by Tom Fowler
“I’ll get you for this,” Vinnie said.
“Better make it fast,” I said. “Rich is only half a block up the road.”
Vinnie walked to the counter as quickly as his wobbly legs would allow. He grabbed a knife from the block of fine cutlery on the countertop. “I don’t need much time to cut you up.”
I shrugged and took out the .32 from a small holster at my back. “Vinnie, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?”
“You said no guns!”
“I had my fingers crossed.”
“You son of a bitch.” Vinnie looked at me, looked at the knife, then looked at me again. I saw a gleam in his eye.
“Don’t do it, Vinnie. I’ll shoot you if I have to.”
“Will you?”
“And if he doesn’t, I will,” Rich said. He walked into the kitchen, his gun pointed at Vinnie.
“He tried to kill me,” Vinnie said, pointing toward me with the knife. “He gave me poisoned food.”
I shrugged. “How was I supposed to remember he had a peanut allergy?”
“He deliberately bought food cooked in peanut oil!”
“I saved your life by finding your epi pen, Vinnie. You might try being grateful.”
“You might also try putting the knife down,” Rich said.
Vinnie looked at me, at Rich, and back at me. “This thing between us . . . it isn’t finished.”
“But you are.”
Rich spun Vinnie around, shoved him into the refrigerator, and read him his Miranda rights while putting handcuffs on him.
“I’ll get out of jail one day,” Vinnie said as Rich led him toward the front of the house.
“Maybe when we’re in our fifties.” I sat back down at the table.
Rich stopped and looked at me. “What are you doing?”
“I bought all this food. I might as well eat it. You want any?”
Rich shook his head. “You want to come downtown with me?”
“After I eat. You won’t need me right away, will you?”
“I think I can manage without you.”
“I just got you an arrest. It’ll look very nice on your new detective record. Don’t presume you can live without me.” I started eating the rest of my pita sandwich. “I’ll bring you a doggie bag if you want.”
“Just come downtown when you’re done, if your head will fit through the doors.” Rich shoved Vinnie forward and guided him out of the house.
I looked down at my food. It hit me I sat in an old friend’s house—an old friend who would be going to jail because of my handiwork. Now Alice Fisher didn’t have to be afraid anymore. Nothing could bring her husband back, but she could try to get on with her life and not have to worry about Vinnie and his people. I smiled. It felt good—all of it. I had helped someone who landed in a bad situation and didn’t have anywhere else to go. I had made a real difference. My parents would be beaming. This was exactly what they wanted.
But it was only one case. If I wanted to get back into their good financial graces, I had to work more of them. The realization killed my good mood. Once word of what I did hit the media, I would have a lot more prospective clients to sift through. More fights with goons in alleys, more breaking into houses, more times looking over my shoulder for guns or blackjacks, more couples who can’t communicate, more allegations of adultery.
It was enough to make me lose my appetite.
Chapter 23
I walked into the police station. Rich wasn’t at his desk. I didn’t think he would be. He probably had Vinnie in an interrogation room, trying to get him to confess and give a statement. After what I did to him, I doubted Vinnie would confess. He’d be defiant, and it wouldn’t do him any good. His people agreed to roll on him. They were expected at the station at some point tonight, in addition to Alice Fisher. Vinnie could be defiant all he wanted. He was bound for jail regardless.
The interrogation rooms sat off the main floor. A viewing room was attached to each where interested observers could peer through the one-way mirror. I looked through the small window on the door to the first room and saw Rich and another detective talking to Vinnie. The next door led to the observation room. I opened it and walked inside. I was not the first observer; a large black man with a shaved head stood inside. He turned and looked at me as I walked in, then went back to watching the interrogation. Audio came in through two speakers hung on the wall above the glass.
“Make it easy on yourself, Vinnie,” Rich said. “You know we have your people ready to roll on you.”
“No, I don’t know,” Vinnie said. “You keep telling me. I don’t know, and why should I believe you?”
“Because I’m telling you the truth.” Rich sat in the chair opposite Vinnie. The other detective stood a few feet behind Rich, leaning on the wall. He had his arms folded across his chest and he spent most of his time staring at Vinnie. From what I could tell, he looked about ten years older than Rich. He had already surrendered the hair battle, eschewing a combover in favor of a short cut around his bald spot.
“So you say,” Vinnie said. “You fucking cops ain’t above lying to get a confession out of someone. Hell, your cousin tried to kill me.”
My guest in the observation room glanced at me at Vinnie’s comment but didn’t say anything. “You have a bad food allergy, Vinnie. He saved your life, using your epi pen on you when he did.”
“Whatever. I know what happened. I think you do, too, even if you won’t admit it.”
“We have cops collecting your people, Vinnie,” the other detective said. “Your girlfriend is going to give you up. So will the big dumb Italian and the little Asian guy.”
“What the fuck do you need my confession for, then?” Vinnie said. “You turn my people into canaries. Don’t sound like I need to say anything.”
