Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Read online

  “No, I feel okay. I just came from the morgue, however, and the case Antonetti was working on got to me. Young woman, beautiful . . . one shot to the back of the head . . . not a clue as to who she is. No identification. Nothing special about her clothes, according to Antonelli’s assistant. No breast implants. Nothing remarkable about her teeth. Nothing at all to go on. I had to get out of there when Antonetti reached for his Stryker saw.”

  “Ah, yes, the old Stryker saw routine,” Dugan laughed maniacally. “Gets ya every time.”

  “Not really. I had no trouble watching him finish the autopsy on Trent Morrison—you remember him? The guy from Syracuse who was accused of raping some girls in his high school class 20 years ago and ended up murdered in our fair city earlier this year.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember. He got what he deserved. As the Italians always say, ‘La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.’ Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  “So what’s your problem here, Lou?”

  “This vic was a beautiful woman cut down in the prime of her life. I simply couldn’t stand there while Antonetti cut off the top of her head and pulled out her brain to get at the slug. And here I thought, after everything I’d been through in Iraq, nothing could faze me.”

  Martelli had been aboard a Black Hawk helicopter that was shot down—a result of friendly fire, some thought—during the April 2003 invasion of Baghdad, a part of Operation Iraqi Freedom. He never talked about the fact he lost his left leg attempting to save the pilot and co-pilot. His last memory before blacking out was of their cries from the cockpit, desperate cries for help that he never was able to answer, desperate cries that he heard over and over again in his nightmares until he thought he would go insane. It was his wife, Stephanie, who always was there when that happened, soothing him, changing the bed sheets that had become drenched in sweat, and assuring him that ‘this too shall pass’ and tomorrow would be a better day. Now he worked for the NYPD under a special waiver issued by the mayor’s office. The only outward sign of his disability was a slight limp resulting from his prosthetic device.

  Dugan nodded. “I understand,” she said sympathetically. “I generally make it a practice of staying out of Antonetti’s chop shop. However, I have been known to venture down there occasionally, just to keep up to date as to what’s going on around here. A gal needs her news first-hand at times, you know.”

  Martelli chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. It appeared he understood exactly what she was saying. Although she was the principal IT specialist for the Department, Dugan had the uncanny ability to uncover everything that was going on at 1PP. For this and a myriad of other reasons, she was Martelli’s go-to person for all sorts and manner of things, including rumors, confidential but leaked information floating through the 1PP grapevine, and most important, data and information that might help him solve a case.

  Martelli set his coffee cup on the floor next to his chair, reached into his pocket for his cell phone, and with a few strokes of the screen’s icons, brought up the picture of the tattoo on Jane Doe’s back. “Besides the pictures Antonetti took of her when she was brought in, her fingerprints, and whatever we get back from the pathology and ballistics labs, this picture probably just might turn out to be one of the most important pieces of evidence we have. But I’m going to need help making it work for me.”

  Dugan looked at the picture of the tattoo on Jane Doe’s back. “Send that to me, Lou. I have an idea.”

  With a few strokes of his finger, the picture of the tattoo on the vic’s back was on its way. A second later it appeared attached to an e-mail in Dugan’s inbox. It took the IT specialist only a few more seconds to store and display the vic’s tattoo in brilliant color on her high-resolution monitor.

  “Well now, isn’t that a masterpiece! Not many tattoo artists in the city could produce something that large, complicated, and delicate.”

  “What are you saying, Missy?”

  “I’m saying that as with any other art form, good tattoo artists develop their own styles that distinguish their work from the work of others. Some become real masters. I’ll bet if you showed this picture to some of the more respected tattoo artists around the city, they’d probably say ‘Oh, yeah, nice tat! That’s so-and-so’s work. I’d know it anywhere.’”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, as I said, tattoo artists develop unique styles. They generally use two basic techniques.”

  “Which are?”

  “Well, the first is called Old School, or what’s sometimes called ‘Traditional’ . . . it goes back to the roots of the art, maybe 150 years. The tats are done in three parts: black, color, and skin. Artists use thick lines typically employ nautical and military themes. You old guys saw a lot of that in the Army.”

