Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

  The bartender brought my drink. “Start a tab?”

  “No. Who’s head of security here?”

  “Security?”

  “Yes, head of security. Somebody broke into my room.”

  “Umm, yeah, hold tight. I’ll make a call.”

  I sipped at the gin and tonic while I watched Claire eat lunch. Nothing more than two attractive women enjoying a pleasant spring afternoon. After a few minutes, a mountain of a man lumbered up to me. “Can I help you?” he said. “I’m with hotel security.” I’m six one, one eighty-five, and he had at least two inches on me and was twice as wide. He wore baggie khaki pants and a blue sport jacket at least a size too large. His white shirt was open at the collar, necktie loosened, and his gut hung over his belt so far that I knew he hadn’t seen anything below his waist for years.

  I extended my hand. “Name’s Delarosa. PCPD, retired. Private work now.” He stood there with his hands on his hips. He didn’t bother to shake my hand.

  “You a guest? The call said you had a break-in.”

  “Not exactly. Need some info.”

  He paused, I’m sure going through his mental check-list on deciding if I was an upstanding citizen or running a scam. “How about some ID?”

  “Sure.” I showed him my police retiree card, then my PI license.

  “How long were you on the job?”

  “Twenty years. Vice and Homicide. Got tired of the bullshit.

  “I was Fourth Precinct. Down on the docks. Got tired of the corruption. We were ineffective. Only there to make it look good. I took this job to get fat and rich. Only part of it’s working. Name’s Worthington.”

  This time he extended his hand and I shook it.

  “I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Okay, but why the ruse? You could’ve just asked for me,” he said.

  “Sorry about that, but I didn’t want to leave my spot here and wasn’t sure how much time I had. The table in the middle of the room with the two women, one with the red blazer and red hair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know either one of them?”

  He sat down on the stool next to me. “Don’t know the redhead, although I wish I did. The older one is Elena Garver. She’s in here a couple of times a week. Loaded, and I mean loaded. Lives in a condo a few blocks from here. Socialite. Does some charity work. Sponsors a fund-raising dinner once a year here in the hotel for Children’s Hospital. Bit of a do-gooder, kind of high-maintenance. On husband number three.”

  “Is that where the money comes from? The husband?”

  “I think so. Or she inherited it. Someone said her father was the old mobster, Aletto.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “What’s your interest?” He asked.

  “The redhead.”

  “Damn, nice gig. With any luck, you’ll catch her in some compromising position, and she’ll want to work out a deal.” He chuckled and elbowed me.

  “Let’s hope. But this one is all about money.”

  “Aren’t they all?” He got up from his stool. “Need anything else from me?”

  “Nope, thanks,” I said. “And sorry again about the ruse.”

  “Hey, no problem.” He dug a business card from his pocket. “Ever need another set of eyes and ears, give me a call. I can use a change of scenery.”

  He gave me a slap on the back and walked off. I turned back to Claire and her companion in time to see Elena stand, throw her napkin on the table and storm off. The friendly lunch just went sour. Claire sat there for a few minutes and then put some money on the table and left. I threw a twenty on the bar and headed for the parking lot, only to get there in time to see her hop in her car and drive off.

  On my way back to the office, I drove past the Harbor Court to see whether she went back to the motel. I parked in the McDonald’s lot again. The Audi was in its spot, but her room door was open. After a minute or so, Claire stepped out of the room, waited for a few seconds, turned and went back inside. She left the door open. A moment or two later, she appeared back in the doorway. She kept looking toward the motel office, leaning against the door frame with her hands folded across her chest.

  A minute or two went by before a tall, skinny guy, older—around sixty, I’d say—came out of the office and went to Claire’s room. The front desk clerk? He wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and had long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. He reminded me of one of those guys who’d played in rock bands for the last thirty years only to wake up one morning realizing the world had passed him by, so he takes a job in a flea bag motel to live on minimum wage and the memories of sex, drugs, and good loud rock-and-roll.

  Claire turned in to the room; he followed and closed the door.

  Fifteen minutes went by before the door opened again. The guy came out and went back to the office.

  So my mysterious client was registered in two hotels, met a wealthy broad for lunch, and had a fifteen-minute visit with the front desk clerk of a seedy motel. Never a good sign when I have to start my investigation tailing the person who hired me. I needed more answers out of my client—or this case was going nowhere, fast.

  Chapter

  6

  Thirty minutes later, I pulled up to the second name Claire gave me. Carlo Bocci, CPA. His office was on the second floor above a small strip of stores in a commercial area on the outskirts of the city. The strip had a Chinese restaurant, a liquor store, a tattoo and piercing parlor, and a little financial office where the locals could cash their paychecks. A door next to the restaurant had his name on it.

  Before going into the building, I took a quick look around, in case something or someone looked out of place. Claire dropped twenty thousand on me, and that kind of money could attract slimy characters of all shapes and sizes. The money had me curious, but my guard was up.

