Before he could cogitate further, Detective Coleman had more questions, and a few bits of information.
“Did you see Harris at the racetrack?”
“Can’t say that I did,” Tagliabue lied. “Saratoga draws good crowds and the weather was nice. I pretty much stayed up in the clubhouse and don’t recall seeing the Magpie up there.”
“We got some CCTV footage of a guy leaving the scene of the shooting. Bald, white beard. Could be tall. Hard to say with the shot from up on a flagpole. Ring any bells?”
“No, I can’t say that it does. You think he’s the shooter?”
“No way of knowing. Coulda been any of a hundred guys, all packed into a small area at the finish line. The race ends and everyone leaves at once. Harris falls over. Some woman screams. Nobody goes to his aid except a volunteer fireman. He tries to resuscitate Harris but the man is stone cold by the time a security guard gets there and thinks to secure the area. We don’t even have witnesses to question. Even the broad who screamed because Harris fell on her shoes disappeared. All the suspects are gone and we can’t ID nobody. Musta been a hit, what I’m thinking.”
“I think Marv played around at the edges, so you may be right.”
“Yeah. All right, Tagliabue. You can go. I’m gonna check out your alibi, just in case.”
Driving home, Tagliabue went over his precautions at Saratoga. He seemed to be covered. If the New York State Police really suspected him and questioned Agnes Ann, they might come up with a discrepancy or two, minor ones. She did know about Maurizio impersonating him. She had no reason to suspect anything else. Did she?
“Did you hear about Marv Harris, Aggie?”
“You mean Jack’s friend?” He could hear the sudden stress in her voice, as if her larynx had constricted. A second earlier she had been gushing over her filly’s bounce-back from her first race and how Manny Ramirez was anxious to ride her again, her voice open and easy. Now she sounded frightened. “What happened?”
“He was killed at the track. Shot.”
“My God. We did hear about a murder at the track but I don’t remember hearing his name. What does this all mean, Tony? Is Jack involved?”
“I don’t know. Has he been around since he talked to Jesse?”
“Not that I know of. We haven’t seen him, at least.”
Her voice trailed off, the darkness of fear sending her emotions into a slow spiral downward. Tagliabue had known for a while that she was afraid Jack Brunson was going to insinuate his way back into her life somehow. Nothing good could come from that. Jack had purchased the filly, Francine, thought he had made a smart deal to get her, and had recognized the potential in her breeding and conformation. Losing her to a wife he had already lost was not a slight he would forget. His bizarre visit to his son at the stable, even risking fraud at the security office by violating Agnes Ann’s restraining order, even if he really had bribed someone so he could get on the backstretch, seemed menacing to Agnes Ann, some sort of prelude to a vendetta. Tagliabue felt the need to reassure her.
“Listen Aggie, I’m searching for Jack Brunson. I think he’s here, but if he shows up in Saratoga I want to get back up there. Can you let me know if you hear anything?”
“Yes, of course. Do you think I need to take precautions?”
“The New York State Police are investigating Marv’s murder. Have they spoken to you yet?”
“No. I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Maybe they haven’t made the connection. You should contact them. Tell them you’re frightened because Jack snuck into the track to visit a son he hasn’t seen but once in his life. Tell them I said Jack and Marv Harris were up to something, I just don’t know what.”
“Tony, I can’t do that. They’ll suspect you are involved.”
“They already suspect that. I’ve been interrogated by the Bath sheriff’s office. And cleared, by the way. I want to put pressure on Jack, beat the bushes, y’know. Flush him out. He has more to
worry about right now than the horse you wrangled him out of, believe me. Talking to the law would actually help me.”
Agnes Ann was silent for a fat minute. He imagined her thinking of the harm she could do him. Finally, she said: “All right, baby, I’m going to the Saratoga barracks just as soon as I hang up. Is there, ah, is there anything I should not tell them?”
Tagliabue laughed at her tone, the implication that they were kids playing hooky or something and she was the good little girl wanting to keep her boyfriend out of trouble, trouble she suspected he deserved.
