The Dog Killer of Utica Read online

  “Maybe we should add, Cruz, what happened Monday night. Freddy Barbone.”

  “Why? What does he have to do with Bobby and the dog? What possible pattern would Freddy fit into? Shooting from a car is one thing. It’s antiseptic, sort of like high altitude bombing, but Freddy in the head at close range and then virtual decapitation, that’s a very different M.O. That’s not cold assassination. That’s personal.”

  “What if inconsistency of M.O. is part of the plan? Let’s think about that, Cruz. An effect of randomness, a deliberate performance of randomness and disconnection, which makes a coherent theory of these crimes impossible. I’m lost.”

  “Me too.”

  “So sit on my lap and we’ll be lost together and talk about the first thing that comes up.”

  “First thing that comes up? Your juvenile idea of erotic humor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which you learned in the eighth grade?”

  “Yes.”

  She’s about to leave to sign the lease with Tom Castellano when he says, “Wait. I have something I’d like you to ask Don to check.” He goes to the desk and returns with a small sealed envelope.

  She opens the envelope: “Mind telling me where you got this?”

  “After Don renders the verdict.”

  Albany. At Saint Jude, midafternoon. Seventh floor. The door to Rintrona’s room is closed—a uniformed policeman sitting outside, who rises at Conte’s approach.

  “How are you, officer?

  “Name?”

  “Eliot Conte.”

  Checks clipboard: “Yeah.”

  Conte moves to enter.

  “Hey! Did I let you in?”

  “What’s the problem, officer?”

  “I’m the problem. Driver’s?”

  Officer looks at picture, looks at Conte, looks at picture, looks at Conte: “Yeah. Let me explain something, buddy. You don’t just walk in for the simple reason the door is locked. The situation of security I’m up against? Life and death.”

  “I appreciate your service, officer.”

  “Check out with Sister Mary Ronald on the way out.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nurses’ station down the hall. Don’t play dumb. In her twenties. Audrey Hepburn.”

  “Officer, we’re on the same page.”

  Steps into the room and freezes. Maureen, white as a sheet, by her husband, who’s sobbing. The odor of all those flowers—twelve large bouquets arranged along the base of the walls—like those funeral parlors when he was young, Eliot with his father paying respect to the families and friends of deceased constituents. Heavy here with the same odor, sweet, at the edge of nauseating. Rintrona has a legal pad and ballpoint pen on his lap. He speaks with a hoarseness that Conte has never before heard:

  “About time, you motherfucker.”

  Conte comes forward to the other side of the bed, facing Maureen.

  Maureen says, “This language has to stop.”

  Rintrona says, “They killed my poor dog I loved, Maureen loved, fuckin’ kids in the neighborhood loved. Who’s next, Eliot?”

  “Nobody’s next.”

  “You stupid all of a sudden?”

  “We’ll get him soon.”

  “When? They let Maureen go for some reason. My daughter is next, that’s who. Fuckin’ throat is killing me.” Conte doesn’t know how to respond.

  Maureen says, “I can’t sleep anymore.”

  Rintrona says, “We know who did this.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Stop bullshitting. My fuckin’ throat. A catheter up my dick. Ever have a catheter up your dick?”

  Maureen says, “Stop this language for once.”

  “What’s the difference, Maureen? We’re in the company of our dear friend Eliot fuckin’ Conte. My worthless dick. Secular nurse pulled it out the other day, I saw stars. She should have it up hers, then she’d know. Cunt. I get out of here—I can’t talk no more, fuckin’ Christ.”

  He writes on the legal pad: Get out of here eventually I go to Utica kill that friend of yours. Fuckin swear to God.

  “Listen to me, Bobby. The odds are extremely against who you’re thinking.”

  Maureen says, “Excuse me. I’m here too you know. Who is this person? We should go to the authorities with his name.”

  Rintrona writes and shows Maureen: Once I get out and do the right thing then you know who this cocksucker is.

  Maureen says, “We don’t have enough to deal with, Bobby? You have to become a vigilante off the deep end against this unknown person?”

