by Tom Fowler
I nodded. “I believe you’ve laid out how it is for a lot of very smart people.”
“But not for you,” Rich said. “You’re different. You’re special. You don’t play by the same rules or have a little police manual.”
“Exactly the reason I think I’ll be able to do some good work,” I said. “I learned a lot in Hong Kong. You and my parents will say I fell in with criminals, and you’d be right. But I learned things over there they don’t teach in classrooms or police academies. I don’t come from your background. I think I can solve things the police can’t because I think differently.”
“Like a criminal?”
I shook my head. “Black and white. Everything is black and white with you. Everyone is a sinner or a saint. There’s a lot of gray in the world, Rich.”
Rich shrugged. “I guess we’ll see about you, won’t we?”
“If there’s a case to be solved here, I’m going to solve it.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Alice hired me.”
“Not this case. This. Your line of work. Why are you doing it?”
“I told you already,” I said. “I think it’s something I’m good at.”
“No.” Rich shook his head. “You’re smart enough to be good at a lot of things. Why this?”
“I have some good skills.”
“Not buying it.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the truth!” Rich said. “Not a dodge and not a joke. Tell me the truth, C.T. Why are you doing this?”
“I’m tired of people thinking Baltimore’s just Freddie Gray, or the city they saw on The Wire.” I sighed. “Warts and all, I love this city. I know what you think of my time in Hong Kong, but I helped people. Americans trying to get out, Chinese nationals looking for family members the government didn’t want them to find. I made a difference for them, Rich. I can do it again.”
“Now we’re back to your time in China.”
I let out a slow breath. This conversation bumped against the edges of my patience. “You may think what I did in China was bullshit. Great. You’re entitled to your opinion. There are people who would tell you you’re wrong.”
“We have police to help people,” Rich insisted.
“No. You’re handcuffed by the commissioner, the city council, the mayor . . . a lot of people. At best, you might not be part of the problem.”
“But you’re part of the solution.”
“I’m trying to be,” I said.
“Good luck,” Rich said.
“You know, I don’t think I want to do this stakeout anymore.”
Rich looked at me and shook his head again. “You haven’t changed a bit. You needed to learn a few things when you graduated college and took your entitled ass overseas. The shame of it is, despite all your talk, you still need to learn the same things now. I really shouldn’t be surprised. Why would I expect you to change?”
I grabbed my cooler from the backseat and my thermos from the floor in front of me. “You can keep the bottled water.”
“Don’t you want a ride back to your building?”
“I’ll get an Uber.” I closed the door to Rich’s car and walked up the street, away from Margaret Madison’s house. After about two blocks, I took out my phone and summoned a ride.
A few minutes after I walked inside and put the food into the refrigerator, my cell phone rang. I looked at the number; it was Jessica Webber. I let it ring a couple more times before I answered. “What do you want, Jessica?”
“Wow, aren’t we in a good mood?” she said.
“Not especially.”
“Can I come by? I want to talk a little after . . . the other night.”
“If you like, sure.” I really didn’t feel like seeing her, but it sounded like she wanted to talk about things. Whatever she said, I had no intention of apologizing to her. She needed to have some respect for a grieving widow.
“OK. I’m not far away. I’ll be by soon.” It felt like Jessica was stalking me. She showed up unannounced two nights ago, and now she was nearby on a Sunday night, only a few minutes after I returned. I pondered the problem and decided there are worse fates one can suffer than having a sexy, uninhibited female reporter for a stalker. If this became my cross to bear, I would take it up every day.
A few minutes later, I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole to be certain and saw Jessica. I opened the door and beckoned her in. “Thanks,” she said. “I wasn’t sure how eager you’d be to talk to me after the other night.”
“I admit you’re not high on my list of favorite people right now.”
“I’m a reporter, C.T. I go after the stories. It’s what I’ve been trained to do. We all have. We want to get the story before the other guys do. If it’s a big enough story, every news station and paper in town will be there. But when you’re the first one on the scene, that’s a good feeling.”
“And the hell with what the people you’re reporting on feel?” I said.
She shook her head. “No. No, I’m not usually like that. I think I got caught up in the surprise factor. I mean, you had a case of possible adultery, and now the husband is dead. And you didn’t think he cheated.”
“He didn’t.”
“Then it’s very surprising he ended up dead. Admit it, that’s a compelling story.” I nodded. “And since I’m chronicling your first case, I think I got caught up in breaking a story.” Jessica paused and sighed. “The reality is, I don’t want to shove a mike and a camera into the face of a grieving widow. I know I came across like some heartless newshound, but that’s really not who I am.”
“Good to know.”
She smiled. “I think it took you cursing at me and slamming the door in my face for me to see it.” She didn’t sound like she angled for an apology there. “So thank you for that.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked for something rude before.” I smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
“Can I ask you a question, though?” Jessica said. “Off the record.”
I said, “sure.”
“Who did you lose?”
“What?”
