Momma Lupe, Book 1 in the Ty Connell 'Novella Series. A Mystery/Suspense Thriller. Cooking or killing -- Momma Had Her Funny WAys (2 page)

The gunman looked at his associate and they
exchanged slight nods: they had enough on tape. This was sick and
they did not want to prolong it.

"That was good, Vinnie. Too bad you're such a
screw-up," the man said and he fired four silenced rounds in rapid
succession.

The impact threw Momesso onto his back. He
writhed only briefly as the shock to the heart was almost
instantaneous. Vincent Momesso let out a brief death rattle and a
sigh and went limp. It was over in seconds.

The shooter clicked off the video, pocketed
the phone, and bent down to pick up the four spent shell
casings.

"Well, that's exactly the way Momma wanted
it. Let's get outta here and go get our dough."

Two hours
later. Connell pulled into No. 6 Curry Close, past the stone
pillars at the front
gate and
onto the wide brick driveway.

His cases seldom took him to this small
enclave of expensive real estate on the eastern-most edge of the
C-11's territory, and he was just as happy about that. The problem
with these cases among the Fortune 500 set, as far as he was
concerned, was that they got complicated too fast. They led places
where people didn't want cops poking around. Next thing the Chief
gets a call. Then a City Councilor gets involved. Then the Mayor's
Office gets involved. Then … well, they were just a pain!

Good thing it was John Henry's case. John
Henry Morgan was Connell’s sometimes partner when cases and budgets
were big enough.

Connell had heard over the police band
that Morgan and several others from the C-11 had been called to
view a body at the address. He was merely curious. He was planning
just to stick his head in, say a quick hello to John and the others
there, extend his sympathies, and carry on to the
stationhouse.

He stepped out and he heard a pair of wood
doves cooing in a nearby tree. Even though it was only a mile or so
from the towers of downtown, that pocket was so quiet and wooded it
felt more like being in cottage country than near the heart of the
city.

The house wasn't as big as some others in
Boston, like over in Beacon Hill or Back Bay. On a square foot
basis it was actually not big at all. Maybe four thousand square
feet. And a bit plain. And a bit on the shabby side as well.
Unkempt grass, weeds here and there, which was unusual in these
fastidious pin-striped neighborhoods.

The garage door nearest the front entrance
was raised and he saw Morgan inside, standing with a cluster of
forensics people.

Connell walked in with his coffee in
hand.

"Morning, sports fans."

They were looking down at a body with obvious
entry wounds to the chest. A rivulet of blood had zigged and zagged
across the tile floor to a drain under the Mercedes nearby, and
much of the floor area around and in front of the victim had been
taped off by the CS crew.

Morgan turned and looked
over to watch Connell approach. They hadn't crossed paths for most
of a week and were partners only when it was necessary for two
senior detectives to be teamed on a case which, for budget reasons,
was only occasionally. Mostly, they worked their own caseloads.
Connell was in his usual '
old
clothes
' attire, which meant
‘
street mode
.’ A
rumpled flannel shirt, well faded jeans, a scruffy black pea
jacket. But he looked otherwise pretty well rested for a guy who
often looked haggard and worn from too many late nights, too much
beer, and too much greasy pub food.

“You lookin' good, little brother," Morgan
said. "You been living right lately, or what?"

"Got to bed early and slept like a baby last
three nights," Connell said. "Not sure why. But feels good now. If
I felt any better I'd have to register my entire body as a
restricted weapon."

Morgan grunted and cracked a half smile. He
was well used to Connell’s self-promotional pronouncements.

"Who's our host?" Connell asked, glancing
down at the victim and taking a long sip of coffee. "Some stock
market wanker?"

Morgan said, "You lookin' at the late Mr.
Vincent Momesso."

"
Slim
Vinnie? The mob guy?"

Morgan nodded. " 'Bout as Slim as he gonna
get now."

"Wow. They let Slim Vinnie
into
this
neighborhood?" said, a little incredulously, glancing at the
mansion across the street.

