The Dog Killer of Utica Read online

  When he’s done, he collapses at Kyle’s feet, who says, “Twelve minutes, thirty-one seconds. Not bad for a paranoid pussy. What are you cooking tonight?”

  “This is sick, that I pay for this.”

  “Here, at POWER UP!, Mr. Conte, we become sick in order to become well.”

  His workout over, he calls Rintrona, tells him he’s coming down to Troy, “right now,” and will meet him at the Melville Diner. Rintrona informs him that Loretta and Big Paulie sold the business to members of the Twitter generation, who’ve renamed the diner Café Troy. He hasn’t brought a change of clothes to POWER UP! He could shower there, but he’s in a hurry to see his wounded friend and give him the news of the breakthrough.

  At a wrought-iron corner table with a glass top, Rintrona sits beneath a luxuriant ficus. Conte says, “How are you feeling, Bobby?”

  Rintrona answers, “What happened to your face?”

  Conte says, “Your voice sounds almost normal. Feeling better?”

  “Better? What I’m on for pain? No wonder they become addicts. What happened to your personal hygiene? What happened to your face?”

  “Irrelevant. I have news you’ve been waiting for,” and proceeds to tell him about the several events of Utica violence, the forensic link between the Troy and Utica weapons, his certainty that Michael Coca is the doer in all instances.

  The waiter, tattooed, beringed, asks if they’d like to order, taking a step back from Conte’s odiferous presence. Rintrona says, “What’s a salad sandwich, kid?”

  “Lettuce, tomato, cucumber, mayonnaise on wheat.”

  Rintrona says, “Guess what, son? I can read the menu description. But what the fuck is it?”

  “An Irish import, sir.”

  “From the famine days?”

  “Sir, there are other choices.”

  “I choose the famine special in honor of my Irish wife.”

  “Me too,” says Conte.

  “Something to drink?”

  “Water.”

  “Bottled?”

  “The tap free?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “Tap for me.”

  Rintrona says, “Your theory, my gut says you’re right, which is why he came for me first. My gut says, let’s take him off the street when he’s out tomorrow night. My gut says, let’s ensure he’s had his last birthday. But as a law enforcement officer, I have to agree with Catherine and Robinson that you have nothing of legal significance. You want us to believe he played the role of a nut job for a whole fuckin’ year in order to—no way, Eliot, because that idea is evidence that Eliot Conte has lost it. You’ve given me nothing. Consider psychological counseling.”

  “I promised Maureen I wouldn’t tell you what she told me. The shooter who killed your dog, who killed Aida—”

  “Don’t say Aida’s name.”

  “Maureen said he was playing operatic music at high volume when he drove up. See where I’m going with this?”

  Rintrona stares, but does not respond.

  “Maureen says she thought it was Verdi because this is what you mainly play. A lot of Verdi at home and in the car.”

  Rintrona says, “How long does it take to make a salad sandwich?”

  “Maureen recalls nothing but a few notes, which she can’t get out of her head.” Eliot sings them, not softly enough. The cashier glances over.

  “The last few days, Eliot, she’s been going through my Verdi collection from his first opera through his middle period. I’m thinking something’s screwy with my wife. Last night until two in the morning and this morning starting at seven it’s the middle period. I’m worried. This is not Maureen who can take or leave opera. She’s gone off her rocker, thanks to what happened to us. I told her this morning she should get away from it all. Go to her sister’s in Minnesota. She says, ‘Don’t bother me, Bobby, I’m trying to concentrate.’ Then she puts on—”

  “Listen, Bobby, the shooter who did Dragan Kovac also blasted operatic music. We know this from a witness.”

  Rintrona rises, goes to the waiter, returns, muttering “Café my ass. ‘We’re working on it, sir.’ Okay, Eliot. We blasted it when we tortured Coca. This is your evidence, right? Which no one in the legal arena—they’ll lock you up in the fuckin’ mental ward if you tell them this. We know, okay? We know. This morning, Maureen was concentrating on the final-act trios of the middle period. She starts this morning with Luisa Miller. I say to her, ‘You know, Maureen, Luisa Miller is not considered middle Verdi. It’s Rigoletto, Trovatore, Traviata.’ She says, she completely shocks me, she says, ‘Luisa Miller is the transition, Robert, between early and middle.’ She says, ‘Verdi became himself as this opera progressed to its final scenes.’ Eliot, I’m speechless. She says, ‘You dragged me to a lot of operas, I have to listen to it at home constantly. You think I didn’t absorb, Robert? I know more than you think, have a little respect for your wife’s musical understanding.’ When she calls me Robert, I fear my wife.”

