Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

  18

  In the alley behind McNally’s was a two-car garage that I rent. I pulled up the door and there were my two darlings: the BMW and the workhorse, the Buick.

  “There’s the BMW you used to bring me home. I asked my dad if I could get one but he ignored me. I love this car.” Katie went to the passenger door. “Can we put the top down?”

  “Wrong car, I’m afraid.”

  “What?”

  “We’re taking this.”

  She pointed at the Buick, revulsion on her face. “That?”

  “Welcome to the glamorous world of the private detective. Still want to go?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hop in. Oh, the AC is on the blink, but we can roll the windows down.”

  She opened the door but brushed off the front seat before she got in. I pulled the car out of the garage, stopped, hopped out and pulled down the door. I got back in and we headed out of the alley.

  “They make electric garage door openers.”

  “I know,” I said.

  We were on our way to the Marquis. Katie’s short skirt was even shorter as she sat in the car. I’d need to enforce a dress code after all.

  “The purpose of the car is to not attract attention. I use it when on surveillance or if I’m tailing someone. Everyone will remember a Z4; nobody will remember this.”

  “Ah, I see. Don’t attract attention.” The enthusiasm that waned by having to ride in the Buick came back. “Sort of undercover, aren’t we?”

  “Well, kind of. But, on the subject of attracting attention, I want you to think about how you dress.”

  “What’s wrong with how I dress?”

  “Nothing at all. But if you walk into a hotel like we’re about to do and you’re wearing that skirt, every guy in the place will be bug-eyed.”

  “So I need to blend in instead of stand out?”

  “Exactly.” Easier than I thought, and it would be less distracting for me. “Many times I have to be invisible, and if you’re in the field, it will be the same for you.”

  “Now I’m stoked. Ever wear a disguise?”

  “Sure.”

  I filled her in on the basics of the case on the car ride to the Marquis. Being hired to find money that disappeared thirty years ago, Donny Dixon, Claire booked into two hotel rooms, and Bocci offing himself. She took it all in, made some notes. One thing I learned: when Katie got excited, she talked. Nonstop. She quizzed me about my life, my years on the force, my marriage, my ex-wife, whether I had any kids, whether I had a girlfriend, my most exciting case, whether I ever shot someone—yes—if she will get a gun—no—what kind of food I liked, what kind of women I liked—quiet ones, but I dodged that one—and finally, did I think I would ever get married again. It was an interrogation, not a conversation. Not that I minded it much.

  Worthington met us in the lobby of the hotel and took us to his office on the ground floor. We crowded into his cluttered work space. Twelve security monitors lined the wall, each one focused on a different area of the property. He squeezed into a chair behind his desk and we sat in two chairs opposite. I introduced Katie as my associate.

  “Associate, huh?” He looked her up and down.

  “Handles a lot of the research and back office work.”

  “Back office work—is that what we call it now?” Katie stiffened. I didn’t react. His face got red. “Sorry. How can I help you?”

  “Think back to the old days on the docks. Ever remember a guy getting whacked for stealing two million from Aletto?”

  Katie flipped open her note book and started writing. “Was that Dixon?”

  My head snapped to her. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Whacked for two million? I remember more than one guy getting whacked, but I don’t recall anything about a missing two million. How long ago?” he asked.

  “Thirty years. The story goes that some of Aletto’s soldiers were handling his bookmaking operation and skimmed two million. One of the guys, Donny Dixon, took a swim in the harbor for it. Never found the money.”

  “Boy, I don’t know.”

  “Ever run into the Scarazzini brothers?”

  Katie was scribbling away now.

  “Tony and Sammy? Yeah, those scumbags. I knew them.”

  “They’re tied into this somehow.”

  “Really? Wouldn’t surprise me. Those two were into everything way back then. They still own Stiletto’s?”

  “Yep.”

  “I remember Sammy. A little on the slow side. They’d had him doing all the dirty work.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Rumor was he clipped one of Serrano’s boys. Couldn’t prove anything.”

  “Michael Serrano. He became boss after Aletto?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Didn’t command the respect Aletto did, though. The made guys started running their own business. Serrano couldn’t control them and the docks fell apart. Russians moved in. Serrano couldn’t compete. Then he disappeared.”

  “Russkies string him up?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Ever hear of a Carlo Bocci?” I asked.

  “I remember the name. He was an Aletto sideman. Lawyer, I think.”

  “CPA.”

  “Yeah, that’s the word. CPA. Word was, he and Serrano didn’t get along.” Every time Katie put her head down to scribble notes, Worthington would sneak a peek at her legs. That bothered me, and I was afraid to think why.

  “So after Aletto got whacked, Bocci stayed active?”

  “Well, they would still talk about him when I was there twenty years ago. They said he was the brains and Aletto handled operations.”

  “Remember a Jimmy Rosso?”

  “Rosso? No, never.”

  “Back to Tony and Sammy. Do you think they could’ve siphoned off two million and kept it quiet?”

  He shook his head. “No way. Tony was a big talker. If he had that much cash, the world would know.”

