He’s a man who puts criminals in jail. And I also see that he is very fond of you.” She opened one eye and peered at Sarah slyly. “And you, I think, are very fond of him.”
“I think,” Sarah said, “that from now on, I will only serve you coffee.”
Frank was getting tired of Mulberry Bend. Once again he came in the early evening, just as the sun was setting. He’d spent most of last night with Ugo Ianuzzi and learned enough to know the Black Hand probably had nothing to do with Emilia Donato’s death. Except for the weapon used – a thin-bladed stiletto – nothing else pointed to this group.
Emilia’s father was a laborer on the garbage scows, men who were known as rag pickers. They’d acquired this nickname because while their job was to level the loads of refuse as it was loaded onto the barges that would carry it out to be dumped into the sea, they were also allowed to pick through it for anything that might be of value to keep and sell. Most of what they found was rags, which could be cleaned and fashioned into rugs or stuffed into furniture or mattresses. The “cleaning,” of course, usually consisted of merely hanging the rags on clotheslines and letting the rain and sun do their work. Men who did this kind of labor owed their jobs to
From what he’d learned of Emilia’s brother, he was a crippled beggar, likewise unlikely to have been involved with the Secret Society. Emilia’s lover Ugo, while a bit more successful, paid his protection money and kept in the Black Hand’s good graces. Even if he didn’t, killing his discarded mistress would hardly intimidate him.
That left the pimp who had exploited Emilia. Ugo had said his name was Lucca. Nobody seemed to know his last name. He wasn’t industrious or successful enough to keep a brothel. He exerted himself only to seduce young women and coerce them into prostituting themselves. Then he was content to live off the earnings of his latest victim.
Lucca had a tiny flat in one of the old Dutch houses, according to Ugo. Frank found the place easily enough. The elements had scoured the wooden siding clean of paint years ago, and the planks were now warped and rotting. Some of the windows hung crooked in their frames, the glass threatening to slide out with the slightest encouragement. Lucca rented part of the attic, which meant Frank had to trudge up the filthy, rickety stairs to the third floor. Halfway up the final flight, he could hear an argument going on above.
A woman was pleading and crying while a man was shouting and threatening. Frank could tell this easily, even though he didn’t understand a word of the language in which they conversed. He’d heard countless arguments just like it in many languages, and they were always the same. He quickened his step, hoping to interrupt it before its inevitable conclusion, but he wasn’t fast enough. The sound of flesh striking flesh, followed by a cry of pain and hysterical weeping, came to him just as he reached the top of the stairs.
The man’s voice rose to be heard above her weeping, shouting a warning and another threat. Frank reached the door and pounded on it before he could strike another blow.
“Open up,” he shouted. “Police.”
The door opened immediately, and the man stared back at him defiantly. He wore dirty trousers with the suspenders hanging down around his hips, and a yellowed undershirt. Although slight of stature, he’d planted himself squarely in the doorway and glared at Frank as if daring him to make trouble for what was obviously nobody else’s business.
“Lucca?” Frank asked and saw the instant of surprise register on the man’s face before he could collect himself.
“Not here,” he claimed, lifting his chin impudently. He was vaguely handsome, the way a snake can be called beautiful, no matter how dangerous it might be. The woman was still sobbing pitifully in the background.
“Maybe the lady knows where he is,” Frank suggested mildly, tilting his head to look over Lucca’s shoulder. He could see her sitting on the bed, cradling her cheek in one hand and rocking back and forth to comfort herself.
“She know nothing,” Lucca insisted. “Not here. Come back later.”
Frank looked him up and down. He wasn’t a big man, and what weight he had was soft. “I don’t want to come back later,” Frank said, still not raising his voice. That was why Lucca wasn’t prepared when Frank lunged at him. In one swift move, he threw the man off balance, caught his arm, and twisted it around his back. He propelled Lucca across the small room and slammed him face-first into the wall.
The woman screamed. Frank spared her a glance and was surprised to see she was no more than a girl, probably only fourteen at most. She stared at Frank, eyes filled with terror, her tears forgotten. “Get out of here,” he told her.
She blinked, either too frightened to understand or else she didn’t speak English. “Tell her to get out,” he said to Lucca, twisting his arm a little higher to encourage his cooperation.
Lucca howled with pain, but he said something to the girl in Italian, his voice high and strained.
She started to protest, but he cut her off sharply. Even though she wasn’t dressed for the street, she snatched up a jacket and hurried out. Her footsteps echoed lightly down the stairs and faded away.
“What you want?” Lucca asked. His voice was a little muffled because his face was still smashed against the wall.
“I want to know why you killed Emilia Donato,” Frank said.
“Who?” he asked.
Frank didn’t like people who tried to be coy with him. He gave Lucca’s arm another twist. When he’d stopped screaming, Frank said, “Emilia Donato,” very deliberately.
“Who is this girl?” he asked quickly, before Frank could encourage him again. “I do not know her!”
Was it possible Frank had found the wrong man? “Yellow hair. Emilia. She got sick, and you threw her out,” he tried.
“Oh, si, yes, I know her now!” he assured Frank hastily. “She not here long. I forget!”
Frank wanted to smash his head right through the wall. Couldn’t he at least have the decency to remember their names? “Tell me about her, Lucca,” he suggested instead, his voice dangerously low.
“She lazy girl. No work.”
“You mean she wouldn’t walk the streets?”
“She cry. Say she sick. No go out.”
“So you slapped her around like you did that girl just now?” Frank asked.
“Lazy girl,” he defended himself. “No work. Must work, get money.”
“So you made her go out to make money for you,” Frank offered.
“She go but no make money. Stay out all night. Afraid come home. Afraid I mad. Stay out all night in rain. Get sick.” He shrugged. “What I do? She no can work. I send her away.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Long time. Can’t tell. Long, long time!” he insisted. “She nothing to me. Why you come here?”
“Because somebody killed her two days ago.”
Now the seriousness of his situation was finally sinking in. “Why I kill her?” he cried. “She nothing to me!”
“Because she met you on Thursday morning. She wanted you to see her new dress. She wanted you to see how pretty she was and make you sorry you threw her out. She made you angry, so you stabbed her to death.”
“No!” he cried frantically. “I no see her, long time! She nothing to me. She go to mission. I no see no more. I think she die. I no kill. Why I kill? She nothing to me!”
Either he was a better liar than he had a right to be or he was telling the truth. Frank was afraid he was telling the truth. Coming here had been a long shot in any case, but he’d run out of suspects. No one, it seemed, had any reason to want Emilia Donato dead.
Maybe if he had some more time, he could figure it out, but they’d told him yesterday at Headquarters to close the case. Emilia’s parents weren’t going to offer a reward or pressure the police to do anything. Even they didn’t care that she was dead. No one cared.
No one except Sarah Brandt.
Frank didn’t ask himself why he was walking down Bank Street. If he didn’t ask himself, he wouldn’t have to make up a lie to satisfy his pride. The truth was, he only needed the slightest excuse to come here, and this time his excuse was pretty substantial.