  “What I’m thinking, Bobby, she’s trying to identify what the shooter was playing. She thinks it’ll help me in the investigation. But we know, don’t we? We already know. He was no doubt playing the famous tenor number from Trovatore, which we played full blast when we did the job on Coca. The shooter is Coca. Can you doubt it?”

  “Who shot me three times and murdered my dog. Miserable cocksucker.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who will never be brought to justice, Eliot.”

  “Unless Catherine puts him in the car you gave a solid I.D. to.”

  “If she does, we don’t have to do what we have to do. She doesn’t, we pick him up tomorrow night. You watch as I ice this miserable cocksucker.”

  “But we wait on Catherine’s report because—”

  “It’s better to go the legal route? Bullshit. It’s better if I do him privately—first I’ll cut off his balls and make him eat them—then I’ll—”

  “She comes up empty, I’m with you all the way, Bobby. We do the job on him. Tomorrow night, she comes up empty, he’s dead. And I won’t be just watching, believe me.”

  “In the son-of-a-bitchin’ meanwhile?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, you know what’s playing at The Galaxy? Live from the Met? Anna Netrebko, Jonas Kaufmann, Erwin Schrott.”

  “Trovatore. The cast gives me a hard-on.”

  “The four of us at The Galaxy. You feeling well enough to do it?”

  “For a smart guy, Eliot, you just asked me a stupid question.”

  The sandwiches arrive. Rintrona bends his fork in half, says, “I’m not hungry.” Eliot puts a twenty on the table, eats his sandwich on the way out.

  In the parking lot of Café Troy, Conte checks e-mail. Two messages:

  Eliot, Nothing. Still up the creek without a paddle. Be home for dinner around six. —C

  My dear Eliot,

  Had I been kind and permitted Dragan to come in on such a bitter night, he would be alive. I fly to Cleveland soon to attend his wake and burial. I cannot forgive myself. Why should I be forgiven? I am, as you so wisely urged, at long last coming out of the left-wing closet and have communicated my decision to my producers who say that I have a contract, the lawyers and so forth.

  My publisher has no problem and wishes to substantially add to my advance if I will write forthrightly about my secret life. After Cleveland, I will take a week at an undisclosed location, which I disclose to you alone. The Presidential suite at Hotel Utica. Geraldine returns to Phoenix on Monday. She tells me that before she leaves she wishes to say goodbye to you. She expressed fondness. I believe she has something on her mind other than your offer to pay 100 grand for you-know-what. I believe she’s been nursing a crush on you. Geraldine Williams is a very serious person. Her name is not Geraldine Williams. If I told you her true name you would be shaking in your boots. Be very polite when you see her, be very sensible. Visit me, please, I beg you.

  Love, Anthony.

  Catherine and E
liot are walking to The Chesterfield for dinner. He tells her about his day. She asks how Rintrona is doing. He tells her, “Surprisingly well.”

  “I presume you gave him your theory?”

  “I did. I told him that it would be better if Coca were arrested.”

  “Better? Better than what?”

  “I meant that—”

  “I know what you meant, Eliot.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Better than what? Answer me. Better than murdering him?”

  CHAPTER 15

  FRIDAY NIGHT, 10 P.M., CONTE’S BEDROOM

  He’s undressing—she is not. Takes her hand and tries to lead her to the bed. She resists.

  She says, “You and Bobby talked about it, didn’t you? Killing Coca.”

  “Bobby did.”

  “You did too, didn’t you?”

  “I put the lid on it. I have no desire to be a vigilante.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Eliot. You’re convinced, evidence or no evidence. We don’t come up with hard evidence, real soon, you’ll take him out.”

