Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “Unless you have reason to believe the weasel killed Camwyck, I’m gonna stick to the clues we have.” I got up to go inside. “I’m also surrendering the porch to the insects.”

  We turned on the news while we reviewed our case and made plans for tomorrow. “I want to be in on any of the interviews that look promising. Somebody has to know more about how the victim conducted business.”

  Tip was staring at the TV. “You hear this shit? The First Lady selected a guy from California as her drug czar.”

  I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume just in time to hear them repeat the guy’s name. “Pete Ramirez! That pussy?”

  “Jealous?” Tip asked.

  “The guy’s a wimp. I met him at that convention in LA last year and all he did was cry and whine about police brutality?” I poured a drink for me and one for Tip, handing him his.

  “Not even a little jealous?”

  I smiled. “Maybe a little.”

  Tip slugged the drink, nodding. “Me too. When I heard they were looking for someone to run the drug operation, some little part of me wanted that job. But I would have hated leaving Texas.”

  “Really? You like it here that much?”

  He seemed to give it serious thought, then shook his head. “I like it all right, but that’s not why. Somebody killed my mother a long time ago and the case has never been solved.” He took a gulp, a long one. “I intend to find out who did it.”

  I didn’t know what to say, wishing now I hadn’t brought the subject up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right. There shouldn’t be secrets between partners. That’s what my last partner told me.”

  “Was that Connie?”

  “Gianelli, yeah. Damn good partner. Gutsy lady.” He was silent for a few seconds, then said, “It was me fucking up that got her hurt. Almost got her killed.”

  I knew she’d gotten hurt on a case they were working, but this other was news to me. “You still talk to her?”

  “I do, but I’m surprised she talks to me.”

  “Mistakes happen,” I said.

  Tip shook his head. “Bullshit. I fucked up. We were on a cold case. The guy who worked it originally was a piss-poor detective who was just putting time in until he retired. I knew that—and I didn’t bother checking his data. If I had, I might’ve caught the son of a bitch before he got to Connie.” Tip got up, rinsed his glass and set it in the sink. “Enough of this reminiscing bullshit. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I walked him to the door, holding it open as he went down the sidewalk, but suddenly he stopped and turned.

  “Forget something?”

  He walked back slowly. I could tell he had something on his mind.

  “When did that woman in Dallas die?”

  “A few days ago. Might have been Wednesday. The file will tell us the day, assuming the medical examiner’s report is in there.”

  “That was the day the First Lady was in Dallas. And if I’m not mistaken, Coop was there.”

  I thought about what he said, and the way he said it. “Yeah, she was, but don’t be going down that road. There’s no way Coop did this.”

  “Yeah, but Cybil was there too.” Tip turned and headed toward his car, then he stopped and turned. “It’s something to think about. That’s all I’m saying.”

  CHAPTER 29

  CHECKING THE FACTS

  Houston, Texas

  All the way into town I thought about the new drug czar the First Lady had announced. I had to admit I was pissed, but I had no reason to be. There was no way I could’ve been chosen. I knew that, but the dreams lingered—like how people dream of winning the lottery every time they buy a ticket.

  As I thought this, I realized that I was probably just thinking of anything to keep my mind from pondering on what I’d done to Rico, or more precisely, Rico’s family. I didn’t give a shit about Rico, but I did feel sorry for his wife and kids.

  For the last few miles I focused on clearing my head, and by the time I arrived I was reoriented on the case.

  I arrived at the station before Tip, and had coffee brewing by the time he got there. Fat Charlie had eaten his way through most of the cinnamon rolls. I figured the next time I’d hide the bag until everyone got there. I poured myself a coffee, then headed to my desk to review the Dallas file. After a quick scan, I called Santos.

  “Santos, this is Cataldi down in Houston.”

  “Did you look at the file?”

  “I went through it quickly. By the way, you should have our file by now. They sent it a few minutes ago.”

  “What’s it look like?” Santos asked. “Same guy?”

  “It might be. We’ve got a lot of similarities, probably too many for a coincidence, but some things are missing, too.”

  “What’s missing? I only saw the short file on your victim before I called you.”

  “When you look at the whole file you’ll see what I mean. The body parts on our victim were inserted into different parts of the victim. We kept that back from the public. Some of the other things that we kept quiet were also different.”

  “Shit,” Santos said. “It could be some wacko who happened to see it in the paper and decided to do one himself.”

  I digested what Santos said. “If we’re down to guessing, then I’m guessing you don’t have much to go on.”

  “Nothing. Her apartment was ransacked but nothing of value was taken.”

  “Did you find a computer?”

  “Not yet,” Santos said.

  “How about an address book or a list of clients.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Our victim had no cell listed to her, which we found strange, but we’re still searching. We’ve also got the phone company pulling her home phone. We’ll send you the calls as soon as we get them. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Fat chance is right. By the way, did your victim have a cell?”

  “Phone company has a record of one. We’re waiting on the list. I’ll get it to you.”

  “How about a car. She have one? Did you find it?”

  “She had one according to DMV records, but we haven’t found it. No keys in the purse either.”

