C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “Maybe I can stop in, and we can compare notes before you banish this one to the archives.”

  “If you want. Come in tomorrow at nine.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. This time, I hung up first. Rich and Gonzalez taught me well. I possessed no idea what I would share with him tomorrow morning—especially not without incriminating myself—but I could use the time to figure it out.

  Il Buon Cibo has always been an aptly-named restaurant. They serve the good food. It’s not the biggest restaurant in Little Italy, nor does it have the reputation—the honor goes to Sabatino’s, which also is good but not spectacular—but the food is always great, the crowd plentiful, and the service friendly. The fact Il Buon Cibo is owned by Tony Rizzo, the head of organized crime in Baltimore, may help with all three of those.

  Tony and my parents were friends forever, and I’ve known Tony since I was a kid. I don’t think my parents knew what he did for a long time. I’d been aware for years, and it never kept me away. Guys like Tony are important for people like me to know. Since I told Tony I’d become a PI, he acted a little frostier toward me, but we were still friendly. I hope we remained so.

  I walked in and nodded as I passed the maître d’. He’d become used to me by now. I think Tony’s goons had, too, but they still were obliged to stand and look menacing when I approached. If you have no education and no neck, you do what you’re good at. Tony always occupied the table near the fireplace, and there were never any other ones too close to his. The goons looked me over before Tony waved them off and beckoned me to sit.

  “How are you, C.T.?” he said, and the smile he showed me reached his eyes. It’s always good to receive sincere smiles from the mob boss.

  “I’m doing well, Tony,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I can’t complain.”

  “You’re looking a little thinner. Your personal trainer must be riding your case pretty hard.”

  He snorted. “Shit. I don’t need some big malook telling me what to do. It’s all diet. All diet and no pasta.”

  I winced in sympathy. “Sorry to hear.”

  “Change is part of life.” Tony swirled his red wine around in his glass and took a sip. “You hungry?”

  “I am,” I said.

  A waitress I hadn’t seen before walked past. Tony snapped his fingers, and she stopped in her tracks. “Holly, my friend would like some dinner.”

  I spied the reverent look she gave Tony. She nodded and looked at me. “Sir, what I can get you?” Tony usually hired pretty college girls as waitresses. Holly covered the pretty department but barely looked old enough to be in college. Her eyes were a rare bright blue.

  “It’s been a while since I looked at the menu,” I said. “How about veal saltimbocca with a side salad and an unsweetened iced tea?”

  Holly smiled. “Excellent choice, sir. I’ll put it right in for you.”

  I watched her walk away with some interest until she turned a corner into the kitchen. “Please tell me she’s in college,” I said to Tony.

  He chuckled at me. “My first thought, too,” he said. “She’s nineteen. You believe that shit? Girl doesn’t look a day over sixteen. A sophomore at UB.”

  “Have I told you I’ve always admired your knack for hiring the prettiest college girls?”

  “No, but I’ll add you to the list of people who have.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  Holly brought my iced tea and salad. It looked like a large salad crammed onto a small plate and held there by nothing more than good fortune. Eating with Tony had its perks: I never paid for a meal, and the portions were enormous. I needed to run an extra mile after my meals with him, but they were always worth it.

  “I know you don’t need to mooch free meals, C.T.,” Tony said. He leaned forward onto his elbows, the bones of which protruded from his sportscoat like I hadn’t seen before. “What brings you by?”

  I cut the large pieces of lettuce, tomato, and green pepper. A few spilled over the plate and landed on the table. Casualties like those were inevitable considering the size of the salad. “David Rosenberg,” I said.

  Tony’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

  “His name came up in a case. I don’t know anything about him and hoped you could fill in some gaps for me.”

  “Is he shaking people down in my city?” Tony managed not to raise his voice, but his goons sat at attention now. He leaned forward a little, like a guy who held a great poker hand and didn’t mind everyone else knowing.

