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  Doc said, “Tell me what you saw.”

  The leather creaked under Kenny’s weight. “I’d just drove around the building, like I’m supposed to. Check everything out.” The casters squeaked as he shifted position. Doc had enough experience to know Kenny should have walked around the building. He considered asking, chose not to risk damaging their blossoming friendship. “I thought it was trash bags when I first seen it. They do that sometimes. Those ones don’t want the casino. They’re like little kids on Halloween, like they won’t open the joint because people play kids’ tricks on them. Anyway, I get a little closer and I see it’s this guy, but he don’t look right.”

  “Not right, how?”

  “Got a face like a black guy—you know, with the nose and the lips—but he’s awful light. I was thinking maybe he’s one of them half-and-halfs you see around all the time now until I noticed he had like frost on him made him look funny. Then I saw the bullet holes and called you guys.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Four-fifty-seven. I know because I looked at my watch as soon as I called in case it was important.”

  Kenny seemed pretty pleased with himself for that detail. Doc would’ve liked it better if the actual time for the 911 call hadn’t been 5:06. Most likely Kenny didn’t want to cop to being late to work, or his watch was slow. Doc still had to account for those nine minutes.

  “You see anything unusual during your drive around? Out of place at all?”

  Kenny shook his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Any cars in the lot that shouldn’t have been there?”

  “You know what a parking lot that size is like. There’s always a car or two sitting around. You know, didn’t start, or two guys left work together. I’d a been more surprised if there weren’t any.”

  “You didn’t touch the body, did you?”

  “No, sir. I watch all the cops shows, you know, like CSI and Law and Order. I didn’t touch anything.”

  “Not even to see if he was dead?”

  “He had ice on him and two holes in his head. I figured I didn’t need to touch him.”

  Fair enough. “Can I see your hands, please, Mr. Czarniak?”

  “My hands? What for?”

  “I just need a look at them. It’s a routine thing.” Kenny half extended his arms and Doc snatched both wrists, turned the hands over to see the palms and backs. Machinist’s hands, strong and scarred, no fresh marks. The time on his watch was dead on.

  “Understand something, Mr. Czarniak. The person who finds the body and reports it is involved something like half the time. They think they’re clever, calling it in like a good citizen, but it’s stupid.”

  “Hey, wait. Do you think—”

  Doc held up a hand. “You’re good. You don’t have any marks on your hands like you’d get from hefting around a body in this weather, and I watched you waiting this morning. You’re either innocent or a hell of an actor. I do have to ask why you lied about the time you found him.”

  “I didn’t lie. It was four-fifty-seven like I said. Maybe four-fifty-eight, the hand was between two marks. No later than that.”

  “Mr. Czarniak,” Doc using his name now, making it personal, “Nine-one-one calls have automatic time stamps on them. You called at five-oh-six.”

  “No, I mean it. It was four-fifty-seven. Or eight. Maybe my watch ain’t...synchronized with your clock here.”

  “It was a minute ago. When I checked your hands.”

  Kenny blushed. His eyes moved down and to the right. “I was ten minutes late a couple days last week. Mr. Rollison docked me an hour each time and said he’d fire me if it happened again.”

  “Fuck Rollison. You’re working with me on this, and I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t absolutely have to know to give me what I need.” Kenny perked up every time Doc put Rollison down. “Now, are you sure about the time?”

  “It was a few minutes after five. Like you said.”

  Doc kept his eyes on Kenny’s. “When you talk to me, you have to tell me the truth. No fudging. Every lie you tell forces me to question everything else you say. There’s dead guy on his way to the morgue right now. Someone’s going to pay for that. You don’t want it to be you.”

  Kenny didn’t say a word. Doc knew from looking at him he’d made his point. “Is there anything else you can remember?”

  “No. I told you everything. Honest to God.”

  “All right.” Doc looked at his watch. “It’s a little after nine. What say I buy you something to eat and we take our time getting back to the casino. I mean, you’re on the clock, right?”