  “Hey, watch it when you talk about us old guys! And the second?”

  “It’s called New School. Your lady’s art is a good example. Here, artists freestyle . . . you know, they use unique patterns, jagged edges, you name it, they use it, especially given the modern equipment available today. And talk about colors? Well, almost anything’s possible. Depending on a person’s skin tone, they’ll even use washes. As for inks, if you want the tat to show up only when you shine a blacklight on it, the artist will use UV light ink.”

  “What about lettering?”

  “Even the lettering can be customized using just about any font imaginable. Here’s where the better artists really shine. Each letter has to be absolutely perfect, and you can always tell when an artist took pains to ensure his work was done properly.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how do you know so much about this stuff?”

  Dugan laughed. “I’ve sat in more than a few tattoo parlors at one in the morning with friends who, after drinking a wee too much of the grape, decided a tat was just what they needed to finish off the evening’s festivities. Unfortunately, most of them weren’t thrilled with the results, whether or not masterpieces, when they woke up the next morning. By then, however, the damage had been done.”

  “I can understand that. Diamonds aren’t the only things that are forever. But there must be hundreds of tattoo parlors in the five boroughs, assuming the work was even done here. How the hell do we find the artist who tattooed this lady’s back?”

  “Maybe I can take some of the legwork out of the effort by going online and comparing the style of Jane Doe’s tat with art found on various tattoo parlor websites.

  “Before I do that, however, I’ll retrieve the photo Antonelli took of her face and enter it into the FBI’s Next Generation Identification system. The NGI contains all sorts of data, including mugshots. Some of the data were captured through a nationwide network of cameras and databases. Maybe we’ll get lucky and score a hit.”

  Martelli brightened considerably. “Those are brilliant ideas, Missy. No wonder they pay you the big bucks! And while you’re at it, could you run her prints through IAFIS. I’d have O’Keeffe do it, but Captain Hanlon has him off doing something else this morning, and we won’t be getting together until later in the day.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me, Lou. I slave away here in the basement of 1PP solving all your cases—not to mention providing IT service to 40,000 of New York’s Finest—for which they pay me bupkis! Meanwhile, you and Sean drive around town in your big new Crown Vics to impress the chicks, flash your badges, and then get all the credit when Commissioner Fields commends your performance on TV!”

  “Rank has its privileges, my pretty.”

  Four

  Martelli made his way from 1PP toward the First Precinct, fighting the usual late-morning downtown traffic that ties the city in knots even on a good day. Today it was drizzling, which only added to the misery of those on the streets, whether they were walking or driving. He had only been in his unmarked sedan for ten minutes when his cell phone sounded Dugan’s ringtone, My Life Would Suck Without You. Pushing a button on his steering wheel with his thumb, he took the call. “Yes, most beau
tiful and intelligent one.”

  “You speak the truth, Detective. That said, I have bad news. We didn’t get a facial recognition hit on the FBI’s NGI database.”

  “How the hell did you learn that so fast? There must be millions and millions of pictures in that system.”

  “You’re right, but among other things, the system can match a single face from among 1.6 million mugshots or passport photos with 92 percent accuracy in less than 1.2 seconds. I mean, the speed of this thing will blow your mind.

  “The fact is, we’re SOL, Lou. She’s simply not there. Apparently she never was arrested, never applied for a passport, never applied for a security clearance, nada! She’s somehow managed to fly under the radar her entire life.

  “Also, as you requested, I’m still running her fingerprints through the FBI’s IAFIS fingerprint system, but so far, I haven’t gotten a hit.”

  “Well, not everyone’s in the FBI’s fingerprint database. Keep trying. Meanwhile, let’s hope you turn up something on the tattoo.”

  Five

  Itwas not until late that afternoon when Martelli and his partner, Detective Sean O’Keeffe, received a call from Dugan. The detectives had been poring over missing person reports from the five New York City boroughs and neighboring jurisdictions, hoping to find one matching the description for their Jane Doe with the Wheel of Fortune tattoo on her back. Much to their surprise, none was found. The call from Dugan was a welcome break from an otherwise frustrating day.