  I perked up at the mention of a purse.

  “You found one with the body?”

  “In the same dumpster as her legs.”

  “We didn’t find a purse. She had several in her condo, but there was no way she went out dressed like she was without her purse.”

  “I hear you on the purse thing,” Santos said, “but somebody could’ve lifted it from the dumpster before you got there.”

  “Yeah, but it’s more likely the killer took it. He tried hiding our victim’s identity, and he went out of his way to do it. You’ll see it in the report.”

  I then told Santos about our anonymous caller and how that led to the ID.

  “And you have no idea who the caller is?”

  “No idea. And you’re the only one besides me, my partner, and our captain who knows about this.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it to myself. And I’ll call if we get anything else.”

  I hung up and went to get more coffee. As I turned the corner I heard Charlie’s voice. It sounded like a whiny plea for mercy. Tip must have found the empty bag.

  “I swear, Tip. I only had two,” Charlie said.

  “Two my ass. Two dozen is more like it. I ought to make you jog down the street to get more.”

  “Come on, Tip, cut it out. Besides, if you got in at a reasonable hour, there’d a been some left.”

  I held in the laughter and refilled my cup.

  “Charlie had a point. It is the middle of the day.”

  “Fuck you, too,” Tip said.

  I went back to my desk, Tip showing up a minute later.

  “I can’t believe he ate all the rolls.”

  “I know you can believe it because you’re the one who warned me about h
im.”

  Tip laughed. “I guess I did, huh.”

  “So where were you?”

  “None of your business.”

  I could tell I was getting to him, but I didn’t let it show. “Stop by and see that poor little doggie?”

  Tip held it in for as long as he could—about five seconds—then he burst out laughing. When he stopped, I prodded him again.

  “What’s his name?”

  “I told you, he already had a name—Sacco. And he’s a good dog.”

  “When’s he going home with you?”

  “I haven’t said I’d take him. I just went to check on the damn dog.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Probably.”

  I didn’t laugh. I figured I’d save that for another time. I did fill him in on my conversation with Santos, though.

  “Maybe we’ll get something. By the way, did we get anything from the people working on Camwyck’s clients?”

  “We’ve got three teams on it,” Tip said, “And Julie’s got the description of Camwyck’s car out. But so far, no leads.”

  “We ought to get it on the news,” I said.

  “Our good citizens will find it sooner than we can. I mean, after all, how many blue Fords can there be out there?”

  “All right, smart ass. I’ll get a reporter on it.”

  “You gonna use Roberts?”

  “We’ll use somebody else for this.”

  We spent the rest of the morning working on Rusty’s and Cybil’s alibis. Rusty checked out and his alibi was unbreakable, and Cybil’s alibi held good at least until eight or eight-thirty. That left a small window but it was pushing the time line. Rusty told us he got home a little before 1:00 and Cybil was already asleep. I looked over to Tip, shaking my head.

  “I can’t see her going home to change, going out and killing Camwyck, then butchering her and dumping her in two cans, then going to bury her and still getting home before 1:00.”

  “Be a rugged job even for a couple of men, let alone one woman. Although she is a tough son of a gun.”

  “That was kind of you, Tip—the son-of a gun part, I mean.”

  “I’m in a kind mood today.”

  “Sacco have anything to do with that?”

  “I should’ve never said anything to you.”

  “So I guess we’ll have to cut Cybil and Rusty loose as suspects,” I said.

  “Unless Rusty is covering for her, but I can’t imagine why he would.”

  I stopped and looked at Tip. “What time did Rusty say he got home?”

  “A little before 1:00.”

  “Didn’t we determine the body was dumped at Starbucks after 1:00, something about an employee emptying the trash?”

  “Damn,” Tip said. “I think we need new suspects.”

  “Now you’re talking,” I said.

  We worked the rest of the day interviewing Camwyck’s “clients” but every one of them had alibis for one murder or the other. We had told Santos we’d check a few alibis for the victim in Dallas while we checked ours.

  A few of the clients reluctantly told us what they paid for services, and we learned it wasn’t Camwyck they were paying for, but girls she had working for her. Turns out Camwyck was nothing more than a high-end pimp. She charged between $500 and several thousand per night, plus expenses, which included a nice hotel room, dinner, wine, and a gift of some sort, the gift being something as simple as chocolates and flowers to one client’s gift of diamond earrings.

  “This lady had it made,” Tip said. “I’m going to be a pimp in my next life. Or maybe a whore.”

  “You’re a whore now,” I said. “You just don’t know it. Besides, at those rates, they’re not called whores, they’re escorts, or companions, or some such nonsense.”

  “A rose by any other name…”

  “Damn, I’m impressed. I didn’t know you read books.”

  “I don’t. I just remember what I see on TV and repeat it.”

  As we debated the merits of books, which is when I discovered Tip actually did read—mostly mysteries and Texas history—Delgado called.

  “Hey, cuz. We’ve got a possibility,” he said. “One guy’s alibi for Camwyck didn’t check out, and he has no alibi for Dallas.”

  “Motive?”

