His name was Ricco Marino. He’d been an independent contract hit man for the Conti family in the Bronx for most of his adult life. He was 38 years old, ancient for someone in his line of work. He’d survived this long by establishing some personal rules of engagement, and he had absolute faith in them. He followed them with a zealous intensity that bordered on reverence.
He had self-made rules for making a hit and rules for contacts with the Conti family. Both were dangerous. At any time, the family could consider him a liability rather than an asset. He had to be scrupulous that did not happen. He also had to make sure in a very special, very delicate way that they knew if they ever decided he was a threat and they needed to eliminate him, there would be consequences appertaining to that decision they’d better be prepared for. He had his rules, he obeyed them, and he was very good at his profession. Anyone, no matter how well protected, was at risk from a professional, skilled hit man, and that’s what Ricco was.
As for his rules for a contract, he picked the time and place of each hit; he also had the license to choose the method, and only he knew the particulars; time, place and method were his alone to decide and know. He never did anything spontaneously; every move and detail was meticulously planned. If anything went south at any stage of an operation, he would immediately pull back, stop and reset, plan again, and not move forward again till a new plan was completely worked out. His self-made rules included the victim never knowing he’d been targeted, so he was never prepared for it and had no defenses in place. This minimized the chance of being met with resistance. His getaway was also always planned well in advance with contingencies on top of contingencies.
And now this. It was his own fault that he was in the mire he was in. He’d allowed his own emotions to interfere with his rules of engagement. He’d not backed off when something had gone wrong. He’d made a spur-of-the-moment decision, and it had backfired.
His kill of Busomi had been planned in detail. It had been perfect. The guy always left the bar at or just after last call. Ricco had watched Busomi leave several times before that night and had never observed any traffic on the street at that hour of the morning, much less any pedestrians. He’d mapped out his route away from the hit, knowing the schedule of traffic lights, the streets in the area and which of them were dead ends and one-way. Everything was known in preparation; nothing could go wrong.
And then it did. A kid was there, and he’d seen the hit. What the fuck was a kid doing up at 2 AM watching the bar? Made no sense. But that’s what he’d had to deal with, and his spur-of-the-moment response had ended up a clusterfuck. He’d tracked down the kid only to have him hauled away into some house by a huge, black asshole with a shotgun. Then, evidently, the kid had given Ricco’s description to the cops, the cops had put him in a lineup, and bam!—there he was, indicted for murder. Fuck!
Until the kid, the hit had gone according to plan. Then the kid was there, and he’d screwed the pooch. What he should have done was obvious in hindsight. He should have kept his head down, never looking up, after the kill shots at the bar door. He should have turned his face away from the kid as he drove away. If the witness hadn’t seen his face, nothing would have mattered. He’d followed through on everything he’d planned out after not being able to eliminate the kid. He’d driven the car that he’d stolen earlier in the evening to where he’d left his own car. He’d left the gun he’d used—fingerprints wiped, gun untraceable—in the getaway car with the keys still in the ignition; the car was probably boosted within ten minutes. The gun was probably in other hands out on the streets and maybe had even been used again by now.
So why had he looked up after the kill shots? Why had he looked at the kid as he’d driven past him? It had to have been the surprise when he realized he’d been seen making the hit. It was a natural reaction, a reflex, really, but he wasn’t supposed to give in to natural tendencies; he was a professional, and that was a rookie mistake!
The witness was a kid on the street, a teenager, and the kid had looked right at him. The car window on the driver’s side had been open when he’d shot through the open passenger’s side window; he always opened his window because the echo of the shot, even with a suppressor, was way too loud if his driver’s-side window was closed. So it had been open, and the kid had caught a clear view of him.
The kid had seen him in the light from the bar’s signs and then in the car. Going after the kid had compounded his error. He never in a thousand years should have done that. It broke his rules of engagement; that’s why he had been caught: he’d broken his own rules. His own fault for being stupid! That’s why he’d been indicted. That’s why he’d be going on trial for murder.
He was currently out on bail. Bail had been set over the DA’s strong, actually vehement, objections. The judge had listened and compromised. He’d set bail at a million and a half bucks and mandated Ricco wear an ankle bracelet so his location could be monitored 24/7. Now he was out on bail; his employer had put up the money. The bracelet was an inconvenience, no more than that. The family had had to deal with these devices before and had learned how to defeat them. You only had to tap into the circuitry so backup connections were in place and the signal remained constant while the bracelet strap was cut. Putting a new strap on the device hooked onto some other Conti gorilla’s ankle was easy. Ricco had a month before he had to visit a parole office. When he did, he’d be wearing the bracelet again. So, it was a bother, but only that.
The capo hadn’t been happy with him, though, and it really wasn’t good to make the guy unhappy. It wasn’t good to even come to his attention. He usually dealt with a lieutenant in the organization or even someone below that. But this time, he’d actually met the don, and he’d been told in strong language that he would show up for the trial; the family wasn’t going to waste one and a half-million on him. But they’d bail him out because the only way he’d be convicted was if the witness testified, and being convicted would be bad for the family. There wasn’t any other evidence against him. There was a lot of supposition, and there were prior arrests that hadn’t ended in convictions. But with the testimony of the witness, he probably wouldn’t skate on this one. The witness’s testimony to the grand jury, on video and without a name being given, was damning; the kid was very convincing. So would he be during the trial in court with a jury. That wouldn’t be a taped testimony. The kid would be there, pointing at him. His prior taped testimony wouldn’t matter if the kid were dead. He’d need to face live cross-examination in the courtroom for it to matter. Without that, Ricco would walk.
