Vinny Spinetti was exactly that type.
Manager of numerous Boston buildings for fifteen years, with the air of a man who had spent every one of them coaxing elderly plumbing and temperamental elevators into obedience, Vinny lit up the moment he heard Marcus speak.
“That’s a Brooklyn brogue, no?”Vinny asked, eyebrows shooting up as he led Marcus into the cramped building office just off the lobby.“What part?No, don’t tell me.B-boy, Bensonhurst, right?”
“Bay Parkway,” Marcus said, smiling.“Between 71st and 72nd.That’s a remarkable skill you’ve got there.”
Vinny slapped the desk.“I grew up on 70th!You know the Biancardi brothers?The old man ran the tailor’s?”
“I used to get my school pants hemmed there,” Marcus said.“His youngest—Anthony—played shortstop on my cousin Mikey’s team.”
Vinny pointed at him.“Iknewyou looked familiar.You got that same ‘I survived Italian Little League’ face.”
They both laughed, the kind of shared cultural shorthand that collapsed years and geography without effort.For a moment, the grimness of the investigation loosened its grip.
But only for a moment.
Marcus cleared his throat.“Vinny, I appreciate this.But… should we get to it?”
“Yeah.”The shift was instant—Vinny’s warmth gave way to the weary professionalism of a man responsible for a lot of tenants and too many problems.He turned to the monitor on his desk.“Let’s take a look.”
He clicked through the CCTV feeds until he reached Monday night.
“There,” Vinny said, pointing.
The figure appeared at 8:31 p.m.on the ground floor camera: a thickset man in dual-color maintenance overalls, carrying a metal toolbox.The overalls were snug—toosnug—straining across his shoulders.He wore a baseball cap pulled low, shadowing his face.
“You recognize him?”Marcus asked.
Vinny snorted.“Not a chance.And nobody on my team looks anything like that.”
Marcus watched the footage as the man pressed the elevator button, stepped inside, and vanished from the frame.Two minutes later, another camera caught him emerging on the seventh floor.
Then—nothing.
Until 8:47 p.m., when the same man strolled out of the seventh-floor elevator again, toolbox in hand, posture smooth, unhurried.Calm, almost frighteningly casual.He walked straight to the ground floor.
At 8:50 p.m., the front entrance camera captured him leaving the building.
Marcus leaned forward.“Any other footage?”
Vinny scratched his jaw.“Well… thereshouldbe the service entrance at the back.”He clicked to switch feeds.The screen displayed only a black void with a timestamp.“Camera went offline Monday afternoon.Tech’s supposed to come tomorrow.Could be coincidence, but…” He lifted both hands.“Yeah.I know how it looks.”
Marcus exhaled through his nose.“Convenient for him.”
“Too convenient,” Vinny said darkly.
Marcus replayed the footage, slowing it down.The guy moved like someone trying to look like they belonged—but not used to the clothes, not used to the job.There was intent in the walk, confidence, but not familiarity.
“You said none of your team fit his description?”
Vinny shook his head emphatically.“No way.We got three guys covering twelve buildings in this area.Two Vietnamese brothers—Thuan and Minh—short and skinny.You’d swear they’re about to blow away in a stiff wind.And the other kid—Jermaine—he’s six-foot-five and could dunk a basketball flat-footed.This guy?”He tapped the screen.“He’s built like a freezer unit.”
Marcus nodded.“Any chance one of them lost a pair of overalls?”
“I checked.”Vinny folded his arms.“All accounted for.But those overalls—blue and yellow?They’re pretty standard.For example, I’ve seen them on greasers at the docks.The yellow acts as hi-vis.”
Marcus frowned.“Why would your people need to be in hi-vis?”