“Yeah,” he said, “don’t mention Maury, and better not tell them about us being immoral on the exercise mat.”
She laughed, too, uncertainly at first and then with more conviction. She was strong, he knew, and would handle the police okay.
He hung up and drove to Pelham East. The restaurant was refreshing itself from the lunch rush when he arrived to find Red Fowler at a corner table in the bar nearest the kitchen. Fowler and a younger man, a compact black in jeans and a starched white shirt, sat in front of half-finished bowls of calamari and spaghetti. The younger man’s shaved head glistened like a coffee bean. Fowler sat up when he saw Tagliabue. The other man put down his fork.
“Let’s talk, Red. Send your butler away.”
The man pushed his chair back, but Fowler laid a meaty hand on his arm. Fowler looked at Tagliabue’s easy stance and nodded.
“Give us a minute, Beau,” he said to his companion. The man walked to the bar and sat on a stool facing the table, squinting, lips tight together. Tagliabue sat down, his back to Beau.
“The sheriff been along about Marv?”
Fowler shook his head, grimaced at the mention of his dead friend. “Not yet. I been expecting them.”
“They think you were into something with the Magpie. Peter may have told some tales out of school.”
“I’m alibied.”
“Not his murder. That’s hardly your style anyway, Red. Johnny Coleman suspects you and Jack and Marv were planning some nefarious activity involving . . .”
“Nefarious? What the fuck you talking about?”
“Illegal, like the shit you guys have been pulling around here for years. He probably knows you weren’t at Saratoga, but he knows Marv hired Henry and Georgie to bang me around. He probably figures it’s not too much of a reach to one of you popping somebody.”
“That fucking D’Annunzio. Giving us up. I’m gonna retire.”
“Good idea. Living the easy life with Hannah would be better than being behind bars.”
“Keep away from us, Anthony. I’m warning your ass now.”
“I’ll keep away from you, Red, just as soon as you tell me where to find Jack Brunson.”
Fowler raised his voice: “I’m telling you . . .”
Tagliabue heard footsteps behind him and turned in his chair to see Beau standing next to him with his hands hanging by his sides. He spoke to Fowler without looking at the redhead. “Spare the boy, Red.”
“Leave us alone, Beau. It’s okay.”
“That your new muscle? I hope he’s got a clean sheet, because Coleman is going to be looking.”
“He’s probly clean. He’s a cousin of Hannah’s. Likes my style.”
“Well, from the look of his tight clothes he’s not carrying and he’s a bit puny to be throwing his weight around.”
“Naw, he ain’t nothing to worry you, Anthony. Do me a favor and leave the boy alone. Hannah still ain’t too happy with me from the last time you come around.”
“Tell me where Jack is hanging out and I’m out of your life. You and bean head there can go on acting like you own the place, for all I care. I don’t need any more punching bags.”
Fowler’s face colored but he made no move. His voice tight, he said: “I heard he’s been seen at the Pelham Island.”
“Recently?”
“Last night.”
Tagliabue got up slowly and walked out the kitchen door. He waited outside for a minute,
but no one followed him. Hoping Maven was shipshape, he motored down to Cronk’s.
Her twin exhausts percolating quietly under the green water, Maven moved slowly past anchorages and buoys in the channel. She was carrying hay for Agnes Ann’s horse farm. Grass was still growing on Westfarrow Island. The weather was warm and rain expected, but it had been dry. The talk of expensive hay for the winter caused her mother’s sister, Maybelle Townsend, to order sixty bales from a grower in Woolwich who had a second cutting at a decent price. That gave Tagliabue the excuse he was looking for to visit the island.
When Maven made open water, Tagliabue snapped on autopilot and made a round of the boat. She had just come from the boatyard, but he felt the need to check out everything anyway, telling himself that he was just being a conscientious navigator. Satisfied finally, he sat in the conning chair and went to cruising speed.
After a smooth voyage, Maven made the cove that protected Agnes Ann’s property. The house sat back from the sea on a wooded knoll, just visible now that the trees surrounding it were in full leaf. A red, two-story barn was off to the left and fields of grass spread out on all sides of it. Wood fencing stained dark looked to be in good repair.
