“I don’t suppose he’s one of the stiffs in the restaurant,” Erin said without much hope.
“We’re not that lucky,” Vic said. “Do we want to talk to him?”
“Wrong question,” Webb said. “I think we’d all be happy never to see him again. But we may have to lean on him a little. Not that it’ll do any good. He won’t tell us a thing. Probably best to leave him out of it.”
“So it’s definitely a mob hit,” Erin said. “Who’s got a bone to pick with the Lucarellis? What side of the business was Conti in?”
“Narcotics,” Vic said. “He did some time for possession, but that was a long time ago. Nowadays I don’t think he was actually touching the product.”
“This wasn’t a drug rip anyway,” Webb said. “The shooters didn’t steal anything.”
“That we know of,” Erin put in. “Maybe the guys in back had something and the fourth shooter got it.”
“Okay,” Webb said. “Let’s get in with our underworld contacts. Find out who’s on the outs with the Lucarellis.”
“I’ll talk to Narcotics,” Vic said. “See if they’ve got anything.”
Erin knew where this was going. “I’ve got a couple guys I can talk to,” she said. “Maybe they know something.”
Somehow, she always came back to the Irish Mob.
Chapter 3
The closest bar to Erin’s apartment was the Barley Corner. She’d inherited her father’s fondness for good whiskey, and the Corner stocked the very best. As an added incentive, her drinks there were on the house, ever since she’d saved the pub, and its owner, from being blown apart. On top of that was the fact that the owner, Morton Carlyle, was her boyfriend. And right now, he was one of her best sources into what might have sparked the vicious mob hit.
The Corner was always full of Irish wiseguys, which was awkward. But most of those who knew about her were under the impression she was Carlyle’s insider with the NYPD. It pissed her off that anyone would think she was dirty, but it was a necessary deception to preserve Carlyle’s safety. On balance, it came out to a plus. Barely.
Erin parked in the police space near the pub, got Rolf in hand, and went in. The place was full of big tattooed guys with a scattering of girlfriends. They were watching a martial-arts match on the bar’s big-screen TVs, cheering a pair of sweaty, muscular goons who were beating the crap out of each other.
She threaded through the crowd to the bar. There sat Carlyle, slender, handsome, impeccably dressed in his customary suit and tie, elbows on the bar, watching the room. He saw her immediately, and Erin felt a rush of pleasure at the way his eyes lit up. He stood as she approached, always the old-school gentleman.
“Erin, darling,” he said. “I’d hoped to see you, but I’d no idea you were coming around this afternoon. I’d thought you’d be visiting with your mum and da, seeing as they’re in town. What can I get for you?”
She flashed him a smile. “Nothing for me, thanks. I’m working.”
His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes became concerned, almost wary. “As am I, darling. It’s a shame the city doesn’t permit you the same latitude it extends to publicans.”
“You really think that’s a good idea?” she replied. “A bunch of cops getting boozed up and running around Manhattan armed to the teeth?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened in this fair city.”
“That doesn’t make it smart.”
He nodded. “What’s this about, then?”
“I think you already know.” Carlyle’s sources of information were quick and competent. Erin suspected she wasn’t the only voice from the NYPD that came to his ears.
“The unpleasantness in Little Italy?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know that I can be much assistance on the subject.”
“Marco Conti,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “What is it you’re wanting to know?”
“Who is he?”
“I’ve no doubt your department has a file on him.”
“So he’s a wiseguy.”
Carlyle smiled thinly. “Did I say that?”
Erin smiled back. She wouldn’t admit it, but she’d gotten to enjoy their verbal fencing matches. “You said we had a file on him.”
“Your department has files on a number of citizens,” he observed. “Not all of them are in the Life.”
“But Conti was.”
“I see you’re speaking of him in the past tense.”
“Does that bother you?”
Carlyle’s shoulders moved in the slightest hint of a shrug. “Not particularly.”
“He was a Lucarelli,” she said, marveling at the way they could have a conversation like this in the middle of a crowded bar. The noise and activity around them acted as a screen, giving them a weird privacy in plain view.
He nodded. “I’d say that’s common knowledge.”
“He got whacked today,” she went on. “Thoroughly.”
“In my experience,” he said dryly, “that sort of thing is either successful, or it’s not.”
“Someone wanted him dead bad enough to take down a whole building, and everyone inside it.”
“How are you sure he was the intended recipient, if that’s the case?”
“They were waiting for him. They torched the joint, and when he ran out the back, a triggerman was waiting. He was targeted. Specifically.”
“What is it you’re wanting from me, Erin?”
“I want to know what Conti was into,” she said. “What side of the Lucarelli business did he work? Who wanted him out of the picture? Was it an internal job, or someone from outside his family? And what the hell did he do that warranted burning a whole building and killing a bunch of people just to get to him? They had to know the kind of heat that’d bring down. This is going to be a top priority. I mean, straight up to the Commissioner.”
Carlyle rubbed his chin. “I see your point,” he said quietly. “I’d no dealings with the man. His business is—was, I should say—the import and distribution of the sort of item you encountered the last time you brushed up against his people.”
Erin nodded. Her previous encounter with the Lucarellis had been
