Body on Pine

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  “Selig.” The nasal voice was abrupt.

  “Mr. Selig. My name is Fontana. I’m a private investigator.”

  “What?”

  “A private investigator. I’m calling about Brad Lopes.”

  “Don’t know him,” Selig said.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Mr. Selig. I said Brad Lopes of the DreamSpa.”

  “Nope, sorry.”

  “You were a client there. I’ve got your…” His name was on the client list.

  “You’ve got me confused with someone else.”

  Next thing I heard was dialtone. I made a notation. If I had to, I’d visit Mr. Selig in person and see what he had to say then.

  A Mr. Toricelli was next.

  “Hallo. What can I do ya for?” he said. His voice spoke of a happy go lucky guy.

  “Mr. Toricelli?”

  “You got him. Whaddaya wanna do with him?”

  “Marco Fontana. I’m a private investigator.”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  “I was hoping you could help with an investigation.”

  “Now you are shittin’ me,” he laughed. “Help with an investigation. Who put you up to this? My brother-in-law?”

  “Unfortunately, no, Mr. Toricelli. I’m investigating the death of Brad Lopes. I believe you knew him?”

  “Sure I know him. He can’t be dead. I just spoke to him a couple days ago. Made an appointment. He’s a great guy.”

  “You saw him in April, right? April twenty-fifth.”

  “If you say so. I know it was April. I go once a month and good ol’ Brad helps readjust my back, if you know what I mean.” I imagined him winking theatrically at me.

  I was all too sure I knew what he meant.

  “You recently made another appointment?”

  “Yeah, sure… once a month. Like clockwork,” he said then paused. “You say he’s… dead? That… can’t be.” His voice lost some of the joy and life it held a moment before.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Toricelli. It’s true. He was killed last night.”

  “He can’t be… I don’t know where I’m gonna find a guy nice as he was. Y’know? We… we were… he was…” He trailed off and became silent.

  “Was there anything different you noticed when you spoke with him about your appointment?”

  “Nah, Brad was always Brad. Nice, caring guy. Made the appointment and that was that. One of the things I liked about Brad. No fuss.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary when you saw him in April?”

  “Same great massage as always. Nothing strange, just good.”

  I crossed Toricelli off the list and did the same song and dance with the next seven clients. Like slogging through mud. No one knew anything. At least the ones who admitted they’d been clients. A few of them were saddened by the news and one choked up when he spoke about Brad.

  None of them were his actual friends but some were long-time clients according to Brad’s notes so they could have known him well. His habits, subtleties of his behavior. Massage, even legitimate massage, is an intimate act. You get to know one another after a long association. I hoped one of his clients might have detected something out of character with Brad. Something that may not have made sense to them but might help me. So far, it hadn’t panned out.

  Luke ambled into the office, list in hand, disappointment on his face.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I have exactly nothing from any of them.”

  “Not even Shuster or Ricky Sorba?”

  “Great reactions from both of them, even funny if this wasn’t so serious,” Luke said. “Shuster had some words for you when I told him I called on your behalf.”

  “You mean he called me Fontana the Sweetie Pie?”

  “He said you were a rotten, nosey son of a bitch.”

  “And Dead Snake? What’d he have to say?”

  “After I’d explained why I called, he said, ‘Fuck you, faggot.’ and hung up.”

  “Nice man. I’ll make sure to look into him personally,” I said.

  “The rest of the guys on my list didn’t remember a thing. So they said.”

  “Pretty much the same story for me. A lot of people were out. I still have calls to make.”

  “Give me half your list,” Luke put out his hand.

  “You sure? I mean…”

  “I’m sure. I want to get the bastard who did this.”

  I handed him a couple of sheets. “Any luck finding Johnny on your list?”

  “No. Not one Johnny.”

  Jean-Claude rushed into the office waving a paper.

  “Got something. Mr…. uh… Marco. This is something,” he said, eyes bright, a serious look on his face.

  “Slow down Jean-Claude. Let’s see what you have.”

  Luke gazed at Jean-Claude but said nothing.

