In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1) Read online

  IN A SMALL TOWN

  A Small Town Series: Book One

  Marc A. Di Giacomo

  Copyright © 2012 by Marc A. Di Giacomo

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  In A Small Town

  ISBN-13: 978-1492847014

  ISBN-10:1492847011

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012946447

  Second Edition

  Cover design by Karri Klawiter: http://artbykarri.com

  Editing by Philip Newey: http://philipnewey.com/All-read-E.htm

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio: http://www.polgarusstudio.com

  Proofread by Tia Bach: http://www.ibgw.net

  Author photograph by Dina DiGiacomo

  Visit my website at: http://www.inasmalltownbook.com

  Praise for the 2013 Orangeberry Book Expo Hall of Fame Winner for Best Thriller and the 2014 Thriller-Honorable Mention and Finalist in the Readers’ Favorite International Book Contest.

  Reviewed by Molly Edwards for Readers' Favorite

  “This book right here. This is it. This is what a thriller novel should be all about. I loved this book from start to finish. Mr. Di Giacomo has taken a wonderful plot line and mixed it with amazingly captivating characters and threw his readers an intense, witty debut thriller.”

  Reviewed by Maya Fleischmann for Indiereader.com

  “A powerful, insightful and moving glimpse into the life of a good cop trying to keep crime from taking over the streets and the police force in a small town.”

  See all reviews of this award winning novel at http://www.inasmalltownbook.com

  A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  The author is dedicating this book to the brave men and women who are the first line of defense against crime. Only a select few can wear a bullet proof vest and carry a loaded gun with professionalism and honor. Not everyone can be a police officer, nor should just anyone be appointed as such. There are no exceptions to having total integrity while carrying that badge. A police officer's dedicated service makes us proud and ensures us all the right to personal safety. Please thank a police officer if they ever are of help to you, and encourage your children to do the same. This simple gesture may help a police officer remember something good out of a career dealing with the worst situations imaginable.

  This book contains extreme profanity, graphic scenes of death, and sex. It is not recommended for anyone who is under the age of eighteen. Thank you for purchasing In A Small Town and please leave your review at the following link: http://amzn.to/1tZQdwf

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The main idea for this book originated upon remembering the last time I saw my grandfather, Anthony Joseph Bisignano. It was that night, so long ago, that I unfortunately discovered my first dead body. I was only four years old. I am thankful to him for inspiring this story and preparing me for my future career.

  I am so grateful to many people who have been so encouraging throughout this process. I would like to thank the members of the Harrison Police Department, who I worked alongside with for so many years, especially Chief A. Marraccini, Detective Lieutenant E. Lucas, Sgt. C. Provenzano, and the entire Detective Division. Your commitment to public safety and dedication to the town you protect is to be commended. Also, my little brother, P.O. Christopher DiGiacomo (retired) who inspired a lot of material in this book. I miss working with you the most.

  Thank you to my wonderful sister-in-law, Debra D’Agostino, for her insightful and helpful editing skills. To my man on the web, Vincent D’Agostino, for creating a very cool website, inasmalltownbook.com, and for maintaining it superbly. To my new editor and friend, Philip Newey, thank you for polishing this book and making it the best it can be. I look forward to our working relationship on many future projects. To Karri Klawiter, you created the coolest cover ever. I can’t wait to start our next project together.

  Thank you to my entire family for supporting me throughout my extraordinary life, especially my parents, Rick and Paula DiGiacomo; my sister, Kristen Ciafone; my brothers, Rick DiGiacomo and Christopher DiGiacomo, and my in-laws, Vincent and Arlene D’Agostino. You are all very special to me.

  And most importantly, I must thank my incredible wife, Dina, and our three beautiful sons, for their constant love and support of me in all my endeavors. Without them, none of this would be possible.

  For my father, Americo Di Giacomo Jr., my hero and biggest fan.

  Chapter One: Not In Our Town

  August 3, 2007

  I can’t get this out of my mind. My dreams won’t let me forget the lightning that exploded from the end of the barrel, the ripping orange flash off the black steel, and the burning scent of gunpowder. The sound, like an M-80, and the pain—the fucking searing pain. It is permanently scorched into my memory. Everything except for his covered face. The face I didn’t see haunts me every second. All I remember are those ultra-white Reebok sneakers as he ran away. The fucking coward would have shot me in the back, but I turned around and caught the blast in the chest. I didn’t have time to pull my Glock.

  The blast knocked me off my feet. I thought I was having a heart attack—I couldn’t catch my breath. Then I understood what happened, and reality hit: I was going to die.

  It seemed to take minutes rather than seconds, but I managed to radio my location into headquarters. The response from the good guys was impressive, to say the least. They saved my life. Cops from my own town and others surrounded the scene. I knew they would come. When a cop gets shot, they all come, and with one thing in mind—to find the bastard who pulled the trigger.

  Things grew foggy. My thoughts became hazy. I saw blue uniforms scurrying around the scene while white-clad EMTs lifted me onto the gurney and loaded me into the ambulance. I could hear people talking about me—reporters, other cops, curious residents. “Detective Matthew Longo… Only twenty-nine years old, been on the force nearly ten years… Shot in the fucking chest and shoulder. No wife or children. Parents live in town; Hutchville lifers. Oh yeah, the town is going to go batshit over this.”

