Don of the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  The nurse sniffed, and though she was talking about her like she wasn't there, Marie was still latched on to me. The nurse gave her a look that was nothing short of disgust. "Four years I've been putting up with her and her crazy talk. Let me guess, she said she was out here waiting for her son. She's always waiting for her son. But you know what, Marie?" The nurse leaned forward and caught Marie's eye. "You. Don't. Have. A. Son. How many times do I have to tell you? You're just a crazy old lady and one of these days, you're going to walk away from me and you're going to get lost. Then I'm going to lose my job."

  "You'll be lucky if that's all you lose." Winding my arm through Marie's, I let the nurse chew over the gruesome possibilities and took the old lady along with me to the front door.

  "She's wrong, you know."

  It wasn't so much Marie's words as her voice that struck me as odd. It was as even and reasonable as it had been incoherent only a minute before. When I looked at the old lady, her eyes were bright and clear. She smiled up at me. "She's a bitch."

  "You're not kidding." I decided I liked Marie. "Why do you put up with it?"

  I suppose I'll never know. Because as quickly as the flash of awareness came, it was gone again. Marie's eyes went flat. Her expression was blank. "He's bringing tulips," she said. Her empty gaze roved all around. "He said he'd be here. He promised."

  The conversation pretty much stayed one-sided like that all the way to the front door. Which was a good thing, I guess, because I didn't have to keep up my end. It was especially helpful when Gus popped up next to me.

  He looked to his left and shook his head. "My little sister."

  "She's a little out of it right now."

  "She was always a little out of it." Though his assessment was hard-edged, Gus's eyes betrayed a sadness I hadn't seen in them before. "I haven't bothered to look in on her. On any of them. All this time. Now, to see her like this… "

  "She's waiting for her son."

  Gus shook his head. "Marie has daughters. Four of them. I ought to know, I paid for their weddings."

  "He's coming today." Marie nodded, talking to herself. "He promised."

  By that time, we were at the front door, and even though Gus stayed at my side, I refused to look his way or say another word to him. He knew better than to egg me on, too. We were passing into dangerous waters. If I needed any more proof, it came when Goon #1 stepped between me and the door.

  It wasn't like I didn't expect some kind of challenge. In spite of the fact that I'd flashed my driver's license in front of the security camera at the gate and that I had an appointment, I knew these guys were paid to look after Rudy's welfare. That included making sure that not just anyone got in to see him.

  I understood all that, and I actually might have gritted my teeth and endured it if Goon #2 hadn't been staring at my chest. He was a huge guy with a long, black ponytail and, at exactly the spot where his Ray-Bans ended, a scar that cut across his left cheek. It was pink and glossy. Recent. Ugly.

  He slipped off his sunglasses, winked at his sidekick and handed him his weapon. "Gonna have to pat you down." He did a slow inventory, from the tips of my pink slingbacks, up my legs, and across my hips. Apparently, he wasn't the type who concerned himself about looks because he never got as far as my face. He stopped at boob level. "Mr. Scarpetti's orders."

  "Forget it, scumbag." Marie batted his hand away. "She's with me."

  It was apparent that neither of these guys was used to resistance. Especially not from little Marie, While they hemmed and hawed and wondered how to handle the boss's aunt, Marie charged past them and to the door. Since she was still clinging to me like static to a linen skirt, I got dragged along and into the house.

  Did I say house?

  That place was spectacular enough to send the Queer Eye guys into waves of rapture.

  I took a couple seconds to check out the three-story entryway with its floor-to-ceiling window and the winding staircase directly in front of us. I had just started in on the wall (lit from behind, of course) that featured a display of art-glass sculptures when a man in a gray suit appeared in a doorway to my right. He introduced himself as Teo Conigliaro, and at the same time he gently but expertly plucked Marie's hand from my sleeve and led her away, he informed me that Mr. Scarpetti would see me now.

  I was left alone outside a closed door.

  Well, not precisely alone.

  "You ready, kid?" Gus asked.

