Hard Look

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Still,” I said, “I can’t in all good conscience work for you.”

  “But you’ll work for her yuppie hood husband,” she said. “What do you think he’ll do to her when you turn her over to him?”

  “Well,” I said, dropping my napkin on the table right over the spill, “maybe I won’t do that either:”

  I stood up, and she glared up at me.

  “I didn’t say we were done.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but we’re done just the same.”

  “Harry!” she shouted.

  What few other diners were in the place turned around to look—the ones who hadn’t already looked when she banged her fist on the table.

  Harry and his partner came in from the bar, and they didn’t look too happy about being interrupted while they were drinking.

  “This isn’t smart, Angie,” I said.

  “You’re the one who ain’t smart,” she said, sounding pure Jersey. “If you ain’t with me, Miles, you’re against me.”

  “Angie,” I said, “you sound like something out of a bad movie. Marlon Brando you ain’t.”

  “Maybe not,” she said in a low, menacing tone, “but I got enough clout right here to have you taken care of.”

  I turned and looked at Harry and his pal. They both had their hands inside their jackets. Would they pull the guns out in here if she told them to? I didn’t know, but I was probably going to have to find out.

  “All right, just stand real still, boys.”

  I looked past Harry and his clone. Behind them stood my friend, Cathy Merrill—Deputy Cathy Merrill, with her badge pinned to her shirt and a gun in her hand. The gun was the one we had taken off Angie’s Jersey hoods. Harry turned his head just enough to see the badge and the gun.

  We were the center of attention now, but no one from the restaurant bothered approaching us. I guess they figured we’d play it out among ourselves.

  “She’s a cop?” he said to no one in particular.

  “What the fuck—” Angie said.

  “Your boys fucked up, Angie,” I said, “or you did. They didn’t know she was a cop, so they left her in the car and didn’t search her.”

  Angie closed her eyes real tight and said, “Jesus!”

  I turned to face Harry and the other guy and said, “Excuse me, boys.”

  Harry glared at me, but they both moved aside so I could step between them. When I was next to Cathy, I turned to look at Angie again.

  “If I were you, Angie, I’d forget about finding Sandy Meyer and work at mending fences with Jersey. If those people are mad at you, I think you’re just about done down here. It might be time to move on.”

  “What do we do with them?” Cathy asked out of the side of her mouth.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Let’s just get the hell out of here before somebody does something stupid.”

  49

  When we got to the car, i got in, started the engine, and pulled away without hesitation. I didn’t know if Angie would send her boys after us right away, and I didn’t want to wait to find out. I just drove off, made a series of turns, and when I spotted the dog track, I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. I shut the motor off, reached for Cathy, pulled her to me, and kissed her soundly.

  “What was that for?” she asked. Her cheeks were flushed, and not just from the kiss.

  “What made you come in?” I asked, answering a question with a question.

  “What made me come in?” she said. “I got lonely. I was in the car all alone, you were inside with men with guns and I didn’t know who else, what was I supposed to do, just keep waiting?”

  “You were supposed to do just what you did,” I said, “pull my fat out of the fire.”

  “She wasn’t really going to have them kill you, was she? Right in the restaurant?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, then added, “not in the restaurant, anyway.”

  “You think she would—”

  “Actually, I don’t think she would have had them kill me, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have ended up with some broken bones. You followed your cop instincts, Cathy, and bailed me out. I’m grateful.”

  “Well, actually, it wasn’t my cop instincts,” she said. “It was my female instincts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was hungry, and there you were, having lunch. I guess I got a little jealous.”

  “Sure,” I said, “and that’s why you came in carrying the gun.”

  “Well, I said I was a little jealous,” she said. “I was really very hungry, though. Can we get something to eat?”

  “How about we wait until we get some more distance between us and them,” I said.

  “I’ll settle for McDonald’s,” she said. “I think there’s one back that way; we passed it on the way in.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but then I’ve got to get back to my hotel. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  “About what?”

  “I need a cop.”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “You’re a cop, babe,” I said, “and a beautiful one, but I need one with a little more clout.”

  “Becker or Rizzo?”

  “No,” I said, pulling the car out of the dog track parking lot, “I need somebody higher up than them. I’ve got to tell my story—theories and all—to somebody in authority.”

  “I don’t know anyone that high up that I could ask for a favor,” she said.

  I thought a moment, then said, “I may know somebody who might know somebody who knows somebody.”

  “I’m sure in New York what you just said would make sense,” she said, “but it’s beyond me.”

  “Just wait until we get back to my hotel,” I said, “and you’ll see.”

  50

  One of the things I never travel without—not that I travel a lot—is my phone book. Not my little black book, but the one my friend and mentor, Eddie Waters, left to me when he died. It’s filled with the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of P.I.s all over the country. A lot of times it’s just not possible to jump on a plane to check out the thread of a lead, so you call a colleague and have him check it for you. I’ve done it many times in the past, and was about to do it again.