“When you were yelling at me, you said you weren’t sure if I ever lost someone I loved. I guess I’ve been lucky in that respect, but I haven’t. I get the feeling you have, though.”
I looked at Jessica and let out a slow, deep breath. I kept looking at her, and she simply returned my gaze, not saying anything, giving me whatever time I needed. “My sister,” I finally said.
“What happened?”
“She was nineteen, and in college at Penn. I was in my junior year of high school. She was home for a long weekend.” I paused and collected myself. I couldn’t even remember the last time I told someone about her. Why was I telling Jessica now? She must have picked up on my trepidation.
“If you don’t want to say, it’s OK,” she said. “I’m sure it’s not an easy subject.”
“It’s not.” I took another slow breath. “The doctor said it was a heart defect. Something they’d never found before. They didn’t find it when she was a baby. Medical technology improved a lot in nineteen years, but not enough to save her.” There really wasn’t any more to say, and I don’t think I could have spoken another syllable had there been. I wiped at my eyes.
“What was her name?”
“Samantha,” I said after a few seconds. “Samantha Elizabeth Ferguson.”
Jessica got up and sat on the arm of my recliner. She patted my shoulder, and I offered her a small smile. I didn’t cry, but I knew it would come soon if I kept talking about my sister. It had been almost twelve years, but I never really got over it. My grades slipped after Samantha died, and my parents sent me to see a couple of different therapists, but none of them delivered the breakthrough their boasts and diplomas implied. Eventually, I rallied and finished the school year strong, but I carried her death with me every day. It wasn’t something I talked about. Jessica had a habit of getting me t
o say more than I wanted.
“I can stay, if you want me to,” she said.
“I’ll be OK,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s been years, Jessica. It’s still raw, but it’s not a gaping wound anymore. Go on, I’ll be OK.”
She stood, looked down at me, and smiled. “You’re deeper than you appear, Mr. Ferguson.”
“And you have a bigger heart than you show, Miss Webber.”
She gave me another pat on the shoulder and walked out. I sat in the recliner and took another deep breath. After I went down the hall and got ready for bed, my cell phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, which I figured could happen often in my chosen profession, but I answered anyway.
“C.T.?” The feminine voice sounded familiar.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Gloria Reading. We met at the art show the other night.”
Now I pictured a face and a body—and what a body it was—to go with the come-hither voice. “I remember. How are you?”
“I’m good. Are you working tonight?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping to see you.”
“I don’t think I’d be great company tonight, Gloria.”
“Your case?”
“Yeah.”
“This is more than you signed up for, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m a night owl,” Gloria said. “If I’m not going to see you tonight, let’s talk a while. I’m feeling a little lonely.”
“Yeah, I am, too.” In a city of over six hundred thousand people, and with the closest thing I’ve had to a brother working beside me, I still felt lonely. Welcome back to America, Mr. Ferguson.
“Then I’m glad I called,” said Gloria.
“Me, too,” I said.
Chapter 13
Gloria and I talked for over an hour. She sounded like someone who never should have been lonely but still suffered the fate often. I understood. She didn’t come across well to a lot of people. Her looks would open plenty of doors and start a ton of conversations, but there would be no depth to them. She needed someone who understood her, and she thought she found said someone in me. Maybe she did. We would have time to explore the idea later. For now, I had a case to work and a murderer to catch. More immediately, I had breakfast to make after going to bed late and waking up hungry.
I pondered what trouble to get myself into today. I knew Vinnie was diddling the help, but I didn’t know how to use the information. If I told him, he might deduce Margaret Madison in fact heard something in her basement and the specific something in fact was an old friend turned nosy private investigator.
I still didn’t know what to make of Vinnie’s meteoric rise from simple bookie to advanced bookie. He needed the blessing, if not the backing, of Tony Rizzo. I hadn’t seen Tony since before I went overseas. He had been friends with my parents for as long as I could remember, and before his rise to power, they actually loaned him part of the money he needed to open Il Buon Cibo. I would pay Tony a visit at his restaurant at lunchtime. Before that, however, I resolved to eat breakfast, take a run through Fells Point, and get a shower.
Il Buon Cibo was one of many Italian restaurants in Little Italy. Sabatino’s enjoyed the reputation and tourist business, but people who knew Little Italy ate at places like Chiapparelli’s and and Il Buon Cibo. Tourists be damned. Let them eat Sabatino’s. I found a parking spot on the street about two blocks from the restaurant, paid the machine, and walked to the front door.
The maitre d’ only worked the dinner crowd. I walked past the sign asking me if I could please wait to be seated. I could not. Tony always had a table in the back. It was the closest to the fireplace and isolated from those nearby by about ten feet. He employed a goon to sit close just in case, and the brutish bodyguard stood when I approached. Tony looked up from his salad, his eyes fell on me, and he did a table take. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“I flew back,” I said. “He could have walked across the ocean.”
Tony got up, held his arms out, and we embraced. “It’s good to see you again, C.T.”
“You, too, Tony.”
