Tag: The Man in Milan

EXCERPT from The Man in Milan by Vito Racanelli

Earlier this morning, I talked about the book, and now I get to give you a little taste—the opening paragraphs, I hope it hooks you the way it did me.


from Chapter 1 of The Man in Milan by Vito Racanelli (available from Polis Books)

Friday

In the gutter lay a man, face up, between two parked SUVs on Sutton Street. He wore a pale gray suit with impossibly thin pinstripes. It was Zegna, because I’d seen one on my partner, Detective Hamilton P. Turner. The suit was still in good shape, a testament to its workmanship, but the man was not.

I squatted and looked at him in the evening of an April day. I put on my latex and turned him gently. Our fashionable boy wore no tie and his pink shirt had a large red-brown blotch right where his heart used to beat. His suit was ruined in the back, an exit hole right through the trapezius. That’s what the coroner’s report would probably say.

He was about six feet, one inch. Skinny, with fine brown hair, blue- gray eyes. glauco, they say in Italian, which is what the body turned out to be. My grandfather was called Glauco for his eyes. This guy was good looking. Once. No sign of a struggle. Two wounds: a dime-sized hole punched through the back of the head and one more straight into the chest—probably the second shot as he lay prone—to make sure he stayed all the way dead. Below, burrowed halfway into the asphalt, was a slug.

The blues who’d found him already radioed for the NYPD photogs and CSU.

I walked back to my car to call my partner, who’d hadn’t told me why he couldn’t come along to the party. “I’m good,” I said to Turner. “You’re missing a beautiful spring evening in New York City, marred only by one dead body.”

His voice crackled over the radio: “Just the one? Gonna rain later. Meet you back at the precinct, Paolino,” Turner said.

I tossed the receiver back into our Crown Vic’s front seat and walked back to the body. Turner liked to call me little Paul because I was taller than him.

 

The photogs showed up and cordoned off the area around the body.

“Any other bodies, Detective Rossi?” the photographer asked me.

“I told you, one. Why does everyone think there’s more than one?” I said.

“Yeah, but you know, sometimes you think there’s one and then other bodies just start showing up when you look around. They’re like rabbits.”

I smiled at our photographer, Joe Rinn. He had a nice sideline doing weddings. “You never tell those brides what you do, do you? That you flash dead bodies all day. That your work graces medical school books about fatal wounds?”

“Nah,” he said, smiling back at me, then turning to the job at hand. “I tell ’em I’m an artist.”

I stood back and let the artist work. I tugged my right ear, tilted my head to get another look at this guy, and wondered what this poor fucker had done to deserve a dog’s death.

Rinn circled the body like a vulture. “The geeks’ll be here in a minute. And hey, a Post guy is comin’, too. He asked me to keep the bodies fresh.”

“A body. One body. We’ll try to oblige, but if the fourth estate doesn’t show in time, tough,” I said.

After they took the first set of photos, the CSU geeks began. Hair, blood, and nail samples. They scraped his jacket, pants, and shirts with tape to pick up foreign elements, like someone else’s hair or blood.

I looked around to figure some possible MOs. There was a small service alcove down a few steps and a few feet away. Our hunter knew his rabbit’s habits. Maybe tailed him for a few days. He waited in the alcove and calmly skipped up to the victim as he walked between a Range Rover and an Escalade. That gave the shooter some tall cover, and then he did him. Bang. Bang. Or rather Ping, Ping, with a silencer. The killer had probably taken care after the first shot to lay the body down, so that they were partially obscured, on Sutton near 51st. And that’s when he—or they—popped him a second time. His head, inches from the curb, was near enough that his blood had drained into the sewer nearby. Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The body came conveniently with docs, a small black address book and an Italian identity card wrapped in a soft, dark brown leather case— Gaitano Muro, forty-six years old and a Milan address, so immediately I thought Mafia. Even the stupidest perp knows not to leave docs in a fixit job. The killer must have been spooked immediately and had to run. This was a botched execution. Two kill shots to rob someone? Not likely.

The address book had names and phone numbers but little else. No addresses. The ID was diplomatic, Capo Servizio something or other, Consolato Generale della Repubblica Italiana, it said, with an embossed little star inside an olive branch and a mechanical gear wheel. My Italian wasn’t bad thanks to my grandfather. Muro was a diplo and Signore Muro from Milan came all the way to New York City and found unexpectedly that this late April evening would be the least lucky night he was ever to have, and he was dropped in the gutter on Sutton St. I suppose there are worse streets to die on.

I’d bet it wasn’t the way he thought it would go. Nobody ever does.

.

Excerpted The Man in Milan Copyright © 2020 by Vito Racanelli Reprinted with permission from the author. All rights reserved


Read the rest in The Man in Milan by Vito Racanelli to see what happens from here.

Thanks to Polis Books, Vito Racanelli and Saichek Publicity for this excerpt!

The Man in Milan by Vito Racanelli: A Hunt for the Truth on the Streets of New York and Milan

The Man in Milan

The Man in Milan

by Vito Racanelli

eARC, 336pg.
Polis Books, 2020

Read: November 9-14, 2020
Grab a copy from your local indie bookstore!