  Conte says, “Maureen is right.”

  Rintrona writes, Who stops me?

  Maureen: “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  Conte then gives them the Troy ballistics findings. The difference of cars. He says, though not believing it, “Two different unrelated shooters.”

  Rintrona in a rage that brings searing pain to his throat, in a horrifying scream, “BALLS! BULLSHIT!” The pain drives him to tears and the groans of a dying animal. He writes: Tell them the throat spray.

  Sister Mary Ronald appears. She says, “Open up for me, dear. I’m going to make you feel good.” She sprays. Rintrona manages a smile. He writes her a note: This thing they have up me down there. I’d like you to remove it so I can sleep in peace. Every time I move, that thing up me, I hit the ceiling. Please, Sister.

  “The secular’s job, sweetheart.”

  He writes: She’s too rough. You.

  “I’m so sorry, Robert. I’ll speak sternly to her.”

  He writes: My life is in your hands. Call me Bobby.

  She suppresses a smile: “Call whenever you need me,” and leaves.

  “Good thing I’m not the jealous type, you old goat. A nun!”

  Rintrona writes: Takes me an hour to come these days. How about you? Shows it to Conte, who says, “Forty-five minutes.”

  “What did you write that you don’t show me? More filth?”

  Rintrona whispers, “I’m afraid for my family and my life. I am afraid.”

  Maureen says, “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t sit still. Tomorrow we’re sending our daughter to my sister in Minnesota. You never met Deirdre. She’ll lose her job here. FIND THIS COCKSUCKER AND KILL HIM!”

  The officer outside the door bursts in, gun drawn. Surveys the room. Points to Conte: “This guy a problem?” Rintrona signals all is well.

  Conte decides to lie: “We have a very serious lead, not who you think, Bobby, and we’re going to take care of this thing within two weeks. Catherine and I—we’re close to cracking this thing. I promise.”

  Rintrona holds out his hand. Conte takes it in both of his. Then goes to the other side of bed and hugs Maureen, who says, “You promise two weeks?”

  He says, “Yes. Or less. I’ll be down again in a couple of days.”

  She says, “Wait—I’ll go to the lobby with you because Bobby wants chocolate chip cookies. I told him twice they may not have chocolate chip—I told him I guarantee cookies but not chocolate chip. All right, Bobby?” Rintrona nods and smiles the smile of someone who has suffered soul-sucking damage.

  In the elevator she presses the button not for the lobby but for the third floor, “We have to talk, Eliot.” He nods. Maureen leads him to the dayroom and a quiet corner.

  She says, “What I told that investigating detective? Opera music? I held it back from Bobby, and you have to promise you’ll never tell him because the killing of Aida, it was worse in his mind than the bullets he took. If I tell him opera, Verdi, I can’t predict what it’ll do to him.”

  “I promise.”

  “The last four years it’s opera, it’s the dog, whose name I don’t agree with, by the way, and I don’t come into the picture except here and there. I cook.”

  “I’m sorry, Maureen, but I know he loves you. Very much.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me on that, but forgive me—I have to change the subject. It was opera from the shooter’s car?
For sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I’m not like you and Bobby, a fanatic. I like it sometimes well enough, but what do I know? Nothing. Last year he took me to La Bohème at the Met. Four hundred for two tickets plus dinner and taxis. What happens twice, during the love duets? I fall asleep. He gives me the elbow. After, he said I hurt his feelings. Then he won’t talk for a week.”

  “Bobby’s sensitive about love duets. You heard Verdi?”

  “Just guessing. It reminded me of what he plays at home, which is usually Verdi—which I usually tune out because I have a lot on my mind, Eliot.”

  “Maureen, we have so little to go on. This could be important. Bear with me. Vocal or orchestral?”

  “Vocal.”

  “A chorus or one or two singers?”

  “One.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male.”

  “Tenor? Baritone? Bass?”

  “Tenor, for sure.”

  “Good. Was the music slow and moody or fast and agitated?”

  “Fast and agitated.”

