by David Stever
“My arms,” I said, and she laughed.
I was aroused, and she wrapped her hand around me and said, “Tell me you like me.”
“I do like you, but my arms.” She took her hand off me and moved her face close to mine. A kiss? Her hair fell in front of me. I wanted to kiss her but I couldn’t see her face. Then a gun came through her hair, the Glock Bocci used, and she shoved it into my mouth. “Tell me you like me.” I felt the cold steel in my mouth, the oily metal of the barrel on my tongue. I tried to speak, but the barrel of the gun was in my throat. I was starting to choke.
From somewhere far away, far beyond the wall of deadly red hair, I heard Claire’s laugh.
“Now who’s in control?”
I jolted awake on the chair, knocked the wine glass to the floor. My heart pounded, my breathing came fast and hard. I went inside to cool off. I poured myself a bourbon and swallowed it. The dream wouldn’t shake off. I could still taste the gun in my mouth and feel the drape of her hair on my body. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed the broom and dust pan and cleaned up the balcony. The red wine left a red stain on the concrete balcony I couldn’t seem to scrub clean.
I put on a pot of coffee and let it brew while I opened my laptop to a local news site. An article about a hit-and-run accident on Lincoln Road was on the front page, but it did not identify the victim.
I poured the coffee and went back to the balcony. The night sky was clear, billions of stars in view. Questions pounded. For a moment I had begun to think I was responsible for Bocci’s suicide and Sammy’s murder, but I realized it was not me. It was Claire. She’d worked her way into my subconscious—maybe she’d done the same to Bocci. And Sammy? Someone could make a case that Bocci was depressed and would have killed himself anyhow. Or some gambler, upset over his losses and blaming his bookies, decided to take Sammy out. But there was still Claire. Claire at the center of it all. And now she has invaded my dreams.
Bocci’s death dragged at me: I could still see him pulling the trigger in slow-motion. The nightmare would stay tucked away in a little box in my head. So would Sammy covered in two pieces of tarp. So would Katie in my dress shirt. So would Claire and Bocci’s gun.
I abandoned the coffee and balcony and went back inside. I downed another shot of bourbon, then two more, then stretched out on my bed. I knew sleep would not come that night. The little box was wide open.
Chapter
28
I didn’t fall asleep until four, but eventually the bourbon did its work and knocked me out. No more nightmares.
After stopping by the hardware store, I got to the bar at noon. Katie was in her booth—it was now her booth—tapping away on her laptop.
“Hey, you’re here,” I said.
“Good morning. I got here at eleven.”
I put two keys on the table. “This one is for the front door here—I’ll give you the alarm code—and this key is for my place.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“I have a couple of filing cabinets upstairs, so we’ll keep all files in the condo. Anything new this morning?”
“No. I did a background on Mr. Bocci and nothing looks out of the ordinary—from what I can tell.” She turned toward me, noticed my bloodshot eyes and unshaven face. “Didn’t get much sleep, did you?”
“Nope.”
“That was a tough night. You were friends?”
“Yeah, grew up a couple of streets from each other. They were older than me but we were all from the neighborhood. Tony will be out of his mind.”
“The news said it was a hit-and-run.”
“It was a hit, Katie. Over this case. You are not to leave this booth.”
“Why?”
“There are bodies piling up—over money that might not even exist. I’m not putting you in any more danger.”
Mike came out of the back room and wandered over. “Sammy?”
“Somebody ran him down. Gut tells me it’s the case.”
“You don’t know that. They had plenty of enemies.”
“Yes, but nobody local would do this and not expect retaliation. They had respect on the streets. Can only be an outsider—and the only outsider is Claire.”
Four guys came in and took spots at the bar. Mike went over to take their order.
I turned to Katie. “Well, since you’ve done such a great job in your short time here, I decided to give you a promotion. You are officially the head of research.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. Head of your own department.” She smiled, and it lightened the mood. I went behind the bar and poured two coffees and came back to the booth. “Let’s pull up the GPS and find out where our friend is.”
She opened the app and it pinged on the Harbor Court Motel.
“Still at the motel.”
“Okay, in that case, I want a peek inside her room at the Marriott. I still don’t understand the two hotel rooms.”
“To throw people off, like you said. No one would think about her at the skanky place.”
“Still, I’m going to figure a way in. Keep the GPS app open and tell me if the car moves. And, do some background on Elena Garver. That old broad knows more than she’s telling.”
“I want to come with you.” She folded up the laptop and her files. “We can follow the GPS while in your car.”
“I just said I don’t want you in the field.”
“You’re going to the Marriott. How dangerous can that be? Besides, won’t it make sense if we go in together instead of you by yourself?”
“I don’t care if it makes sense. I want you safe.”
