by David Stever
She smiled. The nonstop talker of a minute ago was now silent.
Katie turned to me. “Must be my cousin, Claire. Got to be.” When Katie said the name I watched as Mrs. Finley’s eyes flicked to the computer monitor, then back to us. “Can you tell us if it’s Claire? Claire Dixon.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but I can’t. Your uncle leave any instructions on how to handle his estate? Does he have a will, an executor?”
“I don’t think so,” Katie said.
She shook her head. “Pays to be organized. When my Grandpa William passed, took us months to sort out his mess. I’m glad we solved the mystery of the number, but unless you’re authorized, I can’t help you.”
“Mrs. Finley, you have been extremely helpful. We appreciate it and the family does, too,” I said. Her smile filled the small office, wall to wall. “But let me ask, should Claire come down here? Would it be worth her while?”
She clicked off her monitor and folded her hands in front of her. “I didn’t catch your name?”
“Delarosa, Ma’am.”
“Officer Delarosa. You know better than that.” I sat back and nodded, smiled at her. “When is the happy occasion?” she asked. Katie and I exchanged a glance. “The wedding?” She smiled at Katie. “You did say fiancée, right?”
“Oh. Yes, yes I did.” Katie buried her left hand in her lap under her purse. “We’re deciding. It’s all a little new at this point.”
“Claire, I hope she comes,” Margaret said.
Katie hesitated. Mrs. Finley smiled again. “Claire. I hope she comes. To the wedding.”
I jumped in. “Oh, yes, we do too. Thank you so much. You’ve been quite helpful.” I stood and grabbed Katie up by the arm. “Shall we, dear? We’re back to square one.”
We thanked her again, shook hands, and though the bursting bustline begged at my eyes, I looked her straight in the eye and smiled.
Chapter
39
Katie and I sat in my car, discussing what to do next. After ten minutes, I sent her off on an errand and told her to meet me back at the bar. There was now no doubt that I had to bring all the players together somehow. I called Claire’s phone again. Didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t get one. I wasn’t sold on the ransom—she could be playing along with Rosso, and I was starting to get an idea. Brindisi was the weak link. If I could get him to see reason, I could get us out of this without anybody getting killed.
I hoped.
I called the phone number Brindisi provided; he didn’t answer. I left a message, told him the situation was life or death—his. I also said I would keep my promise and make sure he gets paid. He’d call back. He needed to feed his habit and his big meal tickets were me and Rosso.
I went back to City Salvage. A CLOSED sign was on the door but it opened when I pushed. Tony was behind the counter, sitting in his spot but no cigar in his mouth and no sports page in front of him. His eyes were red.
“I’m going to sell the club,” he said, without looking at me.
“Tony, you shouldn’t make that kind of decision right now. You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’ll give Millie a deal. She’ll buy it.” Millie was the sixty-five-year-old functioning alcoholic with the bleached roots and a neck tattoo who ran the club for Tony and protected it like it was her own.
“Give yourself time.”
“What’s the point? I always worried that I would go first and leave Sammy behind. I never thought he…”
“Tony, you have to give it time.”
Tires crunched on the gravel lot outside. “Would you lock the door for me?”
“Sure.” I locked it. We heard the customer approach, try the door, then go back to the car and drive off.
“What would you do?” he said.
I pulled a stool over to the counter and sat across from him. “Tony, I’d want revenge. I would kill anyone in sight who had anything to do with the murder of my brother.”
“Good, we’re in agreement.”
“Tony, we’re not killers.” He looked away. “I want to draw them out, and I want you to help me. You’ll get justice, just no killing.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Tony, listen. What will killing them get you?”
“This all started when you stirred up about the money. And Rosso is back? How did he find out about this?”
“He’s part of it. He brought Claire in, or she pulled him in.”
“You’re giving him too much credit. She reached out to him.” He reached under the counter for the bottle of bourbon and two glasses. “And he brought in Brindisi, who can’t keep his mouth shut. You know it.” He poured two drinks.
“Yeah, I do,” I said. We both downed them. He poured two more.
“Brindisi was in the club the night after Sammy got killed. Is he that stupid? He’s running his mouth about him landing a big score. He’ll be easy to take apart. I’ll break him in half, just like he broke Sammy.”
“Tony, there’s no doubt in my mind, but you have to be smart about this. Let me take care of this. I’m going to end this real soon.”
“We’re drinking which means we’re friends, but if you bring the cops around, I will come down on you.”
“No cops—until we have to.” He shook his head. Threw back another shot. “Please?”
“You have one day. Then I go after Rosso first, Brindisi second.”
“I’m going to call you in a bit. Need your help tonight. Okay?”
He didn’t say a word. Just sat there, staring at the wall as I left. I didn’t know whether he would help me or not. If he snapped, there was nothing I could do about that—and I couldn’t blame him either.
Chapter
40
I called Brindisi’s number again while I drove and he answered. “You got yourself in deep, Brindisi,” I said.