  Martelli could barely contain himself. “Missy! Give us some good news!”

  “Well, this may be one of those good-news, bad-news calls, Lou.”

  “I was afraid of that. Sean’s with me, so give us what you got, bad news first.”

  “Hi, Sean. Okay, first the bad news. On the fingerprints, we have nothing. Not even the hint of a match.”

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. As I said, not everyone’s in the database.”

  “I know, but it surprised me. There’s something about her facial features, which are, in fact, striking. To me, they suggested in no uncertain terms she’s of Scandinavian birth. I mean, she really has that strong Swedish or Norwegian look, ya know what I mean, Lou?”

  Martelli appeared to be looking through his mind’s eye. “Yeah, I do. Believe me, I do.”

  “So now I’m thinking, what the hell’s going on here? Maybe she immigrated here as a child or teenager. And if that’s the case, her fingerprints have to be in the FBI’s database. But they’re not.

  “And that gets me thinking, what did she do? Drop in from another planet?”

  “Beats the shit outta me, Missy,” replied Martelli.

  “You want my opinion? she asked rhetorically.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to give it to us regardless of what I say,” chuckled Martelli as he winked at O’Keeffe.

  “I think she had a record and someone wiped it clean, at least wiped it from the federal databases. Maybe she’s even one of those people who’s in the federal witness protection program, in which case lots of luck in your new career . . . you’ll never learn her identity.

  “Be careful, you two. We’re one day into this case and already it doesn’t pass the smell test. Some things just aren’t adding up here.”

  Sean laughed. “Gee, Missy, aren’t you the paranoid one!”

  “You can laugh, Sean, but just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to kill you.”

  The line was silent for a few seconds. Then Martelli spoke.

  “So, Missy, what’s the good news?”

  “Well, I checked out most of the top tattoo parlor websites in the five boroughs and made a few phone calls around town. After sending the picture of Jane Doe’s ‘Wheel of Fortune’ tattoo to several artists, the consensus seemed to be that the artwork was inked by artists in one of three shops in the greater New York area. They are Magic Ink in Manhattan, Rainbow Tattoo in the Bronx, and Body Tint in Brooklyn. Here, I’m sending you their addresses now.”

  The men could hear Dugan typing on her keyboard. Seconds later, an e-mail containing the data appeared in Martelli’s inbox.

  “Got it, Missy. It’s a little late to be tooling around the city now, given that the rush hour has started. We’ll get on this first thing in the morning. Great job!”

  Six

  The Rainbow Tattoo parlor on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx had all the appearance of an old time barber shop, the kind Pietro Martelli, Louis’s father, used to frequent or where Martelli himself had his first haircut more than 40 years earlier. The floors of the shop were covered in black and white checkerboard tiles while the wood-paneled walls were covered with framed photographs of tattoos created by the resident artists. Ornate barber chairs, each with a matching artist’s chair, were mounted in the center of the shop’s two work areas, which were set apart by a low wood-paneled partition. When Martelli and O’Keeffe walked in and identified themselves at 10 AM on Thursday morning, only Adele Madison, one of the two proprietors, was at work on a patron. Her black leather pants suit, purple spiked hair, and multiple pierced earrings somehow fit right into the shop’s decor.

  After glancing at the detectives’ badges and IDs, she turned her attention back to her customer and the image of Death she was tattooing on his left arm. “So, what can I do for you guys,” she mumbled as she made a few short strokes with her pen and then brushed the newly inked area with a small piece of gauze.

  “We’ll only take a minute of your time, Ms. Madison,” said Martelli. “If you would, take a look at these tattoos and tell us who you think might have done them.”

  Madison looked up at the detectives and snapped the gum she was chewing. “Sure,” she said in her Bronx accent. “Why not?”

  Martelli showed Madison the pictures of Jane Doe’s back and upper right arm.

  “Awesome! This lady’s a real showcase. I’m almost sure those tats were done by the same person. And you want me to tell you who did this work?”