  CHAPTER 4

  They walked into Bypass Motors like any other customers, stood around the Maserati cracking wise with each other in what sounded like Russian. Bypass was Mike Mannarino’s “legit” business to keep Internal Revenue off his back. Always had at least one high end car on display to draw in locals who couldn’t afford it if they sold their house and their neighbor’s. They’d stop to gape and the sales team would pitch them some piece of shit made affordable mainly by its lack of provenance. The six-figure rides also allowed certain people of means from out of town a more or less legitimate excuse to drop in.

  Art DeSimone came over to help them and the bigger one asked to see Mr. Mannarino. Said the Maserati was a “boo-ti-ful” car and they might have some business to discuss. Art said he could sell them the ’Rati if they were interested and was told they were interested in a lot more than buying one fucking car, please to see Mr. Mannarino, you wop cocksucker.

  Now the Russians sat in Mike’s private office. The door was closed, calls were held. Mike got them each a drink—vodka—and asked what they wanted.

  The big one said, “You kill our nigger last night. What are you think we should do about this?”

  Mike knew better than to play dumb. He didn’t get to be the boss of Pittsburgh, as far as Youngstown, Erie, and Wheeling, by underestimating situations. “I’m guessing you mean Donte Broaddus.”

  “Da.”

  “Then I think you should finish your drinks and get lost. Anything that happened between Donte and me was our business. He worked for me.”

  The big one drank half of what was in his glass. “Work-ed for you before, perhaps. This one was working for us since about six weeks now. We don’t like no wop cocksuckers killing our customers.”

  Same thing Art said they’d called him. Mike hated dealing with people who didn’t speak English at least well enough to vary their insults. “Donte and I had an understanding. He broke it. I guess you’re the ones he broke it with.”

  “It was us, yes. Now, Mr. Mike the Hook, you and us will have understanding.” Mike didn’t mean to, but must have flashed something at the mention of his nickname. “We know much about you, yes. You like that people call you Mike the Hook because it makes you sound tough. People not knowing think you will hang them on meat hooks or put fish hooks through their testicles. I don’t know what they think. I don’t care. I know you are called that because you throw baseball at people. I am not afraid of baseballs, so I will tell you what to understand now.

  “First thing is one black nigger less or more is nothing. There is always another to do business with. You kill too many, get to be inconvenience, then we kill you. One wop cocksucker less or more is no big deal, too.

  “Second thing is, doesn’t matter what nigger wants to be in charge. He buys from us, no one else. You try to sell to him, try to fuck with him, you are fucking with us, and we kill you.

  “Last thing. You do not ever make any noise around Allegheny Casino. You do one more stupid like today and we will kill you. Poymitye?”

  Mike’s slow burn started with “so I will tell you.” He felt his ears redden and kept his concentration on the big one’s mouth as he talked. He didn’t say anything when the speech ended. In part because he didn’t trust himself, and because he didn’t understand what he’d been asked.

  The Russian got tired of waiting. “Do you understand?”

  Mike forced himself to make no sign of acknowledgment. “I’m just supposed to sit back and say that’s okay with me. Aren’t you even going to kiss me?”

  The Russian’s face clouded. “Kiss you? Why would I kiss you?”

  “I like to be kissed when I’m getting fucked. Even better, I like to have my dick sucked. We can do that part right here if you want.”

  The Russian took a second to process. Then he smiled. “I think I see. You are understanding what, but not why. You are big fish here, so you feel...entitled? Yes, entitled is the word. Okay. You are used now to being big fish, no? Well, I am shark. Shark eats what he want, when he want. Shark don’t want no trouble with big fish, but will eat him, too, if he must. Is way of world. Now do you understand?”

  They weren’t here to kill him, or he’d be gone already. That didn’t mean Mike couldn’t talk them into it by saying the wrong thing. He stood at his window, watched them walk to their car. Then he made a call.

