Cold Moon Dead (3 page)

“He stopped by the station for a minute. This guy, Louie, came and picked him up.” It wasn’t a lie . . . not really, I’d convinced myself.

“Huh. You’re sure that was all?”

“Uh huh.” I lied again. “I’ve got to hang up. Freedom just came back from a call. I’ll talk to you later, Dad.” I disconnected and settled on the stool in the silent building, all by myself.

The ‘Hill’ is Federal Hill. Once known as the Italian mob mecca, it’s now an ethnic mix-and-match affair located in the City of Providence. Long ago the area was inhabited by all manner of cutthroats and thieves. The Mafia had owned Federal Hill and thrived on lots of bad guy stuff. Over the years, they were downsized by the FBI with help from the local and Rhode Island State Police. Mafia families had all but disappeared, humbled by jail sentences in federal prisons across America. Business was bad. Things fell into decay.

But alas, as with everything, there’d been a resurgence of mob activity lately, but more hush, hush than ever.

The police computer sat handy, so I typed Tony Jabroni’s name into the search engine. It took a minute, but more information than I thought possible scrolled across the screen. He wasn’t Mr. Nice Guy, but a thug with a long list of problems with the law. I read on and on. Afraid I would get caught on the computer, I finally clicked the window closed and brought back Free’s report page.

While I wondered if anyone had seen Tony get shot, I called my friend and confidant, Lola Trapezi, to ask if she’d be able to make the trip to Providence to pick up my sorry ass. After I explained what happened with the old woman, she snickered a bit. Then she asked if I was unharmed and agreed to come and get me. Lola wondered if I had spoken to Marcus—the main man in my life—about my unfortunate incident. I told her I hadn’t, and she shouldn’t either. With that said, I disconnected the call and waited, hoping no new disaster would arise before she arrived.

The Salt & Pepper Deli is located down the street from my house. Lola owns it and is an extraordinary chef. We have been friends for years. When I inherited my aunt’s two-level, monstrous colonial that held two apartments, Lola had been supportive in my life in general.

Aunt Lavinia, or Livvy as I called her, had been my favorite aunt. When she passed away a year before, I’d been devastated. I visited her grave often since it is only a few blocks from the house. Not only do I resemble Livvy, I bear her name, her figure, and her attitude. With strong Italian genes, the only thing I hadn’t inherited was the upper lip growth of hair—we all need to be thankful for something.

Within minutes of my call to Lola, Freedom strode through the door. She finished my stolen vehicle report, put the description of the woman and the car out over the air for other cops, and started another report on the call she’d just responded to. I hung around until the front door opened and Lola marched in.

“What a neat building you have here, Freedom,” Lola exclaimed as she stared around the cell-like rooms of the station.

“Yeah, my sister calls this place ‘the dugout.’ It reminds her of a baseball dugout.” Freedom smirked. “Your brother still works out of District Seven, doesn’t he?” she asked Lola.

“He does. Do you ever see him?” Lola glanced at the posters of criminals and, in dismay, shook her mane of rich auburn hair.

“Not often . . . we mostly work different shifts.” When cops know cops, they often know their families as well. Lola and Freedom had met several times throughout her brother’s career as a police officer.

Lola’s glance turned toward me. She asked if I was ready to go. I nodded, thanked Free, and said I’d call her later. I turned to leave and stopped short when Freedom called out, “I think there’s a chop shop in the neighborhood, Vinnie. I’ll keep a lookout for your car. Everyone will be watching for it—and the old broad.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” The thought of having to replace my car had started my head pounding.

It was still warm inside the car when Lola rolled the MINI Cooper from the curb into traffic. We turned toward home, remaining quiet for about two blocks before Lola started with questions about what had happened. She knew me too well.

Unable to stop a lie once it started, I decided to tell her the truth. After all, Lola was trustworthy. We had navigated many trials and tribulations together over the years. If anyone would understand why I did the things I did, it would be Lola. I slouched down in the seat, tapped my lips for a second and then glanced at her. The petite woman of five feet had bushy auburn locks, freckles, and a Julia Roberts smile that melted the hearts of even the most hardened people. Lola turned her almost black eyes toward me for a second and waited.