“If you admit to what you did, the state’s attorney might see clear to give you a lesser sentence,” Rich said. “Kidnapping and murder are serious charges, and they’re not the only ones you’re facing.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The other detective started to say something else, but my fellow observer flipped the switch and killed the audio feed. “I saw you at the Walters,” he said. “You were at Karen’s exhibit opening.”
“I didn’t know her name,” I said.
“I went to college with her. How do you know her?”
“I don’t. My parents do. Being patrons of the arts makes them feel good, so they know their share of artists. They bought me a ticket, so I went.”
“You’re Rich’s cousin.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
“He told me about you.”
“Are you his boss?”
He shook his bald head. “No. He’s not really in my supervisory chain. This is an interesting case, and your cousin has a promising career.”
“He does?”
“He does.” He turned to look at me now. This man who was not Rich’s boss had about four inches on me, along with at least seventy pounds. Even though he looked to be in his late forties—the shaved head made it hard to tell—none of the weight appeared unnecessary. “I’m Lieutenant Leon Sharpe,” he said, extending a burly hand.
I shook it. It felt like putting my hand into a car compactor. Sharpe knew he had a strong grip, but I didn’t take him for the type to show it off and try to intimidate someone. “C.T. Ferguson.”
“I know who you are.”
“Should I be honored?”
Sharpe smirked. He did it without looking amused. “I see the files on everyone living in Baltimore who gets a PI license.”
“I don’t feel so honored anymore.”
“Rich filled in some details for me.”
“You mentioned he told you about me.”
“He did. He said you’re self-centered, reckless, you cut corners, have no interest in following proper procedure, don’t care much about your clients, and care even less about the system and how it works.”
“He�
�s such a flatterer.” Did Rich really say all those things about me? He hadn’t been supportive of my decision to become a detective, though he never voiced an objection in those exact words. Only toward the end of the case did Rich soften his stance toward me.
Besides, I couldn’t find fault with anything he said.
“He also said you’re as smart as anyone he knows, you learn quickly, and you don’t let something go when you’re involved with it.”
At least he found something positive to say. Sharpe continued before I could comment. “On top of it all, he vouched for your experience overseas.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, I saw your file. I thought what you did in China sounded like bullshit. Rich said it was legit.”
I hoped I hid my surprise. If I hadn’t, Leon Sharpe could pick at my embellished experiences and unearth a few problems. “Rich and I haven’t always been tight,” I said. “It’s good to hear he’s willing to put a good word in for me.”
“You seem a little surprised.”
“Like I said, Rich and I haven’t always been tight.”
“I hope he didn’t sell me a bill of goods. I value Rich’s opinion.”
“What’s the point, Lieutenant? You strike me as the type who forms his own opinions.”
Sharpe looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “I am. Just wanted to see how you’d react.”
“Learn anything?”
“Of course. Did you really try to kill Vinnie Serrano?”
“Vinnie has an active imagination. I brought food to his house. I wanted to talk about the case. Rich and I flipped his people, and I wanted to give Vinnie a chance to confess.”
“Why?”
“He’s an old friend.”
“So you took food to his house,” Sharpe said. He had a way of asking questions without really asking questions. Alex Trebek would be displeased.
“Yes,” I said. “Apparently, the restaurant uses peanut oil. I didn’t know they did, and I forgot about Vinnie’s peanut allergy.”
“You forgot about it?”
“It’s been a while since we were in school together.”
“So Vinnie had a reaction to the food.”
“Yes. He had trouble breathing, and he ended up on the floor. I found an Epi-Pen and gave him the shot.”
“Why does he think you poisoned him, then?”
“I guess because I brought the food,” I said.
Sharpe looked at me for a moment without saying anything. “I know you don’t have to follow all the same rules we do. I know you don’t want to follow a lot of the ones you’re supposed to. At the end of the day, I care about results. I want to see good people go home happy and bad people caught and arrested. I’m willing to look past a few things to get those results. Within reason.”
“I’ll remember.”
He walked past me and stopped at the door. “Make sure you do. Turn the sound back on if you want.” Sharpe left the room.
I watched the door close behind him. Leon Sharpe would take an interest in my cases; I felt sure of it. Maybe it was because I was Rich’s cousin, perhaps it was because of all the things Rich had to say about me, maybe he didn’t have anything better to do. Regardless, I knew I would see more of him.
I didn’t bother turning the audio back on. Vinnie could sink quickly by keeping up the defiance or sink a little more slowly by cooperating. If he didn’t see the difference, it was just too bad. I tried to get him to confess. Hell, I even poisoned him to give him some motivation. Some people simply have no follow-through.
Before I left the police station, I saw Sal brought in wearing handcuffs. He didn’t look at me as the cops led him toward the back of the precinct. I saw Alice Fisher as I walked out the door. She stopped and gave me a hug. “I’m going to tell the police everything I know,” she said.
“Good,” I said. “Make sure you say it again in court, if it comes to a trial.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and check your bank account. Vinnie sends his condolences.”
She canted her head at me and whispered. “Did you siphon money from Vinnie’s account into mine?”