  He embraces her: “Let’s finish what we started in the living room.”

  “Forget Coca. (Pushing away.) He did not rent a car in Syracuse. This is what I learned. Get it through your head: He did not. That partial plate Bobby gave us? Assuming it’s accurate with him shot three times, on the ground, in the weak light of dawn? Refers to over eleven hundred vehicles privately owned in Onondaga County. See what we’re up against? We have nothing but your feelings. In other words, we have nothing. Put your pants back on.”

  “Tomorrow is another day?” (Hand on her crotch.)

  “Definitely. And yesterday, by the way, was the day before today.”

  At the front door, still in his briefs, still turned on, he asks how she acquired the list of rental agencies.

  “Becky Altieri, the part-time assistant to Antonio’s executive secretary, who e-mailed it to me.”

  “She got it via Google?”

  “Of course.”

  “Still have it on your phone?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Send it to me.” (She does.)

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’ll tell you when I know.”

  (She goes.)

  SATURDAY, 7 A.M., UPD LOCKUP

  Seventy-four-year-old Lydia Abraham, a thirty-year volunteer, approaches the cell holding Michael Coca to find him naked and on his knees in the prayer position of Islam.

  She says, “Good morning, sweetheart. Got your oatmeal. Dear me, aren’t you cold like that?”

  He responds from the prostrate position, “Bring me a lawyer and a half cup of brown sugar.”

  Ten minutes later, a uniformed officer appears with a cell phone. Coca asks Information for the number of Utica’s most legendary attorney, Salvador J. Capecelatro, who has been dead for forty-seven years. An hour later, the Saturday commanding officer misreads Coca’s release order, and Coca is on the street twelve hours in advance of schedule. He walks home to Sherman Drive, on a bright, clear day of bracing air at fifty-two degrees—the best day of the week—strolling a meandering route, a seventy-five-minute journey, tapping his nose all the way with a splintered popsicle stick, muttering all the way. A passerby will eventually come forward to report to the police that Coca had stopped her with tears in his eyes, saying, “Mr. Capecelatro does not accept collect calls from jihadists.”

  COCA, 10:30 A.M.

  Drives to the 7-Eleven on Eagle Street and purchases three twenty-five pound bags of ice.

  CONTE AT HOME, 10:30 A.M.

  Calls Catherine to tell her that her list of agencies was incomplete. His own Google search found one that Becky had surely dismissed because of its name: Rent a Wreck.

  “Relax, Eliot. Bobby saw—did you forget? A late model, not a junker. Becky is a smart kid.”

  “But did she inquire? That’s the question. I inquired. They rent two three-year-old vehicles, repainted, new tires, at rates the major agencies can’t match because they deal strictly in new cars. A three-year-old model is easily mistaken for a new model—especially after you’ve been shot three times. This is not about Becky’s intelligence. This is about a serious glitch in a case of multiple murders.”

  “Just say it: You want me to drive back to Syracuse and check this out.”

  “Before he’s released sometime in the early evening. Please.”

  “I’ll do it, but that’s the end of this wild goose chase. I have a meeting with Don and Tino Mendoza in about an hour to review Barbone, Kovac, and Santoro. Then an appointment with Dr. Greenblatt at 1:30. Then I’ll go.”

  “I’m not asking you to reschedule Greenblatt.”

  “I’m not asking you to get counseling.”

  “Promise you’ll text me if you hit the jackpot. I’ll be in Troy with Bobby and Maureen at Trovatore, starting at two until about five thirty.”

  CONTE AT HOME, 10:45 A.M.

  Calls Antonio Robinson.

  “Robby, me.”

  “Now what?”

  “What are you doing today?”

  “Slitting my wrists.”

  “Home all day?”

  “What are you after, Eliot?”

  “I’m making those special meatball sandwiches you love and inviting you to the Trovatore in Troy. Whaddya say we get those Saturday afternoons going again? Let’s get back on track, bro.”

  (Silence.)

  “Robby, you still there?”

  “Whatever happened to us, El? It’s been a year since we—what happened, El?”

  “Never mind the past. It’s now. We’re now.”