  “How about three calls from Camwyck the week before she died. And his secretary said they were on the phone a long time. She also said he was pissed-off after the last call.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s got no record, but we checked with a few people who know him and they say he’s been moody, almost frantic, the past few weeks. It’s been worse since Camwyck died.”

  “Why don’t you let him sit today. Let him think he’s okay while we gather more information. We’ll pick him up tomorrow and see what we can sweat out of him.”

  “He’ll lawyer up,” Delgado said. “You know that.”

  “Is he married?” I asked.

  Delgado nodded. “With two kids.”

  “He’ll talk—if he wants to keep his wife out of it.”

  “He can hire a lawyer without her knowing.”

  “I’ll let him know that she’ll definitely find out. Trust me, he won’t call a lawyer.”

  “Okay, cuz. Your call.”

  “Stop calling me cuz or I’ll pull out the “Ribs” nickname.”

  “Si, primo,” Delgado said, and laughed. “You afraid somebody’s gonna find out you’re nothing but a home boy?”

  “We’re cousins by marriage.”

  “Same thing where I come from. Once you’re in the family, you’re stuck.”

  Delgado was still laughing when I hung up the phone.

  I filled Tip in on the new information and while we were talking Santos called, giving us an update on his end and asking a few questions about our victim also. I said goodbye to Santos, then Tip and I went through what we had.

  “So we’ve got semen in our victim, and none in Dallas.”

  “But ours could have been from the night before,” Tip said.

  I looked through the notes from Santos.

  “Her cell had six calls the day of the murder. Four in the morning, one to her neighbor, one to a local deli, the hair salon and the cable company. She got two incoming calls from an unknown number, one early afternoon and another in the evening, just before six. And it was the same number.”

  “I don’t imagine we have an ID for that one?” Tip asked.

  “No such luck. And we still have no idea where Camwyck’s cell phone is. Burners are the only explanation.”

  “What about a family plan?”

  “What?”

  Tip stood and paced. “Suppose she was on someone else’s plan—like Rusty’s.”

  I scribbled a note in my tablet. “I’ll get Julie to check on that first thing tomorrow. It sure would be nice if that was the case.”

  “What else have we got on Dallas?” Tip asked.

  I looked back through the notes. “Her place was small, well-kept, paid for. No bills to speak of and a closet full of expensive clothes. She had a large-screen TV, a great stereo and—according to Santos—a great wine selection.”

  “I’ll bet that son of a bitch sampled some, too.”

  “Don’t complain. You got the dog.”

  “We still think it’s the same guy?”

  I nodded. “Their medical examiner said the weapons were different, but the same type. More importantly, though, the same body parts were cut off and stuffed in the same human receptacles.”

  “And nobody knows about that,” Tip said. “We’ve got the same killer. Make a note to have Julie check VICAP for matches. If this guy is on the move he could be going anywhere.”

  CHAPTER 30

  A NEW LEAD

  The phone rang on Fat Charlie’s desk. He looked at his watch—not even seven o’clock yet. “Hello?”

  “Officer, I have someone on the line who asked for Detective Denton. He said he’s calling
about the pictures in the paper.”

  “I’ll take it,” Charlie said, and then, “This is Detective Charles Masterson. How can I help you?”

  “I saw that picture in the paper and thought I’d better call. I was up there that night, and I saw a pickup down under the Cypress Creek bridge.”

  Charlie jotted notes down as the man talked. “Are you sure it was the same night?”

  “No question. We had a big storm blow in that night, and I caught it on my way home.”

  “Can you describe the vehicle? Charlie asked.

  “It was a brand new F–150 Super Crew. White, with a short bed. I remember thinking how sweet it looked and wondered why the hell someone would take a new truck down under the bridge.”

  “What about the time?”

  “About midnight, close as I recall.”

  “Sir, do you mind giving me your name, so I—”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Sir, if you’re worried about your name getting out, it won’t. This will remain confidential.”

  “Officer, I been around long enough to know there ain’t much in life that’s confidential. Truth of the matter is, I was up there with another woman, and there ain’t no way I’m givin’ my name because sure as shit stinks it’ll leak and my wife will find out.”

  As Charlie thought about what to say, the man said, “One more thing, best as I can tell two of the numbers on the plate were six and eight.”

  “Six and eight? You’re sure about that?”

  “Can’t swear to it, but I’d place a small wager.”

  “Sir, if—”

  “Sorry, but I gotta go. Hope you catch the crazy fuck who did this.”

  Charlie drank three cups of coffee while waiting for Tip to get in. When he heard him, he rushed past Karl and Julie and pulled a chair up to Tip’s desk. “We have a lead,” he said. “A good one.”

  Tip looked as if he might laugh, but he didn’t. “What have you got, Charlie?”

  “Somebody called in off the pictures in the paper. He said he saw a pickup down under the Cypress Creek bridge on Kuykendahl on the same night as the murder. And the time fits.”

  Tip leaned toward Charlie. “Did he give you a description?”

  Charlie looked at his notes. “He said it was a brand new F–150 Super Crew. White, with a short bed.”