Chapter 88
CHAPTER
The deeper we got into December, the bigger and more uncomfortable Maria became and the more excited and boisterous Damon turned in anticipation of Christmas.
He’d caught on to the concept of presents at his last birthday and was using that word and the word candy more and more as we closed in on the twenty-fifth of the month.
Maria had officially started her maternity leave and wasn’t sleeping well, which meant I wasn’t sleeping well either. But I was still getting up to take care of Damon while she rested.
I was yawning and drinking a strong cup of coffee at my desk downtown on December 23 when John Sampson plopped another stack of files in front of me.
“More evidence against Diggs and Beech,” he said.
Chief George Pittman had made his way into the squad room. “It’s a slam dunk now. Diggs is going to fry, and Beech? Who knows?”
“Chief—” I began.
“That’s over for now, Cross. I have a new case for you and Sampson.”
Pittman said he’d been contacted by the chief of homicide for NYPD in Brooklyn.
“They’re dealing with a gangland slaying up there, an Italian Mob hit that might have ties down here,” the chief said, putting a piece of paper with a phone number on it on my desk. “Detective’s name is Slattery. He’s waiting for your call.”
I could tell it was an order, so I nodded, told Sampson to get on the same line, and punched in the NYPD detective’s number on my desk phone.
“Damian Slattery, Homicide,” said a harried voice.
“Alex Cross and John Sampson, DC Homicide,” I said. “Our bosses thought we should talk.”
“Yeah, that’s affirmative, Detectives, and I appreciate the call back,” Slattery said, and he gave us a brief intro to his case.
Late the afternoon before, Aldo Ricci, a lieutenant in the Capula crime family, had been found dead—beaten and skinned in places—near the back of a junkyard. The consensus among investigators was that the murder was the work of the rival Maggione syndicate.
“But no one’s talking on either side, Capula or Maggione. Least of all to me, a mick.”
Sampson said, “That’s how it still goes up there?”
“Being Italian helps in certain circles; being Irish helps in others,” he said matter-of-factly. “Which is why I don’t think the killer was a Maggione soldier.”
“Contract killer?” I said.
“A very specific one,” Slattery said. “His name is Michael Sullivan, but he goes by a dozen aliases. In Ireland and at Scotland Yard, they call him ‘the Butcher of Sligo.’ Likes to leave a calling card like flaying skin off his victims before and after death.”
Slattery said Sullivan was last known to be working in Europe, but the way Aldo Ricci was beaten and his skin taken off his back, the NYPD detective was fairly sure they were dealing with the Butcher.
“But you could help me nail that down by visiting Aldo’s brother Emilio,” Slattery said. “He lives in DC. He does not know that his brother is dead. We have not announced the killing yet.”
“Give us an address,” Sampson said, “and we’re on our way.”