C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “My name is C.T. Ferguson,” I said, showing her my ID. “I’m working for your mom on . . . what happened to your dad.”

  “Oh, I think she mentioned it. She’s lying down right now. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’d rather see what you and your brother have to say.”

  Her eyes widened briefly and then she frowned. “Oh. Sure. I don’t know what we’ll be able to tell you, though.”

  “I don’t know a lot right now, so anything you can think of could be useful.”

  She invited me in and directed me to the living room. “I’ll get my brother,” she said. I sat in a recliner which looked like it came straight from someone’s yard sale. All of the furniture looked cheap and little of it matched. The end tables sported a few dings, and a dog’s teeth pockmarked the leg on one. I imagined what the living room might have looked like before the Rodgers fell on hard times. Their furniture reflected their new economic reality.

  A minute later, Katherine returned with her brother right behind her. He looked to be about five-ten but was built like a football player or wrestler. He wore a Calvert Hall sweatshirt despite the fact he no longer went there. Their tuition rivaled the rates many colleges charged. Katherine sat on the sofa; Zachary sat beside her, his thick arms crossed under his chest. His eyes went around the room, making a point of looking at anything other than me.

  “Like I mentioned, I don’t think we can give you very much information,” Katherine said.

  “At this point, anything you can tell me could be useful,” I said.

  “What if we tell you to get the hell out?” Zachary said. He finally looked at me, fixing me with a glare like I had killed his father and come into their house, twirling the murder weapon around on my finger.

  “Dismissing me wouldn’t be very useful,” I said.

  “Zach, he’s trying to help,” Katherine said.

  “What’s there to help with? Dad fucked us over and couldn’t take it anymore. Gun, head, the end.”

  Katherine slapped her brother hard across the face. I winced from the sound of it. He closed his eyes, but otherwise didn’t react. Tears welled in Katherine’s eyes. “You don’t know that,” she said. “You don’t know anything! He may not have killed himself.” She looked at me, her eyes glistening. “Right?”

  “Your mother doesn’t think he did. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did, either.”

  “What you say ain’t worth anything,” Zach said.

  “Isn’t,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Isn’t, not ain’t. If you’re going to wear a Calvert Hall sweatshirt, you should talk like you went there.”

  He leaned forward on the couch. “What do you know about The Hall?” he said.

  “I played lacrosse for Boys Latin,” I said. “I know I enjoyed beating your Cardinals.”

  Zach scoffed. He sat back on the couch. “Lacrosse is for pussies. Boys Latin is for pussies.”

  “What’s public school for, then?” I said.

  “What do you know about public school?” he said, leaning forward again. This time, he pointed at me when he spoke. Maybe it was supposed to scare me. I didn’t want to antagonize him, but it seemed the only way to get anything out of him. Thankfully, Katherine was too wrapped up in her own tears to object.

  “It’s been a long time, so not much. I also don’t know a lot about your father, which is why I came here today. I’m on your side.”

  “No one’s on our side,” Zach said, shaking his head. “As soon as she can’t pay you anymore, you’ll be gone.”

  “She’s not paying me anything,” I said.

  “She’s not?”

  “Not a penny. I’m working pro bono.” I didn’t want to tell him I always worked my cases gratis. “I’m not going away, and I am on your side.”

  Zach leaned back on the couch and sighed. He looked at his sister and patted her shoulder. “I’m still not convinced.”

  “It’s an improvement, at least,” I said. “Your father was involved with someone whose initials are DR. I suppose it could be a doctor, but both letters were capitalized and there was no other name. Do you know who it could be?”

  Katherine shook her head. “I didn’t know many of Daddy’s friends. After . . . he lost his job, a lot of them abandoned him.”

  “Assholes,” Zach muttered.

  “What about anyone he met recently?”

  “He didn’t really bring new friends around here,” Katherine said. “I think he was embarrassed about where we lived.”

  “What about you?” I said, looking at Zack.

  “He didn’t say much about work.” He frowned. “He mentioned someone named David once.”

  “In the context of money?”

  “I think so,” Zack said. “He talked a lot about money these last few weeks. Some big idea he had.” Zach shook his head. “For all the good it did him.”

  “A first name is more than I had before,” I said.

  “It’s a clue?” Katherine said.

  “It’s something I can work with,” I said as I stood. “I’ll let myself out. Thanks for your time.” I walked out the storm door and got in my car. When I looked back at the house, the interior door was closed, too.

  Who was David? For all I knew, the David which Zach talked about may not have been the person Stanley referred to as “DR.” While I ruminated on the possibilities, my phone rang. I answered it via the Audi’s Bluetooth despite not knowing the number.

  “You talked to my kids?” Pauline said. The anger in her voice still carried some weariness with it. Did the kids wake her to say I dropped in for a chat?

  “I’ll talk to anyone I think can help me understand what happened to your husband,” I said.

  “Well, not anymore.”

  “Not anymore?” I said.

  “You don’t talk to my children when I’m not around,” she said. “You got it?”

  “Pauline, like I said a minute ago, I’ll talk to anyone I think might have something useful to tell me. Such a set of people might include your children at some point again.”