“Are you going to go in and just ask for the key?” She turned up her palms. “No. We go in like we’re going to lunch—and then we’ll figure something out.”
“That’s the plan?”
“C’mon. I’m dying to see the room, too.”
She had a point. It would be better for the two of us to walk in. Men would notice her and ignore me. And I needed answers. “Get your stuff together.”
“Yes—you’re the bomb, Johnny D.”
On the ride over, I had Katie call the hotel and ask for room 503. No answer. She connected her phone and the computer so we had wireless in the car. Claire’s car was still at the Harbor Court. We parked in the hotel parking garage, went to the lobby, and sat for a moment while she linked to the hotel’s wireless. I wanted to keep tabs on the Audi. It didn’t mean Claire didn’t have any other means of transportation, but I needed to cover all angles.
We took the elevator to the fourth floor and then walked up the stairs to the fifth. A tiny bit of tradecraft—I wanted to approach the corridor from the side stairs and not come out of the elevator and get surprised by Claire or anyone else. The hotel was built in the shape of an L. The stairs brought us into a small alcove in the short corridor, thirty feet from room 503. The hallway was empty.
“The GPS,” I said. She checked; the car had not moved. “Stay here and call the front desk and ask for her room.” She dialed as I went to the door of 503 and listened. A moment later, the phone rang. After five rings it stopped and I went back to the alcove. “Okay, nobody’s home. Don’t move.”
I went down the hallway to where it turned left into the long corridor. I peeked around the corner and as I hoped, a housekeeping cart sat in the middle of the hallway. I came back to Katie. “You wanted to be in the field, so here you go. The maid is around the corner about four rooms down—”
“Way ahead of you, boss.” She gave me the laptop and trotted down the hall. She turned the corner and I could hear her talking to the maid. “Miss, miss, can you help me?” I heard the maid giggle and a few seconds later, they came back around the corner, the maid laughing and Katie carrying on about how dumb she was to lock herself out of her room. The maid unlocked
the door and Katie went inside, thanking her.
I waited in the alcove until the maid went back to work and then walked down to 503. Open the door, Katie. Ten seconds passed, and then another ten. I did not want to knock—horrible scenarios began to play out in my head. Did someone grab her as she went into the room? Ten more seconds passed so I tapped on the door. It opened and the expression on my face said it all.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, as I went into the room.
The room was clean, the beds made, no clothes hanging in the closet, no toiletries in the bathroom. But if a person thought to rent a second room as a diversion, why not make it look lived in? In case the private investigator you hired might wonder why you rented rooms in two hotels? Or, better yet, what if one of the scumbags you resurrected came looking for the money? Now they’ll search for you elsewhere.
An oversight by the calculating Claire?
“By the way, what did you say to the maid?”
“That I’m here with my boss and needed to get my stuff because your wife was on her way.”
“Works for me. Good job. Let’s go.”
We stopped at the door and listened. A door opened and closed; the maid was still working in the other corridor, so we opened our door and went out just as the door to room 502—directly across the hall—opened. Out stepped a tall, well-built black guy about my age, and a young blonde, about Katie’s age. He looked at me and I looked at him; he looked at Katie and I looked at his girl.
We both nodded at each other and he said, “My man.” They went to the elevators and we went to the stairs.
“That was interesting,” said Katie.
“Take it as a compliment.”
“He thinks you’re like him. An old man who just scored some young hottie and—”
I stopped halfway down the first flight and turned back to her. “Stop talking. We’re still in the field and you need to stay focused.”
“Sorry.”
“Check the car.” She opened the laptop; the Audi had not moved. “Remember, just because the car is there, doesn’t mean Claire is.” I took another step down and then stopped. “And I’m not old.”
“Stay focused, Johnny D.”
Chapter
29
Marco called as we drove on to McNally’s. “We finished the investigation into Sammy’s death. From what the forensics guys figure, Sammy was standing in the lot when the car plowed into him.”
“So he came out of the office and somebody took dead aim?”
“Yep, he never had a chance.”
“Thanks. That was quick.”
“Hey, we can get stuff done when we want to.” He ended the call.
“Her car is moving,” Katie said.
“Okay, keep an eye on it.” I pulled into the alley behind McNally’s to park. Mike called my phone.
“Where are you?”
“In back.”
“Stay put.”
I parked the car in the garage. Mike came out through the back door and met us in the alley. “Some dirtbag inside asking for you. I don’t recognize him.”
“Yeah?”
“Wouldn’t give me his name.”
I said to Katie, “Go around the front and up to my place. The wireless code is the same as down here.” She didn’t argue. She went off around the building and we went in.
