Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  NATALIE'S DILEMMA

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  Susan says

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  A diamond heist, Mafia murders and a kidnapping

  Fleeing her criminal past, Natalie believes she is safe in Venice. But two Mafia brothers execute a daring diamond heist, kill the owner and his wife, and kidnap their 5-year-old daughter, Bianca. Aware of her previous crimes, a Europol Agent forces her to spy on the gang by actng as Bianca's nanny. If she doesn't, NOPD Homicide Detective Frank Renzi will arrest her. Natalie is desperate to escape. The gang leader suspects her and Renzi is about to arrest her. But if she flees, what will happen to Bianca? Should she save herself or save Bianca?

  NATALIE'S DILEMMA

  A FRANK RENZI NOVEL

  “Tomorrow's not guaranteed.” – Jazz drummer and band leader Art Blakey

  SUSAN FLEET

  Music and Mayhem Press

  Dedicated to the police officers who put their lives on the line every day to protect us.

  CHAPTER 1

  FRIDAY December 10, 2010 5:35 AM – New Orleans

  Riding shotgun in an unmarked Chevy, Homicide Detective Frank Renzi held his SIG-Sauer in his lap, hoping he wouldn't have to use it. The tension in the car was palpable, no lights and sirens, but they were moving at a good clip. Four NOPD detectives on a dangerous mission.

  He glanced at Kenyon Miller, his longtime partner and friend, whose eyes were fixed on the road. Sweat beaded the veteran detective's dark-skinned face and muscles bunched in his jaw. They all knew King Rock wouldn't go down without a fight. Frank knew for a fact that he'd killed two 'bangers to gain control of the B-n-L gang, but he couldn't prove it. Nobody would talk, fearing King Rock would kill them.

  “I just sent Angelique a text,” Kelly O'Neil said. “Told her we'd be there soon.”

  Seated in back with David Lee, another District-8 homicide detective, Kelly worked Domestic Violence. An hour ago, Angelique had sent her a frantic text, saying King Rock was in her apartment, threatening her. “Beating the crap out of her,” Frank said, lying in bed beside Kelly. They didn't flaunt it, but everyone in Homicide knew they were lovers. “We better get over there.”

  So he'd rounded up his best detectives, Kenyon and David, to help with the take-down.

  He rubbed his bleary eyes, wishing he'd stopped for coffee, but there was no time. Stress and a rush of adrenaline would keep him alert.

  As jazzman Art Blakey once said, Tomorrow's not guaranteed. For gangbangers or cops.

  Last week he had attended a memorial service for Hank Flynn, his boss when he worked for Boston PD and a cherished friend. Four months ago they'd met for dinner in Boston. Now Hank was dead. A stark reminder of how fragile life could be.

  Kenyon slowed as they approached the Iberville public housing project, a two-block assortment of three-story, red-brick buildings. An hour from now Basin Street would be jammed with traffic. Now, in the gray light of dawn, theirs was the only car.

  Plastic trash bags, discarded fast-food containers and empty drug vials littered the sidewalk. No lights in the windows facing the street, but that didn't mean no one was watching. Christmas lights around one door blinked, a forlorn reminder of the approaching holiday.

  As Kenyon pulled to the curb, two figures in dark hoodies sprang out of the bushes beside a fence and ran off.

  “Damn,” Frank said. “The lookouts just made us.”

  “Twelve years old, already armed and dangerous,” Kenyon muttered.

  “Deadly,” Frank said. “So is King Rock, so stay alert.”

  Bulked out in Kevlar vests, they gathered on the sidewalk beside the unmarked car, Kenyon, a rugged six-foot-six, Frank a lanky six-one. David was built like a runner, a wiry five-nine. Kelly, a curvy five-seven, worked out at the gym, took no shit from anyone, including him.

  “Watch out,” she said sternly. “She's got a three-year-old.”

  Frank shuddered. His worst nightmare. A child hit by a stray bullet. He'd seen it happen.

  “Lead the way,” he said. Kelly had been to Angelique's apartment many times, trying to convince her to leave her abusive boyfriend, King Rock, the father of her three-year-old son and leader of the B-n-L gang currently dispensing drugs in and around Iberville.

  Alert for any sudden movement, they silently entered the project, weapons drawn, Frank and Kelly in front, followed by Kenyon and David. Faded Day-Glo gang tags on the cement walkway reminded Frank of his run-in with another gang leader. AK-47 had murdered a fourteen-year-old girl who'd lived in Iberville with her mother.

  Focused on King Rock, Kelly had her game-face on, jaw clenched, eyes purposeful. She had no use for men who battered women. She turned left and marched down the walkway past red-brick buildings with darkened windows decorated with decals of snowflakes and Santa Claus.

  Three doors down, she led them into a building. The lobby stank of urine, stale cigarette smoke and the odor of fried bacon. Metal mailboxes lined the wall on the right. Ahead of them to the left, a staircase was littered with cigarette butts.

  Kelly checked her cellphone. “Damn. She just texted me. He, then nothing.”

  The bastard knows we're here, Frank thought. To David and Kenyon he said, “Cover the back in case he tries to run down the fire escape.”