What’s The Man in Milan About?

NYPD detective Rossi is called to the scene of a homicide. It looks like a mugging gone bad, but there’s something wrong with the scene that Rossi can’t accept the first impression. Soon, he and his partner discover that this man is attached to the Italian embassy (although it’s initially denied). The deeper they get into the investigation, the murkier things get and the deadlier things get, too.

While they try to deny it, try to avoid the conclusion, the detectives have to admit that the evidence is pointing to a solution in Italy. They’re able to follow the evidence to the victim’s homeland, leading to an explosive conclusion.

The Police

Probably the strongest part of this book—and it’s key to the success of a police procedural are the characters—particularly the police characters*. From practically the instant we meet Detectives Paul Rossi and Hamilton P. Turner, I felt I knew them. Racanelli nailed these characters. They’re at once characters we’ve seen before, and know well—but made them feel fresh.

* There are a few other strong characters that I don’t have the space to talk about, for example: a newspaper journalist who’s almost as strong and developed as Rossi and Turner, that we don’t get quite enough of; and Rossi’s ex-wife and daughter, who I’d like to see again, too.

Rossi is divorced, in AA, more than a little jaded, but driven by the work that’s the only thing he has left in the world aside from the daughter he doesn’t get to see as often as he wants. He has strong ties to his Italian heritage—can speak and read it fluently (which comes in handy)—without being a stereotype. He has a medical condition that crops up to make life inconvenient, if there’s a sequel or two in the future, I’d like to learn more about this.

Turner is a solid cop, but he has ambitions beyond the NYPD, he wants to get into city politics—ultimately that mayor-ship. And he’s open about it. But more, he’s a poet, who regularly presents at events throughout the city, he can’t seem to go anywhere without finding a woman to seduce, dresses better than most detectives (shades of Connelly’s Jerry Edgar?), and has been described as a “black beatnik.” Some authors would take these traits and give us a character that’s just a collection of quirks, but Racanelli uses them to turn Turner into a well-rounded character.

The deceased’s sister, Tenente Laura Muro, is a policewoman from Italy. She arrives to claim the body and return it to be buried. But she’s also interested in helping the investigation and brings a knowledge of both Muro as a person, his past and his home that prove invaluable to Rossi and Turner. That she’s attractive and intelligent just makes her presence all the more welcome to the partners.

Rossi and Turner have a Lieutenant who has no interest in the case until it becomes something the mayor is taking an interest in, and actually wants them to drop it almost immediately. He’s the kind of petty bureaucrat that you hope doesn’t exist outside fictional police departments (but sure seem to show up in all sorts of police procedurals). He’s a solid character, but not one you’ll enjoy (and aren’t supposed to).

What Really Worked

The initial chapters following Rossi and Turner as they look into Muro’s death, talking to the Italian ambassador, Muro’s estranged wife and so on. Once others associated with Muro are killed, there’s a lot of political pressure put on them to make an arrest. Once it becomes clear that someone wants to add their deaths to the list, the external pressures to make an arrest outweigh all the politics.

When the evidence begins to point to an Italian group that seems more Urban Legend than reality, things take off plot-wise and the stakes get higher. Racanelli handles this skillfully, both the reticence of the detectives to follow the evidence and the way they come around when they have to.

What Wasn’t as Strong

Once it became clear to me that the case was going to take the detectives to Italy*, I worried a little about things. And sadly, those worries were valid. But maybe it’s just me.

* It’d been a few weeks since I read the pitch for the book, so I’d forgotten all of it.

Whether it’s Michael Connelly (Nine Dragons) or Neil Lancaster (Tom Novak series)—and probably other examples I can’t think of at the moment, anytime when you take police detectives and put them into a foreign context (especially when it becomes less police procedural and more international thriller), I think the book loses something. This one didn’t lose a lot, but I think it stumbled a little bit—Racanelli handled the switch in flavors as well as anyone, though, I want to stress that this is a me-thing, not a Racanelli-thing.

The Setting

There are plenty of reasons for this to be set in 2002 for the plot to work—beyond that, it’s a great setting for this kind of book. The characters can use cell phones and the internet, but smart phones aren’t ubiquitous and what characters can do with phones/internet is still limited enough that the detectives have to work for their information, not everything is captured on phones, and so on. It may have been a practical choice to set the book when he did, but the benefits make it a great choice.

So, what did I think about The Man in Milan?

From the voice, the style, the characters and the nature of the story—this is a solid, entertaining story. The persons responsible for the murder are dark and mysterious, but it’s not overplayed. The motive behind the (initial) killing, and its method make sense and are just chilling. The escalation in terms of violence and scale feels natural, it felt like this could be based on real events.

Racanelli’s take on Italian culture isn’t one that I think I’ve seen before and it’s one I’d like to learn more about, too.

The more action-thriller parts of the novel are as tense and compelling as you’d want, the procedural material is as good as you’ll find anywhere. The Man in Milan is a great way for Vito Racanelli to introduce himself to Crime Fiction readers, and I look forward to seeing what he produces next.

Disclaimer: I received this book from the author via Saichek Publicity in exchange for this post and my honest opinion—thanks to both for this.


4 Stars

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