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Amazon
CRIME FICTION AUTHOR JULIE DOLCEMASCHIO
Category:
Crime
Publisher: Krill Press
ISBN-10: 9780982144350
Type: Fiction
Pages: 364
Copyright: May 12, 2010
ISBN-13: 9780982144350
John Testarossa is an LAPD cop with an NYPD attitude, and he has seen it all. The dead, the dying and the decomposing are all in a day’s work for the red-headed Italian from New York. And when your day begins with pulling a frat boy out of the Venice Canals alive and ends with an arm rolling up on the shores of Santa Monica Bay, nothing surprises anymore. But when the dead body on which the arm was once attached is discovered, John and his partner, Alex Ortiz, enter the world of college sports, athletes, and the illegal drugs that enhance their performance.
THINGS ARE NEVER HOW THEY SEEM...ESPECIALLY IN POLICE WORK.
The detectives navigate through the worst the City of Angels has to offer, and John and Alex become involved in an investigation right out of today’s headlines. A young college student, sports, and the drugs that keep athletes competitive come together in an intriguing story of greed and vengeance—a vengeance John understands.
John has lived with the rage and the ultimate revenge he took years ago after suffering a loss that came to define him as a young boy, and ultimately as a man. John carries a dark secret, and it is through his narrative, and a compelling back-story, that the true man is discovered.
When John meets the beautiful Dr. Karen Gennaro, a woman with a few secrets of her own, he falls hard. But can he sustain his love for a woman he knows he will only hurt in the end? Can he give himself over to a woman whom he may leave a widow one day, like his father did to his mother? And can he love a woman and keep the secret he knows will drive her away from him forever?
But it is the relationship between the detective and his partners that keeps him going. John is a dedicated cop—and one who has made mistakes. And as John, Alex, and their brave and dedicated partners fight the good fight, it is the bond that is formed between these people in the face of death and the risks that come with being a Los Angeles Police detective that sustains him. And when that deep bond is torn apart in a senseless act of violence that is commonplace on the streets of Los Angeles, will his past, and a desire for vengeance, destroy him?
On the Westside of Los Angeles, where Venice Beach, Marina del
Rey, and the dream of Abbot Kinney’s Venice Canals paint a
picture of bliss, Testarossa will take you on a deeper, darker
journey.
Excerpt
Things are never how they seem, especially in police work.
A call came in at noon about a floater in the Venice canals. I
rode over alone, figuring I’d meet up with somebody from my
unit...my partner, maybe. The fact that they called me told me
that the person I was to fish out of the canal was dead. I’m a
detective with LAPD Homicide, and I generally don’t go out on
calls unless we have a corpse. I don’t like to waste my time
with the living.
The Venice canals were created in the early 1900’s by Abbot
Kinney, a guy who apparently fell in love with the other canals,
in the other Venice. The oasis he created is the one I fell in
love with. Six canals intersect, flowing under footbridges and
past walkways. The houses are all different and all too close
together, but walk down here on any given night and someone
is always having a party, and they’ll invite you in, too. That’s
what I love about this place—that and the ducks.
I arrived at the scene, a block away from my house. A young
patrolman was standing on the banks of the canal with a duck
barking at his feet. He didn’t have the slightest inkling of what
to do, so I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stepped into the
murky water. I grabbed the guy under the arms and pulled him
out. I noticed as I did this that three or four people, about this
guy’s age, were standing around and snickering. I soon found
out why. As soon as his mouth hit oxygen he exhaled and
coughed. Then he threw up, all over the patrolman’s shoes. He
had his audience in stitches now and that pissed me off. I
twirled my index finger at the patrolman indicating he should
turn around. He stared at me dumbly, so I twirled my finger again, slowly this time. When he did, I jerked the kid straight
and smacked him on the back of the head. He let out a yelp
and the patrolman turned back to face me again. I shrugged. A
cop’s gotta do what a cop’s gotta do, but I don’t believe in
corrupting the young.
“You got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy,” I said to the kid, a
big, goofy red head. “Someone reported you dead, my friend,
which is why I’m here. You get why this is a problem now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” And then I waited. He finally caught on. ‘Splainin’
to do. Oh, yeah. Right.
“I…I’m a…”
“You’re a…” I arched a brow and spun my hand in another
type of twirling motion used the world over to get people to
hurry the fuck up with whatever it is they need to say.
