"Lieutenant Stone…I remember when you were an Inspector for what was it…robbery, right?"
Steve couldn't hide a faint smile as he let his eyes drift across the elaborate glass cabinets filled with antiques covering anything from statues and vases of the Roman Empire to iconic guns used during the first World War.
The Persian carpet below Frankie Scalino's 22-seat dining room table probably cost more than both, Mike's and his salary combined over an entire decade.
And yet, despite the massive mansion Scalino called his home on West Beach, not a kernel of dust could be found anywhere. It seemed as though the house had been kept as immaculately clean as the mobster's track record of fifty some deaths- and not a single one offering enough evidence to indict him.
Despite Mike's stern warning, Steve couldn't help but feel the peace and tranquility of this place dulling his senses, the more time they spent around the welcoming and generous man in his mid-eighties sitting on a large lounge chair across from them.
For what it was worth, there seemed to be some unspoken level of respect between the mobster and the seasoned Lieutenant, as the two carried on their engaged conversation.
"It's been a few years…", Mike answered cordially and hung his fedora on a nearby clothes rack before pulling up and sitting down on a wooden dining chair next to Scalino, "Seems that…things changed a bit for both of us."
Frankie nodded and reached for a set of glasses on a nearby nightstand, holding them up to his face to look at both Detectives.
"I don't know, Michael. You still look the same to me. Who's that? Your kid? I thought you only had a daughter. You got married again?"
"No…", Steve smiled again when Mike almost stumbled over his words.
As he pretended to be deeply engrossed in the artifacts beneath the glass walls to allow for his partner to do the talking; the young Inspector couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy at the two seasoned, and polar opposite characters having an almost intimate conversation nearby. Decades of playing cat and mouse with each other and here they were acting like old friends.
"No, that's my partner. Inspector Stephen Keller."
Steve turned around briefly, nodding at the old mobster cordially, then turning his attention back to an old vase salvaged from the rubble in Pompeii.
"I should have known. He's too good looking to be your kid.", Scalino joked and put his glasses back down, before drawing in a deep breath.
Mike caught onto it, and put a gentle hand on the mobster's forearm, his head slightly lowered.
"I am very sorry about what happened to Gino."
"Well, I am not.", Frankie said curtly and shook his head, before covering Mike's hand with his own, "He lived like a fool, and he died like one too. That's life."
Leaning back a bit as if to put some distance between him and the mobster, Mike cleared his throat, his lips pursed to a thin line, taking a deep breath before he spoke up again.
"Well, we are here because we are investigating his death. And that of five others. All these killings seem to be related."
Steve glanced over at the mobster, only to find the man's dark brown eyes staring straight back at him. Even from his distance, there was something profoundly dangerous and cold-blooded beneath the warmth and gentleness radiating through any other part of Frankie's body. Those eyes though…they spoke of a very, very different past than the nostalgia that his house exuded.
"You like history, boy?", Frankie addressed him and Steve looked up from the cabinet, before nodding eagerly.
"Yes, Sir. I took some classes on Archeology in college."
Completely bypassing Mike's question, the mobster seemed to have suddenly become intrigued with the younger Inspector.
"Which college did you attend?"
"Berkeley.", Steve answered, slowly becoming uncomfortable with the interview turning increasingly one-sided. Mike glanced up at him, clearly feeling the exact same way.
"Berkeley…one of those liberal places. You should have gone to Rome, boy. The university has one of the best courses for Archeology in the World. Or Berlin, Germany. You could be digging up treasures from the past now, instead of being a… a detective. That's dirty work. No prestige."
"I am still digging.", Steve countered and put his hands behind his back, "But these days I am digging for the truth."
Even though he'd said it in a calm voice, Mike tensed up at his words immediately. Frankie noted the Lieutenant's stern glance and chuckled, before patting him on the forearm.
"It's alright, Michael. I like this one. He's got an edge to him, kind of like Sergio Lombardo, remember him? Tony's oldest son? Cocky little bastard. I like attitude in a man. It goes a long way in life, you know?"
Throwing one more warning glance in his partner's direction, Mike focused back on the aging mobster.
"Frankie, what can you tell me about what's going on in this city?"
As the atmosphere suddenly turned ice cold, Steve let his eyes drift across the vast living room and past the two men ahead. Through the large window overlooking 46th Street, he could see an azure LTD drive by their parked police car below at a slow rate of speed, then halting, then driving off quickly.
"That depends, Michael."
"Depends on what?", Mike dug deeper and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and eyeing the mobster sternly.
"It depends on what you plan to do about it.", Frankie answered cryptically and rested his thin, almost frail hands in his lap.
"You know what I plan on doing about that, Frankie.", Mike said, his voice growing tenser by the minute, "I will throw the book at that hitman you and Tony have got running amok out there. And when he starts to sing, I will throw the book at you too. Because, see, I will not tolerate people making up their own rules in my city. Murder, no matter what your reasoning is, is still murder. And I am here to ensure that this madness stops now."
The mobster drew in a deep breath, his cold eyes scanning both detectives suspiciously.
"In that case, I know nothing, Michael."