  Kenyon frowned, his dark eyes troubled. “Okay. But you two best be careful.”

  “We will,” Frank said grimly. “You be careful, too.”

  David and Kenyon hustled out the door. Gripping their weapons, he and Kelly quietly mounted the stairs. The building was quiet. Too quiet.

  As they crept down the second-floor hallway, a door opened a crack, then closed. Frank sometimes thought public housing residents had a special antenna that told them when the cops were there.

  At the end of the hall Kelly stopped and pointed to the door on the left. Frank put his ear to the door. Hearing nothing, he quickly stepped to the side. These days, gun-wielding bangers had ammo that would slice through a wooden door like butter.

  He gave the door three hard raps. No response. He glanced at Kelly.

  Clearly worried, she frowned and called in a loud voice, “Angelique, are you okay?”

  A high-pitched scream came from inside the apartment.
/>
  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  “He's hurting her!” Kelly said. “We have to go in.”

  “No!” screamed a shrill high-pitched voice. “Don't!”

  Then, a gunshot.

  “Fuck,” Frank muttered. He drew back his leg and kicked the wood beside the doorknob. The wood splintered but the latch held.

  Another gunshot.

  He kicked the door again, harder. The wood splintered and the latch gave way. He burst inside and dropped to a crouch. Arms extended, he gripped his SIG in both hands, inhaling the smell of gun powder.

  Alert for any movement, he scanned the room. No shooter. A dilapidated couch. A maple coffee table. Colorful plastic toys scattered over an oval rug. The apartment was deathly silent.

  Kelly crept up beside him, pointed her chin at a half-open door to their left.

  “Mama!!” a child's voice wailed.

  Then came the sound of breaking glass.

  His heart zoomed into overdrive. Kelly flattened her back against the wall beside the door, gripping her Glock, eyes squinty, her lips set in a grim line. Frank crept past her to the open door, SIG raised, and charged into the room. No shooter, just a brutal scene, blood spatter on the wall beside the bed, the air thick with the odor of death.

  Clad in her underwear, Angelique lay face up on floor, her eyes vacant and staring, her mouth twisted open in a silent scream. Blood puddled on the hardwood floor beneath her head.

  Worst of all, a pajama-clad little boy stood beside the body, staring at his mother, his eyes wide with fear, mouth agape, chest heaving.

  Kelly scooped him up and pressed his head against her chest, shielding his eyes from the carnage.

  Frank ran to window. Broken glass in the lower sash left a gaping hole. He stuck his head out.

  No one on the fire escape. No sign of King Rock.

  “Stop, police!” called a deep voice. Kenyon Miller.

  More shots, a series of them. Pop-pop-pop.

  His heart lurched. “Kelly! Call for backup and stay with the kid. I'm going after King Rock.”

  He climbed out the window onto the fire escape and raced down the metal stairs, sickened by what he saw. Twenty feet from the bottom step, David knelt beside Kenyon, who lay on the ground, sprawled on his back, motionless. David had removed his sweatshirt and was pressing it against Kenyon's thigh.

  “He's bleeding bad,” David said. “The fucker shot him.”

  For an instant Frank was too stunned to move, staring at Kenyon, his best friend. Then he got on his radio handset. “Code 3! Officer down! Send an ambulance to the Iberville project, ASAP.” To David, he said, “I'll stay with Kenyon. You get King Rock. Go!”

  David took off running.

  Frank knelt beside Kenyon and gripped his hand. “Hang in there, man. Help is on the way.”

  But would it get here in time? Feeling helpless, he glanced at Kenyon's thigh, nauseated by the blood,

  A petite black woman shoved him aside. “I'm a nurse,” she said. “He needs a tourniquet on that leg. Give me your belt!”

  Grateful for the help, he took off his belt. The woman grabbed it, slid it under Kenyon's thigh and pulled it tight.

  “What's your name?” he said.

  “Ella,” she said, her eyes wary. “Ella Hughes. But I didn't see anything, only heard the shot.”

  Kenyon, his face ashen, squeezed his hand. “Two …”

  “Two shooters?” Frank said.

  But Kenyon's eyes closed and his body went slack.

  Frank got on his cellphone and called Kenyon's wife.

  _____

  Venice, Italy – 12:45 PM

  “Can we decorate the tree today, Mamma?”

  Sophia Ruffino smiled at her daughter, dancing around the living room in her favorite red dress and white leggings, her dark eyes wide with excitement. Curly ringlets of dark hair framed her angelic face. Bianca was only five and Christmas was still new and exciting: the towering fir tree, the gaudily wrapped presents, Santa Claus.

  “Not today, my sweet,” Sophia said. “Papà has to work late. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Bianca ran to the sideboard opposite the tree and picked up one of the ornaments, a white angel with gold glitter. “I like this one best.” She twirled over to the tree in front of the window that overlooked the Grand Canal. “Can we put this one on the top? Can we, Mamma? Just this one?”

  “Papà will have to do that one. He's taller than I am.” In fact she was taller than most Italian woman, five-foot-nine like Sophia Loren and full-figured. Even more so these days. Her breasts were tender and swollen. She ran a hand over her stomach. Not showing yet, but soon she would. She was three months pregnant, eating for two now.