“I heard you got yourself in a little hot water overseas.”
“You hear a lot of things.”
“A man in my line of work likes to stay connected.”
“What about you?” I said. “You’re looking good. A little thinner since the last time I saw you. What happened to your legendary Italian appetite?”
Tony snorted. “Fucking doctors. I need to watch what I eat now. I told the doc I always watch what I eat—from the plate to the fork to my mouth.” He laughed, like he probably laughed every time he told the story, and I gave a chuckle to be polite. When the crime boss laughs, the minimum response is a snicker. “But enough about me. What happened to you in China?”
I knew Tony wouldn’t carry tales, but I didn’t want to tell him everything. I let him know the big details about the hacking and piracy ring, leaving out the burglary, self-defense, and learning the language. He shook his head when I finished. “Fucking gooks couldn’t be rid of you quick enough by the sound of things,” he said.
My thirty-nine months away from America had dulled my memory of conversations with Tony. He always had an ethnic slur ready for non-Italians. I let it slide. “They made it clear they didn’t want to see me again. I assured them the feeling was mutual.”
“Your parents must have been pissed.”
I smirked. “You hit the nail on the head.”
“You doing anything with yourself these days?”
“I am.” I told him the conditions my parents imposed on me when I got back. “So I’m using what I learned overseas and working as a private investigator.”
For the first time, Tony’s happy demeanor cracked. “You? A PI?”
“It’s a living,” I said.
“I can’t believe it.” Tony frowned. “I’ve known you since you were an infant. After all this time, we gonna be at odds?”
“I don’t see why we would, Tony. I’m not out to hassle you. What you do is your business.”
He nodded. “All right. What brings you by?”
“Vinnie Serrano.”
“What about him?” Tony still frowned and regarded me skeptically now. A man like him didn’t spend a lot of time talking to people in my line of work.
“He’s a . . . person of interest in the case I’m working on. When I knew him, he was a nickel-and-dime bookie. Now he’s a bookie with muscle, and I have a hunch he’s looking to add ‘loan shark’ to his business cards next. I would imagine he needs your blessing for something like he’s into now.”
Tony picked up his glass of red wine and swirled it. “Vinnie and I are acquainted,” he said after some consideration. “He’s not one of my boys. He’s only an asset. What do you mean he’s a person of interest?”
“He has some role in the case. I’m not sure what it is yet. But my client is also one of his clients.”
“And you’re here checking up on him.”
“Again on the head of the nail, yes.”
“You always were thorough. You wanna stay for lunch? It’s on me.”
“Sure, I’d like some lunch.”
Tony snapped his fingers, and a waitress rushed to our table with a menu. My run had given me an appetite, so I ordered gnocchi with meat sauce. Tony suggested a basil pesto, but I stuck with my first choice. We chatted for a while before my meal came and while I ate. It felt good to catch up with Tony, but he got a little frosty once he learned I became a PI. I couldn’t blame him; it still made me a little frosty to think about it. While we ate, Tony asked about my parents. “I haven’t spoken to them since you got back,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Hell, I don’t know. We never talked every day or anything. It’s probably nothing. Old friends can go weeks and months without talking and things are still the same when they pick it up again
, right?”
“Right.”
Despite his history with my family and me, I knew Tony wouldn’t hesitate to send some muscle after me if I turned out to be bad for business. Considering I still had to deal with the threat of Vinnie and his own goons, I hoped to avoid any new trouble.
Lesson from lunch with the mob boss: I could get to Vinnie if necessary. If he enjoyed Tony’s protection, the problem would have been much harder. While I pondered this, my cell phone rang. It was Alice Fisher. Maybe she needed more funeral-planning advice. “Alice, how are you? Did my mother help you?”
“Yes, she did.” I heard Alice’s voice brighten from its dreariness of the past few days. “I don’t think she understood the idea of doing a funeral on a budget, but she was a great help. That’s part of the reason I’m calling, actually.”
“Do you need me to do something?” I said.
“Come to the viewings today?” she said. “The first is from two until four, and the second is from seven until nine.”
“I can be there, but I’m wondering why you want me to be. I’m sure you have friends and family you can lean on.”
“I do. It’s just . . . I’m worried Vinnie or one of his cronies might show up.” She sighed. “I don’t think he’s that ghoulish, but . . .”
“But you owe him a lot of money.”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly, I don’t think Vinnie is quite the type, either, but if you want me to be there, I will. Tell me where the viewings are.”
“Ruck’s Funeral Home in Towson,” she said. “You know where it is?”
“I do,” I said. “I’ll see you there at two.”
Paul Fisher’s two o’clock viewing was somber and uneventful. I met Alice there a few minutes before two. She introduced me to her parents and her sister. When they asked who I was, she said I was a private investigator friend of Paul’s who decided to make sure his car accident was truly accidental. I didn’t think they liked her explanation. It raised more questions than it answered, and it was more than I would have told someone. They didn’t press for any further details, but I figured they would grill Alice later.