“I’m, uh, with a fraternity?”
“You asking or tellin’, red?”
“Ha,” he gasped. “Takes one to know one.” He pointed to
my head.
“Sorry. You lost me, Sparky. You’re with a frat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this is some sort of…”
“Initiation. Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m gonna have Officer Parker here cuff you and take
you down to the station. After you’ve cleaned his shoes, he’s
gonna arrest your ass and charge you with something really bad
of his choosing. That should go over big at the frat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off you go.” Jesus. I’m a real badass.
My name is John Testarossa. Not like the car. That’s the
first question I get: ‘You mean like the car?’ The second joke
isn’t so obvious, unless you’re Italian. Testarossa means
redhead. And that’s what I am: An Italian redhead. Some bored guard over on Ellis Island decided to crack wise when
they saw my redheaded grandfather get off the boat from
Naples. He ruffled my grandfather’s head, laughed, and said,
“Testarossa. Ha! Ha! Testarossa” and it stuck. Either you
were stuck with the name of the town or village you came from,
or you were stuck with something a wisecracking guard gave
you. They didn’t give a shit. They were in a rush to get you
through and settled. My grandfather was fourteen when he got
off that boat, alone, in a strange city. A WOP in a strange land.
WOP – WithOut Papers. That’s what it means. The name
stuck and I wear it with pride, but it wasn’t always like that.
I grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Bensonhurst, New
York and I was always getting my ass kicked. “Get yer Mick
ass outta here,” the Italian kids would yell, kicking me in the ass
as I ran home crying. Trying to convince them I was not Irish
went south after my two sisters came out and did a little ass
kicking of their own. Not only did I have to deal with my red
hair, but also with the fact that two girls were fighting my
battles for me. It took a while, but when I got older and the kids
saw I could fight, they left me alone. I never told anyone this
but it was Barbara and Marie, my sisters, who taught me how to
fight. Another thing that helped, at least for a while, was my
dad telling me that Christopher Columbus was also a redhead.
We believed he was the greatest Italian that ever lived. Until it
turned out he was a raper and a pillager, in addition to being a
discoverer.
I drove back to Pacific station where I work. Pacific covers
the area from LAX and Westchester to Playa del Rey and
Venice with Mar Vista and Oakwood thrown in for good
measure. A couple of years ago a group of detectives were
reassigned to Pacific to handle the growing gang concern as
well as the large tourist area that is Venice Beach. Response time is just better when you don’t have to fight traffic coming
from the Glass House—Parker Center.
I winked at Ginger our civilian desk clerk and went into the
back to check in. My C.O., Captain Dale Blackburn, stood in
the doorway of his office. A huge black man with gentle eyes
and a booming voice that carried traces of his upbringing in
New Orleans. I still carried the New York accent quite heavily
despite my many years in L.A. and when the two of us got
together, it cracked everyone else up but us. We didn’t see the
humor. With him at six-five and me close to six-three, I guess it
can get interesting. Dale B. was a good man to work for. He
trusted his officers and detectives to do their jobs and he only
got involved when they didn’t.
“Where you been?”
“Fishing,” I deadpanned.
“Well done.”
“Thanks, boss.” He knew where I’d been. It was all over
the station. Homicide detectives were the elite. Sometimes we
got side-tracked. And even though it is never our fault that we
occasionally got stuck on something more worthy of someone
else’s time, any excuse to squeeze your balls around here, and
someone will take it.
“Just to give you a heads up,” I said, “I handled it all myself.
Didn’t need Ortiz at all.” Dale finally cracked a smile. “Mark
my words, this will go down as one of my greatest busts. The
chief will be all over this. My atta-boy is in ‘da bag, brother.”
I left him in search of my good-for-nothing partner. I took a
peek inside the men’s room.
“There you are, you lazy fuck.” I said, joining him on the
bench.
He laughed. “Yeah, I’m sorry I missed it, Johnny.” Alex
Ortiz was my partner and best friend. I don’t know what fates brought us together, but we are good in every way imaginable.
I wouldn’t be caught dead in the field with anyone else but him.
“If you’re done laughing like a clown, maybe we could go
check the board. Do some police work? Whaddya say?” I
said, staring him down. This made him laugh even more. I
wonder how much work I’d get done if I partnered up with a
sourpuss?
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