Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

  “Get out of there.”

  “No, no. Just keep giving me updates…”

  “Okay. Damn, this is exciting.”

  “Stay focused.”

  I closed the file cabinets and scanned around the room. Did I touch anything else? No. Do I stay and surprise her or get out and observe? How will she get into the office? I have the landlord’s key to the street door and had to pick the lock to the office. What is she up to?

  “Western and Tenth,” Katie said. “Eighth…Seventh…she stopped.”

  “Must be at a light.”

  “She going again…Sixth…Fifth…Fourth. She stopped. She must be there.”

  “I’m hanging up.” I slipped the phone into my pocket. The office had two windows but they faced the back of the building. I locked Bocci’s office door. The downstairs door was unlocked—a blunder on my part; I should have locked it behind me—so I made it easy for her. This would be interesting. I stood beside the filing cabinet that was farthest from the door. Whoever came in would not see me until they made their way to the middle of the room.

  Advantage Delarosa.

  The office was quiet. I heard a car door slam and I heard the lower door open and close and then footsteps on the stairs. I grabbed the Beretta from the briefcase. The person was now in the outer office. The doorknob jiggled…locked. A key went into the lock, the knob shook again—the door didn’t open. A moment passed; a second key went into the lock and this time the door opened. She has a key?

  Claire stepped into the office and the mess on the wall behind Bocci’s desk stopped her. She stood there for a moment, taking in the scene. She picked up Bocci’s glasses and held them for a second, studied them, maybe trying for an insight into the man, and then gently laid them on the desk. Was she paying her respects, feeling his spirit, apologizing? Or was she here for the same reason she hired me—to find the money?

  She sat at his desk and methodically went through each drawer, pulling out papers, read through each file or document, then placing everything back the way she found them. It wasn’t until she stood and walked around the desk headed to the filing cabinets when she saw me.

  “Ahh! Oh my God.” She reeled into the desk, knocking it backward and sending Bocci’s glasses and the pencil holder to the floor. “Johnny, you scared me.” She doubled over, then stood up with her hands to her chest. She paced around the office, heaving, gulping in breaths. “…frightened me. I didn’t know you were here.” She put her palms on the desk, leaned forward, her hair falling around her.

  “Why are you here?” I said.

  She paced around, patting her hand on her chest. She couldn’t get words out yet. She plopped down in a chair and put her head between her knees. I let her recover. I put my gun and drill back into the briefcase.

  “I didn’t think anyone was here.” She gasped for breath.

  I walked over and stood in front of her. “Why are you here?

  “I…I wanted to see his office. I feel…”

  “Responsible?”

  “No…I mean…no…I don’t know. You really scared me, you know.”

  “You have a key.”

  “What?”

  “Why do you have a key to Bocci’s office?” She kept breathing deep. Stalling? Is my client investigating behind me, or is she way out in front of me? And if so, why? If she has a key, what else does she have?

  “I forgot we had these—”

  “We?”

  “My mother and I. I found them in her things when she died. I remembered last night and decided to come out here today.”

  “You forgot? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I forgot, that’s all. My mother’s instructions were for me to hire you.” She stood, her breathing back close to normal. She slid the desk back in place and then leaned back on it with her hands folded across her chest. “I got curious and decided to look around. I didn’t know what I would find, if anything. I didn’t even know if the key would work. The downstairs door was open, so I came up.”

  “Why did Bocci give your mother a key to his office?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My phone buzzed with another text from Katie. U ok? I sent a yes back.

  “When was the last time your mother saw Bocci?”

  “Johnny, I have no idea. Thirty years ago? How should I know?”

  “Did they have a relationship?”

  “No, not at all. That I would remember,” she said, her face bright red, either fright or embarrassment. Or both.

  “Did he keep in touch with her?”

  “I swear, I don’t know.”

  “But she had a key to his office?”

  “You’re asking questions that I’ll never be able to answer. I already told you what she instructed me to do.”

  “You had a key. If you weren’t so goddamn cryptic when we first met, he might still be alive right now. Would have made things easier.” Her eyes were to the floor. “Look at me Claire.” She raised her head, looked me in the eye almost defiantly. “Is the money here? Is that what you were searching for? The money?”

  “No. I wanted to find out about him. I—wait, how did you get in?” she asked.

  “Let’s stick to the subject. You hired me to investigate this for you. I can’t have you running your own investigation behind my back. This guy killed himself over this. Somebody tried to torch my bar. We’ve opened the box already, and if guys connected to your father or to the mob think there’s money here, they’ll be relentless. Killing you or me is nothing to them. So tell me now, is there money here or not.”

  “No, no money. I’m sorry.” She knew I had her—she had to control the damage. “I got curious. That’s all. Mother talked about him, and I wanted to, I don’t know, feel him…feel his spirit or something. Thought maybe I could find something that could help. I guess you had the same idea?”

  “You should have told me about the key.”

  “Johnny, I’m sorry.” She came to me and put her arms around me and her head on my shoulder. “You really scared me.”

