retinue of accompanying thugs acting more like keepers than the bodyguards they were. Police attempts to question him were often met with blank, drooling stares. The media, of course, loved the act, and had even dubbed him “the Bathrobe Don.”
Devlin had gone after Rossi on his last high-profile case, the death of socialite Natasha Winter. But the don had again proved too elusive. He had entered a private sanitarium, and had managed to wiggle free of the various crimes surrounding that death, including a near-successful attempt on Devlin’s life.
Now Rossi seemed to be at the center of the storm. Five of his underlings had been gunned down in the past two months, all supposed victims of a gang war between Rossi and the rival Columbo crime family. The media had beaten those war drums with uncontrolled gusto, until the mayor had ordered Devlin to take over the investigation and, hopefully, calm public concern. But there was little Devlin could do. It was a one-sided war, with Rossi allegedly hiding out in his Brooklyn home, under the personal protection of his top enforcer, Mattie “the Knife” Ippolito, the don, himself, said to be too ill to direct an effective counterattack.
If true, it was a plus as far as Devlin was concerned. In the past Rossi would have had the backing of the powerful Gambino crime family, headed by his nephew, Donatello Torelli. This time, however, the Gambino soldiers had remained on the sidelines, either unwilling or unable to help. Devlin took personal satisfaction in Rossi’s “family” problems. Two years ago he had put Rossi’s nephew behind bars, helping to weaken the ties between the Rossi and Gambino factions. At the time Rossi had sworn vengeance for that arrest, and Devlin was certain the attempt on his life had been the result of that oath. Now, despite Mayor Howie Silver’s interest in ending the war, Devlin was privately rooting for the Columbo family, hoping its thugs would find a way to send the Bathrobe Don to that great cannoli factory in the sky.
“Don’t count Rossi out yet,” Pitts said.
Devlin wondered if Pitts was reading his mind. He took Pitts by the arm and led him away from the body. “It’s been a long time since we paid John the Boss a call,” he said.
Pitts nodded. “Not very respectful of us. You thinking about a ride out to Brooklyn?”
Devlin looked back at the body of Vinnie Big Head and pursed his lips. “This thing isn’t going anywhere. Not unless we find ourselves a suicidal witness who can ID the shooters.” He turned back to Pitts. “Tell the other guys to canvas the area, just in case. Then you and I will make a little house call on the Bathrobe Don.”
“Maybe we should take an enema bottle in case the old fuck really is sick.” Pitts grinned at him. “Besides, it’s a lovely day to visit Brooklyn, and there’s nothing I like better than an afternoon drive to a grease factory.” He watched Devlin narrow one eye at the ethnic slur and laughed. “Hey, I’ll be good. I promise. I just wanna detect and solve, just like Hizzoner told us.”
Devlin looked away and shook his head. Pitts was incorrigible. And the mayor was living a pipe dream. Detect and solve-the actual words the mayor had used at his press conference announcing that Devlin’s special unit would investigate the latest mob bloodbath. It sounded wonderful. In newsprint. But right now the mayor would have to settle for half a loaf. Detection was the best Devlin could offer. The solution the mayor wanted-or the resolution- wouldn’t come for another month or two … when the wiseguys got tired of killing each other. He jerked a thumb toward their unmarked car.
“Let’s go detect,” he said.
Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi’s home was a stately, three-story pile of bricks situated behind a high, thick hedge on Brooklyn’s Ocean Parkway. The house was only three miles from Coney Island, and Pitts had already put in a request that they drive to Nathan’s and “scarf down a couple of hot dogs” before returning to Manhattan.
Pitts was an enormous man who ate like there were two of him. He was six-two, and an easy two hundred and thirty pounds, and despite a protruding gut, everything about him was solid and formidable. He had a bristling crew cut and a square, flat street fighter’s face, and the largest pair of hands Devlin had ever seen. They were the kind of hands that would look comfortable holding nothing less than a leg of lamb.
He also had one of the worst personnel jackets Devlin had ever read. A twenty-seven-year man who had specialized in homicide most of his career, Pitts had a long list of brutality complaints-none ever proven-to go with an equally impressive record of arrests and convictions. He was forty-eight years old, three years shy of a three- quarter-pay pension, and most of the other bosses in the department believed he would be bounced off the force before he ever reached it. Devlin thought he was the best working street detective on his squad.
