Tragic (12 page)

When Lvov was still, Barros wiped the blade of his razor on the silk sheet and reflected on how much pleasure killing the man had given him. He didn’t often have the time or privacy to watch one of his victims slowly die, but that night he was in no hurry, nor was he afraid of getting caught. Vitteli had made a call to the head of the Malchek gang in Little Odessa for a favor: he’d asked that Lvov’s guards take a cigarette break after the fat man went to sleep and leave the back door open.

Barros would have preferred not to kill the girl. He was the father of two nice young women, both of them away now at college, and this girl had done nothing wrong. She was just in the wrong bed at the wrong time.

She’d been awake, nude and lying on her back uncovered when he crept into the room and silently stalked up to her side of the bed. Her eyes were bright and shining in the moonlight that came in through the window but she’d shown no fear, despite her young age, at his appearance like a ghoul in the night.

Then he noticed the fresh bruises on her face and the trickle of blood that ran from a corner of her mouth.
It will be a pleasure to kill that pig for you,
he thought as he held up his razor and showed it to the girl.

“Shhhhhhhh,” he whispered and pointed in the direction of the fat man snoring next to her. She’d nodded and he knew she would not scream.

For a moment he’d considered letting her live, but he hadn’t stayed out of prison this long by leaving witnesses. She seemed to know what he was thinking and surprised him by tilting her head back to give him better access to her throat. She whimpered once when the razor bit into her creamy white skin but then turned her gaze to the ceiling and died quietly.

When the girl was still, Barros circled the bed to the nightstand and opened the drawer where the bodyguards told him Lvov kept a gun. He removed the Makarov using a pencil lying on the top of the stand and quietly closed the drawer. Then he waited patiently. It was going to be fun to toy with Lvov and watch the terror grow as the fat pig realized that death was near at hand.

Vitteli had agreed with his argument that Lvov needed to go. Bebnev would kill the other two and then Barros would kill him afterward. But first Lvov, the only direct link between them and the plot to kill Vince Carlotta. He had to die.

As a man who hated loose ends, Barros had also suggested that Jackie Corcione needed to “have an accident. Maybe throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge . . . just another queer who decides to off himself rather than be a faggot.” But Vitteli nixed it.

“He’s Leo’s kid, and I’m not ready to go there yet,” Vitteli said.

“I should take care of that loose end now,” Barros growled. “It was a mistake to let him stay around this long.”

Vitteli cocked his head at the criticism. “You questioning me, Joey?” he said. “After all these years? And everything I’ve done for you?”

Barros literally bit his tongue. “I’m just saying that Jackie’s a danger,” he backtracked. “I say we get what we need out of him, and then he takes a fall.”

“Maybe, but I’ll decide when,” Vitteli said. “Or are you the boss now?”

Barros had looked the other way. “No, you’re the boss.”

For now,
Barros thought, as he picked Lvov’s cell phone up, made sure it was off, and put it in his pocket. He would leave it
with Bebnev’s body tomorrow, and it would look like a tit-for-tat gang killing.
But who knows? Charlie’s getting a little timid. Maybe he needs to retire.

Leaving the house through the back door, Barros waved to the bodyguards standing in the shadow of a tree, smoking their cigarettes. They waved back, but he was already gone.

“G
OOD MORNING
, B
OBBI SUE
,” M
ARLENE
said, poking her head into Hirschbein’s office at the East Village Women’s Shelter. She smiled as she saw the clutter of books and papers lying about on every piece of furniture and hanging precariously from the bookshelf as though it might grow into an avalanche at any moment and bury the director. “My offer still stands if you ever want my help organizing.”

Laughing, Hirschbein shook her head. “Oh, goodness, no. I operate best amidst chaos. I’d never be able to find anything if someone cleaned up after me. What brings you in today?”

“Mind if I ask Nicoli Lopez to meet me in the Room?”

Hirschbein regarded Marlene with an arched eyebrow. They’d known each other for a long time, and she knew when her friend was on the scent of something important, something that was likely to be dangerous. “Anything I should know about?”

“No, at least not at the moment, but I promise to fill you in when I can,” Marlene said.