  CHAPTER 5

  Doc, Grabek, and Neuschwander chewed doughnuts in Stush Napierkowski’s office, eight o’clock in the morning. Twice a week Stush brought in two dozen fresh for anybody who wanted some. He liked for everyone to get along and his insistence on maintaining the cop “tradition” of doughnuts was a running joke. For most, an affectionate one.

  Neuschwander went first. “Victim is a twenty-two-year-old black male named Donte Broaddus. Address on his license is 630 North St. Clair Street in Homewood. Shot twice in the forehead with a small caliber handgun at close range, no more than three feet. Bullets are still in his head, so we’ll know more when we get the coroner’s report.”

  “Did they say how long?” Stush said.

  “He said he’d try for this afternoon, but couldn’
t promise it. Tomorrow at the latest.” An undercurrent of grumbling. Everyone in the room knew these reports took time, though they were instantaneous compared to getting DNA results. Still, the cop never drew breath that didn’t think his case was more important than everything else, including presidential assassination.

  Neuschwander went on. “As we suspected, he was shot elsewhere and dropped at the casino. It’s an asphalt parking lot with a lot of foot and car traffic, so no tire tracks or footprints stand out. No blood or obvious fibers, except those from the victim. He wasn’t assaulted or robbed that we can see, though I suppose it’s possible he had more than the hundred bucks we found on him and the killer left it to throw us off.” He closed his notebook. “That’s all.”

  “Any idea when he was killed?” Stush said.

  “Not unless we can trace his whereabouts before he died, maybe see where he ate. Coroner might be able to tell something from that. He was freezing—literally—when we picked him up. I’ll try to extrapolate something from the body temperature at the scene and the ambient temperatures, but without knowing how long he was there...I don’t think so. Too many variables.”

  “Thanks, Rickie. That’s good work.” No Penns River cop ever did bad work in Stush’s eyes. There was good work, and there were disappointments. To most of his cops, disappointing him was like disappointing a favorite uncle. “Let us know when you hear from the coroner and if anything else shakes loose. Willie, what’d you find in Homewood?”

  “Dick.” Willie Grabek didn’t have any favorite uncles. He knew too much to worry about favorites, and what he knew best was that he was the smartest guy in any room he walked into. “There’s a 628 North St. Clair, and a 632, but no 630. I asked around some guys I know in Homewood, Point Breeze, Wilkinsburg, the usual places. No one had a fixed address for him, but he was definitely selling H on the North Side. Some coke, too, but heroin was his gig.”

  “I didn’t think there was that much heroin sold in Pittsburgh,” Doc said.

  “It’s not like Baltimore, but if you bought any north of the river, Donte had a piece of it.”

  “Someone making a move on him?” Stush said.

  “Doesn’t look like it. What I heard yesterday was business as usual. Same hoppers on the same corners, no disruptions. No one knew of any troubles down there, and the gang squad says things have been peaceful.”

  “So, nothing,” Stush said.

  “Maybe not quite nothing. There was one rumor. No one would stand by it, but I heard it a couple places. You know how we thought for a while now the jigs in Pittsburgh got the stuff from Mike Mannarino? Well, word is Donte and Mike the Hook had a parting of the ways. No one will say anything for sure, but it’s possible—just possible, mind you—Donte was either going to switch, or had already switched suppliers.”

  “That would take quite a chunk out of Mannarino’s income,” Doc said.

  “If it’s true,” Stush said.

  “It makes sense,” Grabek said. “We know the homies will shoot each other up for any reason down there. Talk to the wrong girl, wear the wrong color white tee shirt, doesn’t matter. What they don’t do is use small caliber weapons and transport bodies. These yos want people to know who they did. Some homeboy shot Broaddus, he’d have at least a nine millimeter hole in his head and would’ve been left where he fell. This is too professional. White guys did this.”

  Everyone sat for a minute looking away from each other. Stush asked Doc if he had anything to add.

  “I talked to the watchman. All he did was find the body and call it in. Rest of the day I canvassed the houses that back up to the parking lot and wrote reports. No one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I didn’t expect they would,” Stush said. “They shot him wherever, so they could drop him off anytime they wanted. No rush, no commotion.”