  I pushed her an arm’s length away from me. “Claire.” I didn’t need to say anything else. She knew she made a mistake. How big a mistake was yet to be seen. What else was she not telling me? “We need to get out of here.”

  I made sure Bocci’s office door was locked and then the outer door. Claire got into her car and drove off. I returned the key to the restaurant owner, thanked him, and bought two lunch combos.

  I called Katie as I left to make sure she monitored Claire’s car.

  I was starting to feel it—the heat on this case had just cranked up to full boil.

  Chapter

  23

  I hurried back to McNally’s, and Katie was in her spot, on the phone with a local bank. I put the food on the table and grabbed a couple of sodas. She gave me a thumbs up.

  She ended her call. “I’m starving. Thanks.”

  “I scared the hell out of her,” I told her. “She had a key to his office.”

  “Why was she there? What was she looking for?” She spooned the fried rice and beef and broccoli onto a plate.

  “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  “Man, that was like”—she shoved a fork-full into her mouth—“right out of Mission Impossible or something.”

  “It’s really not, trust me. Eventually you’ll figure that out.”

  “You keep saying that, but that was nerve-racking.” She talked and ate at the same time.

  Table manners?

  “Any luck with the banks?”

  “No. Oh my God—some people wouldn’t even talk to me—said I have to come in. Other places they were nice, had no problem talking to me, but the numbers didn’t match anything. Oh, and some guy stopped in looking for you. He talked to Mike. Creepy-looking.”

  “Wha
t did he look like?”

  “Fat, bald, smoking a big cigar. Gross.”

  “Tony?”

  “That was Tony the Scar? Didn’t look too happy.”

  Carlos came in to work the lunch shift. “Where’s Mike?”

  “Bank and errands.”

  “Keep going on the banks—start going in person if you don’t come up with anything. In the file you’ve got are two sites where we can run background checks. I have subscriptions—I wrote down the passwords for you. Run everything through, all the names I have listed. Even the dead ones. Bocci, Dixon, everything you can find. I want news articles from thirty years ago. We know when Dixon was found—search around that date. And everything you can find on Claire.”

  “My pleasure. Looks like a bitchy skank to me.”

  “Katie!”

  She pointed a finger to the front door. “He’s back.”

  I turned around; Tony had come in. I got up and motioned him to the bar. We sat and Carlos came over. “Two bourbons.” Tony took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned toward me, his face bright red. Ready to explode.

  “What the fuck, Delarosa?”

  “Tony…”

  “Somebody fuckin’ tagged my Mustang.” He jabbed the air with the cigar. “Spray-painted ‘Where’s the money?’ in big bold letters. See what you started, Johnny? I told you not to put your nose in this. Now you’ve got me dragged into it.”

  “Okay, first, where was the car? Any security cameras?”

  “At the club. Only cameras are out back. My car was in front.”

  “Maybe there’s a street camera. I’ll work on that.”

  “Damn right you will.” He was so mad he couldn’t stay on the stool. He got off and stood and then got back on the stool and then got off again.

  “Tony, what did I start? Tell me what happened.” Carlos brought our drinks. Tony threw his back. I told Carlos to leave the bottle. I poured Tony another. “You ran numbers for Aletto, right? You and Dixon?”

  He took a deep breath, then sat staring at the bar. I hoped he was summoning courage. “This ain’t the confessional, Tony. It’s just me.”

  “Me, Dixon, and Rosso had the bookmaking by the balls. Rounded up all the small-time guys so everyone was working for us. Money up to our asses. All of a sudden, there’s a rumor of two million missing. We denied it—I still deny it—but Donny gets whacked. Jimmy splits town.”

  “Rosso?”

  “No way.”

  “Dixon?”

  “He always did right by the family. He liked being the boss’s son-in-law. Was proud he was accepted like he was. Kind of guy you could count on. Was good to Jackie, never a goomah. No way. He didn’t take nothing.”

  “Leaves you.”

  “What, I took two million dollars thirty years ago and tucked it away for my retirement?”

  “Somebody thinks you did it.”

  “You start asking questions, all of the sudden people remember what they want to.”

  “Many guys still around from those days?”

  “Sure, they’re around. Lot of them gone straight—like me.” He poured another drink.

  “Who?” I asked. “Who is still around?”

  “What’s it matter? Nobody will talk to you.”

  “It matters if I can clean up this mess. C’mon, Tony. Who can help?”

  He shrugged. “Brindisi, maybe. You know him?”

  “No, who’s he?”

  “Alberto Brindisi. Big Al. Was a lawyer but also a silent partner of Aletto. He died about a year after Aletto did, but he had a son, Little Al. A real piece of shit. Aletto wanted us to work with him, give him jobs as a favor to Aletto. He was a worthless putz, though. We all wanted to turn him into fish food but he was protected. Thought he was God’s gift, you know. Women hated him—he was the only guy I knew who got turned down by hookers.”

  We clicked our shot glasses.