“Okay then, ask reception to see if they can locate her,” Hirschbein said. “It’s almost noon and I think she was registered for our morning parenting class for new mothers, so she should be in the building. Oh, and nice to see you, too, Marlene.”

A few minutes later, Marlene sat in the Room of Tears waiting for Nicoli and wondering if this was the best course of action. She was taking a chance that the girl would turn around and tell her boyfriend that the wife of the New York County district attorney was looking at him as a possible murder suspect; it was clear Nicoli still loved Gnat Miller, and he was her child’s father. If she warned Miller, he might run as well as alarm the others, which could greatly reduce the chances of the case ever being solved. But Marlene felt that she needed to take a chance that Nicoli would understand what was at stake.

There was a knock at the door and Nicoli entered. She smiled when she saw Marlene, but then frowned when she saw the older woman’s serious expression.

Marlene sat her down on the couch next to her and quickly explained the situation, leaving out the names of Vitteli, Barros, and Corcione. “Three young guys show up one evening at Vince Carlotta’s house in New Rochelle acting like they’re looking for work. One of them stays in the car; the other two come to the door, one of them speaks with a Russian accent. Vince Carlotta doesn’t believe their story; he even writes the license plate number down. A few days later, Vince is murdered; one guy stays in the car, the other two are in an alley, and one of them shoots Vince.”

Marlene let it sink in before continuing. “Now, on the other hand, you think Gnat’s involved with two other guys, one of them a Russian, in something criminal, something bigger than he’s done in the past. He’s got no job, but suddenly he comes into a lot of money, enough to rent an apartment.”

Nicoli’s face looked like she might be sick and she shook her head violently. “He’d never do something like that,” she argued. “He was a little wild when he was a kid and got in scrapes with the law, but it was little bullshit stuff. Nothing violent. What you just said, it’s just a coincidence.”

Marlene reached over and placed her hand on the girl’s arm. “It might be. But there’s this, too; the night you said Gnat went
out with Frankie and came back with the car smelling like smoke, that’s the same night the three guys showed up at the Carlotta house. And the next time he went back out with those guys was the night Vince Carlotta was murdered.”

Nicoli’s face crumpled and she began to cry. “He didn’t do nothin’. He’s a good man and a good father. He just needed a break.”

“Look, again, it may not be anything; like you said, just a coincidence,” Marlene replied gently. “But Nicoli, we . . . I . . . need to check it out. Maybe I find out he’s not involved and you can rest easy. But if it turns out he was there, he needs to answer for it. The victim’s widow and baby deserve justice. But it’s not just for them or the rest of us who can’t let murderers get away with their crimes; it’s also for Gnat . . . his peace of mind and his soul, if you will.”

Tears welled in Nicoli’s eyes as she turned away from Marlene. “No, please . . .”

“Listen to me, Nicoli. You’ve seen what a guilty conscience can do to a man, especially if he’s a basically good man like you describe Gnat to be. Maybe he got caught up in something more than he bargained for or that he didn’t expect or want, but it’s eating at him now like a cancer. You’ve seen how it’s changed him—the sleeplessness, the crying, the paranoia and anger . . . hitting you. It’s not going to get better. In fact, it’s going to get progressively worse until maybe he’s a danger to himself, or someone else. Maybe he loses it again with you, only worse, or maybe it’s with Billy Junior, or even a complete stranger. Whatever he did, he’s falling apart as a result, and it’s partly up to you how far he disintegrates.”

“He’s Catholic; he could go to a priest,” Nicoli said desperately. “Or see a shrink or somethin’.”

“That might help, and I emphasize the word ‘might’ from personal experience,” Marlene replied. “It might help his conscience to confess to somebody. However, confessions only go so far when
dealing with something like murder if you don’t do something to atone for it. But even if this didn’t bother him at all and he was sleeping like a baby every night, not a care in the world, he’s still not free of it. Like I told you, a number of people involved in this case believe that the three suspects were paid a lot of money to kill Carlotta and make it look like a robbery. Anybody willing to do that is eventually also going to want to tie up any loose ends, if they’re smart.”

“What are you saying?” Nicoli cried, her eyes widening in fear.

