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Authors: Robert K. Tanenbaum
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“What about you, Clay?”
“I went out to New Rochelle with the detective assigned to talk to the widow.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Not well,” Fulton replied. “I guess she collapsed when she was told by a captain with the New Rochelle Police Department. The paramedics had her drugged up when we got there, but she was pretty much in shock and crying nonstop. Tough thing to see; she obviously loved him. She kept saying that she begged her husband not to go to the meeting and claims that Vitteli is behind it. She couldn’t provide anything to go on. But it could be worth talking to her again when she’s had a chance to pull herself together.”
“I take it Vitteli and his guys all told the same story?”
“Practically word for word, which is suspicious enough,” Guma replied. “Two males jumped out of an alley, at least one of them with a gun, and demanded their wallets. Carlotta apparently was packing a .380 and tried to draw down on the gunman but got beat to the punch and took one in the chest and another to the head. He was gone by the time the paramedics arrived. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look at the papers yet, but there’s a photo of Charlie Vitteli slumped against the wall with blood on his hands. He says he tried to give Carlotta CPR.”
“I’ll bet,” Karp replied sarcastically. “Somehow I think a photograph of him with blood on his hands may be apropos when all is said and done.”
“Maybe,” Fulton said. “But Vitteli’s a crafty son of a bitch. You can bet that if he’s involved, there isn’t going to be a lot pointing directly at him.”
“Probably not,” Karp agreed. “But what about Vitteli’s men? Maybe there’s a weak link.”
“I’ll stay on the boys over at homicide,” Fulton said. “Maybe call Vitteli’s guys in one at a time for a few questions. Might get somebody to slip up.”
“I’ll bet somebody already has,” Karp said. “We just need to figure out who.”
5
“H EY, DETKA, COME HERE, BABY ,” Alexei Bebnev shouted drunkenly as he grabbed at the waitress, who slapped his hand away from her hip and deftly moved past the table where he sat with Frank DiMarzo. A wave of anger passed over his face as the woman disappeared into the crowd at the bar, but then the Russian laughed as he glanced at his companion. “I don’t want that telka anyway; she’s a fat bitch. Plenty of fish in sea, right, my friend?”
DiMarzo smiled though he disliked the Russian and wished he was elsewhere. It had been a week since the murder of Vince Carlotta and the guilt weighed on him. All he had to do was close his eyes and he’d see the look on the doomed man’s face when Charlie Vitteli grabbed his arm and the first bullet slammed home. “You son of a bitch!” The words echoed in his mind and caused his gut to clench as though they’d been directed at him and not Vitteli. He heard them again as he watched the evening news coverage of Carlotta’s funeral and saw the man’s grieving widow holding his infant son.
Only at the moment of the shooting did DiMarzo realize that Vitteli was behind the plot. He’d of course recognized him as well as the other four men from the photograph that had been rippedout of the magazine and assumed that Joey Barros, pictured in the magazine and present at the murder, was the “Joey” who Bebnev met, with Marat Lvov, to set up the assassination. And Bebnev’s account of the comment he overheard that “Charlie wants this done ASAP” could have only meant Vitteli.
The photograph was now safely tucked away inside the Bible on a bookshelf in his childhood room at his parents’ modest brick row house in Red Hook. He wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to get rid of it—after all, it might be evidence to connect him to the crime—but something told him the photo could be important later, so he stashed it.
He just wanted to be done with it all, but things kept dragging out. Three days after the murder, Bebnev had
“I went out to New Rochelle with the detective assigned to talk to the widow.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Not well,” Fulton replied. “I guess she collapsed when she was told by a captain with the New Rochelle Police Department. The paramedics had her drugged up when we got there, but she was pretty much in shock and crying nonstop. Tough thing to see; she obviously loved him. She kept saying that she begged her husband not to go to the meeting and claims that Vitteli is behind it. She couldn’t provide anything to go on. But it could be worth talking to her again when she’s had a chance to pull herself together.”
“I take it Vitteli and his guys all told the same story?”
“Practically word for word, which is suspicious enough,” Guma replied. “Two males jumped out of an alley, at least one of them with a gun, and demanded their wallets. Carlotta apparently was packing a .380 and tried to draw down on the gunman but got beat to the punch and took one in the chest and another to the head. He was gone by the time the paramedics arrived. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look at the papers yet, but there’s a photo of Charlie Vitteli slumped against the wall with blood on his hands. He says he tried to give Carlotta CPR.”
“I’ll bet,” Karp replied sarcastically. “Somehow I think a photograph of him with blood on his hands may be apropos when all is said and done.”
“Maybe,” Fulton said. “But Vitteli’s a crafty son of a bitch. You can bet that if he’s involved, there isn’t going to be a lot pointing directly at him.”
“Probably not,” Karp agreed. “But what about Vitteli’s men? Maybe there’s a weak link.”
“I’ll stay on the boys over at homicide,” Fulton said. “Maybe call Vitteli’s guys in one at a time for a few questions. Might get somebody to slip up.”
“I’ll bet somebody already has,” Karp said. “We just need to figure out who.”
5
“H EY, DETKA, COME HERE, BABY ,” Alexei Bebnev shouted drunkenly as he grabbed at the waitress, who slapped his hand away from her hip and deftly moved past the table where he sat with Frank DiMarzo. A wave of anger passed over his face as the woman disappeared into the crowd at the bar, but then the Russian laughed as he glanced at his companion. “I don’t want that telka anyway; she’s a fat bitch. Plenty of fish in sea, right, my friend?”
DiMarzo smiled though he disliked the Russian and wished he was elsewhere. It had been a week since the murder of Vince Carlotta and the guilt weighed on him. All he had to do was close his eyes and he’d see the look on the doomed man’s face when Charlie Vitteli grabbed his arm and the first bullet slammed home. “You son of a bitch!” The words echoed in his mind and caused his gut to clench as though they’d been directed at him and not Vitteli. He heard them again as he watched the evening news coverage of Carlotta’s funeral and saw the man’s grieving widow holding his infant son.
Only at the moment of the shooting did DiMarzo realize that Vitteli was behind the plot. He’d of course recognized him as well as the other four men from the photograph that had been rippedout of the magazine and assumed that Joey Barros, pictured in the magazine and present at the murder, was the “Joey” who Bebnev met, with Marat Lvov, to set up the assassination. And Bebnev’s account of the comment he overheard that “Charlie wants this done ASAP” could have only meant Vitteli.
The photograph was now safely tucked away inside the Bible on a bookshelf in his childhood room at his parents’ modest brick row house in Red Hook. He wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to get rid of it—after all, it might be evidence to connect him to the crime—but something told him the photo could be important later, so he stashed it.
He just wanted to be done with it all, but things kept dragging out. Three days after the murder, Bebnev had
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