Bill Hammet, the retired farmer who was caring for the farm in Agnes Ann’s absence, met him at the pier in Agnes Ann’s flatbed truck. The two of them unloaded and stored the hay in less than an hour. Since the day had grown hot by the time they were finished, they sat in the shade of a leafy elm with bottles of water and watched the horses grazing placidly.
“Everything looks peaceful enough, Bill.”
“Yup. No problems here. The horses stay out to pasture day and night. All I got to do is make sure they got water most days. I brush ’em out and pick their hooves once a week or so. They ain’t even got shoes on.”
“I know Agnes Ann is glad you’re here looking after things.”
“Glad to oblige. Easy money for me.”
“You get any company out here?”
“Not much. It’s not but a few miles from town and the beaches, but it’s not on the way nowhere so tourists don’t usually find their way here. Once in a while I see a sailboat or some big ol’ yacht come by. The cove’s not cut in enough for a good anchorage, though, so they don’t usually stay. Sometimes when the weather’s real calm one might hang out for a while.”
“You do any sailing?”
“Nossir. The closest I wanna come to that ugly damn ocean is when we just offloaded your boat now. I like it just fine on dry land.”
Tagliabue laughed. “Smart man. Smarter than many who’ve come to grief at sea.”
The men chatted a while longer. Tagliabue asked to borrow the farm pickup.
“Sure enough, Anthony. You drop me off to home and leave the truck here when you’re done with it. I’ll get a ride over here tomorrow after I go shopping with the wife.”
Tagliabue drove into the town called Westfarrow in the ten-year-old Dodge, a sturdy and dependable diesel that had been used often. With the windows open he could hear the right fender flapping as he negotiated the crumbly surface of narrow Ocean Boulevard, named, he thought, with the irony of country people who didn’t take their brief summer tourist season too seriously. He could smell burnt fuel rumbling from a leaky muffler. The pickup suited him, blending in with other farm trucks in the crowded village. Visitors mostly flew or sailed in and stayed at the many inns and small hotels that dotted the hills around the main square. A brilliant white coastal cruise ship floated alongside the one long pier in the town marina and people in striped and splotched shorts were filing ashore from her. The Pelham Island was a half-mile along the rocky shoreline from the pier, looking over the harbor and shoals to the west. Tagliabue parked in the lot behind it and watched the place fill up for lunch.
Two hours later, he was tired of sitting in the warmth of a summer’s day. Jack Brunson had not showed. Tagliabue exited the truck and stretched, letting the sea breeze air out his shirt and rolling his head around his neck. The weights and bags on the third floor of his building had him feeling fit again. He strolled around to the front of the restaurant and into the bar. The place was alive with chattering customers and hustling waitresses and the tang of the sea. Shuckers were opening clams at the raw bar barely fast enough to fill the demand. Platters of steaming shrimp and crackling mounds of hush puppies were being ferried from the swinging doors of the kitchen into the dining room and out to the beer garden.
Most of the tables Tagliabue could see were filled, but only one caught his attention. Jack Brunson was sitting in a corner with another man. He hadn’t seen Brunson pull in by car; he figured he must have come by water. That was worth checking out.
When Brunson saw him walking toward his table, he pointed his beer bottle at him. His companion stood quickly. Tagliabue didn’t recognize the man but he knew who he was: Jack’s muscle. Thick-necked and ham-fisted, he was slightly shorter than Tagliabue. His lats bulged and didn’t quite allow his hands to hang close to his body.
Tagliabue walked up slowly, looking only at Brunson. The muscle watched him, snapped a look at his boss, and caught the same tiny nod Tagliabue saw. He moved to intercept the intruder. Tagliabue banged a straight left into his nose without stopping. He heard the long bone snap. The sound did not carry past the noise of conversation and plate clatter. Blood gushed and the man sat hard. Tagliabue whipped a napkin off the table and pushed it into the man’s face.