Now, however, he was free. The trial was set for some time in the future. He had time to find and eliminate the kid. Hitting him would be easy; it was the finding him that would be hard.
But not all that hard.
He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t someone who practiced that useless sentiment. He was a mover and shaker, living in the now, doing what needed to be done. He was clever, and he’d always been lucky. He should have enough time. His first order of business was to find out who the witness was and where he’d been stashed. For that, well, the family had connections.
For a man of action who had no conscience or regrets, this shouldn’t be all that difficult.
Piece of cake, really.
= = =
Ricco had a lot of advantages. One of the most significant was that he worked for a criminal enterprise that had people inside many of the agencies in New York. Insiders and unlimited money from a lucrative drug trade, extortion, protection money and underage sex trafficking all were used to obtain information, buy people. Information was power. The family had power because it had the money to buy it.
Ricco needed a name. Without the kid’s name, he had nowhere to start. He called in a favor. Favors were accompanied by an exchange of cash. Ricco had access to all he needed. The family didn’t want a trial.
= = =
“Superior Court system. How may I direct your call?”
Ricco was using a voice changer and a prepaid cellphone. He knew calls to the court were recorded, but he wasn’t worried. He’d done this before. “Bailiff’s Department, please.”
He heard clicks and hums and a few seconds of recorded music, then, “Bailiffs. Who da ya want?”
“John Patrick, please.”
“One moment.” There was a pause, and then he heard the phone being picked up. “Patrick here.”
“Lunch if you’re available. McGentry’s, noon.”
“Sure. See you there.” Then there was a dial tone.
‘McGentry’s at noon’ was code. The actual restaurant would be Saldi’s, a very busy, very noisy place that catered to a harried lunch crowd. The time would be 12:30, time for Mr. Patrick to walk into McGentry’s, look around, shrug his shoulders when there was no one there waiting for him and walk out again, this time through the back door after first making his way to the back of the restaurant to the restroom, then through the kitchen and out the back. Then he’d wait a bit to see that no one came out after he did.
He’d take a taxi to Saldi’s, a restaurant owned by the family a few blocks away. Mr. Patrick would make sure the taxi wasn’t followed. He had a stake in this, too.
Patrick was a large, ruddy-faced man with graying hair and a paunch. He lumbered rather than walked. He always carried a gun. He’d been on the family’s payroll for years, doing them occasional services, being paid accordingly. Now he was nearing retirement. He was thinking of the money he’d need to finance the lifestyle he was anticipating when his city paychecks stopped coming.
He took a seat in the back at a table at Sandi’s where Ricco was waiting. Ricco was wearing a baseball cap, pulled low, and a very natural-looking beard. None of this was really necessary as the restaurant was safe. Ricco no longer had the ankle monitor on. But neither Ricco nor John Patrick wanted it known they were meeting, just as the family didn’t want anyone to become aware that Sandi’s belonged to them.
“I need to know who the witness against me is. His name and where he’s being kept,” Ricco told Patrick. No one was seated near them, and the noisy ambience would have covered his voice even if there had been.
Patrick lowered his voice. “I can find out his name. The court will have a witness list. You’ll have to go to WITSEC for the rest. It’ll take a few days to get the name. And a little bigger stipend than usual.”
“How much?” Ricco didn’t ask why. He knew people had to be bought. It was part of the business. He knew people on the payroll liked to negotiate, too. No problem. It was expected. New York City had its own way of life, and much of it wasn’t pretty.
“An extra five should be enough.”
Ricco slid an envelope across the table, then reached into his wallet and pulled out five hundreds and passed them along, too. “I need this ASAP. I’m on a timeline here.”
“Do what I can. Give me a number where I can reach you,” Mr. Patrick said.
Ricco wrote a number on a napkin. After slipping it into his pocket, Mr. Patrick stood and walked out.
It was two days later when Ricco got a call on the burner phone he’d given Mr. Patrick the number for. Patrick was terse. “Derrick Winters. That’s all I can give you.”
“Should be enough. Thanks.” Ricco destroyed the phone, then, using another one, called the number listed for WITSEC and asked for Mrs. Johnson. When she came on the line, he said, “Lunch, Formosa at 11:30.”
“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Johnson said and hung up.
They had lunch the next day at a different family owned restaurant. Ricco slid another envelope across the table and said only two words. “Derrick Winters.” Mrs. Johnson looked inside, saw the money and a telephone number and said one less word than John Patrick had, one she’d said before: “Tomorrow.”
The next day, Ricco got the call he was waiting for. “Mildred Healy is running him from our Brooklyn office.” That was all.