  I climbed a set of creaky, wooden steps to Bocci’s office on the second floor. Most of the walls were bare plaster. What remained of the faded pale-green paint was peeling and lying in chips on the stairs. I knocked on the door and stepped inside. An old metal receptionist’s desk sat in an outer office along with two large wooden file cabinets, but judging from the layer of dust no one had sat at that desk for years. It was as though time passed this place by. “Anyone here?”

  “Back here.” A soft, high-pitched voice came from a back office.

  I opened the door, expecting to see a woman. But behind another large metal desk sat a small, pasty-white slender man, in his sixties, with a terrible comb-over and small, gold wire-framed glasses. He wore a paper-thin white dress shirt, a skinny black tie, and brown pants. He had a pocket protector in his shirt pocket that held two pens and two mechanical pencils. He fit the stereotype of the wormy little accountant that I thought I’d been pranked. Central Casting couldn’t have done a better job.

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  He kept his head down, concentrating on a large accounting ledger on his desk.

  “Well, I’m not quite sure. My name is Delarosa.”

  “Cop?”

  “No. Doing some private work.”

  He peeked up from the ledger and gave me a once over. “You from Twenty-Second Street?”

  I knew what he meant. Twenty-second is in the heart of the Italian section of the city.

  “A couple streets over. Twenty-fourth.” He nodded, as if he approved. “I’m here on behalf of a client,” I said. “Looking for some money.”

  “All my clients are looking for money. Save some here, tax deduction there. What makes yours special?”

  “It’s a lot.”

  “Mr. Dela…what is it again?”

  “Delarosa.”

  “Delarosa. I don’t have time to play guessing games. Tell me how I can help, or go on about your day.”

  For a milquetoast of a guy, he sure could be direct.


  “I don’t mean to be cryptic, but I don’t know much. My client hired me to find some money, gave me your name, and told me to start with you.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” And I couldn’t. All I had to go on was Claire’s name, and I wasn’t even sure that was real. Bocci studied me for a good thirty seconds, sizing me up, or searching his mental files trying to figure out whether my face or my name was familiar.

  “How much?”

  “Two million.”

  His entire appearance changed in front of me. He morphed into a cadaver of himself. The last bit of color in his pale skin drained away. He shrunk back into his chair.

  “Is your client a woman?” His voice cracked.

  “Maybe.”

  “About thirty-five. A redhead?”

  “You’re on the right track,” I said.

  “I’m sure she’s quite beautiful by now.” He put his hands in his lap, hung his head and sat there for a good minute not saying anything.

  “You know my client?”

  “I do…I have known her a long time. I thought this day would never come.” His voice was soft and weak. I slid my chair forward so I could hear. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what? What’s this about?”

  He looked up at me; I saw a tear roll down his cheek. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket, removed his glasses, and wiped his eyes. He spoke, slow and deliberate: “What’s it about? It’s about trust. It’s about greed. Loyalty. Family. Love.” He cleaned his glasses and put the hanky back in his pocket. “I always wondered how this would end. Who would be here? I always dreamed of seeing her again, too.”

  “Mr. Bocci, fill me in. I’m sure we can work something out if you—”

  “Too late for that.” He took a slip of paper from his desk and wrote on it. He closed the ledger and then took the pocket protector from his shirt and put the pens into a holder on the desk. He opened the drawer again, put in the pocket protector and pulled out a 9mm Glock and placed it on the desk in front of him.

  I slid my chair back.

  “Mr. Bocci, hold on now.”

  “Sit back down. Our business is not complete.” He placed his hands on the desk with the gun between them.

  “Okay.” I slowly sat back down. “Is the gun necessary? I only have a few questions.”

  “It is necessary. Two things, Mr. Delarosa, if you would indulge me.”

  “Sure. Anything.” I kept my eye on the gun and his hand. He could get his hand on the Glock much quicker than I could reach around to the Beretta in my waistband.

  “Make sure she’s taken care of is one. And, second…tell her I kept my promise.”

  “Okay, I’m happy to do that.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds; it seemed like he calculated something in his mind. Then he said, “I’m ready now.”

  “Well, thank you. Do you mind if I take some notes—”

  Before I finished my sentence, he picked up the gun, shoved it into his mouth and pulled the trigger. His brains hit the wall behind him as I flew back in my chair. I landed on my back and scrambled to my feet only to see a mess of blood and gore on the wall and Bocci lifeless in the chair. The gun was still in his hand.

  It took a full five minutes for my heart rate to settle down and to regain my composure, but even as I climbed to my feet, my hands were shaking and my palms were sweating. My mind raced: the blast would attract all kinds of attention. I needed to get out in front of this before the police arrived. I picked up the slip of paper he wrote on before he ate lead. A ten-digit number. A phone number? I shoved it in my pocket and scanned the room. Did I touch anything? No need for me to incriminate myself any more than I already had.