  “Well, we were hoping you could.”

  Madison snapped her gum. “Well, it wasn’t me, though I certainly could have done them. There are only two guys I can think of who could create anything that good.”

  “And they would be?”

  “Art Goldman at Magic Ink in Manhattan and Kyle Lambert, who owns Body Tint in Brooklyn. Other than those two, I haven’t a clue.”

  Madison again turned her attention to inking her customer’s arm, leaving no question that as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

  The men looked at each other. Martelli shrugged and motioned with his head for O’Keeffe to follow him out the door. “Thanks for your time, Ma’am.”

  “Sure, anytime,” she mumbled without looking up.

  Seven

  ‘That isn’t my work, Detectives. Sorry.” Art Goldman at Magic Ink in Manhattan was inking a tramp stamp on the lower back of a beautiful woman who was lying face-down on his hydraulic work chair. “But it’s a real fine work of art, that’s for sure. Did you talk with Adele at Rainbow Tattoo in the Bronx? That woman can really sling ink. She could have done those two pieces, no doubt about it.”

  Martelli laughed. “She said the same thing about you, Mr. Goldman. She thought you might be the one who did these.”

  Art smiled. He obviously was honored by what Madison had said and apparently took it as affirmation of his abilities as a tattoo artist.

  “Well, that’s awfully nice of her. She’s a wonderful lady, you know. Comes off as ‘hard’ to most people, but is generous to a fault. Has a big heart. Every year she makes a significant contribution to the local church that sponsors summer activities for the neighborhood kids, just to keep them off the street. Wonderful lady. Most people have no idea.”

  The men nodded. “So, help us out here, man,” urged Martelli. “If it wasn’t you or Adele, who else can you think of who has the ability to produce work of such high quality? From what you and Adele say, the artist who inked this young lady is very
talented. You must have some idea who it was.”

  Goldman turned his head and stroked his chin. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he started waving the forefinger on his right hand in the air. “Kyle Lambert! That’s the guy! He owns Body Tint in Brooklyn, over on Atlantic Avenue. Trained in Miami. Spent 15 years there. Had a very successful shop on South Beach but wanted to come home to New York. One of the best in the business! I’d bet a month’s gross he’s the one who did that work.”

  Martelli smiled and nodded his head.

  “Do you know him, Lou?” asked O’Keeffe.

  “I might, Sean. And if it’s the person I’m thinking of, I haven’t seen him since high school.”

  Eight

  Kyle Lambert may have left South Beach, but South Beach never left Kyle Lambert. His Body Tint tattoo parlor on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn looked much the same as its predecessor on Ocean Drive in Miami. Brightly lit with a plethora of neon signs hung for decoration and wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling framed tattoo art from which patrons could choose their next tat, the shop was viewed by many as a mecca for aficionados of the art. It was one of the few shops in the five boroughs open 24-hours a day, and even in bad times it did a staggering business. Lambert held down the first of four booths, the one closest to the door, right behind the receptionist. He was just finishing with a customer when Martelli and O’Keeffe entered and presented their credentials. The time was 3:20 PM.

  Martelli smiled broadly when he saw Lambert.

  “Holy shit, it’s Lou Martelli!” Lambert bellowed, shooting both hands into the air. “I give up. I did it! I’m guilty!”

  Martelli turned to O’Keeffe. “Book ‘em, Danno!”

  O’Keeffe had a look on his face as if to say ‘What the fuck is going on here?’

  Before O’Keeffe could even ask what was on his mind, Lambert and Martelli threw their arms around each other in a bear hug and Lambert started blurting words like an UZI spitting slugs at a thousand rounds per minute. “Lou, you old fart, how the hell are you? I heard you lost a leg in Iraq. That’s bad shit, my friend. How’s Stephanie? Gosh, you two were inseparable in high school. You’re a lucky man, Lou. And wasn’t that a shame about our old classmates, Vince and Elena Ponticelli? I was blown away to learn you were the one who arrested him. Sad their nine-year-old boy died. Wow, it’s good to see you.”