The Celtic Cross Killer Read online

  ‘Jesus, only two?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, two. What’s more Mrs Ricci understands one of them died last year,’ said Tooley.

  ‘Great,’ exclaimed Casey, with a sigh, depositing the sheet of questions onto the rear seat besides Tooley.

  59

  The two hundred and thirty-five mile journey to Onset, Plymouth County, Massachusetts—the home of Franco Ricci’s only living relative, elderly uncle, Giuseppe Ricci—would, according to Abrahamsen’s calculations—take a little over four hours. It took no account of stopovers, or comfort breaks. The three detectives faced a round trip of over twelve hours.

  ‘If you ask me, Johnson is keeping too tight a reign on the purse strings, boss,’ said Abrahamsen. ‘A goddamn motel wouldn’t cost much. This journey, it’s a killer.’

  They joined Interstate 495.

  ‘You know the score. I need special dispensation to buy a box of paper clips,’ said Casey, concentrating hard on the freeway.

  In the rear, propped up against the passenger door, Tooley snored.

  ‘In a couple of hours, we’ll stop for breakfast. Get some sleep. I’ll be fine,’ said Casey.

  ‘If you insist, boss,’ replied Abrahamsen, dragging up his jacket. ‘If you insist… ’

  ‘I do.’

  * * *

  Three hours later, Casey exited the Interstate and parked the car next to the main entrance of the 495 Diner—an Art deco styled building. Casey brought the car to a halt, killed the engine, leaned back, yawned and rubbed gritty eyes. Golden sunlight glinted from the diner’s aluminium barrelled roof. Fifties styled italics gleamed in red neon above the entrance. A neon strip proclaimed the diner, ‘OPEN.’

  Tooley and Abrahamsen slept on.

  Over the last year, Casey had become preoccupied with thoughts of the future. It wasn’t so much the job, but the politics and Chief Johnson’s increasingly vociferous demands which were starting to grind him down. Reaching to the sun visor, opening the vanity mirror, Casey studied his reflection. He raised a hand to his forehead; the wrinkles across it felt deeper than he remembered. He sighed. Thought: this damn job is taking its toll. It’s time I did something about it…

  Pecarro had broken free, so why couldn’t he?

  Casey glanced at the sleeping men, reached back and shook Tooley by the shoulder. Did the same to Abrahamsen.

  The two men stirred, shuffled up, yawned and stretched awake.

  ‘I need breakfast. I’m out of here. I’ll be inside,’ barked Casey, stepping out of the car, stretching, cracking his neck and heading for the entrance.

  60

  Giuseppe Ricci’s caregiver Mary-Ann gave his home address as 13 South Boulevard, Onset, Massachusetts.

  ‘She said to hang a left after Marc Anthony’s Restaurant onto Onset Avenue and follow the main road through town. The house is the fourth on the right,’ said Abrahamsen. ‘She mentioned a stars and stripes on a flagpole hung from the front elevation,’ he added. Casey swung the car into South Boulevard. ‘She said to look out for a pontoon directly opposite the house.’

  Onset was a typical Cape Cod seaside resort; funereal in winter, overcrowded in summer. Established in the 1880s, Onset was renowned as a place where spiritualists and mediums gathered to communicate with the dead. In the present day, tourists flooded in to enjoy the white sandy beaches, stunning views over the sheltered waters and affordable yacht mooring. A large retirement community had sprung up.

  Giuseppe Ricci lived in a white colonial clapboard house with stunning elevated views over the bay. The property was constructed in a simple and unostentatious style. It was a perfect retirement retreat.

  ‘This is it,’ said Casey, swinging the sedan onto the driveway behind a silver Ford Explorer, killing the engine.

  ‘From the get go, be in no doubt, I’m leading the interview. I don’t mind you guys chipping in with the odd burning question, but leave the main thrust of the questioning to me. He’s old and frail. I’m not one hundred percent sure about his mental faculties. We’ll assume he gets confused real easy. Tooley, do you understand? I’m in charge.’

  ‘I’m clear, yeah,’ said Tooley, scouring sleep from bloodshot eyes.

  61

  Sixty-year-old Mary-Ann Moore, presented a matriarchal figure. Thick set with pure-white hair, she exuded fierce resolve, and a steely glare.