  “Do we know what Broaddus drove?” Doc said. “We need to recreate his last day. Finding his car would make it a lot easier.”

  Neuschwander flipped some papers. “Nissan Maxima. Black. PA license O-G-R-I-D-E.”

  “Og ride?” Stush said.

  “O.G. ride,” Grabek said. “Original gangsta. O.G.”

  “Okay,” Stush said. “What now?”

  Doc re-established himself as primary before Grabek could speak. “Find the car. Willie, you know that area. You have the contacts. See what you can piece together about Broaddus’s last day.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Stush dismissed everyone but Doc. “I know you say you’re okay working with Grabek, but I have to ask. He ever do anything makes you wonder about him?”

  “In what way?”

  Stush played with a pen on his desk. “The way he talks sometimes. You ever see him do anything made you think he has a problem with blacks?”

  Doc sat. “It’s hard to say. I mean, I’ve seen him come down on some, but now that I think about it, they’re always suspects, and he comes down on white suspects, too. I was thinking for a second he’s a little brusque with them once in a while, but he’s like that with everybody once in a while. I can’t honestly say he’s worse with blacks than with anyone else. Of course, there’s not a lot of opportunity, either.”

  There wasn’t a lot of opportunity, not in Penns River. Seven percent of the population was black; less than one percent—combined—were Asian, Hispanic, or Other. The only American Indian anyone knew of in town was a cop, Lester Goodfoot, who liked working third shift because he claimed his heritage gave him better night vision than any criminal, though everyone knew he liked graveyard because no one minded if he grabbed a nap, so long as he responded when needed. Lester also claimed he could track a man across concrete and through the river. His primary endeavor was busting balls, reminding everyone he was the only Indian in town, how someday he’d scalp Eye Chart Zywiciel for calling him a godless heathen when he lost at poker.

  “If you say so,” Stush said. “You heard him just now.”

  “He’s like that sometimes. I’ve never seen him do anything extreme, though. I try to go by what people do, not what they say.”

  “No, no, you’re right. Willie’s about my age. When we grew up, you still heard people call them niggers and coloreds. Not to their faces, of course, but I never had the feeling people meant anything by it. Some did, sure, but things were different then. You’d call a guy with a bum leg a gimp. Now you can’t even say he’s crippled.”

  “I’ll pay attention if you want. I’m curious why it’s bothering you now.”

  “The way he was talking. He sounds like he might just be going through the motions. I don’t want him taking this case less seriously because it was some black kid got shot. He’s already focusing on Mannarino, and we don’t have a lot to go on yet.”

  “Willie’s always been like that. Grabs a hold of a logical connection early and runs with it. He’ll turn on a dime if something changes his mind and deny he ever thought the other way. Since you bring it up, you have any reason to think Mannarino didn’t do it? Far as I can see, Willie’s on the right track.”

  “No argument. I just don’t want him—any of us—to get so locked on we overlook anything else. I hope it’s not him. Mannarino, I mean. We’ll never close it if he had it done, and we need to close this one. The quicker the better.”

  “Casino people on you again?”

  “Not them directly, but they got people all over town ready to carry their water. All day yesterday I heard about what a big deal this is for the town, bring in money, bring in jobs. Christ, it’ll bring in more sunny weather to listen to some of them talk about it. Maybe it will. Hell, anything that brings in the kind of money that follows a casino has to be good, doesn’t it? The way things have been?” He blew his nose into a white handkerchief and inspected it. “You know what handkerchiefs are for, don’t you?”

  Doc knew, let Stush tell him. “A handkerchief is so you can carry something in your pocket you didn’t want in your nose.” Stush folded the handkerchief, put it away. “We can’t let that change how we do the job. We need the guilty party, not the guy who looks best in the perp walk.”

  “You catching hell again?” Last year’s double murders put Stush through the wringer. The deputy chief had been angling for the chief’s job since the day he was hired.