  “I don’t want you talking to them alone.”

  “I don’t want clients telling me how to do my job,” I said. She fell silent for a minute. I decided to fill the gap in the conversation. “Pauline, this is how I work. I don’t call you while you’re at work and tell you what you should and shouldn’t do. I don’t expect you to do it to me. If you want someone who will bend to your every whim, then you should hire a patsy . . . if you can afford one.”

  She was silent another few seconds. “That was a cheap shot,” she said.

  “I needed to make sure I had your attention.”

  “You’d walk away from this case? From me?” Her voice sounded like she was about to cry.

  “If you’re going to keep trying to tell me how to do my job, yes,” I said. “I don’t work on contracts, and I don’t charge for what I do. Those factors make it easy to walk away if the situation is wrong.”

  Pauline sighed into the phone. “All right. I guess I overreacted.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Did my kids tell you anything?” she said.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I only left a few minutes ago.”

  “What are you off to do now?”

  “Talk to someone about a name I got. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

  “All right. I’m sorry I got so angry there. This is a . . . difficult time.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Take care, C.T., and good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up. All things considered, I couldn’t really blame Pauline. I’d probably be upset if I were in her shoes. And my feet would really hurt from wearing them. Katherine was an adult, and Zach tried really hard to be one. Her kids could handle chatting with me.

  I headed downtown. A restaurant awaited.

  Joey Trovato and I always tried
to dine at different eateries, but they were usually Italian. Joey liked other cuisines—I don’t think he ever encountered a food he didn’t like—but if I wanted his opinion on something, we met at an Italian place. Baltimore has a plentiful supply of them, even outside of Little Italy. I’d never been to this one before, but Joey assured me Mamma’s Cucina would leave me salivating on my bib. I got a good spot in the parking lot on 41st Street and walked into the restaurant. I loved Hampden. It felt like the old Baltimore neighborhood it was, just with more character (and characters) than Fells Point or Federal Hill. If you came away without being called “hon” at least once, the fault rested with you.

  When I walked in, Joey already secured us a table. This was typical. Joey would be late for his own funeral, but if food were involved, he was the most punctual person I knew. He was a black Sicilian of boundless humor and appetite. I’d known him since elementary school. Like me, he always had a knack for computers, but he used his skills to make new identities for people. We both ended up in jobs helping others, even if the legalities of our professions differed.

  “Always good to try a new place,” Joey said when I sat down. He already sipped from a soda in front of him. His menu was closed. I knew he’d picked out what he wanted, and I also knew it would go a long way toward feeding a basketball team.

  “Variety is the spice of life,” I said. I opened the menu and looked it over. Nothing jumped out at me to make this place special. Once you’ve seen a lot of Italian menus, a ristorante has to offer something different and interesting to capture your attention. Mamma stocked her cucina with standard Italian and sub shop fare. I hoped the tastiness of the food would make up for it.

  “This place has the best pizza around,” Joey said.

  “Quite a compliment.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve probably eaten a whole pizza from every restaurant in the city,” I said.

  “You may be right,” said Joey.

  A waiter came to take our order. Joey let me go first. This way, when he ordered half the menu, I wouldn’t be in shock and unable to talk. I ordered a cup of Italian wedding soup, a slice of pepperoni pizza, a slice of cheese pizza, and an unsweetened iced tea. The waiter turned to Joey. I winced in anticipation of the hit my wallet would take when the check came. Joey ordered fried calamari, gravy fries, and a meatball calzone. I thought about how revolting those sounded in combination.

  “Who recommends the pizza and then doesn’t order any?” I said.

  “You’ll see how good it is,” Joey said.

  “I think if you recommend something, you’re supposed to order it.”

  Joey shrugged. “I’m not in a pizza mood.”

  “You’re still getting the four major food groups, though.”

  “This should be good,” he said. “What are those?”

  “Grease, bread, gravy, and seafood,” I said.

  “The lunch of champions.”

  Despite his ability to put food away, Joey wasn’t grossly overweight. He was heavy, and had always been, but some honest athleticism resided under all the cholesterol and grease. Joey ran a few 10K races in college when most people thought he would have a coronary before crossing the finish line. He probably still could today, even if he looked like he ate last year’s winner. “I hope the food is championship-quality,” I said. “I’ve seen the menu in a bunch of other places.”

  “Would I steer you wrong?” Joey said.

  When it came to food, he wouldn’t. I looked around. Even the décor reminded me of a dozen other Italian eateries I’d visited. Take a few rustic scenes of Italy, add several photos of the homeland, pipe in some music best left back in Italy, and there you had it. Hampden boasted of a lot of personality, but this restaurant must have missed the memo. The waiter came back with my tea and another soda for Joey. He drank the rest of his old one and transferred the straw to the new glass.

  “I guess you asked me to lunch for my vast professional expertise?” Joey said.

  “And your refreshing modesty,” I said.

  “I think as much of modesty as you do.”

  “I humbly submit I think less of it than you.”