“You’re messing up the restaurant, Bozo. Take a hike.”
The man’s eyes showed pain, not fear. He moaned when Tagliabue pushed harder. Staggering slightly, he went off, holding the napkin to his broken nose and bent over. Tagliabue sat next to Brunson. A couple at the nearest table watched the muscle leave, their eyebrows raised. Did that big guy just break the other guy’s nose? The two of them had walked toward each other but the whole action was like a quick breeze. The man and woman looked at each other, shrugged, and went back to their flounder plates. The confrontation was brief, hardly disturbing the flow of the busy restaurant, and they couldn’t be sure they saw what they thought they saw. Two men were sitting quietly at the table next to them now and another man had left with a nosebleed. Had he been hit? Probably not. Brunson whistled two ascending notes softly under his breath.
“You can’t act like a gorilla in a nice place like this, Anthony. The Abenaki are going to start calling you Oak Tree Who Breaks Noses.”
“If Tiny Tim comes back in here, I’m going to break the rest of his face and then I’m going to take that pea shooter on your hip and smash it through your teeth.”
Tagliabue was speaking in a low menacing growl. Brunson smiled.
“You’d frighten me if I didn’t know you better.”
Tagliabue sat back. “What’s that supposed to mean, Jack?”
“It means that Saint Anthony the Great doesn’t attack people who are no threat to him. Or his. I know you. I’m not afraid of you. But I’m not going to reach for my piece either.”
That brought a slow smile to Tagliabue’s lips.
“You’re smart, Jack. Evil and slimy, but smart.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, young man. Now, tell me why you felt the need to assassinate Marv. Was he some kind of threat to you?”
“Magpie was involved in the holing of my boat and most probably killed Joshua White. He deserved to die.”
“True enough, I guess. I notice you didn’t answer my question.”
“For a smart guy, Jack, you ask stupid questions. Now answer one of mine.”
“Shoot.” Brunson smiled again when he said that.
“Don’t tempt me.”
Brunson laughed. He seemed relaxed, knowing he was in a safe place with witnesses all around. None of them were paying any attention to the two men.
“Why did Marv shoot Joshua?”
“The way I heard it, Joshua saw Marvin leaving your boat that night and confronted him on the pier. You know how he got when he’d had a few. He didn’t believe that Ma
rv had gone aboard to look for you and he told him so. I guess he got ugly to Marv. Insulting. They had words, you know what I mean? Marvin was highly pissed. The salty old bastard said he was going to look over the boat to see what Magpie was up to, then he was going to come back with the cops. My understanding is that Marv threatened him with a gun and Joshua told him he didn’t have the balls to use it. Turned his back and walked away. Marv shot him, thought he killed him, and ran away.”
Tagliabue looked hard at Jack Brunson. The lawyer had put on a few pounds, but it suited his image as a successful man who acted as a power broker for important, and sometimes extralegal, people. Other people, businessmen and women, wanted to be represented by an advocate who wasn’t afraid to find ways around onerous laws and regulations, ways that resulted from following the adage, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.” Brunson made money. He didn’t mind letting that fact be known.
In the Pelham Island, at the height of the season, he wore a straw hat with a tropical-flavored silk ribbon around its crown and perfectly fitting linen trousers over glossed golden sandals. His shirt was an Italo Mondo short-sleeved beauty in tan checks, worn outside his pants. The neck of the shirt was open four or five inches, allowing tufts of dark chest hair to grow out of it.
“The Magpie didn’t look like he was afraid of the police last time I saw him,” Tagliabue said.
“When was that?”
“The day before he died.”
Brunson leaned forward and sipped from his bottle of Summit Summer Ale. His clothes moved with him.
“So you were at Saratoga,” he said. “I thought I might have seen you but wasn’t sure. Why didn’t you say hello?”
Tagliabue ignored the question. “Your son was not happy to see you,” he said.
Brunson’s eyes moved, betraying a slip of emotion. Was it anger, Tagliabue wondered?
“Agnes Ann has a restraining order keeping you from bothering him.”
Westfarrow Island Page 13