tugged on the cuffs of his royal blue shirt so they showed outside the sleeves of his sharkskin jacket. “You have your traditions, we have ours.”

“Tooling around in an old black Caddy with fins? Is that tradition, too? That car looks like the fucking Batmobile. Is that supposed to be your idea of keeping a low-profile?”

Nagai glared at the punk, wondering why he was even having this conversation with this idiot. “That car belonged to Hamabuchi. He gave it to me. It would be dishonorable for me to give it up.”

Francione threw up his hands. “Oh, for chrissake, that's all we ever hear from you people. Can't do shit because it would be dishonorable. Fuck. I think it's just a convenient excuse for not doing what you don't want to do.”

Mashiro loudly sucked in a deep breath and picked up the knife. Francione's eyes bugged out at the sight of the knife in Mashiro's hand. Nagai forced a carefree chuckle. “It must be hard for you, Bobby, having to depend on slanty-eyed creeps like us to keep the slave trade going.”

Francione's finger sprang out in front of Nagai's face like a switchblade. “Don't get wise, Nagie. You need us to buy the slaves just as much as we need you to get them over here, so just keep quiet.”

“Tell me then. Where else can you get slaves in this kind of bulk? Slaves that
my
people keep in line for you.”