“Sir?” Erin asked.
“What the hell happened?” Vic asked.
“Paulie Bianchi went home,” Webb said. “When he went inside his family apartment, someone was waiting for him. They put two bullets in the back of his head.”
“He dead?” Vic asked.
Webb gave him a look. “You know many guys who live through two in the head? Of course he’s dead.”
“When did it happen?” Erin asked.
“Sometime in the last half hour,” Webb said. “You’ll never guess who called 911.”
They waited.
“Rocky Nicoletti,” Webb said. He went over to see his buddy, found the door open, Paulie on the floor with his brains, such as they were, spread out around him.”
“I’m a little surprised Rocky called the cops,” Vic said.
“You think Rocky’s the one who shot him?” Erin asked.
“Could be,” Webb said. “But I don’t think even that kid’s dumb enough to shoot his buddy and then call us. We’ll check him for gunpowder residue to make sure.”
“You want me over there?” Erin asked.
“Nah, you stay put, O’Reilly,” Webb said. “I’ll go with Neshenko. He deserves to get out of the office every now and then. Besides, we’re not going to make an arrest.”
“How do you know?” Vic asked.
“This was a Mob hit,” Webb sighed. “The guy who did it is long gone, with an alibi already in place.”
“I don’t get it,” Vic said. “Why whack Paulie? He was nothing, just a small-time piece of shit.”
“Maybe someone thought he knew something,” Webb said. “Unfortunately, we can’t very well ask him.”
Erin stopped listening. Her mind was spinning as she realized what had happened. “Oh God,” she said.
“Erin?” Vic said. “You okay? Shit, Lieutenant, she’s gonna faint!”
“No, I’m not,” she said, but for a moment, she’d felt the donut and coffee trying to come back up. They’d arrested Paulie Bianchi on a drug charge. Then, just a few hours later, the NYPD had busted a significant heroin shipment meant for Bianchi’s people, and she’d told SNEU it was on a tip. Then, the following morning, who’d walked out of jail, free and clear? From a mobster’s perspective, it couldn’t have been clearer. Vinnie the Oil Man had interpreted events the only way he could, and arrived at the logical, if incorrect, conclusion. And he’d taken the action any good Mafia don would.
“You sure you’re okay?” Vic asked. “You looked like a goddamn ghost.”
“You sick, O’Reilly?” Webb asked, looking at her with concern.
“No, I’m fine,” she said. “It was Vinnie. He’s our guy.”
“No shit,” Vic said.
“Not that we’ll be able to prove it,” Webb added. “Damn, I hate these cases. Even when we know who had it done, we can’t nail them. Mob hits are the worst. Come on, Neshenko. Count yourself lucky, O’Reilly. We’re just going to go through the motions, I’m afraid.”
Erin nodded numbly, still trying to untangle what she could and couldn’t tell her fellow detectives.
Chapter 17
Webb and Vic trailed back into Major Crimes three long hours later. Erin was plugging away at her DD-5s, trying to pretend she wasn’t thinking about Paulie Bianchi. Rolf was napping on his blanket next to her desk.
“Got anything?” she asked, a little too quickly.
“The Lieutenant’s got jack,” Vic said, “and I’ve got shit to go with it.”
“No witnesses,” Webb said. “The weapon was a nine-millimeter automatic, two shots. Levine says the shots were almost contact close, entrance wounds just behind the right ear, powder tattooing around the wounds.”
“Execution-style,” Erin said.
“Exit wounds took off half his damn face,” Vic said. “Hell of a mess. Closed casket for sure.”
“Looks like the shooter was waiting for him behind the front door,” Webb continued. “He came in and didn’t even have time to see the guy. Probably never knew what hit him. CSU’s going over the scene, but it looked pretty clean. Professional.”
“And we got no motive,” Vic added.
“Of course we have a motive,” Webb said. “Someone must’ve told Paulie’s boss he’d talked to us, cut a deal.”
“Nina’s the one who cut the deal,” Erin said.
“That’s a fine distinction,” Webb said. “We should’ve had protection on Paulie.” He sighed. “Damn it, I should’ve guessed this would happen. I just figured Paulie wasn’t important to anyone but his mom. I got tunnel vision.”
“We all screwed up,” Erin said.
“Speak for yourself,” Vic said. “My conscience is clean as a newborn baby.”
“Newborn babies come out kind of slimy,” Erin said. “And covered with blood.”
“Okay, bad example,” Vic said. “But I didn’t kill this idiot, and I didn’t get him killed. We know Vinnie Moreno had him killed.”
“We suspect that,” Webb corrected. “But I don’t see any other reasonable theory. And unlike Lorenzo Bianchi, Vincenzo Moreno is the subject of a RICO investigation.”
“I don’t believe it,” Vic said. “You’re throwing this one to the Feebies? Jesus, boss, this is a New York homicide!”
“RICO is the only way to stick a higher-up with a hit like this,” Webb said. “There’ll be three layers of insulation between Vinnie and the triggerman. Unless the Feds flip someone in the chain, there’s no way the Oil Man takes the rap for this.”
“So that’s it?” Erin said. “Not our case?”
“Not our case,” Webb agreed. “I don’t like it either, but we’ve got no choice.”
“It’ll take five years,” Vic grumbled. “And then they’ll get him on some sorry shit like tax evasion.”
“That worked on Capone,” Webb reminded him. “So unless you’re requesting a transfer to the FBI’s White Collar Crime program, Neshenko, we’re packing it in. We’ll send our files to the FBI and call it good.”
Erin said nothing. She told herself it didn’t matter why Vinnie thought what he did; what mattered was that he’d had Paulie killed. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She stood up. Rolf, always attentive, bounced to his feet and wagged his tail.
“Where you going?” Vic asked.
“I gotta take care of something,” she said.
“Police business, or personal?” Webb asked.
Both, she thought. “Personal,” she said.
Webb shrugged. “It’s about lunchtime anyway. Can you be back in an hour?”
“Sure.
