The T-Bone Affair

By G. F. Kaye

Stacey Britten was calmly reading her Times one morning when something in the lower corner caught her eye. Someone had attacked a young man in an alley, stabbing him in the neck with a T-bone from a steak; a grisly weapon, to be sure. That isn't why she took note of it, however. Several years ago, she was the lead investigator for NYPD Robbery/Homicide assigned to a double murder, in which a reporter was killed in the same fashion, in the same location, in an identical manner, and, last, but not least, with a similar weapon. The bones, she knew, had been a weapon of opportunity, since the reporter had been found in a dumpster full of such garbage. That meant the perpetrator more likely than not had had Special Forces training, confirmed by the almost complete lack of evidence. The puzzling thing was, the killer had gotten completely away with the first crime, so why do it again, and so many years later?
Stacey had taken a leave of absence to raise a family, but this was unfinished business. More importantly, it was her unfinished business, and, all things considered, she doubted anyone new to the case would be able to put what little evidence there was together. So, with an infant daughter, and another child on the way, an expectant mother made herself go out on the streets of Manhattan to find a killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. F. Kaye
• Release date: Nov 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311203410

G. F. Kaye

G. F. Kaye lives in Grand Rapids, MI, in a lovingly restored 1839 farmhouse. The work was all done personally, including the exterior, which is shaked in the traditional New England style. This has been listed as a "dying American Art Form. The author also paints in most media, and is a neighborhood preservation activist and avid gardener. Of Eastern European descent, the author has always felt a close affinity with the soil and growing things. Writing has been a lifelong off and on affair, with serious efforts being made since 2002. The author has since completed numerous works, and is in the process of final editing them and publishing them as e-books. "I only write when I'm having fun doing it," is the author's credo. The belief is that if the author is having fun writing the works, then people will also have fun reading them. This is reflected in the author's 'tongue in cheek' style, which has been referred to as a cross between the works of John Steinbeck and Mickey Spillane.

Book preview

The T-Bone Affair

A steak in the witness.

A Marlowe, Inc., novel by

G. F. Kaye:

* * * * *

This is a work of fiction.

All physical locations are fictional, as are the events described, and exist only in the mind of the author. Any resemblance of characters contained herein to any specific person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The T-Bone Affair

Copyright 2015, G. F. Kaye

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means; mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

In plain English, this e-book is licensed for the original buyer’s personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased solely for your use, then please go to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

First Published by G. F. Kaye at Smashwords

* * * * *

Chapter 1: A Photo Finish

Tony Manetti was in a very good mood. He’d just finished a smooth shift at his new job, and, more importantly, Jennifer Costa had agreed to go to the sweetheart dance at the Y with him, Valentine’s Day. He was flying high, and it showed in the big grin on his face and the briskness of his step as he headed home from his bus stop. The new job paid really well, too. He figured he’d save enough money in a couple years to be able to take a few classes at one of the local colleges, and finally, when he graduated, be able to get somewhere. In his mind that meant, first of all, out of the old neighborhood, if not out of the city, entirely.

He knew his grades were good enough to get in. They just weren’t good enough to get him a full ride scholarship. Unfortunately, he was going to graduate from high school with a class that contained a high percentage of really bright kids. While that had no doubt benefited him - just being around them - having to compete with them on a day to day basis had been pretty tough. At the end, they’d pretty much taken up all of the moneys that’d been available, but he’d gotten a small grant from one of several benevolent organizations that still flourished in the old Italian neighborhood. Of course, they’d been expecting he’d go straight on to college, but he’d talked to them right after he’d gotten his letter, explaining he wanted to save enough money, up front, to be able to not have to worry about it when he did go in a couple years or so. His thinking that he could save a bunch by doing it that way, instead of going the student loan route, had impressed them. They’d responded by giving him up to four years to enter. A few days later, too, he’d gotten a call from one of the board of the fellowship. He owned a wholesale grocery, and he’d been so impressed by his attitude that he’d offered Tony a job. So he’d gone to work for the man. It was part time for now, until he graduated high school, then full time until he went on to college; they’d talk about his hours once he was in. If necessary, he’d go back to part time. His new boss made no bones about that, and that he could take more time if he needed it for studies. He also had a full time job waiting after graduation, if he was interested.

Your grades. They what gotta come first, Antonio, his new boss had nodded and said in a gravelly voice that sort of reminded him of the old Brando character. You need time to study, you tell me. We’ll work around it. For now, you gonna spend a couple hours a night unloading trucks. Saturday, you help set up deliveries from six AM to three PM, Sunday four PM to ten. Leaves you lotsa time for dates, Saturday night. A young man has to have his play time too. Capisce? the old man grinned. Also makes sure you don’t fall asleep in church on Sunday.