It was meant as a rhetorical comment, but
Morgan replied.

"I doubt they took a vote on it, Ty. Fact, I
doubt people round here had any idea who their neighbor was."

Connell drained his cup. "I'm sure you're
right, John. Anyway, glad he's all yours," he said and turned to
leave.

"Hey, where you goin', man?"
Morgan said. "
Thassit
? You just gonna slide in here, have a free peep, and then
walk?"

"Come on, John. You don't need me on this,"
Connell said, tossing his cup into a nearby garbage can as he
headed for the door.

As soon as heard that it was
mob business, his interest evaporated. As far as he was concerned,
the only homicide cases more problematic than Fortune 500 ones were
mob hits: third party professional contract killings. They were
frustrating, time consuming and, too often, dead ends in the end.
Besides, it was Connell’s further opinion— and that of a good many
officers— that scores settled by mob guys between themselves
was
their
business
and could stay that way as long as no innocent citizens got hurt.
And Vinnie was anything but innocent.

Connell was almost to the open door when
Morgan called to him again, "Hey, hey, get back here, man. Least
you can do, since you showed up, is scope the scene. I'm maybe
gonna need an o-pinion down the road, and you no good to me if you
haven't even checked out the vic."

Connell stopped. Morgan was right. He
wouldn’t be crazy about the case either —for the same reasons
Connell wasn't— but he was stuck with it, and he wasn't letting
Connell off so easily. It was the least he could do for his
partner. And you never knew when your two cents worth might be
called for. Maybe even three cents worth. Cases sometimes swung on
less.

So Connell walked back and had a
cursory look over the scene. He noted the arrangement of the two
lawn chairs as well as the scuff marks some distance apart on the
dirt on the garage floor, like two men had sat and waited. Plus
there were lots of cigarette ashes in the dust but no butts. So
whoever had waited had pocketed the butts. The body looked like it
had four entry wounds, but there were no bullet casings marked out
on the floor. So the shooters had picked up the brass as
well.

No wronged wife or a jealous husband in the
heat of the moment here. It was exactly as it looked at first
glance: a well-planned pro job.

"So you got a
pro
-fessional hit,"
Connell pronounced. “What a surprise.”

"Looks like they let theirselves in the
garage early —the garage door lock was jimmied—and waited a while,”
Morgan said. “Vinnie comes out and —"

Connell nodded agreement, then seemed to spot
something. He bent under the yellow tape and knelt down, looking
over the late Vinnie Momesso closely, from head to toe. He glanced
away briefly, like he was thinking something over, then turned
back

"They not only let themselves in early," he
said, rising. "They had a little talk with the guy before they
plugged him."

"Now how do you figure that?" Morgan
asked.

"Vinnie's knees. Ground-in smears from grease
on the floor. The fabric's dark, so it's not that noticeable right
off. But it's still damp. More than from just sinking down and
falling over. More like they made him kneel, had him on the floor
for a while. Maybe got him to give up some information. Maybe a
name."

Morgan leaned in for a closer look at
Vinnie's pajamas.

"The sick bastards," Morgan said, then turned
to Connell. "See, man. You already spotted something useful."

The technique was something Connell called
GSR, Guided Subconscious Retrieval. A bit of quantum psychology.
Heightened observation. Heightened perception. Whatever people
wanted to call it. Allowing the subconscious to bring forward
details that the eyes see and the brain has registered but which
the mind doesn’t immediately bring forward.

"Come on, John," Connell said. "Nothing you
guys wouldn't have spotted —eventually." He turned and headed again
for the door. "Okay, guys. I had my look. I'm outta here. Catch you
back at the station, bro."

"Hey," Morgan called after
him again, "You not even a
bit
curious 'bout what this is all about?"

"Not a bit," Connell said with a wave, and he
left.

The
gunmen reported to Isabel Lupanier's house, a modest brick bungalow
in an unpre
tentious older neighborhood in
the Mattapan district of southeast Boston. A working class district
of several square miles of modest bungalows and row
houses.