“A guy came into the station while I waited for Free to return from her call. He’d been shot and––”

“Oh, my God! Don’t tell me you harbored a criminal in the community police station?” Lola burst out before I could finish.

“Let me finish,” I said and tossed my hair back from my face. “He stumbled in, and I asked if he wanted me to call the cops. He wouldn’t allow it. He said I was to forget him. My dad says he’s a business man named Tony Jabroni, from the Hill. I used Free’s computer to look him up afterwards, and guess what?”

“I know what. He’s a thug, a criminal, a wiseguy, a bad man. Bad, bad, bad.” Lola’s eyes got wider with every word.

“And how do you know this?” I asked, narrow-eyed and curious.

“He’s in the news every other minute on some racketeering charge or other. Don’t you watch the local news?”

“I must have missed that particular report,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

“Honest to God, Vin, you must have heard something about him. You teach law enforcement. What did you find out when you put his name in the computer, huh?” Lola’s fuse seemed shorter by the minute. “You found out he has a rap sheet as long as an airport runway, that he’s a no good mobster who hustles for a living. He runs illegal gambling, guns, and that’s just for starters.”

Yelling at me . . . Lola was yelling at me. Why? I wondered as I sat in the passenger seat of her fast little car as it sped through stop signs and intersections.

“Why are you yelling at me? And slow down. I’ve already had a bad day. Some old toad stole my car, my personal effects, and my new Louis Vuitton handbag. Now I am embroiled in a shooting case that was none of my business, and you, my best friend, are yelling at me for something that wasn’t my fault.”

A huge sigh escaped the petite body next to mine. She pulled close to the curb and slammed the shift lever into park.

“I’m sorry, Vin. Sometimes you get into things way over your head. I know it wasn’t your fault, but hell, you could get into real trouble for aiding and abetting a shooting victim who also happens to be a known criminal.”

“I think you’re overstating the aiding and abetting thing, but I will grant you that I know what trouble I could get into for not reporting the incident.” I picked at my fingernails while I mumbled, hoping her tirade was over for the moment.

“Maybe you’re right. I still think you should report the whole thing. Free Banger will take the report from you—just ask her.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Yeah, right.” Lola shook her heavy locks, banged her forehead on the steering wheel a couple times, and put the car in drive.

Her mouth had just opened once again when my cell phone rang. I glanced at her and thought I’d been saved by the bell—literally. But I was wrong.

“Yeah?” I said into the phone.

“Hey, it’s Freedom,” she said. “Did anything happen while you were here alone?”

My heart pounded and I clenched the phone. “Like what?”

“Someone just came in and reported they heard shots fired. Did you hear any shots?”

“I may have heard something, but I didn’t know it was gunfire.”

The phone was silent for a minute and then Free asked, “You wouldn’t be holding something back, would you, Vin?”

“Well, um, uh . . . a guy came in and asked me to call a ride for him. I think he was injured.” I’d begun to sweat and my headache had worsened.

“Injured like how?” she asked.

“Well, there was some blood involved.”

“Don’t even tell me that you knew about this shooting and didn’t report it when I came back to the station. What were you thinking?” Free yelled into the phone.

I held the phone away from my ear as she ranted. When she ran out of swear words, I put the phone on speaker and said, “For Chrissake, Free, he just asked for a ride. He didn’t even tell me who he was. I called the number he gave and he left. I never saw the shooter . . . honest.”

Freedom ranted on again for a while. I rubbed my temples and listened to her. She asked that I give her a full report in the morning. With a sigh of relief, I agreed and ended the call.

Lola stared out the window. She remarked, “Freedom’s reaction was interesting, huh? Somebody reported the gunshot, huh?”

I nodded.

“Good, at least you don’t have to deal with not telling her anymore.” Lola’s voice held a certain amount of ‘I told you so’ satisfaction. “To change the subject—since I know you don’t want to talk about what happened today anyway—I’m leaving on my cruise tomorrow. My brother will drop me at the airport early in the morning. I’ll be gone for about six days. Check the house daily, okay? The furnace hasn’t been friendly lately even though the repair guy said there’s nothing wrong. I don’t want the water pipes to freeze while I’m away if the damned thing decides to crap out.”