  “If he is, I don’t know about it,” I said. “My people live in the county. I understand he operates there.”

  “He knows better than to come into Baltimore,” Tony said. Rosenberg didn’t, but I saved the kernel of knowledge for a time it would be more beneficial. If I could finagle Tony into taking him out, everybody won—especially Pauline.

  “I have no doubt,” I said as I pushed my salad plate away. A busboy came so quickly I thought he materialized from thin air. Sitting with the man meant never having to wait for anything. When the busboy disappeared, Holly came back to freshen my iced tea, even though I’d only drunk about a third of it.

  “Your food will be right out,” she said with a smile. Looking at a girl like Holly made me miss being a college student. Someone my age could still chat her up now, but I’d feel a little creepy about it.

  “Thanks, Holly,” I said, giving her one of my best smiles in return. The high-wattage version kindled many a panty-peeling evening over the years. Holly merely went back to the kitchen. It was for the better anyway. I thought of Gloria, then wondered why she leaped to mind.

  “What do you want to know about Rosenberg?” Tony said.

  “Anything is useful,” I said, glad for the distraction at the moment.

  “Well, he’s a Jew.”

  “I’m not sure why his heritage is important, but I managed to deduce it on my own.”

  “I figured,” said Tony. “What you may not know is he’s a real cutthroat son of a bitch.”

  Holly brought out my veal saltimbocca, and judging by the size of the veal, an entire family of calves had been wiped out to put it on my plate. I picked up my knife and fork. Tony continued talking after Holly left.

  “Like I said, he’s ruthless. He deals in money and thinks in terms of money. Whatever’s best for the bottom line.”

  I blew on a piece of the veal to let it cool, then took a bite. I barely needed to chew it and the flavor was excellent. “You know anyone who works for him?” I said.

  “Not by name, no,” Tony said. “I’d know ‘em if I saw ‘em, though.” Tony snapped his fingers again. “Bruno!”

  One of the goons walked to our table. Tony waved him closer, and Bruno leaned down. He went away after Tony whispered something to him. I knew better than to ask.

  “So you recommend watching my back around this guy,” I said.

  “Damn right,” Tony said. “I’m not going to tell you not to talk to him, but I will tell you not to piss him off.”

  “Do I seem like the kind of guy who pisses people off?”

  “You are a bit of an asshole,” Tony said.

  “Maybe a little bit,” I said.

  Chapter 4

  I called Rich after my dinner with Tony Rizzo, but he told me he was busy. The noise on the phone sounded like a bar in the background. Rich needed a night off here and there—even if it meant not helping me help him—and he said I should come by in the morning. I added it to my mental calendar along with my meeting with Gonzalez. Conferring with two cops in the same day is at least two more than I like to deal with.

  When I got home, Gloria had come back. She lay on the couch, a thick blanket atop her, watching some reality show. I felt my brain spring a leak through my ears, but I soldiered on. “How was tennis?” I said.

  She pulled back the blanket to reveal a bag of frozen peas pressed against the back of her leg. I didn’t even know I had a bag of frozen peas. “I tweaked my hamstring,” she said,
pouting delicately.

  “The tennis world will mourn your time on the disabled list.” I put my keys on the small cherry table in my entryway. The keys almost toppled the impressive pile of junk mail accrued over the last week or so.

  “I’m going to try and get back out there in a few days.” Gloria held up the package of peas. “Can you put these back for me, please?”

  “Sure.” I took the bag to the kitchen. Once I opened the freezer door, I discovered I owned five packs of frozen peas I didn’t recall buying. Gloria obviously intended to do her convalescence here. I’d hate to see what would happen if the poor dear broke her arm. I walked back into the living room. “Am I going to have to carry you upstairs, too?”

  She cracked a smile. “I think I can manage.”

  She did.