Pitts parked their unmarked car in front of Rossi’s driveway, effectively blocking any exit, and smiled at the two goons guarding the entrance. They were both in their early thirties, and despite the July heat, each of their wide bodies was covered by a windbreaker. Pitts had no doubt about what the jackets were concealing.
One of the goons took two steps forward. “Move the fuckin’ car,” he snapped.
Pitts turned to Devlin and shook his head. “Do you believe this shit? Every fucking garbanzo street punk in this city can spot an unmarked car three blocks away. These two ‘Mafia killers’ “-he made quotes in the air to surround the words-“they think we’re here to visit our fucking guinea aunt, who lives across the street.”
“Disabuse them of the notion,” Devlin said.
Pitts displayed his detective’s shield from the breast pocket of his suit coat, then pushed open the door. He emerged from the car like a bull entering a Spanish bullring, took three quick steps to the man who had spoken, grabbed him with one ham-sized hand, and propelled him toward the trunk of the car.
“Spread ‘em, asshole,” he growled. He turned to the second man. “Join him, you piece of dog shit, before I put my foot halfway up your ass.”
When Devlin reached the back of the car, Pitts had already relieved the pair of matching Browning nine- millimeter automatics. Devlin handed Pitts his pair of cuffs and inclined his head toward the center of the car. Pitts grinned and quickly lowered the driver and passenger windows, then used his cuffs and Devlin’s to manacle the men hand to hand so their arms were encircling the centerpost of the car.
“We got fuckin’ licenses for them pieces,” one of the men shouted.
Pitts reached out and pinched his cheek. “That’s good, Cheech. You show ‘em to us when we come out.”
“Hey, you can’t leave us here like sittin’ fuckin’ ducks.” It was the second man. His voice sounded like gravel rolling around in a dryer.
Pitts gave him a cold grin. “Quack, quack,” he said.
Rossi’s front door was opened by a woman so frail and ancient that her skin seemed nearly transparent. There was no smile or hint of welcome on her weathered face, and her soft brown eyes turned hard and glaring as she took in the inspector’s shield that Devlin held out to her.
“Don Giovanni is sick. Go away,” she snapped.
Devlin tried a smile, but it only caused the woman to step forward, further blocking their way. “I can’t just go away,” he said softly. “Please tell Mr. Rossi that Inspector Devlin and Detective Pitts are here to see him.”
“It’s all right, Anna.”
The voice came from behind the woman. Devlin looked past her into the foyer and saw Mattie “the Knife” Ippolito standing in the doorway of an adjoining room.
Ippolito didn’t look like a mob enforcer, especially one whose personal body count would supposedly fill a small warehouse. He was tall and slender, with thin, ascetic features, and Devlin had always thought he could pass for a Catholic priest if you dressed him in a Roman collar. Only his weasel’s eyes gave him away. He’d be a priest who’d happily steal the congregation’s bingo money.
Devlin approached the man and found that he was now blocking the way to the next room. At six-one, Ippolito stood fairly even with Devlin, but gave away a good twenty pounds.
“You want to take us to the Bathrobe, Mattie?” Devlin made the suggestion with a small, hard-eyed smile. “Or should I just toss you out of the way and find him myself?”
Ippolito shook his head with mock sadness. “Hey, we could be nice about this, you know? Don Giovanni, he’s sick, just like the old lady tol’ you. All I’m asking here is a little respect.”
“Hey, Mattie, we could respectfully drag his ass down to headquarters. How about that?” Pitts had come up beside Devlin, hovering like some intimidating specter ready to be unleashed.
“All right. All right. Let them in. We’ll have the place fumigated later.”
Devlin smiled at the sound of Rossi’s crackling, rasping voice. Pitts’s suggestion mat they drag him down to headquarters had momentary merit. It would be a waste of time, of course. It would prove useful only if Columbo- family hit men were waiting when he left One Police Plaza. But the mayor would not be amused by a mob shoot-out