  "I could ask you the same thing. You were surprised by how much Marie has changed. And you haven't seen your son in a long time."

  "He's still my son."

  "He collects art glass."

  Gus looked back at the display and his top lip curled. "In my day—"

  Before he could get started with a reminiscence, I raised my hand and rapped on the door, and when I was met with a gruff, "Come," I squared my shoulders and headed inside.

  There were no windows in that room and after being outside, then in the flood of soft evening light that filled the entryway, it took a couple seconds for me to get my bearings. I don't suppose I made a good impression standing there staring like a lunatic but I couldn't help myself. When my eyes finally got used to the light of the single lamp that was lit on the huge mahogany desk in the corner, the first person I saw was Gus.

  But of course, it wasn't.

  The man seated behind the desk was the spitting image of his father. I should have expected it, but it caught me off guard, anyway. Rudy was just about the age then that Gus had been when he was murdered. They had the same pit bull body, the same bullet head. Even Rudy's nose was a duplicate of Gus's and the thought crossed my mind that somewhere along the way, he'd probably had it broken on purpose. Just so nobody could miss the resemblance and forget whose son he was.

  Instead of an Italian silk suit like his father wore, though, Rudy was dressed country club casual, in khakis and a red sweater every bit as expensive as the furnishings in his office. He jumped out of his leather chair and headed over to me, his hand extended, his voice simmering with admiration.

  "Hey, sweetheart. You told me you were writing a book. You didn't tell me you were gorgeous and writing a book."

  "Can you believe the nerve of the boy?" Gus clicked his tongue. "Talking that way to a respectable woman. I never would have—"

  I ignored him. So I'm shallow. It was nice to know that someone appreciated the just-above-the-knee black skirt and the hot-pink shirt I'd paired it with. Even if the someone in question was the local godfather.

  I managed a smile and the oh-so-professional tone of voice that had gotten me my job at Garden View. "That's because the only thing that matters about this visit is that book I'm writing," I told Rudy. I let him hand me into a chair and when I sat down, he went back to his spot behind the desk. "I think I explained all that on the phone."

  Rudy made himself comfortable. "I see you met Zia Marie."

  I didn't ask how he knew. If Rudy didn't know everything that happened around there, I'd have been surprised. "She's a little… "

  "Confused?"

  Understatement of the year. I thought about Marie and Nurse Godzilla. "Your aunt doesn't like her caretaker," I told Rudy.

  He steepled his fingers and looked at me over them. "And you know this how?"

  "Marie is afraid of the woman. And the nurse… well, I've watched the Discovery Channel. I've seen more caring instincts in a jellyfish."

  "I'll take care of her."

  It was as simple as that. And it scared me to death. Not to mention what I thought it might do to the nurse. I know I went as white as a sheet because my face got cold. "I didn't mean for you to—"

  Rudy's laugh cut me short. "What? You think I'm going to take a hit out on the woman? Honestly, Miss Martin. I'm not talking murder, I'm talking a severance package. A pretty hefty one, if I do say so myself." Still laughing, he took a cigar from a wooden case on the desk, trimmed it, and fired it up. It stank. In an expensive sort of way.

  Rudy took a puff and
blew out a ring of white smoke. "You're confusing me with my father."

  "And you're not like him."

  Another puff and I held my breath when the smoke headed my way. "This isn't the old days," he told me. "I'm a legitimate businessman. You must know that if you've started your research." He swept an arm toward the shelves of books behind him. "I have the annual reports here to prove it. I'll have my executive assistant put a packet of them together for you, if you like. You'll see. Things are different now. Don't let those Hollywood movies make you think any different. We aren't pieces of shit—you should excuse the expression—in three-thousand-dollar suits."

  "And your father was."

  It wasn't a question, but Rudy tipped his head back and thought about it. I didn't bother to look to see what Gus was doing. I didn't have to. The next thing I knew, he was standing right behind Rudy. It was a little disconcerting to see them together, one like the mirror image of the other. Rather than think about it, I kept my eyes on Rudy and my notepad clasped in my hands.