  He killed himself with me in the room. I just became suspect number one.

  I took another look at the little man in the chair and wondered whether he just took the easy way out.

  Chapter

  7

  So you’re telling me that while you’re interviewing the guy, he takes out a Glock and just, bang, blows his brains all over the wall?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Jesus, Johnny, you got to give me more than that.”

  Detective Marco Matera hovered over me—six-two and two-thirty, though he wasn’t nearly as big as the monstrous Worthington. He and Mike shone as the starting defensive tackles for Central Catholic for three years. They both went to Whitman State on football scholarships, and after two years of hard partying, convinced themselves they weren’t college material. They came back home, joined the police force. Mike and I are close, but Mike and Marco, one Irish, one Italian, are forever brothers.

  Uniformed cops swarmed over the office. Two TV crews had set up in the parking lot for the evening news. Forensics was photographing the inner office, and I scouted around for something to wipe off the chair in Bocci’s outer office but had to settle for a dusty seat. The dust bothered me more than the interrogation. “I’m telling you, that’s how it happened. We talked about my case, and something about it must’ve got to him. He got real quiet, then pulled the gun from his desk. I begged him to put it away, but—.”

  “Let me guess. Now you’re going to tell me you can’t tell me what you two were talking about.”

  “Marco, c’mon.”

  “Well, whatever you said, you certainly scared the shit out of him.”

  “Or the brains.”

  “Funny.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back against one of the filing cabinets. “Johnny, you need to give me something. I can’t go back to the chief saying the guy was depressed and you just happened to have an appointment when he decided to pull the trigger. This looks bad. Help me help you.”

  He was right. I needed some time to piece this together and figure out what the hell happened. I looked at him, remembered him from his playing days. Young, fit, and all muscle. Now the muscle was a gut, the hair gray, and the cigarettes were stealing years off him. The booze didn’t help, either. “Marco, can you give me some time? Some latitude?”

  Two guys from the coroner’s office came up the stairs with a stretcher and a body bag. The lead guy asked Marco, “Can we take the body?”

  “Yeah, sure, all set,” said Marco, coming back to the present situation. They went into the inner office and Marco got up and closed the door behind them.

  He pulled a chair close and sat next to me. He didn’t care about the dust. “Time for what?”

  “I need to talk to my client.”

  “And I need some answers. Look, if the guy was here by himself and decided to off himself, it would be a suicide. Shit, are you looking at this place? I’d shoot myself, too. But you were here with him. You’re a part of this. Start talking.”

  I sighed. “I was hired by a client to find some money. Stolen money.”

  “And…?”

  “The only thing the client had to work with was Bocci’s name. So I started here.”

  “How much money?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Really?” Marco said, “I have a dead accountant in there. How much, Johnny?”

  I lifted my hands in protest and he cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Two million.”

  “Two million?” I could tell his mind went somewhere else, just like Bocci’s did. Two million must be the magic words today. Marco got up from the chair. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his shoe.

  “Marco?”

  “What exactly did Bocci say?” He sat back down, shook another cigarette out, and lit up.

  “Not much, really. I told him I was looking for money and that the client gave me his name.”

  “Client a woman?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “How old?”

  Same questions as Bocci, too. “T
hirty or so.”

  Marco leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. “Wow. Wow, wow, wow.”

  “What?”

  “Johnny, what did you say to the two uniforms who were first on the scene?”

  “Same as what I told you.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to them. If anyone asks you, you showed up here and found him dead. Capisce?”

  “Yeah, capisce. What is it?”

  “I’ll stop by the bar tonight. Make sure you’re there. I’ll buy you a day or two.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Make sure you’re there.”

  “I will.”

  The door opened and the coroner guys wheeled Bocci out in the body bag. Marco nodded toward the stretcher. “You know he was mobbed-up, right?”

  “I got that impression.” I stood and brushed the dust from my clothes. “You got me real curious.”

  Marco took a step closer to me. “Johnny, I gotta ask. Am I going to find your fingerprints on the gun?”

  “Not a chance.”

  He slapped me on the back a couple of times. “See you tonight.”

  Chapter

  8

  I already had a day to remember, but the day was far from over. The mention of two million made each man react, with Bocci’s reaction getting the prize. The suicide, old mobsters, and missing money sure had my curiosity—and adrenaline—on overdrive.

  I walked into McNally’s along with the happy hour crowd. Mike had his hands parked on the bar as he stared at the television screen and the early news. A local reporter was doing a live stand-up from in front of Bocci’s office. He saw me and pointed to the screen. “Are you the unidentified person who was in the office?”

  I stopped to look at the screen. The young, blonde reporter relayed the facts “…as we know them at the moment. We’re waiting for a statement from the police.”

  “Yep. And we have work to do. And I need to talk to my client. Whoever the hell she is.” I poured myself a shot and threw it back, poured a double and headed back to my booth.