  On the way back to Tampa I gave Cathy the gist of the conversation I had with Angie Worth.

  “She admitted to selling drugs?” she asked. “And I walked out?”

  “What were you going to do?” I asked. “She made sure it was only her and me around when she said it. You can’t make a case out of that.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she said. “She also said she had nothing to do with the killings, right? And you believed her?”

  “Yeah, I did,” I said. “I can see her selling drugs, and probably dealing in stolen goods, but murder? I don’t think so.”

  “She looked mad enough to kill you back there.”

  “Yeah, she did,” I said. “Okay, maybe I’m wrong, but time will tell.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to try to find myself a cop I can talk to, somebody who can act as a buffer between me and Becker and Rizzo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as far as they’re concerned I’m a suspect. I need somebody who’ll listen to me with an open mind.”

  “And somebody of rank.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I wish I could help.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I think I know somebody who can.”

  “That’s that somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody?” she asked.

  “Hey,” I said, “you’re starting to understand me.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “and it’s scary. . . .”

  When we got back to my hotel, I asked Cathy if she wanted to come up to my room with me while I made some calls.

  “Trying to get me to your room, huh?” she asked. Her color was still high, although she had calmed down during the ride home. I was starting to thi
nk I knew why this gal had become a cop. It was the same reason a drug addict craves his particular brand of candy—the rush.

  “Cathy—”

  “I’m teasing,” she said. We were in the lobby, and she put her hand gently on my chest. “I’d like to come up, Miles, but I’ve got to check on Shane, and I do have to work tonight.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Let me know what happens, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She started out, then turned and came back. She kissed me on the mouth, then put her lips to my ear

  “I left that gun in your car,” she whispered. “You might need it.”

  I didn’t bother telling her that I wasn’t going to risk my license by carrying an illegal gun.

  “Thanks, Cathy.”

  “’Bye.”

  She hurried out, and I watched as she trotted to her car. I didn’t know what problem Angie and the other woman in the exercise palace had been talking about. Cathy Merrill looked just fine.

  51

  In my room I looked up the phone number of a Florida P.I. I had talked to once or twice before. Dialing, I hoped he’d remember me.

  “Sure, I remember you,” Fred Carver said. “I remember Eddie, too. What can I do for you?”

  Carver used to be an Orlando cop, before he took a bullet in the knee. Now he walked with a cane, but he didn’t let that stop him from doing his job. He now lived in Del Moray.

  “I’m in Florida, Fred,” I said, “in Tampa, and I’m involved in something.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he said wryly. “How can I help, Miles?”

  “I need a cop,” I said, “somebody with a little weight.”

  “In Tampa?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Maybe you know somebody who would know somebody in Tampa.”

  “Is that New York talk?” he asked.

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” he said good-naturedly. “I know a lieutenant in Orlando. He’s a good man, and he might know somebody.”

  “I’m going to need some time from him, so I can lay it all out,” I said. “Is he . . . patient?”

  “I’ll call him, and tell him that you’ll call him in an hour,” Carver said. “If you want to drive up there to Orlando, I’m sure he’ll give you some time—unless he’s involved in something at the moment.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I said.

  “One thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t judge him by New York standards. He’s a good cop.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I promised.

  The cop Carver gave me was named Lieutenant Alfonso Desoto. I thanked him, and he gave me the number and told me to call it in an hour.

  I killed the hour in Denny’s, having a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, and then went back to my room and dialed the number Carver had given me in Orlando. When the phone was answered, I asked for Lieutenant Desoto.

  “Desoto,” a man said moments later.

  “Lieutenant, my name is Miles Jacoby,” I said. “Uh, Fred Carver gave me your name—”

  “And he gave me yours, Mr. Jacoby,” Desoto said. “If you have a problem in Tampa, I’m sure the police there would be willing to help.”

  “I’m not in real good standing with the police here, Lieutenant.”

  “Have you done anything illegal, Mr. Jacoby?”

  I thought about the gun in my car and said, “No.”

  “I know P.I.s like to bend the rules every once in a while—”

  “I value my license, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’m not looking to break any Florida laws.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Desoto said, “What is it you want me to do, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “I’d like to come and see you and talk something out with you,” I said. “After that, I think I’ll need your advice.”

  “What are we talking about here, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “I came to Tampa looking for a missing woman, Lieutenant,” I said. “Now we’re talking about a drug connection . . . and two murders.”

  “Are you a suspect?”

  “Realistically speaking, yes. One of the bodies was found in my hotel room.” There was a long moment of silence, which I broke by adding, “I didn’t kill him, and I don’t think the police think I did.”

  “Did you tell any of this to Carver?”

  “No,” I said, “he doesn’t know anything. I just asked him for a name.”