  "Back in my father's day, we conducted business in a different manner," Rudy said. "The way my father died, well, that's pretty much all the proof you need to know that."

  "The way he died… " I cleared my throat. It was the only way I could get the words out. "That's exactly what I came to talk to you about."

  Rudy eyed me through the gloom. "Are you asking me if I had anything to do with it?"

  "No. That is… I… Oh, what the hell!" I tapped my pen against the red leather cover of my portfolio. "Actually, that's exactly what I'd like to know. Not if you had anything to do with it!" I added, just so he didn't get the wrong idea and think that I was too nosey. Or that I was accusing him of anything. "Just what you know about it all. For the book, of course."

  "Looks and nerve." Rudy shook his head in a way that said he admired both qualities. "I hate to disappoint you but at the time of my old man's untimely demise, I had a pretty ironclad alibi. I was a guest of the feds."

  "Witness protection?"

  "Prison."

  "Oh. Federal prison. My father—" I stopped short of getting into it, then decided that it might actually help build some kind of rapport. "My father's in federal prison," I told Rudy. "Medicare fraud."

  "Really." Another nod of admiration. "That takes brains. And guts. And how are you getting along on your own?"

  "I never said I was alone." My smile was as sleek as the smoke that rose from the tip of Rudy's cigar. "And you never said if you know who had your father killed."

  Rudy shrugged. "Could'a been anybody."

  "Anybody but you."

  "Damned straight." He stabbed his cigar into the Waterford ashtray on his desk. "He was my father."

  "And that deal he was working on with Victor LaGanza? The one that would have gotten them a share of the lottery pie?"

  At this, Rudy sat up straight. "How the hell do you know—"

  "I told you. I've done plenty of research already. I know there were millions of dollars at stake. My theory is that when your father was killed, those millions of dollars went to someone else."

  For a long time, Rudy didn't say a word. He stared. Just stared. And I didn't dare look to see how Gus was reacting to all this. Something told me if I took my eyes off Rudy, it was the equivalent of holding up a white flag. Right now, I couldn't afford a show of weakness.

  Just when I thought I couldn't stand the tension any longer, Rudy backed down. In an I'm-still-the-boss-and-don't-get-any-idea-I'm-not sort of way. "Yeah, well… if there was a deal, and we're talking in purely hypothetical terms here, if there was a deal and there were millions at stake, we would have lost the money when Pop got iced."

  That was news and apparently, my blank expression said it all.

  "It looks like you haven't done your homework very good, honey. You see, if there was such a deal, then when Pop was killed, the deal would have fallen through. Back in the day, that's how these things used to be structured. The Scarpetti Family wouldn't make the money. The LaGanza Family wouldn't make the money. So you see, if it was true—and believe me, I'm not saying it is—but if it was, thanks to my father's murder, me and Victor LaGanza, we would'a lost millions. Just about takes care of both our motives, don't you think?"

  It did.

  "Then who—"

  "Look… " Rudy got up, went to the door, and opened it. Not one to ignore messages when they're sent by mob bosses, I stood and followed him across the room.

  "I agreed to see you," he said, "because I think it's about time the Scarpetti family got a little good press. I'm an honest businessman. I support a dozen different charities. I give to my church. Hell, I even sit on the board. I back a number of worthy causes. I even take care of the people who were once my father's business associates. You know, at a retirement home sort of place. That's the kind of thing you should be writing about, not who killed my old man. Because that's ancient history and it don't serve no useful purpose. If you decide to write my side of the story, give me a call sometime." When I got close enough, he looked down my cleavage. "Or maybe if you want to have dinner and a few laughs. But this other stuff, this mafioso bullshit… "

  Rudy put a hand on my back. He nudged me into the hallway at the same time he leaned in close and whispered, "If you're smart, you'll forget all about that."

  Chapter 9

  I was smart.

  Smart enough to notice that when I snaked down the drive, pulled through the iron gate that whisked open in front of me like magic, and headed out of the Scarpetti compound, a car that was parked a hundred feet up the road turned on its lights and swung onto the street behind me.