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, he’d replied.

Who knows? You might just decide you like the grocery business and make a life out of it! the old man’d chuckled, affectionately clapping him on the shoulder, then tousling his hair like an uncle. Welcome aboard, kid!

Tony hummed to himself while walking. That’d been just a couple months ago, and so far, he’d decided, he liked the grocery business just fine. He’d learned a lot in the past few weeks, and, while he still had a lot to learn, he’d impressed the old man with his ability to grasp things, and quickly. He’d even made a couple suggestions on how to speed things up. He’d made those very politely, of course, to his supervisor to pass up the line. He knew better than to get a reputation for being the boss’s boy, even though everybody in the warehouse knew, by now, that the old man had taken a liking to him, and was looking out for him. He also had his uncle’s stern advice.

Whatever ya do, never make your crew boss look bad. You might think that gets you ahead on the job, boy, but, if he looks bad, his crew looks bad, and even if somebody thinks you got good ideas, pretty soon nobody wants to work with a guy’ll stab him in the back. Get me?

Tony got it, and diligently did his job. He didn’t grumble. Most of all, he didn’t complain. Not in the warehouse or anyplace else. In fact, he made a point of doing his job, whatever it was at the moment, to the best of his ability. He knew that’d get him further ahead in the long run than playing politics.

Things were definitely looking up, and now he was walking along, just basking in the glow. What the heck. He’d earned it. He’d just walked past a restaurant, and was about to cross the alley beside it, when the sudden sounds of car doors closing brought him to a fast halt. Little Italy wasn’t the worst neighborhood in the city, but it wasn’t the best, either, and Tony was no dummy. Besides, car doors quietly closing in an alley was never a good sign, no matter where you were. Leaning against the brick front corner of the building, he calmed himself, listening for other noises.

Nothing. It was quiet, but there was such a thing as too quiet. Taking a deep breath, peeking around the corner after looking up and down the street, he spotted a couple cars. There was a tall, slender guy with an unruly shock of light hair leaning against the front fender of one, a big fancy sedan, and a couple rough looking characters by the second. What widened his eyes, however, was something else.

There was another guy! He was behind the dumpster with a camera in his hand. Flattening himself against the storefront, Tony thought hurriedly about what he’d just seen, and what it could mean. The whole thing made his hair stand on end, but, for now, anyway, he stayed put, staying quiet. He also knew he couldn’t stay there forever. Shit! he thought, furiously, trying to decide whether to just go back the way he’d come, or wait until they left. Suddenly, he heard what sounded like a muffled shot.

He froze, listening intently. Just after the shot, he heard a scrape. A little while later he heard weird gurgling noises and low voices; a whole lot closer than the cars and took off, running, back toward his stop, as quietly as he could, figuring, at that point, if he put a lot of distance between him and whatever was going on, it’d be over, and he could forget about it. Turned out he was almost dead wrong.

* * *

Earlier that evening, the tall man with the light hair - actually a premature silver - had eaten his dinner in no apparent rush. It’d been a fine dinner; a specialty of the house. T-bone steak, seasoned a Toscano, and whole wheat linguini lightly browned in olive oil; all smothered with a tangy mushroom sauce and shredded asiago cheese. It’d been perfect, and he’d been feeling pretty good. Leaving the restaurant, he’d walked around to his car, left in the alley, got in and settled back to wait. He’d eaten his dinner just before closing time on purpose. Soon, the staff was done cleaning and leaving, and the owner was locking the side door as he followed. The very last thing a busboy had done was empty a box of garbage into one of the dumpsters before folding the cardboard carton and dropping it into another marked ‘recycle’. The man noted that, glanced at the time displayed on his dash, and snuggled back into the soft kid leather, deeply cushioned seat to the strains of Respighi’s Fontane di Roma. What he didn’t notice was a guy with a camera, creeping into the alley, carefully staying in deep shadow, and settling in, likewise, to watch and wait. The watcher couldn’t tell, but the man in the big car wasn’t happy. The guys he was waiting for were late. Roughly half an hour later, however, he was roused to instant awareness by headlights entering the alley at the other end. He watched, warily. The high beams flashed. Once. Count of two. Twice more. Relaxing, he frowned. It was about time.