  “And he gave you mine.” It was a statement, said in a flat tone that betrayed nothing.

  “That’s what friends are for, Lieutenant,” I said. “Of course, if you’re busy, or you’d rather not get involved—”

  “No, no,” he said, sounding tired, “how involved could I get just from listening to you? Would you like to come tomorrow?”

  “If it’s all right with you,” I said, “I could be there in about an hour and a half.”

  Again there was a pause, and then Desoto said, “Take two hours, Mr. Jacoby. Remember, you don’t want to break any Florida laws—and that includes traffic laws.”

  52

  Desoto suggested that we meet someplace neutral. He gave me directions to a restaurant called the Olive Garden, on Orange Blossom Trail. He said we might as well eat together. I figured he was covering his ass by not being seen with me at his office, in case something heavy came down later. That was all right with me. It meant he was cautious. Nothing wrong with that.

  I followed Desoto’s directions, obeyed all the traffic laws, and still arrived at the Olive Garden in an hour and a half. I was surprised to find it was an Italian restaurant. My fault; I let his name cause me to think it might be Spanish.

  I pulled into the crowded parking lot, got out of the car, and walked to the front of the restaurant. There were people milling about, and as I approached the front door, a pretty girl opened it for me and smiled.

  “How many in your party, sir?”

  “Uh, just two,” I said.

  “I’ll have to take your name, sir.”

  “My name’s Jacoby,” I said, “but I’m meeting someone here.”

  “And her name?”

  “No, it’s a he,” I said. “His name’s Desoto.”

  “Lieutenant Desoto?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, he’s here already, sir,” she said. “Right this way.”

  I drew some dirty looks from people who had been waiting awhile as I was led to Desoto’s table.

  “Pays to be a cop, I guess,” I said.

  “I called ahead for a reservation,” he said, looking me right in the eye.

  “Oooh-kay,” I said, sitting down opposite him. “I’m starting on the wrong foot. Sorry.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “After all, you are from New York.”

  I grinned at him and said, “Touché.”

  He allowed himself a small smile and said, “I hope you don’t mind meeting here.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “As a matter of fact my lunch was interrupted, so I’m kind of hungry. You won’t take offense if I offer to buy dinner?”

  “I won’t take offense,” he said, “but I also won’t accept.”

  Desoto was a tall, handsome man with dark hair and mustache, and he was impeccably dressed. His suit was cream-colored, his shirt blue. He wore a gold watch on one wrist and a bulky gold bracelet on the other. There was a gold diamond ring on each hand, pinkie on the right hand, ring finger on the left. He looked too prosperous and flashy to be a cop. He looked more like a bullfighter.

  This was, I assumed, what Carver had meant when he said not to judge him by New York standards. If Desoto were a New York cop and dressed that way, everyone would have a certain perception of the kind of cop he was. I took Carver at his word that the man was a good cop. I had no reason to doubt him.

  I almost asked him how the food was, but since we were sitting there and it was his idea, I assumed that it was good.

  They had food from north
ern and southern Italy, so I ordered a sampler from the north—one of each item. He ordered soup and salad, and when the salad came I was surprised. It was a huge bowl, refillable upon demand, which explained why Desoto was making a meal of it.

  “All right,” he said, while we were both munching on salad, “why don’t you lay it out for me?”

  I started at the beginning, in New York, with the postcard, and worked my way up to lunch with Angie Worth. I didn’t leave anything out—except the part about the gun we took from the Jersey hoods—and that wasn’t really a lie. I didn’t want to get Cathy in trouble for not having turned the gun in. At the moment the damned thing was hidden in the trunk of my car.

  Desoto was a good listener. I paused only when the waiter came with my dinner, and then I continued. He didn’t ask any questions, just listened and took it all in.

  When I was done, he looked at me and said, “I suppose you have theories.”

  “About the murders?”

  He nodded.

  “Well . . . I figure with her husband and her partner looking for her, Sandy Meyer’s not going to stop to kill her photographer boyfriend. Also, there’s no reason to believe she killed the guy in my room. In fact, she may not even be in Florida anymore.”

  “She is if she’s still got the drugs to sell,” Desoto said. “She’ll probably need to unload them to get the money to move on.”

  “Good point. So, she’s still someplace in Florida . . . and her life might be in danger.”

  “It is if the murders were committed in conjunction with the drugs,” he said. “We don’t know for sure that we’re not talking about crack, ice, or any of that good stuff, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “I’ve only got Angie’s word that they were dealing in psychiatric drugs, and some steroids.”

  “I’m not worried about the steroids,” Desoto said. “Some musclehead wants to pump himself full of that stuff, that’s his business. I’m not even sure I care about the psychiatric stuff. I do care about murder, even if it happened in Tampa.”

  “Do you know somebody I can talk to in Tampa, Lieutenant?”