“That if he was part of this, Gnat could be in danger,” Marlene said. “Maybe the guys who paid to have Carlotta killed decide there’s too many people who know about it. Or maybe it’s one of the guys he was working with who starts worrying about one of his pals informing on him. There’s a saying in prisons that the only man you can trust with your secrets is the one who is dead and buried.”

Marlene knew she was turning up the drama dials, but it worked. Nicoli quit fighting it. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“The first thing I need to do is determine if Gnat is even involved,” Marlene said. “If he’s not, we move on, and figure out what
is
troubling him. But finding out is step one, and I have some ideas on how to do that. What I’d like you to do is hire me as your attorney so that I have attorney-client standing to represent your interests while I’m investigating this.”

“I don’t have any money,” Nicoli said.

“You don’t need any, at least not for my services,” Marlene said. “I’m doing this for you and your child, as well as another woman and hers. And I do hope I’m wrong about Gnat.”

“I do, too,” Nicoli said sadly, then looked up hopefully. “What if all he did was drive?”

Marlene hesitated. She hated to dash all of the girl’s hopes, but she didn’t want to lie to her, either. “Maybe it would help at sentencing, especially if he cooperates with the police and the district
attorney,” she said. “But I have to be honest with you: if he participated he’s still just as guilty of murder, in the eyes of the law, as the guy who pulled the trigger. A judge may take into account extenuating circumstances, or cooperation, but however you look at it, if he’s guilty, he’ll be going to prison for a long time.”

Nicoli hung her head and started to cry again. “Then my baby won’t have a father,” she sobbed.

Marlene reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table and offered it to Nicoli. “It will be up to you to determine what sort of relationship to have with Gnat for you and your child if he goes to prison. In any event, it won’t be easy, and I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Nicoli took the tissue and blew her nose as she continued to cry. “All right,” she said at last. “You can be my lawyer. What else?”

“If the time comes, I may need you to help locate him and this friend of his, Frankie, so that he can be brought in safely,” Marlene said. “Otherwise, I just need you to sit tight and please, don’t say anything to Gnat. It would just make it worse for him, and you, in the end.”

Nicoli sighed. “I won’t tell him. If he did this, he needs to pay for it. Otherwise the guilt would destroy him more than going to prison. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me know if he gets arrested,” Nicoli replied. “He’ll be scared, and I’ll want to go see him when I can.”

Watching the poor girl try to be brave, Marlene felt tears spring to her own eyes. She smiled and patted Nicoli’s arm. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

W
ORD OF
L
VOV
’
S MURDER TRAVELED
fast in Little Odessa. Before the Russian-language daily
Novoye Russkoye Slovo
newspaper could hit the stands with its front-page story about the gruesome double homicide at the home of “the respected businessman from St. Petersburg,” the patrons of teahouses, nightclubs, and butcher and fur shops along Brighton Beach Avenue already knew.

Rumors were rampant. It was a mob hit, maybe the start of a territorial war. Or Lvov’s lavish spending habits had caught up with him and somebody came looking for their money. But as the debates grew over borscht and blini, no one knew the truth.

Alexei Bebnev assumed Lvov had run afoul of one of the rival gangs, and his first reaction was one of extreme disappointment. The fat man had found him at the Rasputin nightclub on Avenue X the previous evening and had not only apologized for punching him in the eye, but had given him a new assignment: kill Frank DiMarzo and Gnat Miller.

“They’re not
Russkiy
and can’t be trusted like you and me,” Lvov had said when offering him the six-thousand-dollar contract. “Our mutual friend wants them silenced forever.”

Bebnev had not blinked an eye. He and DiMarzo weren’t
friends anymore, and he’d never liked that
sooka
Gnat Miller. “It will be a pleasure to work for you,” he said with what he thought was a professionally casual nod of the head.

“There’s one other thing,” Lvov said. “Our friend wants to meet you again to pay you personally when the job is done. He likes your work, my brother.”

My brother.
Bebnev had liked the sound of that and gladly threw down the multiple shots of good vodka that Lvov insisted on buying for them both. It meant he was in, part of the
bratka,
the brotherhood of Russian mobsters.