“The fact that this Laurie Montgomery is involved,” Angelo said. “She gives me nightmares. Tony and I tried to whack her, but we couldn’t. It was like God was protecting her.”
Franco laughed in spite of Angelo’s seriousness. “This Laurie Montgomery would be flattered that someone with your reputation has nightmares about her. That’s hilarious.”
“I don’t find it funny at all,” Angelo said.
“Don’t get sore at me,” Franco said. “Besides, she’s hardly involved in what we’re doing here.”
“It’s related,” Angelo said. “And she told Vinnie Amendola that she’s going to make it her personal business to find out how we managed to get Franconi’s body out of the morgue.”
“But how is she going to do that?” Franco said. “And worse comes to worse we sent Freddie Capuso and Richie Herns to do the actual dirty work. I think you’re jumping to conclusions here.”
“Oh yeah?” Angelo questioned. “You don’t know this woman. She’s one persistent bitch.”
“All right!” Franco said with resignation. “You want to be bummed out, fine by me.”
As they reached the New Jersey side of the bridge, Franco bore right onto the Palisades Interstate Parkway. With Angelo insisting on sulking, he reached over and turned on the radio. After pushing a few buttons he found a station that played “oldies but goodies.” Turning up the volume up he sang “Sweet Caroline” along with Neil Diamond.
By the second refrain, Angelo leaned forward and turned off the radio. “You win,” he said. “I’ll cheer up if you promise not to sing.”
“You don’t like that song?” Franco questioned as if he were hurt. “It’s got such sweet memories for me.” He smacked his lips as if he were tasting. “It reminds me of making out with Maria Provolone.”
“I’m not going to touch that one,” Angelo said, laughing despite himself. He appreciated working with Franco Ponti. Franco was a professional. He also had a sense of humor, which Angelo knew he himself lacked.
Franco exited the parkway onto Palisades Avenue, passed Route 9W, and headed west down a long hill into Englewood, New Jersey. The environment quickly changed from franchise fast-food restaurants and service stations to upper-class suburban.
“You got the map and the address handy?” Franco asked.
“I got it right here,” Angelo said. He reached up and turned on the map light. “We’re looking for Overlook Place,” he said. “It will be on the left.”
Overlook Place was easy to find, and five minutes later, they were cruising along a winding, tree-lined street. The lawns that stretched up to the widely spaced houses were so expansive they looked like fairways on a golf course.
“Can you imagine living in a place like this?” Franco commented, his head swinging from side to side. “Hell, I’d get lost trying to find the street from my front door.”
“I don’t like this,” Angelo said. “It’s too peaceful. We’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Now don’t get yourself all bent out of shape,” Franco said. “At this point, all we’re doing is reconnoitering. What number are we looking for?”
Angelo consulted the piece of paper in his hand. “Number Eight Overlook Place.”
“That means it’s going to be on our left,” Franco said. They were just passing number twelve.
A few moments later Franco slowed and pulled over to the right side of the road. He and Angelo stared up a serpentine driveway lined with carriage lamps to a massive Tudor-style house set against a backdrop of soaring pine trees. Most of the multipaned windows were aglow with light. The property was the size of a football field.
“Looks like a goddamn castle,” Angelo complained.
“I must say, it’s not what I was hoping for,” Franco said.
“Well, what are we going to do?” Angelo asked. “We can’t just sit here. We haven’t seen a car since we pulled off the main drag back there.”
Franco put the car in gear. He knew Angelo was right. They couldn’t wait there. Someone would undoubtedly spot them, become suspicious, and call the police. They’d already passed one of those stupid neighborhood watch signs with the silhouette of a guy wearing a bandana.
“Let’s find out more about this sixteen-year-old chick,” Angelo said. “Like, where she goes to school, what she likes to do, and who are her friends. We can’t risk going up to the house. No way.”
Franco grunted in agreement. Just as he was about to press on the accelerator, he saw a tiny figure come out the front of the house. From such a distance he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “Somebody just came out,” he said.
“I noticed,” Angelo said.
The two men watched in silence as the figure descended a few stone stairs and then started down the driveway.
“Whoever it is, is kind of fat,” Franco said.
“And they got a dog,” Angelo said.
“Holy Madonna,” Franco said after a few moments. “It’s the girl.”
“I don’t believe this,” Angelo said. “Do you think it really is Cindy Carlson? I’m not used to things happening this easy.”
Astounded, the two men watched as the girl continued down the driveway as if she were coming directly to greet them. Ahead of her walked a tiny, caramel-colored toy poodle with its little pompom tail sticking straight up.
“What should we do?” Franco questioned. He didn’t expect an answer; he was thinking out loud.
“How about the police act?” Angelo suggested. “It always worked for Tony and me.”
“Sounds good,” Franco said. He turned to Angelo and stuck out his hand. “Let me use your Ozone Park police badge.”
Angelo reached into the vest pocket of his Brioni suit and handed over the walletlike badge cover.
“You stay put for the moment,” Franco said. “No reason to scare her right off the bat with that face of yours.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Angelo said sourly. Angelo cared about his appearance and dressed to the nines in a vain attempt to compensate for his face, which was severely scarred from a combination of chicken pox as a child, severe acne as a teenager, and third-degree burns from an explosion five years previously. Ironically, the explosion had been ignited thanks to Laurie Montgomery.
“Ah, don’t be so touchy,” Franco teased. He cuffed Angelo on the back of the head. “You know we love you, even though you look like you should be in a horror movie.”
Angelo fended off Franco’s hand. There were only two people he allowed even to make reference to his facial problem: Franco and his boss, Vinnie Dominick. Still, he didn’t appreciate it.
The girl was now nearing the street. She was dressed in a pink down-filled ski parka, which only made her look heavier. Her facial features indented a puffy face with mild acne. Her hair was straight and parted down the middle.
“She look anything like Maria Provolone?” Angelo questioned, to get in a dig at Franco.
“Very funny,” Franco said. He reached for the door handle and got out of the car.
“Excuse me!” Franco called out as sweetly as possible. Having smoked heavily from age eight, he had a voice that normally had a harsh, raspy quality. “Could you, by any chance, be the popular Cindy Carlson?”
“Maybe,” the teenager said. “Who wants to know?” She’d stopped at the foot of the driveway. The dog lifted his leg against the gate post.
“We’re police officers,” Franco said. He held up the badge so that the light from the streetlamp glinted off its polished surface. “We’re investigating several of the boys in town and we were told you might be able to help us.”
“Really?” Cindy questioned.
“Absolutely,” Franco said. “Please come over here so my colleague can talk to you.”
Cindy glanced up and down the street, even though not a car had passed in the last five minutes. She crossed the street, pulling her dog who’d been intently sniffing the base of an elm tree.