Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [85]
I doubted the absence of my name would keep Napoli off my trail if he got a description of me, and I knew Lopez would quickly realize who “the Doc” was. So I decided to hope the subject just never came up.
“Well,” I said, “at least Vinny’s story about Danny’s death will sound so crazy, the cops will probably be fully occupied with trying to figure out how he died.”
Lucky shook his head. “Nah, it’s going to sound like what the cops hear all the time when they’re poking their noses into mob hits.” In response to my puzzled frown, he said, “Nobody saw nothin’.”
“Oh,” I said as I realized what he meant. “Oh.”
“They’ll think Vinny’s just covering up when he claims that a killer with a shotgun got past him and the Corvino soldiers unseen, blew Danny away, and disappeared without a trace.” He shrugged. “Business as usual. And you can bet he won’t tell them the vault was closed and locked when Danny died. Anyone raised by the Corvinos will know better than to confuse the cops with unnecessary details.”
“Hmm.” I saw Lucky’s point. The story the cops heard at Vino Vincenzo would sound much more mundane than one we had heard. “Poor Vinny. Either way, I think he’s in for a very long interview with Detective Napoli.”
“Probably. But even though he’s pretty shaken up, he knows the score. He won’t mention us to the cops.” Lucky sat down by the fireplace, too. “And when I called Father Gabriel, I told him to say that Vinny is the one who asked him to come. So he won’t drag me into it, either.”
“You called Father Gabriel?” I said. “For a death all the way out in Brooklyn?”
“It’s one of the five boroughs,” Lucky said. “Not exactly a distant region. Anyhow, he was Danny’s priest. That’s who you call when a guy kicks the bucket—his own priest.”
“Oh, really? When you murdered Elena’s second husband, did you call his priest?”
“No. You don’t call for the priest when you’re the one who whacked the deceased,” Lucky snapped. “When are you going to get off my back about Sally Fatico?”
“Who?” I said blankly.
“Elena’s second husband!”
I frowned. “She married a man named Sally?”
“Salvatore.”
“Oh.”
Max and Nelli came over to the alcove to join us. Nelli had a large rawhide bone in her mouth. Max was carrying a tray with some cookies and coffee cups on it. “I’ve just started a pot brewing.”
“I’m so confused,” I said wearily.
“That’s understandable,” Max said. “The situation is most perplexing.”
Nelli lay down and started chewing on her bone.
“I gather that activity helps her think.” Max added with a touch of resentment, “In any case, at least it keeps her from chewing on my belongings.”
“Something’s bugging me.” Lucky rubbed his forehead. “The way these guys are dying . . . in a sense, they’re very ordinary hits. Shot through the heart in a restaurant. Hit on the head and dumped in the river. A shotgun in the face. It’s work-a-day stuff.”
“Oh, good grief,” I said in disgust.
“No, let him continue, Esther,” Max said.
“What I mean is,” Lucky said, with an irritated glance at me, “the killer is either an ordinary wiseguy, or someone who wants us to think he’s an ordinary wiseguy.”
“Oh, well, that narrows it down.”
“I really wish your cop boyfriend would do something to put you in a better mood,” Lucky grumbled at me.
Before I could reply, Max said, “Let’s not quarrel. What are you getting at, Lucky?”
“These hits are exactly how these things are done in our business. Except for . . .”
“The mystical elements,” Max said.
“Right,” Lucky said. “And it’s finally occurred to me to wonder why.”
“Hmm.” Max stroked his beard. “Interesting.”
“A person or a thing that can make doppelgangsters and commit impossible murders without even being seen . . .” Lucky frowned. “Why aren’t the hits . . . I dunno. More creative? More original? If you can spook Danny Dapezzo with a doppelgangster and slip unseen through a locked steel door, then why just blow him away with a shotgun, like any dim-witted foot