Free The Iceman by Anthony Bruno Page B

help. Sometimes he worked as a killer for hire; sometimes the killings were his own doing. Sometimes it was business; sometimes it was just blind rage. He was known to have used weapons as small as a two-shot derringer and as large as a twelve-gauge shotgun. On at least two occasions he’d killed with hand grenades. He’d used baseball bats, tire irons, rope, wire, knives, ice picks, screwdrivers, even his bare hands when necessary. And for some reason that no one could quite figure out, he kept one of his victims frozen solid for over two years before he dumped the body, which earned him the nickname Iceman in New Jersey police circles after he became the prime suspect in that murder. But according to state police reports, one of Kuklinski’s favorite methods was cyanide poisoning. Dominick knew from sixteen years of working undercover that you never take any criminal lightly, but Richard Kuklinski was unlike any other bad guy he’d ever encountered. He was not a demented serial killer; killing apparently did not satisfy any kind of psychosexual need for him. Sometimes he killed weeks apart; sometimes he waited years before taking his next victim. He didn’t smoke, drink, gamble, or womanize. He fitted no easy pattern, and there was no single word to describe what he was—except
monster
. Dominick let out a slow breath and took his hand out of his pocket.
    A traffic light up ahead turned red, and Dominick quickly pulled the long black Lincoln into the left lane and stopped behind a white police car. He noticed the cop behind the wheel looking athim in his side mirror. Dominick glanced ahead at the Dunkin’ Donuts on the other side of the intersection. A paranoid chill crept through his stomach. What if these two cops decided to pull him over? He hadn’t signaled when he pulled into the left lane. What if he fitted the description of some other meatball they were looking for? Kuklinski was supposed to be waiting for him at the Dunkin’ Donuts. If Kuklinski saw the cops questioning him, he’d probably scram. Worse than that, it would lower Dominick in Kuklinski’s eyes, make him seem like a street hood, some jerk the cops could push around just for the hell of it. Kuklinski wasn’t interested in little guys, and Dominick had gone to great lengths to establish himself as someone with solid connections to the mob families in New York. After seventeen months of hard work, rubbing elbows with some of the worst scum imaginable, he didn’t want to blow his one chance to finally meet the Iceman, not like this.
    The cop behind the wheel kept looking at him in the side mirror, and his partner was turning around now, staring at Dominick through the security grille that separated the unit’s front and back seats.
    Dominick gritted his teeth.
Not now, guys. Please, not now
.
    The light turned green. The cars in the right lane started to move, but the police car didn’t budge. The driver was staring at him.
    Christ Almighty, not now
. Dominick glanced at the orange, pink, and white Dunkin’ Donuts sign across the intersection. He stared at the unit’s brake lights.
    Please
.
    Dominick considered going around them, but that could have been what they were waiting for. Maybe they wanted to get a look at his profile as he passed, then they could pull him over. Goddammit. He knew he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here acting suspicious.
    But just as he was about to go around the cruiser, its brake lights suddenly blinked off and it started to move forward. Dominick letout a long breath as he pressed the accelerator and went through the intersection. He switched on his left directional. The doughnut shop was just ahead.
    There were only three vehicles in the Dunkin’ Donut’s small parking lot: a black Toyota pickup truck with hot pink Oakley windshield wipers, a beige VW Rabbit with a bashed-in fender, and a blue Chevy Camaro, at least six or seven years old. Dominick pulled up next to the Camaro. From what he