Carlucci

by Richard Paul Russo

  As they moved from room to room, and from the second floor to the third, Carlucci tried comparing this residence to the penthouse apartment of the mayor’s nephew, and he was surprised at how different they were. Butler and the nephew may have been in business together, but as people they didn’t seem to be anything alike.

  All the expensive high-tech equipment and gadgetry was here, just as it was in the nephew’s, from picture phones and A.V. Environments to computer links and reality-sims to slotters and ion poles in every room. There was even a similar security system, which had apparently been just as ineffective, now completely dead. But here everything was made or covered with natural colors and fabrics and expertly integrated with real wood and cloth and leather furniture, plaster walls, wood trim, nature-tone carpeting, and hundreds of books; various other objects, such as glasses, pens and notepads, vases and planters and candles, made the place look lived in. The nephew’s penthouse was cold, sterile, a metal-and-glass showcase. Robert Butler’s house was warm and comfortable—a home.

  They were on the third floor, and had just entered a room set up for entertainment. There was a small sofa, two large foam chairs, and a huge video-and-sound system built into one wall.

  “See what Porkpie found in here,” Hong said. He went to the video control panel, powered up the system, read from a piece of paper he’d taken out of his pocket, and punched a series of buttons. He tuned the monitor to a channel of static and video snow, then punched more buttons. The wall adjacent to the monitor gradually became transparent, revealing a huge wall safe surrounded by computer-driven access panels.

  “Jesus Christ,” Carlucci said. “How in hell did Porkpie find this?”

  Hong smiled. “You know Porkpie. He said he’s seen a few of these setups, and downstairs he found this taped to the bottom of the coffee maker.” Hong held up the piece of paper. “Something just clicked in his head, he claims, and he started looking around for it. Fiddled with this until he figured what the numbers on the paper meant, and here we are.”

  “That guy.” Carlucci shook his head, staring at the safe through the transparent section of wall. “I’d sure like to see what’s inside that thing.”

  “Porkpie says getting into the safe is going to be a lot harder than finding it.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Who’s that guy the department calls in, Collins?”

  “Collier.”

  “Right, Collier. Wonder how he’ll do with this.”

  Hong shrugged, but didn’t say anything. They stood staring at the wall safe for a minute until LaPlace walked into the room and joined them.

  “Brings tears, doesn’t it?” LaPlace said, gesturing at the safe.

  “Only if we don’t get in,” Carlucci said. He turned to LaPlace. “So what’s with the woman?”

  LaPlace shook his head. “Changing stories, that’s what. First she told Joseph she found the body on her way out. Then she said no, she didn’t mean that—she was shaken up, all that—she had been coming home when she found Butler. Where had she been? Real vague on that, who she was with, said it was her personal business, cha cha cha. I let it go for a while, but a little later on, she lets it slip again, that she was going out when she found him. I didn’t say a thing, and she didn’t realize she’d said it again. If I had to bet on it, I’d say she was on her way out when she found Butler.”

  “What’s she worried about, if that’s the way it happened?” Carlucci wondered aloud.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to tell us where the fuck she was going at two o’clock in the morning,” LaPlace said. “Or how, if she was up and awake, getting ready to go out, she didn’t hear a thing while old Robert Butler was being gored and having a hook rammed through his neck. Couldn’t have been all that quiet. Anyway, we finally reached a point where she wasn’t going to say any more without her fucking lawyer. I told her she wasn’t a suspect, but she jammed up anyway.” He shook his head. “She’ll be in Monday with her attorney to make an official statement.” He shook his head again. “I didn’t see any point in pushing it, she wasn’t going to open up.”

  “Anything else?”

  LaPlace sighed. “No. She rented the first floor from Butler, but didn’t know anything about him. She paid her rent, he left her alone, he seemed like a nice guy, but she really didn’t know him, cha cha cha. I don’t believe any of it, but that’s all she’d say. End of interview.”