The details of any of the ‘clients’ under the care of the Witness Security Program were very private. Only the agents in charge of the ‘client’ had any knowledge of him or her, and that information was separated so only one agent had all the information that would be needed to locate one of their protectees. Mrs. Johnson wasn’t able to get those details, but she could find out the name of the principal agent who had them. That was what Ricco had been expecting from her. He didn’t say anything at all but merely hung up. Then he destroyed the phone.
= = =
The next week, Ricco spent most of his time in Brooklyn with his camera. He had an expensive digital Canon with several lenses. He took a lot of photos, many of them with a powerful telephoto lens. He spent some time around the WITSEC offices, too, taking more photos. When he was ready, he made his move.
Mrs. Healy drove her car from home to a parking facility and rode the subway from there to work. She reversed this route to return home after putting in a day at the office. As she was unlocking her car that evening, Ricco walked up to it and flashed a picture at her. It was a 16x20 enlargement of her daughter, the one attending a middle school. The fact it was so large somehow made it much scarier. Mildred took one look, and Ricco handed her several other pictures. They were 9x12 shots of her husband, her other two children, and the family dog. Ricco was wearing nitrile medical gloves, both to eliminate fingerprints on the photos and to make it clear to Mildred that he was doing just that.
“We need to talk,” Ricco said. “Let’s get in the car. I won’t hurt you. No one needs to get hurt. We’re just talking.”
He walked around the car and heard her unlock his door with her remote. She climbed in and didn’t start the car. She didn’t say anything. Ricco did. He saw she might have been trembling.
He was wearing his beard again, and his brown hair was now white. He had a cosmetic scar from the corner of his mouth to his jaw hinge. He had dark glasses on. “I need something from you. Give it to me and you and your family will never hear from me again. You’ll be out of this, and you’ll all be safe. I have other pictures to show you of families like yours who didn’t cooperate. Here is one of them.”
He opened a manila file folder and showed her a graphic picture of a young girl her daughter’s age, naked and tied down on a bed with her legs open. Several naked men were in the picture, all of them erect. The girl’s eyes were full of terror. While Mildred was looking at them, Ricco nonchalantly stuck a toothpick in his mouth and began chewing on it.
“If you want, I’ll show you what happens next. I have a series of them. They’re quite graphic. And all of them are very unpleasant. When these men were through with her, she was sold to an organization that specializes in little girls. They do the same with boys. I have pictures of one your boy’s age. Ronny, that’s your son’s name, huh? Cute kid. I have the pictures right here if you want to see.” He went on to describe some of the things that were done.
She shook her head throughout his recital. His voice was flat and unemotional and spoke of unthinkable things, things she couldn’t help but picture. When he was done, she was shaking and had gone pale.
“I need some information from you. Give it to me and that’ll be the end of this for you and those you love. Don’t, and what I’ve spoken of will happen. There’s no way you can prevent it. I work for a very large, very powerful organization. Until this matter is taken care of, you and your family will be observed. All of them will be at risk.”
He took the toothpick out of his mouth, looked at it for a moment, and then casually dropped it into the foot well in front of him. “You might think you’ll be able to escape this by telling people about it. But you can’t. Even if I were caught, the organization still would have a point to make. They’d lose face if they didn’t. They’d follow through with the threats. They always do.”
He paused a moment. He wanted her to feel how helpless she was, how impotent she was with regard to saving her family.
“I know you’re in charge of Derrick Winters. How would I know that? There’s no way I should know that. Yet I do. That’s who we are, the power we have. Think about that. What it means is you either cooperate with us or your family will suffer unimaginably. You won’t. You’ll simply be killed.
“You have no options here. We’ve done this before. That picture of a girl I showed you. Her handler didn’t cooperate. Thought he could have people in the agency protect him and his family. He didn’t survive, and his kid . . . well, you saw the first of a series of pictures. That was her. ’Nuff said.
“There’s only one thing you can do, Mildred. Tell me where Derrick Winters is and what name he now has. Then all your troubles go away. No one knows about this but you and me. It’s all over and done for you once I get what I need. Your other option, of course, is don’t tell me. Then everyone in your family will suffer, the kids more than you and your husband because there’s more demand for children. We’ll get top dollar for them because they’re cute and innocent. You two will simply be killed. Well, at least your husband will. I can’t promise about you, other than at some point you’ll be dead. Someone else will make the decision about how and when.
“Truly, I don’t care if you tell anyone you’ve been threatened. We’ll find Derrick either way. Someone will tell us. That family will still be alive after they do. Your kids will be kept alive, too, as long as possible, but that won’t be all that long. They never last, which I suppose is a comfort in a way.”
He could see she’d had enough. So he finished quickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow. At your office. Here.” He handed her a cellphone. “I’ll call you on this. All you have to do is give me a name and location. That’ll be the end of it. Or don’t and your terrors will stay with you till the end. That’ll happen sooner rather than later. You’ll never know when. Oh, and here, I’ll leave you with a picture of the little girl I was talking about. It was taken some time later than the first one I showed you.”
Ricco laid a manila folder on the seat as he climbed out of the car. He stopped and reached in and grabbed the toothpick. Then he simply walked away. Mildred sat still, shaking. She did not open the folder.