  “Good. Sing some of it.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Try. Please.”

  “Da da da daaah. That’s all I remember. It sticks in my mind for some reason.” He tries to imitate.

  “No. The notes start high and go down one step at a time, if you know what I mean.”

  “Like this?”

  “No offense. You’re a little flat.”

  “Like this?”

  “Sort of, but you have to hold onto the last one. Like this.”

  “Does it remind you of anything Bobby plays at home?”

  “He plays it so loud I go to the mall whenever possible and I take Aida with me because I’m afraid it’ll hurt her ears permanently. Did you know dogs have five hundred times more sensitive ears than we do?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Can you imagine what she hears when he plays that stuff?”

  “I can only imagine.”

  In the lobby, he says, “If you think of anything else, get in touch as soon as you can.”

  “I will. Promise not to mention this to my husband?”

  “Promise.” (Thinking, Unless I must.)

  In the parking lot, Conte inserts a CD—choruses from Verdi’s operas. On the Thruway home, the long descent into the Mohawk Valley, he feels his cell vibrate in his coat pocket. Turns off the music. Catherine:

  “Almost home?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Don has interesting news. That shell casing you gave me?”

  “Tell me.”

  “It matches the one from the Sig Sauer that killed Bobby’s dog. So what we obviously want to know, as soon as you arrive, without delay, Eliot, I’m warning you as an officer of the law, where did you get it? Don and I are waiting for you. At 1318 Mary.”

  “Can’t wait to see you both.”

  The music again. Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves from Nabucco: “Va, pensiero.” (Go, worries.) What did Maureen hear blasting from the shooter’s car? What exactly from Verdi? If it was Verdi.

  CHAPTER 8

  The tiny Vietnamese tollbooth clerk at the North Utica exit informs him that he’s just received word—the bridge over the New York Central train yard on Genesee Street is blocked in both directions by a gasoline-spewing, jackknifed tractor trailer. Conte’s direct route home to endure the music of interrogation now impossible, he deviates to the west side of town in the grip of the old desire—he deviates to the hip Varick Street bar scene situated at the edge of dilapidated Polish Town—all Poles long since scattered to the suburbs and the south of Florida. Varick Street—deserted in a sudden hard rain—the street dangerously puddled and slushed—the temperature freakishly hovering in the midsixties—and now, in mid-December, at this latitude, just two days after a record snowstorm, rolling thunder.

  Pulls over to The Gay Martini. Steps ankle deep but unperturbed through a puddle and strides to the bar. Knows what he’s doing. This time, without illusions. This time, no excuses.

  “Not open till seven, Dad.”

  The bartender polishing glasses is a pretty twenty something—even with, especially with? the diamond stud in her cheek. He’s surprised. Finds it unexpectedly sexy.

  Lays down a twenty: “The door’s open. You’re here. I’m here. Double Johnnie Black, straight up, keep the change.”

  “No can do, sir.”

  Sir. He knows what that means. You’re old. Older than “Dad.” Varick Street misfit. Scram, Eliot.

  “Please.”

  She shakes her head sadly. She’s seen it many times—a dry alcoholic on the verge. She leans on the bar, close to him: “You’re strong when you want to be.” Softly: “Don’t you want to be? Big guy?”

  Leaning into her fragrance: “May I ask you a question?”

  “No can do. I’m in a long-term relationship.”

  Stepping back, flushed with embarrassment: “No. Not that.” (Forced smile.) “I mean, is this a gay bar?”

  “You mean strictly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dude, there is no more ‘strictly.’ ”

  Out of nowhere, a warm wave of relaxation washes over him and a grin, ear to ear, not seen on the Conte visage for months, as his desire to drink is extinguished for a while. He likes her. Wants her to like him. (Just “like,” that’s all.) Turns and starts to walk away when she stops him with: “You’re not that old looking, you know. Really, you’re really not. You could be considered an attractive father-figure option in some quarters.” Conte wonders, In which quarters? In what possible world? Hers? Absurd.

  At the door, turning back to her, that grin again: “I’m fifty-six.”