  Blood oozed from my left shoulder. My friend and paramedic, Scotty Franks, hovered over me and placed direct pressure on my wound. Even through my fog I could tell he was holding back tears. My shoulder was on fire. I never wore my bulletproof vest unless making entry on a search warrant, or if a hot pursuit was coming my way; then I quickly threw it over my shirt. I was lucky I had it on that night. Maybe someone on the other side was looking out for me.

  I fell unconscious even with all the shouting around me. I dreamed of my funeral and who would be there. I saw myself in the blue box surrounded by a sobbing crowd of familiar faces. My parents looked horrible. My poor mother clutched her bible and rosary beads. My dad kept his eyes fixed to the floor, angry and broken. My little brother, Franny, in full dress uniform, stood near my casket at full attention, his white gloves damp from tears. Donny was there too, trying to keep it together.

  I heard Scotty screaming for me in the distance. The poor guy loved me, but why was he screaming my name, spitting all over my face, at my wake? Maybe I should have had a closed casket.

  Suddenly I felt him slapping me. I awo
ke and found myself back inside the ambulance. Scotty took a deep breath, in and out, and said, “Okay Matt, okay. Don’t do that again.”

  The pain was relentless, and I couldn’t help but cry. Scotty inserted a syringe into an IV line that was attached to my arm. My pain vanished almost immediately. “Don’t give me morphine, Scotty,” I managed to whisper. “It killed my grandparents.” Then, I lost consciousness again, falling into a world between life and death.

  I heard someone screaming in the night. Was it me? It was too dark to see. Where’s Donny? I really needed him now. Was I dreaming again or was this some delusion of reality? I slapped myself and felt a sharp sting, jolting me awake.

  It has been three weeks of hell living inside this apartment. My social life has been placed on indefinite hold. The phone rings constantly, but who cares? I don’t answer. The window shades are drawn. I don’t know if it’s day or night, and I don’t give a shit.

  Thankfully, the wound has been healing well. But I look at my shoulder and am repulsed by the scar and missing flesh. People say scars are sexy but this one may be the exception. My left arm is still in a sling. At times, the pain is still unbearable. The Percocet I’m still taking makes me pass out.

  The sink is loaded with paper dishes and plastic cups. Last week’s dinner from my mother sits on the kitchen table still wrapped in tin foil, and the smell is starting to ferment in my kitchen. I can hear my dad’s deep voice in my head: “Why don’t you pull it together and clean up around here? You’re making your mother nervous.” She’s nervous? I can’t help laughing.

  Hey Dad, your oldest son was almost shot dead in the same small, safe community where we played Little League baseball. Mind if I take a week or two to let that one sink in?

  Only cops—and maybe some of their wives—realize how dangerous police work can become in a millisecond. Parents of cops usually choose to ignore this reality—it’s too difficult to accept that a life-or-death choice awaits their son or daughter at any moment. A bank robbery turns into a shootout; a wanted felon gets pulled over for a broken tail-light and decides suicide by cop is his only way to avoid a lengthy jail sentence. As a detective, this is my everyday reality.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen in a small town. We’ve never had a police shooting—never. In fact, the last time we had any kind of criminal shooting was ten years ago, and it was a domestic dispute between a father and his cheating son-in-law. These old-school Italians are no joke. The father said his son-in-law disrespected him, so he “took care of it” like they do in the old country.

  It didn’t make any sense. It would have been one thing if I had been shot on a traffic stop. But I was just picking up a fucking pizza. Half pepperoni, half sausage. I was just walking down the street. It wasn’t even dark out as the sun was just setting in the western sky.

  My mentor and partner, Detective Domenico “Donny” Mello, always told me never to “go anywhere alone.” He said, “Don’t even pick up lunch alone. A cop is always a target for someone looking to become infamous. The public hates us most of the time because our interactions are rarely positive. Nobody calls us when they have a new baby but if that baby isn’t breathing, there is no one else to call. Always the bad,” he would say. “Always the bad.” I miss Donny. He’s been away for three weeks at his family’s villa in Italy, on the Amalfi coast. Did he even know I had been shot?

  The press remains close by outside my apartment, salivating for an interview, the fucking cretins. I’m the talk of the town—everyone wants to know about the cop shooting. Fuck them. Twice. Even if I wanted to relive the horrifying experience for them, it goes against department protocol.

  I swallow down two Percocet, lie down on the couch, and let the painkillers do their magic. In my head the image haunts me—a dark shadow with the whitest fucking sneakers you ever saw.

  ****

  Italy, August 24, 2007

  “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Fretti?” The tall brunette could walk any fashion runway in the world. The quiet gentleman can feel her attraction illuminating his personal space and replies, “No signora, mi dispiace.” The pool at his resort is crystal blue and crowded just the way he likes it. The cabana is private and the women are gorgeous.

  “Paolo, what’s next paisan?” For a moment he forgot there was someone lying on the couch next to him.