  “Yeah, I agree. One last question. Nobody knew who hit Aletto, right?”

  “Nope. Every guy who was around at the time had a different theory. Most thought it was Serrano on a power play, but no one could prove anything. Serrano was the only one who had anything to gain—and that didn’t work.”

  “Well, I think we got enough.” I looked at Katie. “Shall we?” She nodded, afraid to say anything at this point, I guessed.

  I shook hands with Worthington. “Thanks. Appreciate your time.”

  “Hey, anytime. If I can help out any way, let me know. Love to take a break from here for a while.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  He extended a hand to Katie. “Nice to meet you.” She politely shook it but didn’t say anything. “If I think of anything else, I’ll call.”

  We got a few steps out of Worthington’s office when he came out behind us. “Delarosa. You might want to come back.”

  We hurried back in.

  “Take a look.” He pointed to a monitor. There was Claire in the restaurant at a table by herself. “Isn’t that your girl?”

  Katie and I took up a spot at the bar. My same spot from before. “That’s our client.”

  “By herself, huh.” She made a notation on her pad and jotted down the time. “This is interesting. Who is she meeting?”

  The bartender came over, the same guy as last week. We both ordered drinks and sat there, watching. Claire had lunch, by herself. Every so often she would text someone. An hour passed and nothing happened. She got up and left. We each finished a second drink.

  “Welcome to the world of private investigation,” I said. “At least you got a look at our client.”

  “I did—and I got good notes from today, too. We’ll solve this mystery, right, boss?”

  “No doubt.”


  We got off the bar-stools and Katie swayed a bit. She grabbed the stool to steady herself. “Whoa. I guess I’m not used to two vodka tonics before lunch without any food.”

  “Let’s eat then. Not here—this is too fancy.”

  “Do we always drink while on the job?”

  “We try.”

  Chapter

  19

  We drove over to Nancy’s Diner for lunch and on the twenty-minute ride I again became the focus of the Katie interrogation machine: How long were you married? How long have you been divorced? Why did you separate? Do you miss her? Do you think you will ever remarry—never, never, never. What about growing old with someone?”

  “Katie!”

  “Yes?”

  “Can we talk about the case and not about me?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Good. I love your curiosity, but save it for the job.”

  “I want to get to know you.”

  “Well, it’s only your first day.”

  We parked in an alley along the side of the diner. I waved to Nancy as we went in and led Katie to a table toward the back. Nancy came over with menus.

  “Katie, meet Nancy, the most wonderful woman in all of Port City. She’s the love of my life but won’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Sweetie, he had his chance way back when and blew it.”

  “Don’t remind me.” They shook hands. “Katie is helping me out—my new computer expert.”

  “Hey, I don’t blame you. I can’t even turn mine on.”

  I ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and Katie ordered a salad and garlic bread.

  “Best food in town.”

  “Good. I’m starving.”

  Nancy brought two iced teas and while we waited for the food, I gave Katie an index card with the number Bocci gave me.

  “Your new assignment. Figure out what it is.”

  “Phone number?”

  “We tried. Could be a bank account, but which bank? We thought it could be a corporate tax ID, too—but couldn’t come up with anything.”

  “Where did this come from?”

  I explained the case in greater detail: Claire dropping the big retainer, Bocci killing himself, Tony and Scar and his brother, the fire bomb at the bar. She was enthralled. And now the number from Bocci and the message—his dying words—that he kept his promise.

  “He kept his promise to whom?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Must be Claire.”

  I shrugged. “He also said it was about greed, family…and love.”

  “Oh, man. This is good!”

  “Remember, not all cases are like this.”

  “He was in love with Claire, wasn’t he?”

  “All cases are about love, in a way. Love gone bad or love of money, and that always turns out bad. But Claire was five when the money went missing, according to her.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, but I could see gears churning in her head. The food came and we both dug in. This girl was feminine to the max when it came to her style and manner of dress, but she plowed through her lunch as though it were the first meal she’d eaten in weeks. She talked through each bite. I’ve seen groups of cops at a FOP dinner with better table manners. She picked up the card.

  “This number holds the key to the case?”

  “We hope. At first I thought I was chasing an old rumor, but why would someone drop that kind of retainer? What does Claire really want? I think that is the question.”

  “You mean more than the money?”

  “If a woman hires me to follow her husband because she thinks he’s cheating, and I discover that he is, most times the real problem is the trouble in the marriage. The affair is a…a side effect.”

  She wrote that in her notebook. “This is incredible.” She put her pen down and swallowed the bite of food in her mouth. “I know this is my first day and all, but thank you for giving me a chance. I knew from the moment we met—when you rescued me—that you and I were meant to do something. I realize that sounds childish, but I had this feeling… I’m embarrassed now.” She gulped down iced tea.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. You found something that appealed to you and you decided to explore it. You’re a curious girl, right?”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s what we need in this business. Remember, not all jobs are like this.”

  “You keep telling me that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Okay, got it, boss. Okay if I call you boss?”