  Coming over to him: “I’m twenty-eight, big deal. It’s all relative.” She hands him the twenty, winks, says, “I’ll take a rain check, Daddy.”

  He puts the twenty in his wallet and removes his defunct business card:

  ELIOT CONTE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR 1318 MARY STREET

  [email protected]

  Writes in his cell number on the card: “If you ever have the kind of trouble the police have no interest in pursuing, give me a call, angel.”

  “Couldn’t afford you, Pops.”

  “You can. You’d be redeeming the rain check.”

  She looks at the card again for a long moment and replies, “Would you by any chance be related to—”

  “Yes. But not by chance.”

  She points to the street: “The storm passed. Feeling better?” He suppresses an urge.

  “Don’t lose the card, angel. I owe you.”

  In the vicinity of Rutger Park, a stone-packed snowball thuds against and cracks the passenger side window of his nine-year-old Toyota Camry. Skinny teenage male, white, arms akimbo, sneering, sagging pants. Conte rolls down the window. Sagging pants says, “Bring it on, Gramps.” Conte considers the offer with surging pleasure. The kid gives him the finger. Conte shouts, “I’m making progress, asshole,” and drives off.

  Home, in the driveway, calls Anthony Senzalma.

  “Dinner at 8? Joey’s? It’s crucial.”

  “With pleasure, Eliot, as always.”

  Calls Joey’s and makes the usual unusual request, invariably granted, to sit not in the dining area, where Senzalma feels vulnerable, but in the cramped office behind the kitchen.

  Inhales it as he opens the door—sautéing garlic. She’s making the sauce of garlic and olive oil, simple, even I can do it, Catherine said shortly after she moved in, who was not in his league as a cook—in truth, she was not much good at all as a cook, though it was a truth never uttered, except by her, though she tried and made many disasters, which he always pronounced very good. He lets her make breakfast, always, because anybody can make oatmeal in the microwave, or pour cold cereal into a bowl and start the coffee, and she throws mediocre sandwiches together with the best of them.

  Walks in quietly. Can see her in the kitchen—her back to him. He’d warned her how
many times? Lock up when I’m away, the neighborhood is changing, but with Big Don Belmonte here, no need, maybe. Where was Big Don? She doesn’t hear him enter—radio, open door. What does he have to do to bring her to her senses? He sings out with the old mocking tone, “Honey! I’m home!”

  She turns: The spontaneous smile that brings the sun, quickly shut down.

  “I expected you a lot sooner.”

  “Where’s Don? Be careful that garlic doesn’t blacken.”

  “Have I ever let the garlic go black and bitter? Don got a call from the Chief to report immediately to the Chief’s house. An hour ago.”

  “Reason?”

  “Antonio wouldn’t give one over the phone. I made enough for the two of us.”

  “The garlic—”

  “I know what I’m doing. Do you? Where were you, if I may ask?”

  Takes saucepan off burner.

  “Your last supper or mine?”

  “Don’t change the subject. What kept you?”

  “I’ll sit with you, but I have plans for dinner.”

  “So what kept you?” Her suspicion is palpable.

  “Let me drain the pasta. Sit. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She sits—he serves.

  “I’m very sorry, Eliot. It somehow slipped my mind that you don’t know Russian. Let me spell it out in English: What kept you?”

  “Varick Street.”

  Puts her fork down. Chews and swallows: “You fell off the—”

  “We don’t say that anymore if you’re in The Program. They only say that in the movies. We, in The fucking Program, say, I went out. You want to know if I went out?”

  “Did you?”

  “I went to Varick Street for the purpose of going out. Yes.”

  “And you went out?”

  “I definitely got my feet wet.”

  “Spit it out, Eliot. You slipped.”

  “I walked into a deep puddle, that’s what I did.”

  “You’re telling me you had quite a few?”

  He takes off his shoes and socks and in his big, powerful hands wrings them out on the floor.

  “Did you or did you not drink?”

  “I was saved by my guardian angel.”

  “You’re drunk.”