Turning off his CD player, he turned the ignition key to ‘off’. Getting out, he strolled to the front and leaned against the fender, waiting patiently for the other car, lights off, to slowly nose toward him and stop. He smiled grimly as the men he was expecting got out of the big sedan. Folding his arms with a curt nod, he leaned against the fender as they approached. Both men halted a couple paces away, one slightly behind the other, to one side. Paul, acknowledged the further one in a surprisingly boyish voice. The other simply nodded.

Bill, responded the tall man in low, well modulated tones; a practiced speaker’s voice. Turning to the other, Luke. That was it. Paul looked down, like he was thinking. The newcomers didn’t bother asking what the meeting was about. They knew better. Tall and slim was much more dangerous than he looked. He’d get to the point in his own time. Shaking his head slightly before looking up, he did, in fact, get right to it.

Gentlemen, we have a problem. Luko, somebody tells me you were seen talking to a reporter, he began, mildly.

Luke shrugged nonchalantly. Yeah? So? I know a couple. A couple guys from my old neighborhood work for the papers. Actually, it’d be funny if no one ever did see me talking to a reporter, Paul.

Still leaning on his car, the tall man only shook his head, chuckling, as if amused. There was no humor in the tone, though, and the others stiffened. No, Luko, Paul sighed. I know the ones you play cards with; your old drinking buddies. This wasn’t one of them. This was a different one.

At that, Bill frowned with a nod. Tilting his head, he swiveled it, gazing at his companion with narrowed eyes. Who the hell you been talking to, Luko? he asked in a quiet voice. I, said the tall man, shifting slightly, am more interested in what you were speaking to him about.

The question had been voiced in a casual sounding way. The man being addressed, however, knew better, from very long experience. Eyes widening in fear, he squared his shoulders, studying the noncommittal expression on Paul’s face before deciding to bluff his way out. Me? I’m more interested in just who the hell you think I been talkin’ to, Paully!

The tall man made a slow clucking noise, deep in his throat, apparently studying the pavement again. He slowly shook his head. Luke. Luke. Luke, he sighed, not bothering to look up this time. Does the name Mike Reynolds ring a bell?

Bill’s eyes widened slightly at Luke’s reaction. Paul had obviously struck a nerve. He’d only shaken his head again as Luke winced, however, not even glancing up. Bill nodded. The tall man hadn’t had to see it. He’d already known. Luke bravely kept up the bluff, though. Who? Never heard of him.

Let me refresh your memory, Luke. Paul looked up, smiling, which did nothing to reassure the goon. Mike Reynolds. Freelancer. Sometime stringer for the ‘Times’. Nobody, really. A hack, but a hack who’d like nothing better than to break into the big time. That Mike Reynolds.

Nonchalantly taking his hands from his pockets, Luke shrugged, his best, I have no idea what you’re talking about, expression on his face. Bill, however, while this was going on, had simply nodded, stepping back a couple paces. Pulling a revolver from a coat pocket, he’d screwed a silencer onto the barrel. He always had throw-aways, machined, in his basement workshop, to take a top-grade silencer. They were cheapies, never registered in this country. They did the job, though. He’d been wondering, all evening, why Paul’d wanted him to bring one, and why the meeting was being held in the alley after the restaurant closed. Now he knew.

Paul, in the meantime, had squarely met Luke’s gaze. I really wish you’d come clean with me, Luko. I really do. He sighed, shrugging. As it stands, you leave me no alternative. That said, not even glancing at Bill, he simply nodded. Bill, having calmly raised his weapon while Paul’d been speaking, calmly put a single round cleanly behind Luke’s left ear. After looking surprised for a moment, the late tough guy dropped like a pile of wet rags. Both men spun, however, at a sharp sound that had nothing whatsoever to do with a body hitting the ground. There followed a flurry of combat style hand signals. After Bill retreated to the other side of the alley to cover him, Paul stole noiselessly toward where the sound had seemed to come from, passing the first dumpster - the one marked Recycle - and stopping near the end of the second, which clearly contained garbage. Rising on tiptoe, he quickly glanced over the end. Nodding once, noting something atop the pile of refuse as he drew back, he smiled wryly, silently picking it up. A moment later, without hesitation, in the catlike, fluid motion of a practiced killer, he swept his arm around the end of the dumpster, plunging the object into the watcher’s neck. The man, who’d been seated, leaning against the metal container, jerked spasmodically, trying to get up or scream. All that issued forth, however, was a gurgling noise as he drowned in the blood flooding into his windpipe from a severed carotid artery. It was over in moments. He fell back, and silent. When all was quiet, the tall man walked around the end of the dumpster and inspected his handiwork, nodding grimly. Bending down, he retrieved the camera, which he’d heard operating when the man’d clasped it, and its trigger stud, in his death grip. By then Bill’d joined him at the end of the large metal container. Reaching into a pocket, Paul had pulled out a penlight. Grabbing a handful of hair, with Bill grimly looking on, he pulled the dead man’s head upright, briefly illuminating his face.

