Free Damaged Goods by Stephen Solomita

book. “Yeah, I’ll get him.” He leaned back through the open doorway, yelled, “Detective Tilley. You got a visitor.”
    Jim Tilley appeared a moment later. He smiled apologetically as he explained why he couldn’t get his friend inside. “It’s not my squeal, Stanley. I’m a beggar here, myself.”
    Moodrow nodded thoughtfully, just as if the smell of blood drifting through the open door wasn’t calling to him like the sirens called Ulysses. “I understand. What’s the connection with Sappone?”
    “The victim inside is Carol Pierce. She was a witness in the case that put Sappone away.”
    “No shit. And the one outside?”
    “Her boyfriend. Guy named Patsy Gullo.”
    “Gullo works for Carmine Stettecase.”
    Tilley leaned back against the wall. He pulled a stick of chewing gum from his shirt pocket, took his time getting it into his mouth. “What can I say, Stanley? I’m impressed. Is there anybody you don’t know?”
    Moodrow shrugged. “Look, Betty’s plane was delayed and I have to meet Leonora at the hospital in a half hour. Why don’t we get down to business. Do you have a witness who can make Sappone?”
    “Are you kidding? We got a balding white male between twenty-five and forty-five years of age. Five-six to six feet tall. Hair gray or blonde or brown. Driving or being driven in a white, blue, or light green Toyota, Chevy, Nissan …”
    “Okay, Jim. I heard enough. What about Carol Pierce? I can smell the blood from out here.”
    Tilley looked serious for the first time. He spoke through pinched lips. “The prick took her apart with a can opener. He taped her mouth and hands, then dragged her into the bathroom. There was no sign of a struggle.”
    “That’s not Jilly’s style.”
    “Maybe not. Gullo was taken out with a single shot to the head. A pure mob hit.”
    Moodrow touched the bandage on the back of his head. The wound was healing, the stitches pulling tight. “Sappone had a partner when he took Buster Levy. It’s gotta be someone he knew in the joint. Anybody working on that?”
    “Yeah, me. I got a call in to the warden’s office in Attica. Prisoners don’t mingle with each other at Southport.” Tilley pushed himself away from the wall. “Look, I got no reason to hang around here. Give me a second to say good-bye and I’ll drive you over to the hospital.”
    “I got a question,” Moodrow said, “that keeps coming back to me.” He was sitting next to Jim Tilley, staring down at a prison photo of Jilly Sappone. Taken five years ago, it revealed a cleanshaven, balding man with a sharp, bent nose and a thick, prominent chin. “How did Sappone get out of prison? Leonora told me the board turned him down, then reversed itself. How often does that happen?”
    Tilley pulled the Dodge out in front of a taxi, endured the blaring response. “Don’t know, Stanley. I just get ’em into prison. Letting ’em out isn’t up to me.”
    “Yeah, fine.” Moodrow continued to stare down at the photograph. He traced the lines on Sappone’s brow, from the edge of his forehead to the sharp delta between his eyes. “Look, I’ve got a bad feeling about the parole board.”
    “You think somebody reached them?”
    Moodrow shook his head. “The problem is I can’t see who or how. Carmine wouldn’t do it, even if he had the muscle. And if Jilly ratted to get himself an early parole, why hasn’t anyone been arrested? Where’s the Grand Jury investigation?” He paused for a moment, shook his head again. “I wanna play it safe. Don’t tell anybody at the house where Ann Kalkadonis is staying. The hospital or where she goes later. Nobody.”
    “Might be too late for that.” Tilley passed on the details of Sappone’s phone call to the two agents, Ewing and Holtzmann. He made no attempt to convey the quality of the experience, mentioning Sappone’s Jekyll-and-Hyde mood swing in the same matter-of-fact tone he used to state the man’s final demand. “The fibbies decided they