“Does it matter? Paul’s funeral is paid for, and you have enough money to start over somewhere else if you want to. Just make sure you don’t wager with it.” I turned to walk away,
“I won’t,” Alice said. “This whole mess has gotten me over gambling.”
I hoped she told the truth.
I drove away from the police station. The story would get around. I would probably have to talk to Jessica Webber again. Good thing we patched things up after I yelled at her and slammed the door in her face. Before I talked to any reporters, though, I needed to talk to someone else first—someone whose opinion of what had gone down would be more important than a journalist’s.
Parking in Little Italy is easier during the week than on the weekend, and as the hour grows later, weeknight parking becomes better. I left my car half a block away from Il Buon Cibo. As I walked toward the restaurant, I saw lights on inside and at least one table with smiling patrons still eating their food. I entered, went past the vacant maitre d’ station, and looked around.
Tony Rizzo was putting his coat on near his usual table. Two men with large arms and invisible necks stood near him. “Tony,” I said as I moved toward the back of the restaurant, “have a minute?”
The goons glared at me, then looked back at Tony. “Warm the car up, boys,” he said. “I’ll be along in a few.” The goons gave me a final glance, then walked toward the back of the restaurant. “I always have a few minutes for my friends, C.T.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“What can I do for you?”
I sat at the booth without being invited. Tony frowned at me and sat down, also. “It’s about Vinnie Serrano,” I said.
“What about him?”
“I had to take him down.” I watched Tony for a reaction. He spent years meeting with people far more menacing and more important than I. But he liked me. He liked my parents. They were old friends. Tony might be friendly with a lot of the people he dealt with, but how many of them did he actually like? I figured it couldn’t be very many. Tony didn’t give any reaction except slight nods of his head I had to be watching to notice.
“I guess he became too much of a problem.”
“Basically. He killed a man—the man who was working to pay off a debt his wife racked up.”
“Bad business.” Tony shook his head now.
“It certainly is. He and his people tried to cover it up, but I figured out what they did. Took a little while, but the evidence was there.”
“How’d you get him?”
“Rich and I convinced his people to turn state’s evidence on him. They each decided some leniency from the DA was worth more than whatever loyalty they had to Vinnie.”
“Vinnie didn’t inspire loyalty in his people. It’s why I wouldn’t let him work for me.”
“He wanted to?”
“You shitting me? Of course he wanted to. He wanted the protection, the prestige.” I felt Tony was overstating the benefits of being in his employ, but I decided against arguing with the man in his own restaurant. “I wouldn’t have him. He had my blessing to do what he did, but nothing else.”
“What about Sal?”
“Sal Who?”
“Sal, Vinnie’s goon. He had a Chinese guy and an American girl working for him. Vinnie isn’t the type to care about diversity. Was Sal one of yours?”
“You’re a smart kid, C.T. You always were.” Tony smiled, more with the corners of his mouth than anything. It looked wistful, almost sad. “Yeah, Sal was one of my guys at one point. He flunked out, so to speak. Vinnie snatched him up almost as soon as his dumb ass bounced off the pavement. I think he felt it gave him a little more legitimacy to have one of my people in his little organization.”
I nodded. “I wanted to personally let you know what happe
ned with Vinnie.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Are we cool?”
Tony smiled at me again. It was the same smile. I didn’t feel any happiness and warmth. “You’re a friend, C.T. Your parents are friends. Don’t get me wrong, I’d go after you if it came to it. I hope I don’t have to. But not over Vinnie. Fuck Vinnie. He got stupid and got caught. We’re cool.”
I let out a long, slow breath in relief. “Glad to hear it.”
“Hey, tell your parents hello for me, will you? I haven’t heard from them.”
“Still?”
“I’m sure they’re busy.” Tony didn’t smile this time, but he had a forlorn look about him, like he had been reminded of something sad.
“You know them, Tony. They’re not busy with anything important. I’ll see if I can get them down here.”
“Great.” Tony smiled for real this time. I could even see his teeth. “See what you can do. I’d love to see them again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“What else can we do?” He looked around the restaurant, then looked at me. “We through with our conversation?”
“Yeah, sure. I didn’t want to keep you.”
“Walk me out, will you? The boys will give me hell if I walk out by myself.”
“Can’t have people jumping you for your meatball recipe, can we?”
Tony chuckled. “No, we can’t.”
Chapter 24
I stopped at my apartment long enough to print a couple handfuls of pages. Then I drove back to the precinct. Rich sat at his desk, frowning at something on his screen. He looked up as I approached. The frown didn’t soften. “What’s up?”
“I heard you went to bat for me,” I said.
A small smile appeared on Rich’s lips, then vanished. “The lieutenant can ask a lot of questions,” he said.
“Still, you didn’t have to answer them like you did. I appreciate it.”
Rich nodded. “Don’t make a liar out of me. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here.”
“I’d like to think I earned it,” I said.
“You’re starting to.” Rich leaned back in his chair and scrutinized me. “Something’s changed about you. Maybe it was your time in China; I don’t know. You’re different. More . . . focused. More down to earth.”