  “All right,” Carlucci said. “Christ, this is getting swampy on us. Think we can keep the connection between Butler and the mayor’s nephew quiet? Out of the news?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Hong said. “The three of us are the only ones who know about it.”

  “Good. Let’s try and keep it that way.” He shook his head. “All right, let’s wrap things up here. Do a quick chop on the reports, then go home. We’ll get together first thing Monday morning at Spades, see where we are.”

  The sun was up by the time Carlucci pulled into the driveway. He shut off the engine, but remained in the car for a minute, looking at their house. It was a good home, well over a hundred years old, a little ragged in spots, but in fine shape. A good neighborhood, too, a small, tightly knit community for the most part, several blocks of families that watched out for each other. An island of security in the city. It had been a good place to raise their two daughters, and he hoped it would remain a good place to retire. Hard to know.

  Carlucci got out of the car and walked up the steps to the front porch. No Sunday paper yet; too early. He unlocked the front door and went inside.

  The house was quiet, almost silent. He stopped by Christina’s bedroom and looked in through the open door. The bed was a twisted, misshapen bundle of sheets, blanket, pillows, and his daughter. He could make out a shock of wavy hair up in one corner, and a bare ankle sticking out from the sheets at the foot of the bed. Another year or two and she would probably be moving out, just as her older sister had done. He didn’t want Christina to leave. Knowing Caroline didn’t have many years left, he wanted to hang onto Christina as long as he could, as though he might lose her too. Afraid to wake her, he mentally kissed her on the forehead and moved on down the hall.

  Andrea was still asleep, lying on her side. Carlucci bent over, kissed her lightly on the lips, then her cheek. Andrea smiled, murmured, and dug her face deeper into the pillow, but her eyes didn’t open. Carlucci quietly left and walked to the other end of the house and the kitchen.

  He looked at the clock. Ten after six. Lots of time before he was due to meet Paula Asgard. He made himself a cup of coffee and took it out to the small backyard deck, where he sat in one of the plastic chairs. The air was warm and quiet, a little muggy, but not too bad, and the sky was orange and pink and blue, the colors not yet looking sick as they almost certainly would later in the day.

  Things were getting more complicated with the mayor’s nephew, and he would start getting deeper into another mess when he talked with Paula Asgard, but for now Carlucci put all those thoughts aside. He wanted to enjoy the two free hours, he would have this morning.

  A thumping sounded on the fence, and a furry gray face appeared over the top, golden eyes wide, followed by the rest of the stocky cat’s body. It was Tuff, the next-door neighbor’s manx. Tuff crouched atop the fence for a moment, then dropped into Carlucci’s yard, padded through the flower beds, and hopped up onto the deck. As Tuff approached the chair, Carlucci reached down and scratched the old gray cat’s ears and cheeks and chin. Tuff purred loudly and deeply, and closed his eyes.

  The cat was missing most of one ear, and had a nasty scar across his nose, just missing his left eye. He’d been a hell of a scrapper, fighting all comers, until Harry and Frances next door finally decided it was time for Tuff’s balls to go. Tuff still defended his turf when he had to, but now he was fat, and incredibly gentle with people.

  Tuff ducked away from Carlucci’s hand and came around to the front of the chair. Carlucci held his coffee out of the way in anticipation, and the cat jumped up onto his l
ap, claws digging through his pants to his skin. Tuff turned one complete circle, then settled down across Carlucci’s thighs, the deep purr kicking in again.

  I could do worse than this, Carlucci thought to himself as he laid his free hand on the old gray cat. A lot worse. He brought the cup to his mouth and drank, scratching Tuffs head with his other hand. Things were going to get swampy, the rot was going to go deeper, but for now Carlucci felt as he imagined the old cat felt: warm, relaxed, and content.