Sitting in my booth was a short, bone-thin man, wearing black jeans with a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He had four gold chains around his neck and his thinning hair was slicked straight back on his head. I sat down across from him. He was older than me, somewhere in his fifties, dark circles around his sunken eyes, his face pock-marked with red splotches on his cheeks and nose. Either a drunk or a junkie—or both. We stared at each other
“Can I help you?” I said.
“You Delarosa?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Name’s Brindisi. Somebody said we might have a mutual interest.”
“Who’s somebody?”
“Does that matter?”
“It does to me.”
He scanned the bar, drummed his fingers on the table. “Every now and then, I like to get a wager down on the games, you know? I have a guy who can take a bet for me, and he tells me about you looking for information on something that happened a long time ago.”
“Is that so?” He turned toward the front of the bar and then back at me. “Nervous?” I said.
“I just seen the news from last night. I remember about Sammy and his brother and it brings me back to what this guy was saying.”
“Your guy’s name is…?”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Go on.”
“I was around when Donny Dixon got whacked.”
“Yeah?”
“Over money that went missing, and Aletto had him…you know.” His left hand trembled and he would grab it with his right to stop the tremors.
“That’s the rumor,” I said.
“What if I have proof?”
“Of Dixon having the money?”
He checked the front again and then focused back on me. “Could I get a drink? Whiskey?”
I signaled to Mike. “You keep looking around. You not supposed to be here?” He shrugged and sank back in the booth. “Conversation goes no further than this table,” I said.
“Dixon took that money, they found out, he got whacked.”
“You know this how?” Mike brought over two drinks. Brindisi made short work of draining his glass.
“Like I said, I was around. Is there someplace else we can talk?”
“No.” My phone buzzed with a text message from Katie. Her car is heading our way. “If you knew where the money was, why not go for it?”
“And risk what happened to Donny? No way.”
“You saw the money?”
“Not exactly.”
“You and Donny were pals?”
“No, me and his partner, Jimmy Rosso. Me and Jimmy were tight. I would help him out with different jobs.”
“So you’re not sure if there was money or not?”
“Jimmy always said there was—”
“Where’s Rosso now?”
My phone buzzed again. The car is on our street!!! Is she coming here?
“I can’t speak to that.” He leaned across the table. “Unless there might be some…some sort of compensation.” I noticed the tremors in his hand stopped. The drink did the trick. He’s either working me for a quick score, or he’s hustling for Rosso, or he got wise to all this from Tony, which didn’t make sense to me, because Tony wouldn’t talk.
“Club Cuba. Meet me there at six tonight.” I had to move him out of here and go on the offense.
“Club Cuba? Yeah, okay. But what about—”
“See you at six.” He turned to the front again. Did he know Claire was heading this way? “Why don’t you go out the back?”
“Yeah, yeah…” He got up and scurried through the kitchen and out the back door. I followed him into the alley; he trotted up to the cross street and out of sight.
I called Katie. “Where’s her car?”
“Right out front. I’m coming down.”
“No—”
“I want another look at her.”
“Katie, we need to keep you invisible. Do not come down.” I closed my phone and went in through the back. I stopped at the kitchen door. Sure enough, Claire sat on a stool near the end of the bar. Mike placed a glass of white wine in front of her as I approached.
“Claire.” She turned her green eyes to me but they lacked her usual sparkle.
“Johnny. Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“The hit and run accident last night. Does that have anything to do with…?”
&nbs
p; “With you?” I said. She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“I never intended—”
“For anybody to die? I’m sure you didn’t. But if we keep throwing chum in the water, the sharks will come around.”
She sipped her wine and looked at me with sad eyes, held my gaze, reading me, calculating. Was she genuinely remorseful—or just planning her next move? Or both? She turned back to the bar and got both hands around the wine glass.
“Now what?” she said without looking at me.
“Up to you. Do we keep going?”
She swiveled around, flipped her hair back from her face, opening herself to me, inviting. “Of course we keep going. All this—Bocci, Sammy—it all means my mother was right. The money is real.”
“I have a few ideas, but I do need to tell you, going back thirty years is not easy. A few people confirmed the old rumors, but they all seem to think the money went down with Dixon.”
“My father.”
“Yes.”
“It’s just that my mother was certain…” She trailed off, went back to the wine. I stepped behind the bar, poured a drink for myself and refilled her glass. I stood opposite her and became the wise old bartender.
“I thought Mr. Bocci would tell you everything about this money and what really happened. Mr. Bocci was all she ever talked about,” she said.
“Did she like him, hate him?”
“She didn’t talk about him like that, only that he had the key to the money.”
I nodded. No way was I telling her I had information—a number—from Bocci. Not yet, anyhow. Not until I figured out what the number meant and what Claire was all about. I had an inherent mistrust of her and it did not sit well with my trusted friend—my sixth sense, my gut.