“How so?”
“You listen to me. Rosso will give you up in a second. If you think he’ll cut you in, then you’re a bigger moron than I took you for.”
“Go to hell.”
“What was the point of cracking me on the head last night?”
“What are you talking about?” he said, hacking in the background.
“Where’s Rosso holding Claire?”
“Like I said, what are you talking about?”
“Where are you?” He was silent. “Brindisi? Is Rosso there with you?”
“No.”
“Where are you?” Again, silence. “You do realize you’re cornered. The police are triangulating your position with the cell phones. I’m the only one who can help you now. Where are you?”
I heard voices and music in the background. He didn’t say anything for a minute. I guess making an attempt at thinking. “Lucky’s.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be there in five minutes. You better be out front.” I closed my phone. It didn’t matter whether he would be there or not; I only needed to scare the hell out of him. And also remind him he hit the wrong guy on the head last night.
What this case needed from the beginning was luck and I was lucky that I was only a few minutes from Lucky’s. A dive bar on the edge of town, it catered to redneck bikers and lowlifes like Brindisi. Harley Davidson fat boys and Ford pickups filled the small, gravel parking lot. I drove in and watched him for a minute as he paced around in a circle, talking on his cell phone. I pulled next to him and he ended his call. I reached across and opened the door. “Get in.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re an accomplice to kidnapping. Get in. I’m your only way out.”
“Son of a bitch, Delarosa.”
He got in, and I pulled out of the lot. “Who were you talking to?”
“My mother.”
“Don’t be cute.” I went two blocks and turned in to an alley that ra
n along the back of an old, closed-down factory. I stopped the car, got out and went around his side. I flung open the door, yanked him out by his shirt collar and slammed him against the building. “You try to take my head off last night?”
“No!”
I took a step back and smashed a right hook against his jaw. His head snapped around and he crumpled to the ground. I stood him back up and pinned him against the wall. “This is nothing compared to what Tony Scarazzini will do to you.”
“Who’s he?”
I smacked him against the building again and the little weasel went into one of his repulsive coughing fits. “Jesus, why are you not dead yet?” He was doubled over with his hands on his knees, hacking and gasping for air. I brought my right foot up hard in his solar plexus, which landed him on his back. He rolled over, and I couldn’t tell whether he was choking, screaming, or dying.
His convulsions subsided after a minute, but he was still on his side, curled in a ball. I knelt beside him, gripped his neck and pushed his head into the dirt.
“Let’s try this again. Sammy Scarazzini. What happened?”
“An accident,” he said, in a raspy, halted voice. “Just supposed to scare him, but the idiot stepped out in front of me.” I ground his head down harder. “True. I swear. I didn’t want to hurt nobody.”
I got up and he rolled over on his back. “Get up.”
He crawled on all fours for a few feet, leaving a trail of blood and saliva that dripped from his mouth. He made his way to my car, pulled himself up using the open passenger door and plopped down on the seat with his feet hanging out.
“Don’t get blood on my car. Where’s Rosso?”
“No idea.” He wiped his mouth and face with his sleeve. “Fuck, man, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did. Just be happy it’s me and not Tony. Now, where’s Rosso?”
“He don’t tell me nothing.”
I slammed the car door against his knees and he yelped in pain. “Try again.”
“I swear. I always met him at this shithole motel where he works. Harbor something…”
“And he just called you after all these years?”
“He was in a bar one night. A couple of weeks ago. I kind of recognized him but wasn’t sure. He looks different. Then I realize it is him and he remembers me. He starts talking about some big score going down. All secret. A few days go by and he calls me and asks if I want some work. Like the old days.” He winced, grabbed his side. “I think you broke my rib.”
“You got off easy.” He bent over, putting his head in his lap, hugged his ribs. “Hey.” He lifted his head and his face was pale, paler than usual. “I want a meeting with Rosso. Tonight. Do you have a phone number?”
“He would call from the motel.”
“Here’s the deal. You set up a meeting. Tell him I have what he wants in exchange for Claire. You do that and I’ll keep Tony Scarazzini from breaking you in two. And after tonight, my advice for you is to be on the first bus out of town.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You’ll be begging for a broken rib.”
I yanked him out of my car and threw him to the ground.
He moaned, rolled around, and then struggled to his feet. “I won’t forget this, Delarosa.”
“I want to hear from you in one hour.”
“I can’t call him. He always calls me.”
“One hour. Find a way.”
He staggered down the alley; every few yards he would turn around and look at me. I stood beside my car and waited until he got to the end and turned on the street toward Lucky’s.
He’d call.
Chapter
41
I pulled into the Harbor Court Motel parking lot twenty minutes after leaving Brindisi staggering down an alley. I hustled to the office and went in with my old police badge out in front of me. Leaning on the front counter was an overweight young woman in her twenties with stringy, mousey-brown hair, wearing gray sweatpants and a white tank-top that barely covered her black bra and beer gut. She looked up from her phone and I didn’t give her a chance.