  8

  PAULA SPOOKED. SHE spotted Boniface across the street and up a few blocks, heading her way. She ducked into Mama Buruma’s spice shop and stopped just inside the door, blinded by the shift from bright morning light to heavy shadows and dim orange flames. Paula didn’t move for a minute, listening to the East Asian techno-folk, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

  Mama Buruma’s—a long, narrow store lit only by small flickering candles—was empty except for Mama Buruma herself, who sat on a massive cushion behind the counter. Mama Buruma was fat, maybe even heavier than Graumann. The shop smelled of burning tiki spice, fireweed, and sweat. Tins and baskets and gel bubbles filled the display cases running the length of the shop. Vines and lush plants hung from the ceiling, insects flying among them.

  “Ms. Asgard,” Mama said, shifting position on her cushion. She wore a huge, loose dress of bright floral patterns, and her flesh shook with every movement. “Can I help you with something?”

  As Paula stepped farther into the shop, she could make out the ten or twelve multicolored dermal patches on Mama Buruma’s neck. She imagined them pulsing as they fed the big woman a steady stream of head juice. “No thanks, Mama. Well, maybe yes. Some mondo perv was tracking me out on the street.”

  Mama Buruma grinned and the flesh tightened around her eyes. “You want something to spike him with?”

  “No,” Paula said. “I was thinking of a way out. Through your stockroom.”

  Mama Buruma sighed and the smile melted back into her face. “You’re too nice, Paula.” She sighed again and waved her arm, flesh and sleeve flapping. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” Paula squeezed around the display case, pushed through the hanging tapestry, then worked her way around the crates and tubes and foam-packs in the stockroom. She pushed open the heavy metal door, stepped out into the alley, and let the door slam shut.

  Paula leaned against the brick wall and waited, trying to decide what to do. It was probably coincidence, seeing Boniface just now. She had no reason to think he was looking for her. She couldn’t stand the guy, because he’d hit on her repeatedly over the years, refusing to get the message, but he’d never come around looking for her. Still, she had just given Carlucci his name half an hour ago.

  Paula thought he was a fuckhead, but there wasn’t anything all that special about Boniface. He was one of a dozen or so names she’d given Carlucci: the people Chick hung with or brought in on his scams, people Chick had seen in recent weeks. Boniface hired out part time as a games courier, and it was hard to imagine that he had anything to do with Chick’s death. But how could she know?

  You’re getting paranoid, she told herself. It came from spending two hours with Carlucci, talking about what Chick did, and who he did it with, running all those names at one time, seeing their faces one after another in her mind. People on the edges, like Chick, any one of which was all right alone. But talking about all of them had made Paula skittish.

  Paranoia, she told herself again. Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Ha, ha. So what was she supposed to do? She looked at her watch. Already late getting to the theater. Besides, Boniface knew she worked at the Lumiere; if he was trying to find her he could just go there. Or her apartment. He knew where she lived. Yeah, terrific, they all knew where she lived.

  She shook her head, pushed away from the wall. Relax, girl. Boniface wasn’t looking for her. No one was. Chick had been dead two weeks now, and nobody had shown up in her face. Relax.

  She walked down the alley, emerged onto the sidewalk. Her throat closed up and her heart slammed against her ribs, bam bam bam. Boniface was twenty feet away, walking toward her.

  Paula couldn’t move. Boniface came up to her and stopped. Up close, she could see that under his street clothes he was in full courier rig, armored from neck to toes—someone would have to blow or chop his head off to stop him, and they still wouldn’t be able to get what he was carrying.

  “Hey, Paula,” Boniface said, laying a gloved hand gently on her shoulder. “Heard about Chick. I’m real sorry. He was all right with me, you know that.”

  He pulled his hand back just before Paula would have knocked it away. Adrenaline was making her twitchy. Relax, she told herself once more.

  “Thanks, Bonny,” she said; he hated being called that.

  Boniface frowned, then glanced over her shoulder. “I can’t stay and talk now,” he said, looking back at her. “I’m on a run. But if you need anything, a few bucks…” The frown slid into that nasty smile he’d used every time he’d hit on her. “Or maybe just some comfort. You know where I am.”

  Yeah, I know where you are, asshole. But she managed some kind of smile, said, “Thanks, Bonny,” again, and stepped aside, waving him down the street.