  “I remember he would never stop talking. Always running his mouth. Annoying little wop. Anyhows, I heard at the club the other night that he was around town. It would be like him to get wind of this money and show up…”

  “Brindisi. I’ll check him out. Who knows?”

  “I told you guys will come from everywhere if they think that kind of cash was laying around. They’ll all lay claim.”

  “Tony, is the amount realistic—could someone siphon off that much?”

  “Hell, yeah. We’d do fifty thousand dollars on football weekends. And that was just Port City. Aletto had guys up and down the coast. It would take a few years to do it, but yeah.”

  “What happened with Jackie Aletto? Who thought she had the money?”

  He looked at the floor for a minute and then huffed. “Not my shiniest moment.”

  “Yeah?”

  “After Aletto dies, Rosso comes back into town and he has it in his head that Donny took the money and gave it to Jackie.” He poured what little was left in the bottle into his glass. “He wanted to take some guys and put pressure on Jackie to talk. I refused, I wanted no part. He kept pushing and pushing, swears he won’t hurt her. Wants to scare her into talking. I give in and we go to her house one night and get carried away…hurt her real bad. Rosso left again and never came back. Cops liked me for it but there was no proof. Not long after, Jackie took her daughter and left town.” He downed the rest of his drink. “I’m not happy, Johnny. Put a lid on this.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “Somebody’s gonna pay for my car.”

  He got up and waddled out of the bar. Katie came over with the folder. “What happened?”

  “They sent him a message.” I watched through the window as he got into an old, primer-gray pickup truck and drove off. Are his sins coming back to haunt him? They always do. I almost felt sorry for him in a way. He made a lot of money over the years, but money made by illegitimate means never lasts. Yep: sins of the past, karma, whatever we want to call it—the universe has a way of squaring the deal. Nothing in life is free; we all pay our way, eventually.

  “We got work to do.”

  Chapter

  24

  Tony left, and Katie and I went through the file to review her notes. Nothing reached out and talked to me. She had a sheet of paper for each name we’d come across during the investigation, and I leafed through the stack, looking for something I had not seen before. My gut, my trusted friend, twitched when I got to the sheet with Elena Garver written at the top. Jackie Aletto’s sister, daughter of Joseph Aletto, the mobster. Philanthropist, lives in an expensive condo on the Silver Strip with husband number three—real estate developer Martin Garver—and had to be around thirty years old when the business of her sister being attacked went down. Katie’s notes did not indicate whether she had any children and a Herald newspaper profile, done a few years ago lauding her for her charitable work with Children’s Hospital, said she was a private person who enjoyed a group of select friends and traveling with Martin.

  Time for a visit.

  “You only have Ocean Palms as an address for Elena Garver?”

  “Umm, yeah, let me see.” She picked up the info sheet and went through her notes. “No criminal record. I couldn’t find any phone numbers, nothing in a reverse directory, but we don’t know her condo number. The general background search only listed her husband. I’m getting better at this, though. You should see what I found on Tony and Sammy. Wow. Those guys were busy.”

  “Let’s stay on Elena.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I called Worthington at the Marquis to see whether he could dig up a phone number for Elena, remembering he mentioned she holds her fund-raising dinners at the hotel. He put me on hold for five minutes before coming back with the only contact number they had on file. I thanked him and dialed. A woman answered, identified herself as the housekeeper. I told her I was a d
etective with PCPD and asked to speak with Mrs. Garver. A minute went by before Elena came on the line.

  “Hello, this is Elena Garver.”

  “Mrs. Garver, thank you for taking my call. My name is John Delarosa and I’m writing a book on the history of Port City. More specifically, the political climate in the city thirty years ago—”

  “My housekeeper said you were a detective.”

  “Ex-detective. My apologies for the misunderstanding.”

  “Please get to the point. I am packing for a trip.”

  “Yes, of course. You and your husband have been very generous to this city with your philanthropy, especially the hospital, and I can’t think of anyone who can better speak about the history of the city, both good and bad, than you and your husband. You both have been prominent leaders in this town for many years and I’d love to sit down with you. Can you spare an hour?”

  “Your project sounds interesting and my husband’s voice should definitely be heard. But we are leaving in three days for a month long trip to Europe. We can meet when we return.”

  “I appreciate that but I’m under a deadline from my publisher. Any chance you can meet today or tomorrow? This book will not be complete without your input.”

  The line was silent for a moment. “My husband will not have time but I can give you one hour in one hour.”

  “That will be perfect. See you then, Mrs. Garver, and thank you.”

  Katie had on jeans and a T-shirt. “You have any other clothes with you?”

  I handed her the eighty dollars that I had in my pocket. “Go get something more businesslike and be back in thirty minutes.”

  She counted the money. “For eighty dollars? I’m going to need shoes, too.”

  I grabbed the cash back and gave her my credit card. “Go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Go!”

  Thirty-five minutes later, we were in my car and she looked as if she spent the entire morning getting ready. She wore black dress slacks, a cream-colored blouse, black heels, and had her hair in some combo of half-pulled back and half-down.