“Vinnie’s still sleeping,” Marie said.
“I figured he was, but if you could please wake him up—”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Franco said.
“Well, come on in then,” Marie said as she opened the door wide.
Franco stepped inside. “Go on into the kitchen,” Marie said. “There’s coffee already made.”
Marie disappeared up a short flight of steps while Franco wandered into the kitchen. Vinnie’s little boy, Vinnie Junior, was seated at the table. The six-year-old was busy slapping a short stack of pancakes with the back side of a spoon. His older sister, Roslyn, age eleven, was at the stove poised to turn over the next batch of flapjacks.
Franco poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he wandered into the living room and sat on a white leather sofa and gazed at the new peppermint-colored shag carpet. He was amazed. He didn’t think you could buy shag carpet anymore.
“This better be good!” Vinnie thundered as he came into the room. He was dressed in a silky, paisley print robe. His hair, which was normally immaculately slicked back, was virtually standing on end.
Instead of explaining, Franco handed Vinnie the paper. Vinnie grabbed it and sat down. “So what am I supposed to be looking at?” he growled.
“Read the article about drug deaths,” Franco said.
Vinnie’s forehead wrinkled as he read. He was silent for about five minutes. Franco sipped his coffee.
“So what the hell?” Vinnie said, looking up. He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. “What the hell are you doing waking me up for this?”
“See those names at the end of the list? Fletcher and the other ones? I followed Angelo and Tony last night. They whacked those people. My guess is that they’ve whacked the whole bunch.”
“But why?” Vinnie demanded. “Why with cocaine? They giving the stuff away?”
“I still don’t know why,” Franco admitted. “I don’t even know if Angelo and Tony are on their own or taking orders from Cerino.”
“They’re taking orders,” Vinnie said. “They’re too stupid to do anything on their own. God! This is a disaster. The whole city is going to be crawling with feds and narcs on top of normal, everyday cops. What the hell is Cerino doing? Has he gone crazy? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” Franco said. “But I just established a connection that goes through a couple of people who know Tony. Someone will get in touch with you.”
“We got to do something,” Vinnie said, shaking his head. “We can’t let this go on.”
“It’s hard to know what to do until we know what Cerino’s up to,” Franco said. “Give me one more day.”
“Only one,” Vinnie said. “After that we move.”
Laurie was filled with dread as she faced her office building. What a difference a day made! Yesterday and the day before she had breezed in and out like she owned the place. Now she was afraid to cross the threshold. But she knew it was what she had to do. The calmness she’d felt in her apartment had vanished.
As she drew closer, she saw that a swarm of restless reporters had already descended on the place to get the story—her story. Her thoughts had been so focused on Bingham, she hadn’t been thinking of them. There were at least as many there now as there had been for the preppy murder II case. Maybe more.
Might as well get it over with, she decided. Entering the reception area, she was instantly recognized. Microphones were pushed in her face along with a cacophony of questions and the pop of camera flashes. Laurie pushed her way through to the inner door without a word. A uniformed security man checked her photo identification before admitting her. The reporters were unable to pursue her beyond that door.
Trying to maintain her composure, Laurie went directly to the ID office. Vinnie was there reading his paper. Calvin was there too.
Laurie gazed into the black man’s face. He stared back at her, hiding his feelings. His eyes were like black marbles, perfectly framed by his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Dr. Bingham wants to see you,” Calvin said flatly. “Unfortunately he can’t see you until he finishes dealing with these reporters. He’ll call you in your office.”