  ‘That’s as may be Detective Casey, but Giuseppe is eighty-five years of age. He’s an old man that gets confused easily. When he gets confused, he gets anxious. My job is to stop him getting anxious. That’s why he pays me. You’ve got half an hour,’ she said, folding plump arms under an ample bosom. ‘He’s just finishing up showering.’

  ‘Half an hour will be sufficient,’ said Casey, with a half smile. ‘Thank you, Mrs Moore.’

  ‘That’s all right, Detective Casey.’

  A door creaked, then slammed. The sound of feet shuffling over a timber floor. An olive-skinned elderly man with a stoop in cardigan and corduroys, appeared in the lounge opening. He glared at Mary-Ann.

  ‘For God’s sake Mary-Ann, you never said our guests had arrived. Why the hell not, woman?’

  ‘I didn’t get the opportunity. Please tell me you dried proper? I don’t want you catching a chill. Are you sure you’re up to this?’ said Mary-Ann, moving towards him.

  Faced with a raised, wrinkled palm, Mary-Ann halted. ‘Stop mollycoddling me, woman. Yes, I’ve dried off, properly. I’m not a child. Arrange drinks for our guests,’ said Giuseppe. ‘They’ve had a long journey.’

  Mary-Ann turned to the detectives. ‘Is coffee, okay?’ huffed Mary-Ann.

  ‘Coffee would be great. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll bring milk and sugar, so you people can help yourselves,’ said Mary-Ann, stepping away.

  ‘So, gentlemen, what brings you here today? Please, be my guest, take a seat,’ said the elderly man, lowering himself into a paisley print armchair, getting comfortable, revolving his gaze towards the view of the ocean. ‘Great view, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite something. You’ve got yourself a nice place here, Mr Ricci,’ said Casey. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  Milky brown eyes settled on Casey with a wistful distant look. ‘I’ve lived here for the best part of a quarter of a century or thereabouts. To be honest … I’m not sure. My memory isn’t what it once was. May I offer you a word of advice, gentlemen?’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Don’t get old. I can’t say that I recommend it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ said Casey, with a thin smile. ‘On a more serious note, Mr Ricci. I understand you’re aware of the death of your nephew, Franco,’ Casey said, trying hard to determine Giuseppe’s state of knowledge and mental faculty.

  The old man expelled a resigned sigh. ‘Mary-Ann told me about it, yes. It’s such a tragedy. Have they set a date for the funeral? I must go. Show my respects. Mary-Ann, she’ll need time to arrange transport.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m sorry I don’t believe a date has been set. A funeral may not be possible for several weeks. There’s an autopsy to complete. The DA’s office will have to be satisfied that everything is in order, first.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mr Ricci, about Franco… Are you aware of the circumstances of his death?’

  ‘No,’ said Giuseppe, his gaze switching to Mary-Ann entering the room, bringing coffee on a tray.

  ‘Place it on the table. We’ll take care of ourselves. Why don’t you collect the books I ordered from the library, Mary-Ann? They ought to have come in by now.’

  Mary-Ann’s brow creased with indignation. ‘Yes, Giuseppe, I will. On the way back, I’ll call in at the fishmongers. Buy some plaice for dinner. Would you like that?’

  ‘I would. Only…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Only, make sure the proprietor bones it personally. The young guy doesn’t do it right. That’s all for now, Mary-Ann,’ said Giuseppe.

  ‘If you’re sure.’

&n
bsp; ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be off, then.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Mary-Ann looked to Casey. ‘Remember, what I told you, only half an hour.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  Mary-Ann rolled her eyes and departed.

  The elderly man turned to Casey. ‘Sorry about that, gentlemen. Infernal woman drives me crazy. Anyhow, back to Franco. Someone mentioned he died of natural causes.’

  Casey inhaled. ‘Sadly, that’s not true. Your nephew died following a vicious knife attack. Someone murdered him. If it’s any consolation, the medical examiner considers death would have been instantaneous. He wouldn’t have suffered,’ said Casey selecting his words, carefully.

  ‘You’re sure about all of this?’

  ‘I am,’ said Casey. ‘Mr Ricci, as Franco’s only blood relative in the US, can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?’

