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his speed-dial list, back when he thought he might finally have a relationship that would last. At least they still got along.
    The phone rang a few times before she picked up.
    “Hello.”
    “Kate, it’s Frankie.”
    “And I mistook you for the shy type.”
    “I need to know if these guys were already dead when he shot them.”
    A pause followed. “You mean Mazzetti’s murders?”
    “Yeah, there were three.”
    “I know how many there were, but the first two weren’t the same. The second guy was just shot. But the first one…”
    “Renzo,” Frankie said.
    “Thanks, the names are always a blur to me. I remember wounds.”
    “That’s what makes you so attractive, Doctor.”
    “Screw you,” Kate said. “Anyway, the first guy, Renzo, he got it bad. He was definitely dead before he was shot.”
    “And Nino?”
    “I haven’t confirmed it, but I’d bet on it.”
    “Thanks. Sorry I bothered you at night.”
    “Before you go, I thought you’d like to know that the actual murder weapon was a Louisville Slugger. I’m guessing we’ll find the same with Nino.”
    “Yeah, me too. Thanks again.”
    “Goodnight, Detective Donovan.” She cooed the title.
    “I love you, too,” he said, and hung up. He regretted saying that to her—didn’t want to make her think… Nah, she won’t.
    As he went through Tommy Devin’s file, he saw something in the inventory that stopped him cold—thirty-two packs of Winstons.
    Thirty-two packs. Another link to the past.
    If he assumed the murderer was Nicky or Tony, that still left a big question—how did they know the victims? To figure that out, Frankie had to know the victims. After picking up his favorite fine-point marker, he started making a chart. “Who are you, Nino? And what did you do to piss someone off so bad?”
    There was no doubt that someone was sending Frankie a message, but were they warning him off, or giving him clues? Was this really tied to the old neighborhood, or was he reading too much into it? Maybe the guy bought four cartons and happened to have thirty-two packs left.
    Frankie pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table. He lit it and sucked hard on that first drag. A memory brought laughter along with the smoke, damn near choking him. Nicky hated it when Frankie strained the cigarette. But that was back when cigs were important. Hell, back then they were everything .

CHAPTER 8

    THE OATH
    Wilmington—21 Years Ago
    M y eleventh birthday was the best of my life. Pops took off from work and invited Tony and Frankie to see the Phillies play. We smoked a whole pack of cigarettes before noon, knowing we’d be dry the rest of the day. An hour later we piled into the car with Pops. It was August-hot, but despite that, and the fact that our team didn’t win, we had a great time. Not only did we get to go to the ball game, but we celebrated my birthday dinner the next night at Tony’s house. Mamma Rosa made my favorite meal of meatballs and spaghetti. Nothing fancy, just the most delicious damn meatballs in the world and homemade pasta. When I thought I’d died from pleasure, Rosa brought out a plate of sfogliatelle—shell-shaped pastries stuffed with ricotta cheese. The sfogliatelle took this from the best meal to one made in heaven. I stuffed until my stomach hurt. It was a great way to kick off August.
    I was no longer just Nicky; I was “Nicky the Rat.” The name Doggs gave me stuck, much to my dismay. Names were like that; they either stuck, or they didn’t. Frankie was hanging out more at Tony’s house, swearing he couldn’t stand to be in the same block with his father. He never told us about the beatings, but we saw the marks on his back when we went swimming. We spent most nights in Tony’s basement playing pool. The table was nice, but the basement floor wasn’t level, front and back sloping toward a drain in the middle. And the steps were always in the way, forcing the use of a short cue that made us feel like dwarfs.
    Tony was