Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

“Assault,” Walsh said. He turned to Denton. “Back at the Bellagio. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

“This is bullshit,” Denton said.

“We need to find Mr. Pellecchia,” Walsh said. “Ma’am, do you know where he is? You might save his life. Nicholas Cuccia has killed at least three people today.”

Lisa spoke without thinking. “His girlfriend,” she said. She looked to Denton. “Right?”

Denton frowned. Walsh waited. “Mr. Denton?” he said. “You could save the man’s life.”

Denton looked down at Lisa. She looked up at him with a gentle smile. “I lived with the man for five years,” she said. “I figured it out.”

Denton nodded at Walsh. “All right,” Denton said. “All right.”

The puppy lay asleep on Samantha’s lap as Charlie set a cover on the pot of sauce he was cooking. She smiled at him when he took a seat on the couch beside her.

“Smells pretty good,” she said.

Charlie leaned across her lap to pet the dog. He kissed Samantha on the cheek. “So do you.”

“About how long will that sauce take?” Samantha asked.

“Forty minutes.”

“Can you make it take forty-five?”

They kissed.

“I missed that,” he told her.

“Me, too,” she said.

They kissed again. Samantha held ight. It was good holding him again. She missed him. She was glad he was there.

He moved closer as they embraced around the dog. He leaned into a kiss when he felt something hard under his leg. “What’s this?”

He pulled a.25 from between the couch pillows.

“Oh, shit,” Samantha said. “That’s what he shot me with. Beau, Carol’s husband. I just assumed he took it with him.”

“Yeah, and so did the cops,” Charlie said as he set the gun on an end table. “Which reminds me,” he added as he removed the.22 he had bought from the hookers from his pants pocket and set it alongside Beau’s gun.

“Where did you get that?” Samantha asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Charlie said.

The puppy was climbing on Samantha’s chest. It licked at both their faces as its tail wagged excitedly.

“Ooooh, the pretty baby!” Samantha said in a high-pitched voice. “Oooh, the pretty baby!”

She picked the dog up to hold against her face. Charlie shook his head as he backed away from them on the couch. He said, “I knew I should’ve bought flowers.”

When Minh learned where Charlie Pellecchia was, he grinned. It was the same address Minh had copied on the street where all the police activity had been the day before.

“Police cruiser park in front,” his man told Minh in broken English. “One cop in car.”

Minh told his man to make sure he was waiting behind the apartment complex and that his gas tank was full. Then he screwed a silencer onto the end of his weapon’s barrel and picked up an order of Chinese food from a local restaurant.

Minh planned to make a delivery to the address where the police cruiser was parked. Then, as soon as Minh was inside the apartment, he would shoot Charlie Pellecchia.

Gold was crouched behind the bushes alongside the narrow gap between buildings where Samantha Cole lived. On the other side of the gap, Iandolli used night vision binoculars to scan the area behind the complex.

“How long before you figure the Feds roll up?” Gold whispered.

“They may already be here. Up the block somewhere we can’t see, or on a roof. Who knows? They’re anxious to get Cuccia after what happened.”

“They’re probably still tripping over their own feet.”

“Maybe,” Iandolli said. He could tell Gold was nervous. Neither detective had ever been in this type of situation before, laying in wait for a killer.

Iandolli scanned the area to his left. He held the binoculars steady as he moved slowly from left to right across the tops of the hedges around the pool. When he reached the last hedge to his right, Iandolli noticed somebody walking alongside it. He whispered to Gold to remain quiet.

The Glock was stuffed inside Cuccia’s pants against his lower back. The agent’s weapon was jammed in the front of his pants. He pulled down the baggy Hard Rock Café sweatshirt he had bought from a souvenir shop to cover both guns.

It was too dark to spot a surveillance team, but the police cruiser parked up the block couldn’t be more obvious. Cuccia had walked the half mile from the gas station without a problem.

Samantha Cole lived at number 6325. Cuccia stopped to read one of the addresses on a building to his right. “Sixty-three thirteen,” he whispered to himself. He walked around the corner to the back of the apartment complex.

As Cuccia passeind tlding on his left now, he counted to himself. He did the same with the next building and the one after that. When he came to a stop again, Cuccia was standing directly behind 6325. He reached for the gun in his waistband when he heard the sound of a motorbike nearby.

Minh Quan parked two spots behind the police cruiser and crossed the front lawn diagonally to the front door. He carried the bag of Chinese food to cover the Beretta tucked in his pants. When he reached the short stairway, the policeman was out of the car and called to him.

“Food delivery,” Minh said, affecting a more pronounced accent.

The policeman eyed him a few seconds until Minh held up the bag of food. Then the cop waved him on and sat back inside the cruiser.

Minh rang the doorbell two times as he grabbed the gun.

Gold hadn’t prayed for anything in a long time. The veteran detective didn’t have much faith in religion. He believed that mankind made its own bed. He believed in the justice his police work was supposed to provide. He believed in the law.

But the law had failed miserably for a forty-six-year-old maid going about the business of earning a living, and Gold couldn’t get over her death. Ever since he had tried and failed to revive the poor woman, Gold prayed for the chance to kill the man who had killed her.

Now that man was standing about ten feet away.

Iandolli saw the motorcycle make a sharp U-turn in the background. He watched it until he saw Nicholas Cuccia reaching for and holding the gun. Iandolli set the night vision glasses on the grass and stood up in a firing stance.

“Hold it!” he yelled. “Drop your weapon!”

“Fuck me,” Cuccia said. He had half-turned toward the sound of the motorcycle. When he looked back, Iandolli sighted his weapon on Cuccia’s chest.

“Drop it!” Iandolli repeated. “Drop your weapon!”

Iandolli waited for Cuccia to drop his gun before half-stepping across the back lawn toward the gangster. “Don’t fucking breathe,” Iandolli said.

Cuccia raised his hands slowly as the sound of screeching tires filled the night air. “Take it easy, big man,” he said. “You could hurt somebody with that thing.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Iandolli said.

Cuccia saw another cop coming out from behind the bushes. He was short and bald. The cop held his weapon loosely in his right hand. He was close to a foot shorter than the big cop standing to his left.

Cuccia wondered if he could position himself between the two cops somehow and maybe make a move that would cause one of them to shoot the other. He grinned at the image.

“What’s so funny?” the short cop asked.

Cuccia shook his head. He noticed that the big cop was almost in line with a potential crossfire. The sound of the screeching tires grew louder.

“You got me,” he said.

“Yes, we do,” the short cop said.

The big cop stopped short of a crossfire line. Cuccia frowned. He turned toward the motorcycle and saw it was stopped about a block away. The rider was holding a cell phone. The sound of the car making time caught Cuccia’s attention. If both cops blinked, he might be able to get to the gun against his back.