  “Sure: just don’t call me Mr. Delarosa. Makes me feel old.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Back to the case, please.” Nancy cleared our plates and asked whether we wanted dessert. Katie looked at me wide-eyed, and three minutes later we both had a slice of apple pie in front of us, hers with ice cream.

  “Big eater, huh?” I said.

  “I think the drinks stirred my appetite.”

  Nancy gave me the stink-eye as we left the diner. The guys at the bar would never believe my twenty-four-year-old golden-haired research assistant was only an employee. But I’m an equal-opportunity employer and if I want to hire an assistant who looks like a beach volleyball player, that’s my prerogative.

  Yeah, right. This was gonna test every fiber of my being.

  This case betrayed my basic cop instincts. Things were happening to me that didn’t make sense. I felt off-balance. I needed to get ahead of this. When I investigate a cheating spouse, they are shocked when I throw down photographic evidence of their illicit behavior, and when I provide evidence that the employee was embezzling from the employer, surprise works to my advantage and the employee has no way to weasel out. In cop terms, I get the drop on the bad guy.

  After Katie and I finished our meals, we left the restaurant and turned the corner. We both saw it at the same time and stopped. Scrawled in red spray paint, across the passenger side of my beautiful vomit-colored LeSabre were the words: Warning #2.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  I pulled the Beretta from my waistband. “Go back into Nancy’s.”

  “What?”

  “Go back into Nancy’s now!”

  “Okay, okay.” She ran back around the corner. Two women walking toward me noticed the gun in my hand and turned and hurried the other way.

  Son of a bitch, I could not let this keep happening. I scanned the street and there was nobody else around. We were in the restaurant for at least forty-five minutes. Whoever did this had vanished long ago.

  I tucked away the gun and got on my back to look under the car. The paint on the side might not be the warning, but if someone could torch my building, they could sure as hell stick a bomb under my car. I couldn’t see anything on the passenger side of the undercarriage or in the wheel wells. I got under the driver’s side and, sure enough, there was an oblong black box: maybe ten inches long with two wires on it strapped to the undercarriage.

  I got up and there was Katie beside the car watching me. “I told you to go back inside.”

  “What is it?”

  I grabbed her arm and walked her back to the restaurant. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?” I let go of her arm; I was squeezing harder than I realized. She had tears in her eyes. She nodded and went inside.

  I called Marco.

  Eighteen minutes later, seven police cars and a bomb squad truck surrounded my Buick. I stood on the corner watching. Katie stood across the street, with Nancy and all the other patrons from the building who had been evacuated. A bomb squad technician came up from under the car. He waved me and Marco over.

  “It’s a fake.” He had the black box with the two wires sticking out in his hand. “Looks like someone wants to keep track of you.” He held up his other hand, which held a small black device. “GPS tracker. St
uck under your fender.” The bomb squad technician chuckled a bit, but stopped when I glared. He called it as a false alarm and they packed up their gear. A TV news crew pulled up; they probably heard the report of a possible car bomb on the scanner.

  I motioned for Katie and she came over. “Tell that news crew it was a false alarm. We don’t need them around here.” She ran over to the news truck. My phone buzzed—a text. I showed Marco. Second warning. “Can you trace the number?”

  “I’ll try,” said Marco, sensing my frustration. He jotted down the phone number. “This case got you, doesn’t it?”

  “Someone’s watching.” I scanned the crowd, which was quickly dispersing.

  He nodded toward Katie, who was now in a conversation with the young male reporter from the news crew. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

  “Not my girlfriend. Tell you later.”

  “Later, then.”

  “Sorry about all this.”

  “Hey, better off safe. Be careful, okay?” He lumbered off and dismissed the other officers. I headed to the news truck to grab Katie.

  I was afraid to find out how much she told the reporter.

  Chapter

  20

  Katie was quiet for the first few minutes of our ride back to the bar. If she didn’t believe the seriousness, the absolute inherent danger of the case and of this type of work, she now understood. I asked her what she said to the news crew.

  “That it was a false alarm. Someone played a joke on you.”

  “Did he ask who I was?

  “Yes. I said you own a bar and that I work for you.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “‘Good girl.’”

  “Oh. Okay—good job, then.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took out her note pad and started to write. I called Mike to tell him what happened, and then Marco called me to say he couldn’t find a traffic camera aimed at the street beside Nancy’s and that none of the surrounding businesses had outside security cameras. I parked in the perfect spot for my fake bomber to tag my car. I’d have to fix that going forward.

  We pulled up to my garage and I backed in the Buick, and pulled the BMW out, left it running, and opened the trunk. Along with the extra clothes I stashed in the car was a small fishing tackle box I used for my gadgets. I opened the box and pulled out a small black device, about the size of a cell phone, and switched it on. “Watch.” Katie came over. “Have to keep the car running.” Sure enough, after a few seconds, the device beeped and a LED turned green. These guys did not disappoint. “GPS detector. Picks up GPS signals being sent from the car.”