Free GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) by Lawrence de Maria Page B

think?”
    “I’ve heard nothing,” Maks said. “But I, too, think it is local. And big. That’s why they brought in someone from the outside. I will ask around. I personally would like to find out who did it.”
    I looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but I could tell he was angry. He had been a soldier much of his life. He didn’t like what happened to Panetta.
    “I wouldn’t dismiss a connection to the St. George project out of hand,” Rahm said. “That’s the only thing I can think of worth killing someone over. But even that is a stretch. Everyone wants it. I half expect the Pope to endorse it soon.”
    “Where do you stand on it?”
    Rahm smiled.
    “A lot of money will be flowing into Staten Island. I am in favor of that.”
    “I bet you are. What about the unions? They could throw a monkey wrench into the deal.”
    Another smile.
    “They won’t.”
    Maks walked me out to my car.
    “It’s local,” he repeated.
     

CHAPTER 9 - FLOOZY
     
    There was a squad car waiting for me outside Panetta’s small two-story colonial on Winchester Avenue, a quiet tree-lined street a few blocks from the Eltingville train station. As I pulled up behind it, two cops got out. So did I. The cop who got out the passenger side, a beefy African-American, wore sergeant stripes and a scowl. He walked over to me while his partner leaned against the prowlie. 
    “You Rhode?”
    “Yeah.” He didn’t ask, but I took out my I.D. anyway. “Appreciate you taking the time, Sarge.”
    He barely glanced at my I.D.
    “Captain says you can look around, as long as one of us is with you.”
    Cormac, who used to work in Boro Command in the New Dorp Precinct, had called in a favor.
    “You guys in the 122?” I asked, using the numerical I.D. for the New Dorp house.
    “Nah,” the cop said. “We’re from the 123.”
    “You guys had your hands full after Sandy. Did a great job.”
    The Tottenville Precinct was normally quietest in the city, crime-wise, with about one murder every Ice Age. But the superstorm had ravaged the community, particularly along the shoreline, and the cops worked round the clock to help residents.
    “Never seen anything like it,” he said, softening a bit. He waved over to his partner. “Hey, Tommie, take him through the house.”
    I followed the other cop up the walk, past a “FOR SALE” sign on the lawn. I memorized the realtor’s name. My escort unlocked the front door.
    “Hey, Tommy,” the black cop called after us. “Make sure you count the silverware on the way out.”
    “Don’t tell me you guys left something?” I yelled back.
    Both cops laughed.
    I didn’t expect to learn much, if anything, in Panetta’s home. Vernon Maples had left only what he wanted the homicide detectives to find. I was sure they had removed whatever else they thought relevant. None of which, I knew, was. It’s why I hadn’t bothered with the police file. But I make it a point, whenever possible, to visit crime scenes. I can’t explain why. It just seems the right thing to do. Even when you know who the killer is.
    Maples told me he slugged Panetta right after the door was opened. Then he dragged him over to a table in the living room, where he used the cord from a lamp to strangle him. I quickly found the table, which Maples had described to me. The lamp was gone, undoubtedly taken as evidence. That didn’t help the decor. The place was sparsely furnished. But everything appeared spotless and the place smelled of fresh paint and shaved wood. The dining room had a small wooden table and four chairs. There was a sideboard under two windows that looked out over the back yard.
    “Early-American Goodwill,” the cop muttered. “I read that the guy was a carpenter. “Probably bought the place to fix it up and flip it.”
    “Maybe,” I said.  
    The family room had a lounge chair, a small couch, a pedestal table with a lamp and a 19-inch TV on a metal stand. There was a fold-up aluminum table in the