“Okay, I will.”

This home ownership stuff really sucks at times. We both agree on that. On the other hand, we both like not having to answer to a landlord.

My tenant, Aaron Grant, lives on the second level of my giant-sized colonial in the country village of Scituate (spoken as sit-chew-it) in western Rhode Island. Aaron is the size of a WWF wrestler, dark-haired, dark-eyed, tanned year-round, and gorgeous to a fault. He’s also an undercover FBI agent whose cover is the Rhode Island Gaming Commission. He works on illegal gambling, money laundering—and all that that entails.

Aaron moved into the apartment a while back, became a good friend, and now eats at my kitchen counter quite often. And at my family’s house with me, occasionally. He has taken a shine to my mother, who thinks he’s charming and possibly marriage material. He is both of those things. Only my father knows he’s a Fed. That eliminates him as marriage material, in his mind. It makes life interesting, but then I never have cared for the mundane.

The fact that Aaron is tight with my family doesn’t go unnoticed by my paramour, Rhode Island State Trooper, Marcus Richmond. Marcus and Aaron have a cool, but somewhat friendly relationship. Each respects the other’s job, though Marcus wishes Aaron lived anywhere but upstairs. He’d never admit to jealousy, though.

Lola parked the Cooper at the curb in front of my house. I swung the door open, thanked her, and said I’d stop by the deli later for dinner . . . after I got my theft issues straightened away with my insurance agent. She agreed and sped down the street to work.

The Division of Motor Vehicles handled the license snatch with their usual amount of disinterest, while the credit card companies locked down my credit and promised to issue new cards. The insurance company was another matter, but this wasn’t the first car loss I’d had either. My agent was a peach of a man who handled my continual crises with aplomb. I’d try to make sure he got an extra bonus for his time.

It had only taken a couple of hours on hold to get things sorted. I sat back, sipped wine, and tried to hold my headache at bay while I wondered if my car would be found. When the back hallway door slammed hard against the inside wall, my head began to pound in earnest. I knew my life was about to become rife with increased tension—Geez, sometimes I find it annoying when I’m right.

A sharp rap on the kitchen door preceded Marcus’s entrance. His craggy features reminded me of granite as his thick brows knit together above hazel eyes that glared at me.

“You were held up at gunpoint and robbed?” he demanded, as his State Police campaign hat hit the counter with a
thunk
.

“Since you know, the question doesn’t require an answer, does it?” I asked, with raised brows. “Some old bat held me up when I tried to help her out.”

“You stopped on the highway to assist someone instead of calling in the local cops to handle it? How can you teach criminal justice and then refuse to follow your own advice about not stopping to help strangers? Hell, Vinnie, you could have been killed.” He ran his hands over his cropped brown hair while he paced the kitchen floor.

By this time his voice echoed off the walls, and I was, yet again, being yelled at. This had gotten old, real fast. Close to tears I stepped up to defend my actions, headache or not.

“First of all, I nearly ran her down. The car was in the slow lane of traffic. She was an
old
woman dressed in rags. Why would I think she was dangerous? She must have been at least eighty, for Chrissake. Don’t yell at me . . . I already got that from Lola, dammit.” I rubbed a hand across my throbbing forehead.

His warm hands ran over my arms as he stepped closer and looked into my eyes. The stern face softened a bit. He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. “You scare the living shit out of me, you know that?”

“Mmm, I do. Sorry about that. I thought the old woman was in need of a ride. When she pulled that .38 out of her handbag, I nearly messed my drawers. Honest to God.” I felt a tear leak from my eye and roll down my cheek. I had been petrified, and nobody had given me the benefit of the doubt. Or any sympathy for how it had affected me. They simply thought it was just another Vinnie incident.

Eyes filled with concern, and what could still have been a touch of leftover anger, Marcus’s gaze roamed my face. At least he wasn’t yelling anymore. Instead, he pulled me to him, wiped the tear away, and folded his arms around my body.

“What are your plans for a car?” he whispered softly, kissing my hair and forehead.

“My insurance will allow for a rental, so I’ll get one tomorrow,” I said. “At least Freedom was on duty and took the report. She thinks there’s a chop shop near the station and she might find my car. Do you guys know anything about that?”