  In the morning, vanilla latte and coffee in hand, I went to see Gonzalez. I decided to visit him first; I could see Rich anytime. The sergeant on duty directed me to Gonzalez’s desk, where I found him squinting at his flat-panel monitor. The BCPD had larger monitors than the BPD. “Need your eyes checked?” I said, taking a seat in the cheap faux leather guest chair Gonzalez kept on the other side of his desk. He looked to be hitting the age where glasses—specifically bifocals—became a necessity.

  “I do my best thinking when I squint,” he said.

  I handed Gonzalez the coffee. The squadroom looked renovated within the last five years and painted more recently. The size of it belied the smallish appearance of the outside of the building. Desks were arranged neatly in rows with a few offices for the precinct brass along with the standard interrogation rooms. I was glad I came here first; talking about how much more I liked the BCPD’s layout would make Rich nice and salty. “This is good coffee,” Gonzalez said.

  “All this new technology here and you don’t have a good coffee maker?” I said.

  “Shit, no police precinct does. It’s like a curse. You put a coffee maker in a police station, and whatever it spits out tastes like warm piss.”

  I took another drink of my latte and gazed at the half-full mug of coffee on Gonzalez’s desk. “Looks like I was too late to save you this morning,” I said.

  “Only makes me appreciate the good stuff more.” He took another drink. “Anything new?”

  “I was just about to ask you.”

  “We’ve seen nothing new come in,” Gonzalez said as he leaned back in his chair and cradled the cup.

  “So it’s a suicide?” I said.

  “Looks like it,” he said.

  “No one in his family thinks he killed himself.”

  Gonzalez spat out a mirthless chuckle. “I know you haven’t been doing this a long time, so let me tell you something. The family never thinks their loved one did it. Never. This Stanley could have shot himself right in front of his family, then written a suicide note in blood on the wall, and they still wouldn’t accept it. They can’t accept it.”

  I knew he was right from a case Rich and I worked in Garrett County recently. Sometimes, the family’s doubts were well-founded. “They probably can’t,” I said in acknowledgment, “but what if he really didn’t kill himself?”

  “He had a gunshot wound to the head,” Gonzalez said, “GSR on his hand, and a gun right there. We’re going to call it a suicide. It gets it off the books.”

  “But it doesn’t actually solve the case.”

  “This ain’t a perfect system.”

  “Could I see the case file?” I said.

  “You don’t give up do you?” said Gonzalez. I shook my head. Gonzalez put his cup on his desk. “I’m going to take a shit. Probably be about ten minutes or so. While I’m gone, make sure you don’t look at my computer and read the case file I have pulled up.” Gonzalez clicked the mouse a few times, then stood. “Clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said.

  He walked away. I sat behind his desk and browsed the case file. Everything he told me was in there. The medical examiner’s report was pending. Another gold star for the BCPD: they linked their ME’s reports and didn’t force diligent and dashing PIs to hack into a separate network to find them. I needed to work county cases more often.

  Before I got up, I made sure to jot down Gonzalez’s IP and hardware addresses on my coffee receipt. In case the BCPD didn’t close the case, I wanted to know what they knew. I left before Gonzalez came back from the men’s room.

  About a half-hour later, I walked into Rich’s precinct house. It looked about as new as the one in the county, only with more square footage and love for open-concept floor plans. Armed with a new vanilla latte and coffee, I approached Rich’s desk. He sat behind it, one leg crossed over his opposite knee, reading a file. I set his coffee between the piles of paper and other detritus.

  “You’re late,” Rich said.

  I get accused of tardiness often, so I looked at my watch out of habit. “We didn’t have a set time to meet,” I said.

  “I needed coffee a while ago. You weren’t here. Thus, you’re late.” Rich picked up the coffee, raised the cup toward me in thanks, and took a drink.

  “I’ll try to align my schedule to your needs in the future,” I said.

  “Here’s to the spirit of cooperation.”

  I sat in Rich’s guest seat, a padded cloth task chair. It was more comfortable than Gonzalez’s, but neither would win any points for aesthetics. “You ever hear of David Rosenberg?” I said.