"I can't believe she lives down here," the
junior of the two said. "I heard she was big-time. Worth millions,
and she lives like this? In a little dump?"

"Ma’s pretty close with a dollar," the other
said. "She also likes to keep a low profile. Besides, I heard she's
got a huge place down near Orlando. The French-Canadian sector down
there. Maple Leaf Village or whatever it's called. Who knows? Don't
know why she don’t just retire down there. She's gotta be sixty.
Who needs the grief?"

"What's her main racket?"

"She's got some sort of lock
on the stripper market in town. Imports cute-assed little white
girls right outta the backwoods of
Que
-beck. Some don't even speak the
anglais but they know how to do the can can. Because most of ‘em
don’t speaking much English, Ma taught ‘em jus to say
oiu oiu
to everything.
Works out great. But mainly she moves tons of product for the
bikers and for Paulie's guys through these girls, which is where
the big dough is."

They parked and knocked at the front door.
The smell of cooking from inside was so strong you could smell it
outside.

"By the way," the first guy said. "When you
meet Ma, don't stare."

"Why would I stare?"

"Just don't stare."

Ma, herself, answered the door. She had on an
apron and was drying her hands, like she had been working in the
kitchen. Even with the warning, it was all the second man could do
to keep from staring.

"Good. It's you," she said simply, and she
turned and headed back toward the kitchen, expecting them to
follow.

Momma Lupanier was a short, wiry woman in her
mid-sixties with wild salt and pepper hair, a sharp hawk nose, and
a bit of a limp from a bullet she supposedly caught in the lower
back in her younger days. But her most distinguishing feature was
her facial hair. She had pronounced curly black moustache hairs on
her upper lip, chin and cheeks, as well as the hairiest legs under
a rough skirt either man had ever seen on a woman. The junior man
had obviously never seen a woman with a mustache and a wiry five
o’clock shadow before.

“What’s she? Some kind of
mutant,” the man whispered lowly as they entered and the other shot
him a quick glare:
just keep your mouth
shut.

The two followed the strong smell of
something steamy and heavy with garlic cooking on the stove. They
entered a spacious old-style kitchen with spotless black and white
tiles on the walls and bright red linoleum on the floor. A cook’s
kitchen. Ma's two sons, both in their thirties and both still
living at Ma's, were seated sullenly at the large kitchen table.
The room was bright from a huge picture window which dominated the
west wall. Obviously a window put in after the house was built.

"Theo. Alain," Ma barked. "Get up and make
room for these gentlemen."

The sons stood and shuffled to the rear,
standing in the doorway with arms crossed, awaiting any other
orders that might come their way.

"Sit," Ma ordered the two, so they did.

"You get it all?" she asked.

"Yeah," the senior man replied, digging out
his phone.

"We listened on the police band," Ma said,
and nodded in the direction of the CB radio in the corner. "The
maid called it in at nine. Most of the C-11 is still over
there."

Both men nodded. That was good, that Ma
already had already confirmed on her own that the job had been
done.

The lead man handed the phone toward Ma, but
she waved off touching it.

"Just play it for me," she said.

He hit play and the sons gathered around to
watch the small screen.

The sons grinned back and forth as it played
and, when the video was over, she said a simple definitive, "So."
Then added. “Give the phone to Alain.”

The man was a little reluctant.

“I want him to download the video,” she said,
irritably. “He’s not going to harm your phone.”

The man handed over the phone

“Alain, take it to the computer in the
basement,” she ordered. “Theo,” she ordered the other one, “Go get
the envelope.”

While they waited, Ma said, "Sit. Have some
coquille." Obviously what she was cooking on the stove. She
pronounced it quickly, the French way —co-key— so that it sounded
like "cookie."

Deciding to play it diplomatically, the
senior man said, "Yeah, sure, Ma. I could go for a cookie. That'd
be great."

So Momma spooned out some lumps of white
rubbery bits in a thick tomato broth from the deep pot on the stove
and set a bowl in front of each.