Mike Reynolds, he muttered. Tell me again how you weren’t talking to this guy, Luko! Dropping the head, Paul made a hand motion, and he and his compatriot picked up the body, carried it to the far end of the bin, and unceremoniously tossed it in. They did the same with Luke, who, they noted, still had a surprised look on his face. Afterward, Bill went to his car and got a military entrenching tool out of the trunk. He pulled some of the garbage, which, due to basic human laziness, had mostly accumulated at the end of the dumpster nearest the door, over the bodies. Sure that casual inspection of the bin wouldn’t reveal anything, he wrapped the tool in a trash bag. It was soon joined by his gloves and overcoat. This’ll all go in the fireplace tonight, he muttered.

Remove everything you’re wearing before entering the house. Make sure you burn it quickly, Bill, the tall man instructed.

I know, L T! I know. You taught me well. The man grinned, reciting, as if from rote, The best evidence is no evidence.

And the only way to positively get rid of it is to destroy it yourself, the tall man finished, removing his own gloves and overcoat and placing them in another bag Bill handed him. They weren’t much of a loss. They both kept a supply of cheap clothing to wear to these meetings, just in case they had to do something like this. Finally, after giving the area a quick once-over, they simply got in their cars and left, just as quietly as they’d arrived. No squealing of tires. No obvious rush. Nothing to draw attention. In moments, all was quiet, the night apparently undisturbed.

Sometime later, the tall man entered Connecticut. Exiting the highway, he drove down several miles of country lanes, finally pulling into the garage of a not too big, but not too small, either, Cape Cod that sat well out in the woods, away from its neighbors. Following his own advice, stepping out of the car, he stripped to his skivvies after the bay door closed, putting everything in the trash bag. Using the direct entry to his home office, he lit the previously prepared kindling in the fireplace. Once the bone-dry wood was burning furiously, he tossed in the bag, closed the glass fire doors, started an already prepared coffee machine, and went into a bath off the laundry room. After a quick shower, in slacks, shirt and his favorite loafers, he returned to the office. Calmly sipping coffee, he worked the remains of the bag and its contents with a poker until all that was left was ash and a couple blobs of melted plastic from the heels of the cheap shoes. They took a while to burn out, but, finally scooping what was left into an old coal scuttle, he took it out back in the darkness, tossing it onto his garden, where it joined the remains of several other piles of fireplace ash. Only then did he return to his car and retrieve the camera. He’d placed it in a smaller trash bag while in the alley. Taking it into his office, he set it, bag and all, on his desk before taking a pair of surgical gloves from a box he kept in his lower left drawer. Finally, gloved, he extracted the item, inspected it with a practiced eye, and nodded, grunting in appreciation. It was a very nice, state-of-the-art digital job. Much too nice, really, for a part-time stringer. Shaking his head, he inspected it more carefully. It was a very expensive piece of equipment, specifically designed for use in extreme low light conditions. Like something a damned spook would use, he muttered, setting it aside for the moment.

Going to his kitchen, he made a cocoa, this time, considering. This had been no ordinary surveillance, he concluded, frowning deeply. Returning, he rummaged in the drawer he’d gotten the gloves he was still wearing from for the right hookup cable. Okay, Mr. Reynolds, he murmured, after connecting the camera to his computer. What’ve you been up to?

It was a fascinating show. There were shots of him leaving his office, and several more entering the restaurant, coming out, and getting into his car. There were shots of the car with him in it. There were recognizable shots of Bill and Luke, including one clearly showing a slight muzzle flash. Several more as the camera had suddenly panned to the mouth of the alley, the operator instinctively reacting to what he’d seen. Finally, there were shaky shots of the buildings across the street. Those had to’ve been taken when he’d gripped the firing stud in his death throes. Something in those shots caught Paul’s attention, however. Going back, he forwarded slowly through a sequence where a vehicle’s headlights had briefly lit up something beside the mouth of the alley. His breath caught as he shook his head in disbelief. Reflected in a display window across the street was a kid! A goddamned kid!

Frowning, Paul’d squinted at the screen.