  “The past, El. You can’t just—”

  “The music, Robby, on those Saturday afternoons? The wineskin of Chianti? The fabulous sandwiches? You could stop at The Florentine and pick up a half dozen cannolis. Come on! Whaddya say, Robby?”

  “Just the two of us again?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll drive. Come over at noon, and that’ll give us time to get there without breaking the speed limit.”

  He hangs up and calls Rintrona to give him the news that Antonio Robinson will be coming with him to the Trovatore, that he’s making enough sandwiches for the four of them, and not to worry because Antonio is clean.

  Rintrona says, “I’ll be carrying just in case.” Conte assures him that Robinson doesn’t know who he is.

  Rintrona asks, “That a fact because it better be,” and Eliot lies again, “That’s a fact. He has no idea.”

  Rintrona wants to know, “What’s so important that you have to bring him of all people to this beautiful occasion?”

  “Because he’s my brother, Bobby, and I miss him.”

  “My heart goes fuckin’ pitter-pat. What am I supposed to do? You claim he doesn’t know me, but I know him. I witnessed him stone-cold execute that guy.”

  “What you do is call on your extensive experience as an actor with Troy Little Theater. We’ll play it as it lays.”

  “Have any idea, Eliot, how long it’s been since I’ve been laid?”

  COCA AT HOME, 11–12 NOON

  Vacuums and dusts. Shaves face, arms, chest, and legs. Flosses and brushes. Locates fedora at back of closet. Irons dark suit.

  COCA AT HOME, 1 P.M.

  Cleans and loads snub-nosed .38. Pours the three bags of ice into the claw-footed bathtub and runs cold water. Lowers himself in. Dozes.

  GERALDINE WILLIAMS, 1:30 P.M.

  Places in her Cadillac SUV three suitcases of clothes and one of firearms. At two she’ll drive to 1318 Mary Street to find no one at home. She’ll try again at 3:30 with the same result and will decide to return in the early evening before hitting the road for the long drive to Phoenix. She needs to talk to Conte about a business matter of mutual interest. And then perhaps … She’s thinking around seven o’clock.

  IN TROY

  Noon: Antonio Robinson calls Conte to say that he’ll take a rain check, maybe next week, he’d really like that, but he needs to spend the afternoon
at the hospital with Milly. “I’ve been a lousy husband, El.”

  1:30: Catherine Cruz enters her medical clinic and is told that Dr. Greenblatt is running about an hour behind schedule. She decides to wait after calling Rent a Wreck and being informed that the agency will be open until seven.

  2:30: At the funeral home on Rutger Street hosting the wake of Billy Santoro, a well-dressed man in a fedora enters, walks to the closed casket, kneels, and prays out loud three Hail Marys. Then rises and offers his condolences to Billy’s relatives. Remo says to Gene, “I didn’t know Coca knew Billy.” Gene replies, “He didn’t.” Don says, “So what’s he doing here? I don’t like it.”

  At The Galaxy, Conte, Rintrona, and Maureen do not have time to eat the special meatball sandwiches before the gold curtain rises at the Met. They do so during the first intermission. They’re happy. Verdi’s impossible-to-follow libretto concerns them not. In Il Trovatore, Verdi’s vocal writing was at its ravishing peak. So who cares what the story is? You want story? Read, as Rintrona put it during the first intermission, “a fuckin’ novel.” “The only problem,” as Conte remarks to Rintrona and Maureen, “it takes the world’s best singers to pull this opera off with full effect. Which today’s cast certainly fills the bill.” Rintrona says, “I don’t even read the subtitles. Who gives a shit what they’re sayin’?” Maureen says, “Enough with the language, Robert.” “They open their mouths, Maureen, either sex, I want to jump in.”

  Near the end of act 3, when the tenor launches the opera’s most famous aria, Maureen says, too loud, “Oh God! That’s it! That’s what I heard when Aida, oh God!” People in the vicinity turn in irritation. Rintrona elbows his wife. When the tenor launches the second verse, she jumps up, “Oh, God! When Aida!” She says, “I can’t hold it any longer” and runs to the restroom. They follow her out as the curtain falls on act 3. Rintrona says, “We know now what we have to do. I’m going to ice this bastard.”