  Ricci’s wrinkled brow creased. His thin lips pursed.

  ‘No, sorry … I can’t.’

  ‘How often did you see your nephew?’

  ‘Once or twice a year at the very most. They’d come for Thanksgiving and stay over. We’d share several bottles of fine Italian wine. It’s such a long drive from Brooklyn. They always seemed to enjoy it. We’d discuss business at Parrini’s. Make general chit chat. I can’t ever recall discussing anything with Franco that gave me any cause for concern. Help yourselves to coffee, gentlemen,’ said Ricci, tears welling, reaching into a cardigan pocket, blowing his nose on a handkerchief embroidered with the initials GR.

  ‘He never mentioned any threats? Concerns? Worries?’

  ‘No. Everything seemed fine. I do know he kept his administrative and financial affairs in order, both legal and otherwise, just as I did. That was the one thing I insisted upon when he took over the restaurant. I warned him about the consequences should he not. You have to: it’s Brooklyn, not Cape Cod. It comes with the territory. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ said Giuseppe.

  ‘I take it you mean payments for protection?’ said Casey.

  ‘Yes. I always refer to them as a business tax. In some small way I suppose our family background oiled the wheels,’ Giuseppe said, helping himself to a cookie. ‘Help yourselves. Don’t stand on ceremony.’

  ‘What do you mean your family background oiled the wheels? Sorry, I’m a little confused.’

  Over the next hour, Giuseppe Ricci recounted how his parents had emigrated to the US from Sicily in 1906. How his father had become involved—to the chagrin of his mother—with the mob. How he had risen through the ranks to become a prominent figure within the Fratellanza Gang until his shooting in cold blood by a renegade police officer, called Connelly, in 1935. He explained how his father was responsible for the financial affairs of the gang. Giuseppe emphasised that his father did not condone, or take part in physical violence. Repeated it. Explained that his mother had received monetary compensation from the NYPD for his father’s murder. Told them how as a young man, he’d fled to Argentina following his father’s slaying. How he’d returned to Brooklyn after the war, under a new, adopted surname.

  The three detectives listened in stunned silence. Giuseppe—grateful of the opportunity of male company—talked without coming up for air. When he fell silent, Casey asked a targeted question. A question on the lips of both Tooley and Abrahamsen.

  ‘What was your father’s full name, Mr Ricci?’

  Giuseppe hesitated, surveyed them with suspicion. ‘My father’s full name was Stefano Aldo Parrini,’ said Giuseppe Ricci, the intonation in his voice rising as he repeated. ‘Stefano Aldo Parrini.’

  Casey said, ‘Thank you Mr Ricci, we appreciate your time. We’ve taken up far too much of it, already. Please extend my gratitude to Mrs Moore. The coffee was outstanding. We’ve got all we need. Thank you.’

  62

  ‘Think we’re onto something, boss?’ said Abrahamsen with youthful enthusiasm as they settled in the car. ‘Now that we know Ricci equals Parrini, we ought to check the archives. Identify a mobster with the same surname. Someone who got shot by a cop. Find links between the family names, Parrini and Costa with mob association. See if we can establish a link—a potential vendetta, even. Find a direct connection with our killer. What do you think?’

  ‘I’ll grant you it’s a possibility. The thing is … we’re talking eighty years ago. Back then, mob activity was at its zenith. The department didn’t keep detailed records like we do now. There were no computers.’ Casey paused. A troubled frown arrived between his eyes. ‘Let’s get back. Do some digging. Find something tangible. Something we can hang our hat on.’

  Casey reversed the car off of the driveway. Looked to Tooley’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘What do you think, Tooley?’ said Casey. ‘Are we looking at a breakthrough?’

  Tooley addressed the rear-view mirror. ‘We could be onto something, yeah. We’ve got two victims of Italian descent and maybe, just maybe, there’s some historic connection. It doesn’t necessarily follow that we’re dealing with a killer with a mob-related vendetta. I believe we’re looking at two scenarios. One: the killings are premeditated to satisfy a vendetta. Two: the killings are spontaneous acts of rage. Irrespective, it’s clear the killer is driven by a need; a compulsion. He’s compelled to leave the Celtic cross. It represents a signature with meaning. It gives him notoriety. He gets off on it. For the time being, let’s not get carried away with talk of vendettas linked to historic mob homicides. I’m certain of one thing, though…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The killer won’t give themselves up without a fight,’ said Tooley.