  “Fabrizio mio cugino, non lo so.” Paolo Fretti sets his sights on a dirty blonde exiting the pool in a light blue bikini. The best part about his hotel is all the pool patrons and staff are gorgeous women. He gestures one finger towards her and she smiles, walking right towards him with her inner thighs gently brushing against each other. The water beads dripping from her tanned skin leave dark shadows on the concrete pavement. She has perfect cleavage, with full natural breasts hinting the slightest bounce as she approaches him and awaits his request.

  Paolo slides his uncut penis out from his red Speedo bathing suit and Fabrizio quickly gets up to close the gauzy-white shades as he makes his departure. Paolo’s manhood resembles a nice thick sopressata and the blonde wastes no time. She is on him in seconds and makes his softness her priority. She gently rocks back and forth, gazing into his green Sicilian eyes. She knows who she is dealing with and wants nothing more than to please him in every way. It doesn’t take long for her to realize he is close. She wants to make this as personal as possible. This is her moment to shine as she is tired of dancing nude and longs for something better within the family. She slowly raises herself off of him, placing his hardness into her mouth. She knows how difficult this task is and is trying hard not to gag. She has been practicing on two bananas since she heard all the rumors regarding his girth. It is definitely bigger than previously mentioned during girl chatter in the locker room of the club. The difficult undertaking she finds herself in rewards her straight into the back of her throat with the warmest honey she has ever tasted. She has been told if he kisses you afterwards then you are destined for more of his attention. As she looks up at him, he appears mesmerized. He pulls her hair gently towards him and kisses her on the lips long and deep. She tries hard not to smile and remains passionate throughout his kiss.

  “Como ti chiami?”

  She has never heard him speak before that question to which she nervously replies, “Il mia nome e Maria.”

  Don Paolo smiles as she gets up to leave. “Aspettare, andare a cena con me stasera.”

  Her mind races to answer, “Dinner sounds good.”

  As Maria departs the cabana, Fabrizio returns, as if on cue, with a glum look on his face. “What’s wrong? You look like someone ran over your puppy.” Fabrizio takes a deep breath. “The cop is alive. He made it.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right? Who told you?”

  “It was on the Internet, lohud.com.” Fabrizio starts to sweat and it isn’t because of the heat.

  Paolo sits up and begins to retrace his steps that night. It wasn’t the first time he shot someone, although he never pulled the trigger on a cop before. He understood if he was caught that night, it would have been a certain death sentence especially in that small town. The shell was a double O buckshot magnum. He saw the amount of blood. “Son of a bitch must have had his vest on,” Paolo says, certain it is the only way the cop can still be alive. “Who do we have in America close to Hutchville?”

  Fabrizio answers quickly, “Gus, Don Paolo.”

  Paolo’s memory runs a circular race inside his heated brain. Gus is not strong enough for this assignment and is too sloppy. If you want something done clean, you have to do it yourself. “Fabrizio, make arrangements for JFK airport next week. I have to go back to finish the job.”

  Chapter Two: Donny

  Donny Mello came to the United States when he was ten, in 1982. At the request of his grandfather, Carlo, Donny went to live with his aunt, Zia Maria Mello, who lived in Hutchville.

  Donny always lacked a father figure, as Zia Maria never married. She was heavily involved in St. Vincent’s parish, our local
Roman Catholic Church. At one time, she even contemplated becoming a nun, which would have been an amazing accomplishment and honor for an Italian American family, although the ultimate blessing of good fortune is having a priest in your family.

  Donny never spoke of his parents, but I always wondered if their deaths could be attributed to Carlo’s occupation. The town of Positano was where Carlo Mello escaped to avoid assassination by a local rival from Palermo, Sicily. Carlo was no ordinary Italian; he was Sicilian and known to the people as Don Carlo. He was connected, to say the least.

  Carlo Mello ran Cosa Nostra in Palermo and was not to be messed with. His connections were worldwide and INTERPOL was well aware of his criminal enterprise. Donny never talked about his grandfather’s “business dealings,” but I could sense that he missed him dearly. Unfortunately, Carlo’s past caught up with him in the most tragic circumstance: he was murdered while attending a small dinner party with friends at La Zagara in Positano. The killer was dressed as a waiter. The shooting had the markings of a top-notch assassination. Don Carlo was shot dead as he forked lemon tiramisu. He never got a chance to taste the luscious dessert. A real pity, as I heard many times from Donny that the homemade lemon tiramisu was to die for in this establishment. I guess Donny wasn’t kidding. His untimely passing took a toll on Donny unlike anything I have ever seen.

  I was present when Donny received the call from Italy. We went together to tell his Zia Maria, who collapsed at the sad news. I would venture to say that Donny felt somehow responsible for Carlo’s death because Donny wasn’t there to stop it. He always seemed to miss that Italian lifestyle. He talked for hours about his family and how much he missed them. His stories were a welcome break between dealing with whatever bullshit cases we had pending. Whenever he vacationed in Italy, Donny’s excitement overshadowed his extreme fear of flying. And upon his return, Donny always complained that he never should’ve come back. “You have no idea, cugino,” Donny would say with a real sadness in his eyes.