“Detective Delarosa. I’m looking for Karl Boyd. Is he here?”
“Umm, no.” She put her phone on the counter.
“Where is he?”
“I—I’m not sure. I’m actually filling in for him.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Yeah. Here.”
“He lives here?”
“In the back apartment.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s the manager.”
“What’s your name?”
“Candy.”
“Well, Candy. Which way is the apartment?”
“Right there.” She pointed to the office. Off the front desk area was a small office, and on the back wall of the office was another door. “He’s not in there.”
“Mind if I knock myself?”
“I don’t think—”
“Thanks.” I went around the counter, through the office and pounded on the apartment door. “Boyd? PCPD.” I waited a few moments and knocked again. Nothing happened.
“I told you.” Candy had come back to the apartment. “Don’t you need a warrant or something? I don’t think you can just come in here.”
“Is that what you think?” I said. “What if I said you are impeding a criminal investigation?”
“Umm…”
“If I bring a warrant, it allows me to search your purse, too. Is there anything in there you don’t want me to find?” Her dull, brown eyes went wide and a dumbfounded expression took over her face. “So we’re okay, then?”
“Uh huh.”
“Boyd, PCPD.” I pounded on the door. I never expected to find him. Rosso living at the Harbor Court explained why Katie couldn’t find an address for him. I did hope the Mensa candidate behind the counter would tell him the cops were after him. It might work.
I followed Candy out to the front desk and the word PINK was written across her wide ass in large, purple block letters.
“Do you have a cell phone number for him?”
“No, only the number here. I only call him here. I just started a week ago. He told me he needed part-time help ’cause he has some other job.”
“Okay, tell him Delarosa was looking for him.”
She picked up a pad and a pen. “How do you spell that?”
“You’ll figure it out.” I had already broken all kinds of “impersonating an officer” laws, so I split. I turned back as I got into my car and she was still writing.
I called Brindisi while driving back to McNally’s and he answered on the first ring. “Your hour is up.”
“I told you, he calls me.”
“Not good enough.”
“Delarosa, c’mon. All I do is to go around the motel where he works, and I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“He has my car.”
“The Lincoln is yours?”
“Yeah, and I need it. Man, I’m steppin’ out of this. If you find him, tell him I need my car back.”
“Not happening, Little Al. You’re in this whether you like it or not. It’s only a matter of time before the cops make the Lincoln as the car that ran down Sammy. Be smart. I told you I can help you, but only if you help me.” The noise and clatter of a bar played in the background. He was probably still at Lucky’s. “You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Put me in touch with Rosso. You have thirty minutes.” I ended the call.
I pulled into the alley behind McNally’s, parked the car in the garage and went in through the back. My phone rang as soon as I got to Katie in the booth. It was Brindisi—exactly twenty-nine minutes into his thirty-minute deadline.
“Just telling you I can’t locate him. Like I said, he calls me.”
“Meet me in the alley behind Club Cuba tonight at eleven. Make sure Rosso is with you.”
“Why, to get beat up again? I don’t think.”
“If you can’t find Rosso, at least save yourself.” I hung up.
“Was that Brindisi?” asked Katie.
“Yep. The poor sap is scared, doesn’t know who or what to believe. How did you do on Boyd?”
“Nothing on one Karl Boyd. No criminal records, no traffic tickets, nothing. No real estate.”
“Because he doesn’t exist. He’s Rosso. You won’t find anything. What about Brindisi?”
She pulled a file out of her pile and opened it.
“We could paper a room with his rap sheet. Every little crime you can think of. Nothing big, though. He’s never done time.”
“Address?”
“Says no known address.”
“Not surprised. How did you do on your errand? Did you find anything?”
“You’ll be pleased.”
“Perfect. Now, I need to think through how much I want you involved.”
“No thinking. I’m ready.”
“I’ll decide that. I’m going up to the condo for a bit. Wrap it up here and come up and we’ll talk.”
I got upstairs and realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. In the fridge were three beers, a few slices of Genoa salami, and a half pound of provolone cheese that was two days past its sell-by date. I ate the salami and cheese and drank a beer. I craved a bourbon, but I needed to keep a clear head for what was coming.
Katie came up, and after we went through the plan for the night, I sent her home for the rest of the day and told her to meet back at my place at ten. I made two more calls and reassured myself that the plan would at least motivate Brindisi—or scare the hell out of him. I didn’t worry about him turning tail and running, either. He had no money and no place to go. His circle of influence didn’t have a big circumference.
I stretched out on the sofa with my hands behind my head. Rosso made a mistake pulling in Brindisi. Rosso (or Claire?) needed someone to handle the grunt work in exchange for enough cash to fuel his habits, but he forgot that Brindisi’s loyalty was like a dog’s. The dog was loyal to whoever fed him. All I had to do was offer Brindisi a better doggy-treat.