  Boniface’s smile turned into a frown again, but he nodded and walked away. Paula watched him walk down the block, cross the street, then go into Ah Minh’s. He was on a run. It had been a coincidence. But he was just as scummy as ever.

  Paula breathed deeply several times, tried to shake out the excess adrenaline. Then she jammed her hands into her jacket pockets and headed for the theater.

  By mid-afternoon most of the jitters were gone, and by the six o’clock intermission after the showing of Xerxes Agonistes, Paula was feeling almost normal. They had close to a full house, so the lobby was crowded now, people lined up for food and drinks, lined up at the bathrooms, the smokers huddled together in the corner next to the ventilators. Paula wandered through the lobby, checking on things, but everything seemed under control; for a change, everyone had shown up for work today so she wasn’t understaffed.

  She was headed for the stairs up to the projectionist’s booth when a man moved in front of her. He looked familiar, though she didn’t think she’d ever met him before. An inch or two taller than she was, slender, with short hair and wire-rim glasses. Kind of good-looking, in an odd way. She couldn’t really tell how old he was—he could be in his late thirties, or he might be a youngish forty, forty-five.

  “Excuse me,” he said when she stopped. “Paula Asgard?”

  “Yeah. Do I know you?”

  “My name’s Tremaine. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  So, that’s why he was familiar. The guy tried to keep low-profile, but he couldn’t keep his own face completely out of the media. A bit of irony there.

  “I’m a freelance journalist,” he said when she didn’t respond.

  “I know who you are,” Paula said. “I’ve read your stuff.”

  Tremaine smiled. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good.” The guy did real investigative reporting, not sensationalist cheap-shotting, and if he couldn’t get the papers or magazines or television to run his stories, which was often, he sent them out over the nets. He’d made a lot of enemies, but probably not very much money. He found stories where there shouldn’t have been any, stories no one else could find, stories no one else knew existed. The anti-cancer implant scam at the UCSF medical school. The firefly distribution ring run by two senior partners of Maxie and Fowler, the largest and most prestigious law firm in the city. Like that.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  “What about?” Paula asked, instantly wary.

  “Chick Roberts.”

  Paula didn’t say anything at first. The sounds and images of the people in the lobby became a smeared blur, highlighting Tremaine’s face. His voice had been neutral, as if what he was asking had little real importance, and his expression was
just as unconcerned. But hearing Chick’s name made her feel sick, and the morning’s jitters came back.

  “What about Chick?” she managed to say.

  “I’m trying to find out why he was killed.”

  “Why?”

  Tremaine shrugged, but didn’t answer, and it was obvious to Paula that he wasn’t going to say any more about it right now. “I’d like to get together with you,” he said. “An hour, maybe longer, somewhere private. Any time, any place you like.”

  Paula didn’t know what to say to him. Carlucci had warned her against talking to anyone, and she didn’t feel good about the idea, anyway, talking to a stranger about Chick. But why did Tremaine want to know what happened?

  “I can’t,” she finally said. When he didn’t respond, didn’t ask her why, she repeated herself. “I can’t. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “I’d still like to talk to you about him.” He handed her a small black plastic card with light gray printing—his name, and several com numbers. Paula put it in her back pocket. “Just let me know.” He started to turn away, then looked back at her. “Let me buy you dinner.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Paula said, shaking her head.

  “Just dinner,” Tremaine said. He gave her a disarming smile. “You get to know me a little better, I get to know you, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  Paula shook her head again, unable to keep from smiling back. There was something damn charming about the guy. “I can’t take the time. In fact, I’m on my way upstairs to fight with the projectionist over the sandwiches we’re sharing for dinner.”

  “I understand,” Tremaine said, still smiling. “I’ll be back for the ten o’clock show. If you feel any different…”

  “You’re coming back to see City Dogs?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I guess that might be your kind of film.”

  Tremaine nodded, then said, “Enjoy your sandwich.”

  “I will.”

  Tremaine turned, then worked his way through the crowded lobby to the front doors.