  He looked up and frowned. “I’ve never dealt with him,” Rich said. “He’s the county’s problem.”

  “You know his name, though.”

  “And his reputation. C.T., this guy is no joke. He’s ruthless when it comes to his money.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” I said.

  “Who told you?” said Rich.

  “Tony.”

  Rich snorted. “How the hell would he know?” he said.

  “He seems to think it stems from Rosenberg’s ethnicity,” I said. “But a man in Tony’s position needs to know things. I don’t ask how he learns what he knows.”

  “At any rate, he’s right. Did Rosenberg come up in your case?”

  “I think so,” I said. I drank some of the latte. Having two in one morning dulled my taste for them. I would need a different fancy coffee drink to cleanse my palate. “The victim received money from someone identified as ‘DR.’”

  “How do you know?”

  “His wife let me see their checking account,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” Rich said, though I saw him fighting a smile. This was a BCPD case, so he couldn’t get mad at me for employing my normal methods. “We talking serious money?”

  “Twenty-five thousand, twice.”

  “Wow.” Rich let out a breath. “Fifty grand is a lot of money. Sounds like it’s probably Rosenberg. Why didn’t you ask Gonzalez about him? He’d know more.”

  “BCPD thinks it’s a suicide,” I said. “They want the case off the books. If they’re going to reopen it, I need to show them something.”

  “And you can’t do it if you tip your hand.” Rich frowned and shook his head.

  “Now you’re thinking like I do.”

  “Christ, I hope not,” Rich said. “I think this will probably blow up in your face at some point. Gonzalez and the BCPD aren’t likely to . . . indulge your peculiarities like we do. You might want to tread carefully here, and even tell them what you know.”

  “When it becomes important, I’ll think about it.”

  “Be sure you do,” Rich said.

  “Can I call you to bail me out of a county jail?” I said.

  “No,” said Rich.

  I almost made it home when Pauline called me. Would I like to go to the funeral home for Stanley’s viewings today? As a matter of fact, I would rather gargle with a bucket of thumbtacks, but I couldn’t tell the poor lady no. I sucked it up and said of course I would be there. What else could I do? After I got home, I went for a run around Federal Hill Park. The girl with the small shorts was not jogging when I was. Add another disapp
ointment to my day.

  Four miles allowed me to sweat out most of my frustrations. I went back home, showered, and went downstairs to fix a quick lunch. Gloria left while I was talking to Gonzalez and Rich. I noticed I missed her when she left now. What this meant for our relationship, such as it was, would need to be a consideration for later. Lunch was the present priority. It consisted of a turkey sandwich, a couple handfuls of pretzels, and a glass of milk. After my meal, I put on a tailored black Armani suit and drove to the funeral home.

  The last case requiring me to make a funeral home appearance ended up getting messy. I hoped this one didn’t go down a similar road. I arrived three minutes into the first viewing, making me extremely prompt. Pauline talked to people, shook hands, cried some, and mingled. She didn’t need me right now, so I looked at the trinkets set up to remember Stanley.

  The Rodgers put together a picture collage, cramming more photos than I cared to count onto two large presentation boards. It didn’t look very professional, but it served its intended purpose well enough. A video, assembled from the snapshots, played over soft music on a medium flatscreen TV. I scanned the photos and video, looking for any nugget on Stanley which might give insight as to who killed him. Several pictures showed him and his family on a boat, including one where Stanley and Zachary each held up an impressive fish. The name of the boat was Galaxy Class. Stanley had been a Star Trek fan. This fact didn’t help me figure out who killed him, unless someone dressed like Spock did it.

  “What are you doing here?” I heard a voice say behind me. Zachary wore a suit he obviously kept from the days the family had money to burn. It fit him as well as my Armani fit me, except his sleeves were a little too short. The suit grew well with him otherwise.

  “Your mother invited me,” I said.

  “This is for friends and family.”

  “I guess I’m a friend of the family now.”