  On that last point, Tooley, thought Casey, I believe you’re right.

  63

  The Philly Steakhouse on the junction of 13th Street and 14th Avenue had a reputation for three things: the warmth of the welcome, the huge steaks, and the policy of the Czech proprietor, Stefan Vidic, that each steak order came with a free gratis stein of original Budvar beer.

  ‘Budweiser, are you joking? You Americans steal all the best recipes. Budvar is the original and the best. Enjoy Budvar once, and you’ll never want another of your home brew,’ Stefan boasted, setting the three steins on the table before Michael Casey, his brother Sean, and Sean’s partner Sinead.

  ‘Eh, take it easy, Stefan. Less of the American if you don’t mind. We’re here on sufferance. We’re only waiting for the potato famine to end,’ said Sean, with a playful glint in his eye. ‘Aren’t we, Michael?’

  ‘We sure are.’

  ‘I’ve no such excuse. The Russians have long since left my homeland. I suppose I’ve become fat and comfortable living in the evil capitalist west. Irrespective, enjoy your food. Be generous with the tip. I pay my staff a pittance,’ said Stefan with a wink, heading for the bar.

  ‘Gee, would you just look at that beer. It’s huge. No way will I be able to finish it,’ said Sinead, wide-eyed at the stein, taking a firm grip of the handle.

  ‘Give it your best shot, babe,’ said Sean. ‘I’ll see to the rest.’

  Sean Casey raised his glass. ‘I reckon it’s time we made a toast.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To you, Michael Casey. NYPD’s finest, most feared detective.’

  ‘Joking, right?’

  ‘Nope. I’m proud of you, bro.’

  ‘I believe you … thousands wouldn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. A toast to us … and family.’

  Glasses chinks. Smiles exchanged.

  Michael Casey set the stein down. Adjusted the cutlery. Turned to Sinead. Said, ‘I don’t know what spell you’ve cast on my little brother, Sinead, but it’s working.’ Michael settled his gaze on Sean. ‘Look at him … the cat that got the cream,’ said Michael, distributing the menu cards. ‘Makes me want to puke. I don’t mean that. I’m pulling your leg.’

  ‘Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself… Truth is, Sinead has got me on a training regime. We’re running the New York marathon
together next spring. I’ve never felt better. I’m the fittest I’ve ever been. And when I do fall off the log—which isn’t as often as it used to be—she makes damn sure I get straight back on,’ said Sean, placing a hand on Sinead’s. ‘The firm hand of a good woman is what I’ve needed for a long time. You’re priceless, aren’t you, babe?’

  Sinead’s cheeks flushed red. ‘Stop it. You’ll get me all emotional.’

  ‘We’re loves young dream, aren’t we, babe?’

  ‘Now you are talking nonsense.’ Sinead leaned over and pecked Sean on the cheek. ‘Shut up and choose your food. No carbs. Make up for the beer.’

  Two minutes of silence passed. They studied menus.

  ‘That’s it. I’m decided. I’m going to have the twenty ounce Aberdeen Angus,’ Sean said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Good choice,’ said Michael. ‘It melts in the mouth.’ Michael gulped beer, commented. ‘Drink up, Sean. I’m not drinking alone. Lightweight.’

  ‘Cheeky son of a bi..,’ Sean stalled. ‘I can drink you under the table any day of the goddamned week.’

  ‘Stefan is right. This Budvar is the real deal. Prove it.’

  Sean chuckled, sank half a stein without coming up for air. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘That’s right, as I was saying…’

  Two hours later, bloated on fine food and beer, Sean Casey’s pledge not to drink alcohol lay in tatters. The stunted conversation had run dry.

  ‘Excuse me babe, I need to visit the little boy’s room,’ slurred Sean.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Michael, pushing the chair back, rising up.

  * * *

  Facing the urinal, Michael Casey turned to his younger brother.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a cracker there, bro.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s great,’ said Sean, burping. ‘She’s very obliging, if you catch my drift.’ Winking.