11:52 p.m.
Salvadore’s Diner
After showing her badge to the officer outside the restaurant, Stockwell opened the door—a bell chimed overhead—and she entered. She flashed her creds to another a man in a suit. “Are you the one handling this case?”
“Detective Grayson,” said a late thirties balding man, who was three inches shorter than Stockwell was. “What’s the FBI’s interest in this?”
“I was told these men worked for Don Gambrisi. I’m working a case against him.” She moved a finger back and forth among the dead bodies. “What happened here?”
Grayson gestured toward a short and fat man, wearing a dirty white apron and sitting at the counter. “He’s the owner of the joint. He says a tall man in a black suit, dark hair swept to the side,” Grayson glanced at the three corpses, “shot them all.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There are two more stiffs in the back alley; one’s neck’s been snapped, and the other has a knife wound in the gut.”
Stockwell stuck her chin out at the owner. “You mind if I have a word with him.”
“I already have his statement, but,” he tipped his head toward the man, “knock yourself out.”
She showed her credentials to the man sitting on the stool. “I’m Special Agent Stockwell of the FBI. May I speak with you about what happened here, Mister…?”
“Just call me Sal. I told,” he leaned around the agent and nodded at Grayson, “that guy everything I knew.”
“I realize that, but,” she claimed the stool next to Sal, “I’d like to hear your story firsthand if you don’t mind, sir.”
He pointed. “I was in the kitchen when Gwen—my waitress—comes in grumbling about some jerk wad, who’s complaining about his coffee. She said he wanted a fresh cup from the back, and not the stale crap out front.” Sal bobbed his head. “I’ve had a long day at this point, and there’s no way some yahoo is going to disrespect one of my gals…or my establishment. You know what I mean?”
Stockwell smiled. “I understand sir. You work hard and deserve respect.”
He nodded. “Damn straight I do.” He flung an arm toward Gwen sitting in a corner booth. “We all do, and no suit,” Sal jammed a finger onto the counter, “is going to come in here—”
“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m sort of on a timetable here. If you could just tell me what you saw, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure…sure thing.” He pointed at the kitchen door. “I was on my way out to have a…chat…with this turd when all of a sudden I heard these explosions. I even saw fireballs through,” he thrust a finger, “the window in the door there.”
“What happened next?”
“I’m almost ready to charge through the door when I see this guy in a suit holding a gun.” Sal made a finger gun. “He’s firing what looks like a 1911.” He poked his chest with a thumb. “I was in the military before they switched over to those Berettas, so I’m familiar with 1911’s.”
“Thank you for your service, Sal.”
“Thanks. Anyway, this isn’t like any forty-five I’ve ever heard. I thought a storm had come in, and it was thundering outside.”
Stockwell pivoted her head and stared at a napkin holder on a nearby table, her mind recalling the shootout at the foster home...
Stockwell covered an ear. What kind of 1911 hand cannon is that? Whipping her head back and forth to clear the cobwebs, she descended the last few steps and rushed toward Jacob.
She cranked her head around and eyed Grayson…
“He says a tall man in a black suit, dark hair swept to the side,” Grayson glanced at the three corpses, “shot them all.”
“Hey, are you listening to me?”
Stockwell came back to Sal. “I’m sorry. You said you saw the man who shot these people?”
Sal nodded. “Sure did.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
Sal’s flat hand went above his head. “Tall guy—over six foot, maybe six-two or six-three—jet black hair,” he motioned, “brushed off to one side. He had on a nice black suit and a gray shirt.” Sal cupped his neck. “The collar wasn’t normal though. It kind of looked like what a priest would wear. You know what I mean?”
Stockwell nodded. “I know exactly what,” an image of Jacob’s banded collar came to her mind, or should I say who, “you’re talking about, sir. Thank you for your time.”
Her mobile in hand, she left the diner and got into her car, a red—manufacturer’s paint name, Sunset—late model four-door Ford Escape. She tapped the phone’s screen and put the device to her ear. “I need some help in finding a car. It’s a blue 1970 Ford Mustang. The color had a special name in front of the blue. Oh and there was,” she made a face and slowly shook her head, “something bossy under the hood, I think.” She waited for the man on the other end of the line to stop laughing. “Hey, I’m not a car person. Besides, there can’t be that many blue 1970 Mustangs in New York City. Get me a list with plate numbers ASAP.”
She made another call. “Chuck, it’s Stockwell. I need your help on something. If I can get you a car’s make, model and year with a plate, do you think you could find it in the city?” She waited. “I’ll take however close you can get me. I’m hoping a BOLO,” —Be On the LookOut— “can get me the rest of the way.” She listened. “Thanks Chuck. And I need it yesterday.”
She disconnected the call and tapped her lips with the phone, while gazing through the windshield. “Where are you, Mr. St. Christopher? And just what the heck are you up to?”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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