  The waiter dropped off my soup and Joey’s calamari. I added a bit of salt and a tad more pepper to the soup. Joey took the lemon wedge on his plate and squirted its juice over his calamari. He picked up a piece of it, immersed it in the marinara sauce like he were trying to win the NBA Dunk contest, and scarfed it down. I continually said I would never again watch Joey eat, yet I always did. It was kind of like a train wreck. Even though I knew there would be twisted metal and mutilated bodies, I still couldn’t look away until witnessing him mangle his first bite.

  I focused on the much more pleasing view of my soup. My impression of Mamma’s Cucina brightened with my first bite. This was the best Italian wedding soup I ever tasted. I didn’t consider myself a connoisseur of the stuff, but I’d sampled my share over the years, and Mamma made the best. Before long, I devoured the cup, spoonful by greedy spoonful. For the first time I could remember, I finished my appetizer before Joey. The fact he always ordered larger appetizers never held him back until today.

  “What do you need to know?” Joey said when mostly finished with his calamari. I snagged a piece of squid while he wiped his mouth. Capitalizing on his brief moments of distraction (and hygiene) ensured I could steal some of his food now and then. I was paying for it anyway.

  “A name,” I said. I waited while the waiter cleared our appetizers and set out our entrees. My pizza arrived cooked to perfection. The cheese came out the perfect shade of golden brown with a few bubbles on top. The pepperonis got crispy on the outside edges. Exactly the right amount of grease sat atop the cheese, slowly coalescing into it. Joey’s fries were submerged so far in their gravy a search party would be necessary to find them. His calzone looked like a large pizza folded in half and packed to the point of bursting. I hoped he would have the decency to use a knife and fork on it.

  “You’ve never come to me for a name before.” Joey plunged his fingers into the tin vat of gravy, extracted two fries dripping brown sauce, and devoured them both.

  “I’ve never needed one until now,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to help me, but you’re the first person I thought of.”

  “For a meal at Mamma’s, I’ll do my best,” said Joey.

  “I’m working a case where a guy ended up dead. He experienced some money problems and thought he’d found a way back to the high life. I discovered a reference to someone initialed DR in his checking account.”

  “You got into his bank records?” Joey said.

  “You could try not insulting me when I’m picking up the check,” I said.

  “Right. So money is involved, and you saw the initials DR.” Joey paused in thought, and to eat another artery-clogging gravy fry. I was going to have a sympathy heart attack if I watched much more.

  “I hoped a man in your line of work might know who DR is.”

  “I have a pretty good guess,” Joey said. “David Rosenberg.”

  “David Rosenberg?” I said.

  “You know him?”

  “Never heard of him.” I took a bite of my pepperoni pizza. It tasted even better than it looked.

  “He’s a loan shark,” Joey said.

  “He’s Jewish?” I said.

  “With a name like David Rosenberg, I think it’s probably a law.”

  “I’ve never heard of a Jewish loan shark before,” I said.

  “These are more progressive times,” Joey said. “They’re not all Italian. Let go of your stereotypes.”

  “Like the fat Sicilian guy who loves food and has a shady career?”

  “OK, maybe not all of them.”

  “Have you . . . dealt with Rosenberg before?” I said. I ate some more pizza. My tea ran low.

  “I’ve helped someone get away from him,” Joey said. He picked up the enormous calzone and bit off a massive chunk of the end. To my surprise, he didn’
t get sprayed with meatballs and sauce. I found the lack of mess a little disappointing. Eating like a barbarian should have consequences.

  “What do you know about him?” I said.

  “I’ve heard he’s ruthless.”

  “Of course he is; he’s a loan shark.”

  “And a Jew who works with money,” Joey said.

  “So much for more progressive attitudes,” I said. I pondered the death of more enlightened times while I signaled the waiter. He brought me a new iced tea and Joey another soda.

  “We can’t all be as open-minded as you,” Joey said.

  “Everyone has a cross to bear,” I said.

  I needed to have another restaurant conversation, but I wanted to wait until I felt hungry again. In the meantime, I called Gonzalez when I got home to see if he had anything new.

  “Depends what you mean by new,” he said.

  “Whatever you learned since I was standing with you in the hotel room,” I said.

  “We know the guy died from a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “I can tell why you made sergeant.”

  “We know for sure GSR was on his hand.” Gonzalez paused, as if about to ask me if I knew what GSR meant. Good thing we already established my CSI bona fides.

  “So the suicide theory looks pretty good at this point?”

  “It looks really good,” Gonzalez said. “Guy down on his luck, having money problems, rents a nice room to live it up for a couple days, then puts a gun to his head.”

  “You realize it doesn’t make a lot of sense as a theory, right?” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “If he’s having money problems, why does he rent a penthouse? And if he’s going to kill himself, why wait to do it until after he’s already racked up a few days’ worth of charges?”

  “The guy used to be a high roller,” said Gonzalez. “Now he’s not. He wanted some of his old life back.”

  “I’m not buying it,” I said.

  “What a coincidence—I’m not trying to sell it to you,” Gonzalez said. “It looks like we’re going to call this one a suicide and close it. I get a case off my books.”