Judge & Jury - James Patterson [62]
“Pellisante,” she called.
“Yeah?”
“Do me a big favor. Try not to get yourself shot. Or even shot at.”
“I’ll talk to you later.” I smiled.
I went back to my place to shower and change. Sabbatical was over now. I was heading down to the Javits Building. On the cab ride I checked in with my buddies at the Bureau.
No sign of Cavello. That didn’t shock me. I knew, with the kind of planning they’d had, they’d have a perfect out.
We had located the getaway vehicle, though. The black Bronco was found in a vacant lot on Henry Street, not four blocks from the courthouse. Turned out it had been heisted two days before from a shopping mall on Staten Island. And the Jersey plates were pilfered too. We had the entire Eastern Seaboard virtually closed down. Every airport and bridge. Every port from Boston to Baltimore.
But Cavello could be just about anywhere now.
“There’s something else, Nick.” Ray Hughes exhaled. “Ralph Denunziatta’s sister was found late yesterday. She was shot in her home—right between the eyes. A neighbor who was apparently visiting with her was shot dead, too.”
“Christ!”
“Nine millimeter, same caliber that was used at the courthouse. We’re checking the ballistics now. But listen, it gets worse.”
“Worse? How can it get worse?”
“There was a kid there. The police found Denunziatta’s one-year-old grandniece in the kitchen.”
“Oh, come on, Ray.”
“She’s alive. But listen to this. She’s got severe burns over her face and hands. Hot-water burns, Nick. What kind of creeped-out monster is this, anyway? There was a note scribbled on the kid’s bib. The handwriting people are looking it over now.”
An explosive, tightening rage balled up in my gut. “What did it say?”
“It said, ‘I keep my promises.’”
Chapter 77
I WAS BURNING NOW, on fire.
I went home and took that shower. The whole time I kept thinking of Ralphie’s sister and that poor little one-year-old kid. On top of all the other things I was close to exploding about, now this horror. I sat there in my towel, staring at the photos of that animal Cavello I had stuck on the kitchen wall. The piles of useless accumulated evidence.
Until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I dressed and went and got my Saab out of the lot on Eleventh Avenue. But I wasn’t headed to the office.
It didn’t matter anymore about what was right or “appropriate” behavior.
I crossed the river through the Lincoln Tunnel and turned onto Route 3, to Secaucus, New Jersey. Secaucus was what came to my mind when they called New Jersey the “armpit of the universe.” Miles and miles of drive-in, big-box malls and fast-food franchises, stuck in between a toxic swamp and the Jersey Turnpike.
About a mile down 3, I pulled into the lot of a drab, two-story cinder-block building I knew well. United Workers of Electrical Contractors of New Jersey.
Local 407. Cavello’s outfit.
I opened the glass door and went straight past the startled receptionist, flashing my FBI shield. “I’m going up to see Frankie Delsavio.”
The receptionist jumped up. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t just. . . .”
I didn’t even wait for her to finish the sentence.
Two broad-shouldered men, who figured this as their job description, jumped out of their chairs to block my way.
“Don’t even try it,” I said as one of them stretched an arm out in front of me. My eyes were flashing and probably a little crazy. “You understand?”
“Mr. Delsavio’s not around,” the goon grunted, looking as if he had flunked the screen test for The Sopranos. Too fucking large.
I shoved my ID in his face. “This is the last time I say this nicely. Get out of my way.”
I hustled up the stairs, moving on pure adrenaline. Everyone in the building was probably connected. Feds didn’t burst in here alone, without backup.
The second floor was filled with union offices. Cavello’s people who got the cushy assignments, doing nothing but collecting cash. I went down the hall as the bozos from the lobby followed behind. A few secretaries looked up, trying to figure