  “What shall we have for lunch? Stuffed ravioli? Some lentil soup?”

  “Soup,” Bianca said decisively. “And lots of Goldfish crackers.”

  With an indulgent smile, Sophia said, “Come help me fix it then.”

  Her stiletto heels clicked on the ceramic tile floor as they walked to the kitchen. Built for a wealthy shipping magnate, their magnificent palazzo had cost the earth, but her husband loved it. “We've got plenty of money,” Dominic had said. “Why not spend it?” Dominic had inherited the family business, a jewelry firm that imported uncut diamonds. Dominic cut them to order and created elegantly designed, and very expensive, jewelry.

  She took out a sauce pan and set it on the stove. The appliances were state of the art, not that she gave a fig about cooking. The maid did the food shopping and cooking. But she could heat up some soup.

  The doorbell rang. Sophia frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone. Fatima had gone to the market to buy fresh ingredients for dinner, but she had a key.

  “Who's at the door, Mamma?”

  She tousled her daughter's curly dark hair. “I don't know, but it's not Santa. He won't be here until Christmas Eve.”

  She walked down a carpeted hall to the front door. The rear of the house overlooked the canal, but the front faced the street. She put her eye to the peephole. A well-dressed couple stood on the sidewalk. Dressed in a chic suit and high heels, the woman appeared to be her early twenties, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. The man looked older, in his thirties, wearing a designer suit, a Gucci perhaps, charcoal with thin gray pinstripes.

  Sophia opened the door. The woman smiled, displaying even white teeth. Her makeup was nicely applied, subtle eye-shadow and mascara to match her royal blue suit. “Good day, Madame Ruffino. We're from the Montessori School. It would be perfect for your daughter. May we come in and tell you about it?”

  Reluctant to allow strangers into her home, she hesitated. But they looked respectable, well-dressed, not scruffy like the homeless people.

  “I have a present for Bianca.” The woman held up a small stuffed toy, a puppy with tan spots and large button eyes.

  “Oh, Mamma, isn't she cute?” said Bianca. “Now I get a present before Christmas!”

  Unwilling to appear rude, Sophia opened the door and let them into the foyer. The woman gave the stuffed toy to Bianca.

  “Thank you!” Bianca said. “Mamma, feel her fur! It's so soft!”

  “How kind of you,” Sophia said. “Come and sit down in the living room.”

  Clutching her new toy, Bianca ran down the hall. Sophia followed, saying as she entered the living room, “I'm sorry but I didn't get your names.”

  “Ricci,” the man said. “Mr. and Mrs. Ricci.”

  A handsome man, but his eyes darted around the room, taking in the Christmas tree and the ornaments on the sideboard. The woman smiled at her and said, “What a gorgeous home you have, Mrs. Ruffino. I love the tile floor.”

  “Thank you.” But the compliment made her uneasy. Now that they were inside, they didn't seem eager to tell her about the Montessori school. She gestured at the sofa. “Please sit down and tell me about the school.”

  But the man strode to the sideboard. “Is this the only phone?”

  Why was he asking ab
out the phone? Now her stomach felt queasy.

  Gazing up at him, Bianca said, “Do you like the ornaments? I like the angel the best.”

  The man ignored her, his dark eyes fixed on Sophia. “Is this the only phone?”

  The queasy feeling grew worse. Something wasn't right. Summoning her courage, she said, “Why do you ask about our telephones?”

  The man reached inside his jacket and took out a gun. “Who else is in the house?”

  Sophia gasped. “Bianca, come here to Mamma right now.”

  But the woman took Bianca's hand and said, “Stay here while your mother makes a phone call.”

  Her heart pounded her chest. Phone call? Why would she make a phone call?

  The man grasped her arm in his hand. The hand without the gun. “If anyone one else is in the house, you need to tell me right now.”

  Paralyzed with fear, she couldn't speak. Should she tell him the maid was upstairs? But then he might search the house. When he didn't find the maid, he would be angry. “No one else is here.”

  “Good. Call your husband.”

  A feeling of dread swept over her. These people weren't here to talk about school. They were criminals. The man had a gun.

  He leaned closer, so close she could smell his spicy aftershave. “Call your husband,” he whispered, “or the girl is dead. I will dial the number. When your husband answers, I will hand the phone to you. This is what you will say.”

  _____

  1:10 PM

  Fatima Amato trudged down a narrow side street, weighed down by the groceries in the shopping bags she held in each hand. She turned onto the main street and breathed a sigh of relief. The Ruffino residence was only one block away.

  A big black car was parked in front of the house. Someone must be visiting Sophia.

  The front door opened. Holding Sophia's hand, a man in a well-tailored suit escorted her to the big black car, opened the back door and helped her inside. Then a blonde woman came out the door holding Bianca's hand and put her in back with Sophia.

  Fatima's heart thumped her chest. Something didn't seem right. She backed around the corner and set the grocery bags on the sidewalk.

  Moments later the black car zoomed past her. The blonde woman was driving. The man sat in back with Sophia and Bianca. Before the car disappeared, she glimpsed Bianca's tiny face in the back window.