Not just a kid, a very scared kid. He’d frozen, then raced from the picture to his left, which would’ve been past the front of the restaurant, out of view from the alley. He’d seen plenty, though. There was absolutely no doubt about that. With his naked eyes, he couldn’t have seen anything that clearly, and probably wouldn’t be able to ID anybody, but the tall man would have to follow up on it anyway. Shit! he muttered, unconsciously noting the time. From force of habit, if nothing else, he picked up his phone to check for messages. There was one from his extremely efficient clerk reminding him where he needed to be in the morning. Another from a nearby neighbor reminding him of a neighborhood association meeting the following week. There was also one from, Paul shook his head, listening, an attorney wanting to meet with him - off the record, of course, which was why he’d called here, instead of the office. He made a note, without actually writing anything down. Finally, there was one from his wife. At his suggestion, she was visiting her sister, in Massachusetts, for a few days. He nodded at the audible time stamp. She’d called just minutes before he’d arrived, chiding him for working so late, sternly reminding him to eat a good supper. Smiling warmly, he murmured, Love you, too, honey!

Blanking the messages, he turned to stare at the camera again, nodding. The camera, itself, he’d erase and pull the memory card from. It’d go into a deep creek he crossed on his way to and from the city. The CD he’d copied the shots to, rather than his hard drive, he’d burn later. In the meantime, it’d just be one of several laying on his desk, where not being labeled was nothing unusual. Turning it over slowly in his hands while considering, he flipped it on the cluttered surface, memorizing where it’d landed, and went to bed. As he’d done in the field often enough, he stretched out, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Mike Reynolds had just hit a gold mine.

He’d gotten a promising lead that a highly placed, respected city official was probably working with the mob. He’d also heard tell that the same city official’d be meeting with a couple of mob guys tonight. Waiting outside the official’s parking ramp, he’d secretly followed him to a restaurant in Little Italy, where he’d patiently waited for the guy’s next move. In the meantime, he’d also familiarized himself with the camera he’d brought, something he’d borrowed from an old FBI buddy for the evening. What the hell d’you need a high tech, low-light surveillance camera for, anyway? he’d prompted, but Mike’d just smiled, telling him he could read about it in the ‘Times’, along with everyone else. Chris’d just shaken his head and handed him the camera, complete with a fresh memory card. It wasn’t the first time, and he’d always shared in the rewards.

Sitting there, grinning in the darkness, Mike nodded. This was it! This was his break! This was his long awaited ticket to finally be taken as a serious reporter, after so many years as a stringer. After what seemed like an eternal wait, he’d watched his quarry - a tall, athletic guy with a shock of silver hair - leave the restaurant, get in his car - and just sit, like he was waiting for somebody. Mike swallowed nervously. Yup! This is it! his gut told him. This was where the meet would be. Right here in this alley.

Waiting until the kitchen help quit for the night, and the owner’d locked up and gone, he’d slid into the passenger seat. Getting out very quietly, he’d worked his way across the street and down the alley, slipping in between a dumpster and a big cardboard carton. He was still crouching there, practicing his acceptance speech for the Pulitzer, when he saw the reflected glow of headlights from the other end. They flashed a high beam, like someone signaling to pass. This was definitely no throughway, however. After a brief pause, the lights flickered again, and his gut tightened.

This was it! This was who the official had to be meeting!

Staying low, peering around the end of the dumpster, he watched through the viewfinder, rapidly taking shots as the official and a pair of newcomers he didn’t recognize quietly chatted. That was it. Voices were never raised. There were no signs of distress. They were just talking. No big deal. He was just becoming disappointed when the far newcomer raised a hand with an odd looking pistol in it. As Mike watched in disbelief, the guy took careful aim, waiting for a signal from what was clearly the man in charge; Mike’s quarry, the tall guy leaning casually against his car, the trusted city official. Getting it, he coolly shot the other newcomer as Mike took a series of shots.

There wasn’t much of a sound. A spitting noise. That’s all. That was why the pistol’d looked so odd, though, Mike realized. The gun was silenced! The idea flashed through his brain that he’d just witnessed a mob hit. Not only that, he’d actually photographed it! Forgetting to take his finger off the firing stud of the camera, Mike quickly ducked back behind the dumpster.

Too quickly.

He’d shoved the thing slightly, and, he’d be willing to swear, there in the quiet darkness, it’d sounded like a couple cabs sideswiping each other. He had to get away from there, but, if he got up and ran, he’d make a clean target for the guy with the gun. Hardly daring to breathe, he listened as hard as he could for the sound of approaching footsteps,