  But smart doesn't automatically mean suspicious and at that point, I had more important things to worry about than who besides me was out for a Thursday night drive.

  Rudy the Cootie's last words still rang in my ears. Was it friendly advice? Or a threat?

  I would have asked Gus for his take on the situation, but the last I'd seen of him was back in Rudy's office.

  I wondered, too, what he'd have to say in regard to Rudy's explanation about the lottery scheme gone bad. If the Cootie was telling the truth and Gus's death canceled out the deal… well, that pretty much eliminated both Rudy and Victor LaGanza from my very short list of suspects.

  Then again, if Rudy was lying…

  With a single, grumbled, "Shit," I set the thought aside.

  If Rudy was lying, I didn't know how to prove it. Or not prove it. So there I was. Nowhere. Again.

  After a full day of work at the cemetery, not to mention the stress of meeting with Rudy, I was tired, and rather than waste any more brain cells trying to work through motives and clues and who was who in the world of bad guys, I deserved a break. I snapped on the radio and tapped my fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of a technodance tune that had been out a year earlier and already sounded dated. At the next intersection, I took a right.

  For a couple seconds, my rearview mirror was dark. Then headlights glared in it.

  The car behind me had turned, too.

  Was I worried? Why should I be? I was doing the speed limit (almost) so even if it was a cop, I didn't care.

  I negotiated a curve and a picturesque stone bridge that spanned the Chagrin River. The foothills of the Appalachian Mountains begin east of Cleveland and there, the countryside is scenic in a way that assures the folks lucky enough to own property in those parts of both privacy and priceyness. In the daylight, I knew I'd see steep hills, rocky outcroppings, and once in a while, a break in the trees that indicated a long driveway and a house set in pristine splendor and far from prying eyes.

  It was just past sunset and the road in front of me twisted and turned in the light that was quickly changing from plum to midnight blue. I put both hands on the steering wheel. After all, it was spring and every driver who ventured off Northeast Ohio city streets and into the suburbs knew what that meant: deer. Not that I don't think they're adorable, but no way did I want to meet one up close and pe
rsonal with my front bumper.

  I topped a hill and coasted down the other side. The road smoothed out and I cranked my car stereo, and in the spirit of the season, opened the moon roof. The yellow line in the center of the road changed from solid to broken so if the driver behind me was so inclined, he could have passed. He didn't. He kept his distance and for a couple miles, I drove on in stereophonic oblivion. Another mile or so, no sign of deer, and ahead of me, a traffic light marked another intersection. It turned from green to yellow but I had clearance. Just as the light changed to red, I zipped through.

  So did the car behind me.

  It may have taken me a while, but I was starting to catch on. I glanced in my rearview mirror but since there were no streetlights, it was too dark to see who was driving the car or even what color it was.

  I didn't lose my head. After all, I was a private detective. Sort of. And I was smart.

  Just to prove it, when I saw a street up ahead on my left, I slowed, turned, and kept on driving.

  My rearview mirror remained dark.

  I admit it, in addition to relief, I felt pretty dumb. I had let my imagination (not to mention my love of CSI reruns) get the best of me and I swore I'd never let it happen again. If I was going to solve this case for Gus and earn my nine thousand bucks, I had to remain logical and rational. I had to stop being a drama queen. I had to—

  A house the size of my apartment building loomed directly ahead of me and I punched my brakes, slowed, then stopped.

  I was in a cul-de-sac.

  Did I say smart? It didn't look that way. To me or, I'm sure, to the driver in that other car. The one that was pulled over to the side of the road waiting for me when I flipped around and came back out the dead-end street the way I'd come in.

  Good thing it was dark. At least the other driver couldn't see how red my face was. But I couldn't see his face, either; the windows of the late-model black sedan were tinted.

  I pulled out onto the main road, and I didn't look in my mirror. Why bother? Besides, I could just about feel the headlights of the sedan boring into the back of my two-year-old Mustang.