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said. “Nor a drug dealer, either. Dealers don’t make a habit of killing high profile people. It brings them unwanted attention. Let’s look at what he wrote immediately before that.”
    Hannah read the headline out loud: “‘Shuttered Park Slope Gas Station Still Pollutes Area.’”
    “That was a great story,” Thamel said. “Residents of the area had been complaining for quite awhile about the strong odor of petroleum coming from a ten-thousand square-foot area that used to be part of a BP station.”
    “Right,” the redhead said. “And when their complaints fell on deaf ears, one of the residents called Nicky. He went to the neighborhood and interviewed the residents. Back at the office, he called BP’s public relations department and left messages that were never returned. Ditto with emails.”
    Thamel nodded. “Being ignored fired up his juices. He wrote a blistering piece about BP and the city officials who were ignoring complaints from the residents.”
    “That may be so,” Boff said. “But c ompared to the flak BP got after the Gulf oil spill? I doubt the company would’ve gotten all that worked up over Nicky’s story.”
    “Scratch it,” Cassidy said.
     
    After going back a full year, they had only a couple possibilities, both selected by Boff.
    “The first one I want to check out,” he said, “is where Nicky came down hard on a slumlord. Soon after his story appeared, the city ordered the slumlord to clean up and modernize several of his buildings in Brownsville. Those renovations have to be costing him a ton of money.”
    Hannah nodded. “The buildings were in one of the worst sections of Brooklyn,” she said. “Prior to Nicky’s story, the city had sat on its hands, despite this slumlord’s numerous code violations. So, yeah, I imagine this guy was really pissed.”
    “Okay,” Boff said. “Then there are two questions that need answering. One, did the guy have any history of violence? Two, did he have the mob connections necessary to pull off a hit? Let me make a couple quick calls. I might be able to get a handle on those questions.” He took out his phone and hit the speed-dial.
    “Damiano? I want you to check out a guy to see if he has a rap sheet. Name’s Victor Sorriano. Last name spelled with two Rs … Okay, thanks.” He hung up. “She was in her police car. She’s going to call it into her precinct. It should take a couple minutes.”
    While he waited for the return call, Boff made another call.
    “Vinny, Frank Boff. I’ve got a question. Have you, or any of your compatriots, ever heard of a guy named Victor Sorriano? … Uh huh … Thanks. That’ll be great.”
    “Who was that?” Cassidy asked.
    “Vinny ‘Gorgeous’ Alfano. He’s going to check Sorriano out and call me back.”
    “Alfano, huh. Yeah, I know the guy. He’s a capo in the Lucchese family. About eighty years old and dying of stomach cancer. I actually met the guy at a bar mitzvah—in Jersey, no less. He seemed like a standup guy. If you could get past what he did for a living.”
    When Damiano called back, Boff put her on speaker so they could all hear.
    Sorriano was convicted of assault and battery when he was in his twenties and did some jail time. Six years later, he got hauled in for a barroom brawl where he broke a whisky bottle over some guy’s head. This time he hired a top mob lawyer named John Pastorini, who got the charges dismissed. Sorriano’s in his fifties now and has been clean the past twenty years. Well, if you can call a slumlord clean.
    “Thanks, Victoria.”
    Disconnecting, Boff looked at Cassidy. “What do you think?”
    Cassidy took a minute, then said, “Well, obviously this slumlord is capable of violence. But just because he used a mob lawyer to beat a rap, that doesn’t necessarily mean he has connections.”
    “True,” Boff said. “Although that being said, this guy probably had to know someone to get a mob mouthpiece to defend him. Let’s wait and see what