  “What’ve you got?” I smiled. He seemed so boyishly innocent it was difficult to be angry with him. Which was not a quality I liked in myself but I couldn’t help it.

  “I think I have what do you call it? The clue?” He read from the page he had. “A Mr. Fillmore says maybe he saw someone bothering Brad, eh?”

  “Bothering Brad? What’d he say? Exactly.”

  “The day he has the appointment with Brad, he says some guy tries to get into the room. This is… he says this creeps… how does he say this?” Jean-Claude paused. “Yes, he says this thing ‘creeps him out’? This is an expression, no?”

  I nodded.

  “He says Brad tells the man to leave but the man bangs harder the door, until Brad says he will call the police. Then the man leaves, eh?”

  “Did you get Fillmore’s address? I need to talk to this guy.”

  “Of course.” Jean-Claude handed me a page with the guy’s name and address.

  “Good work, Jean-Claude. Ready for more?”

  He looked as if he couldn’t believe I trusted him with more work.

  “Here’s another page.” I gave Jean-Claude the remainder of my list. “You and Anton can finish up. I’ve gotta see what Fillmore has to say.”

  On the way out, I tossed the spare office keys to Luke. “If I’m not back in an hour, lock up for me, will you, cutie?”

  “Will do, boss,” Luke said, smirking. Even a smirk looked cute on his face.

  Chapter 6

  I raced to the parking garage in my condo building and didn’t wait for the valet workers to get my old BMW.

  Figuring I’d call Bart Fillmore as I drove, I activated the new GPS system for directions to his place in Manayunk. I didn’t need a GPS device, but an old client gave it to me as a gift and I thought I should use it. The directions had me driving through center city and up the Parkway.

  I’d punched Fillmore’s number into my phone before I left the office so I could drive and talk without fuss. He answered almost as if he expected my call.

  “Mr. Fillmore? This is Marco Fontana.”

  “Your assistant said you’d call.”

  “I’m headed out your way, Mr. Fillmore. If you have a few moments, I thought we could talk before my next appointment.” I wanted him to think it’d be a quick conversation. Less likely for him to refuse.

  “If you don’t mind talking while I work. I’m getting ready to open a business and we’re already behind schedule.”

  “As long as you can work and talk at the same time, I can listen.” I wasn’t about to let my most promising lead get away. “What’s the address?”

  “Near the corner of Main and Levering. You’ll see a shop with a bright red awning. That’s me.”

  I disconnected and followed the robotic female voice of the GPS device.

  Manayunk is a unique part of Philly. Not far from the downtown, it has the feel of a small town. It’s a cozy part of Philly I hardly ever get to but when I’m there, I soak up the amiable atmosphere. Hilly streets and steep inclines, twists and turns, give it a compact character worlds apart from the rest of the city.

  The directions had me pulling onto Main
Street in short order and Levering Street came up quickly. For a small fortune, I left my car at a parking lot on Levering. They know when they’ve got you by the short and curlies.

  You couldn’t miss the red awning with “Bart’s” in white cursive. I stepped into the shop and spotted a jolly, overweight guy in denim overalls directing several young workers. I figured the supervisor had to be Fillmore.

  The noise of hammers and electric saws filled the place giving me a flashback to a childhood memory of my father’s lumber mill. I smiled with the memory and inhaled the sweet smell of fresh lumber. Wooden curlicues skittered away as I approached the guy in overalls.

  “Hey, there,” the roundish man called out to me. “You must be Fontana. No mistaking your Italian looks.” When he said “Eye-talian” I knew he wasn’t originally from Philadelphia.

  “Right the first time,” I said, extending my hand. “Thanks for taking the time to talk, Mr. Fillmore.”

  “Call me Bart. Let’s go outside.” He moved quickly out the door. When we got to the sidewalk, he said, “No need for everybody to know my business.” He winked. His large, apple pie face was comforting. He smiled and I got the feeling he was somebody everyone felt they could trust. Which made him dangerous.

  “I know you’re busy, Bart, so I’ll make this quick.”

  “Yeah, no problem. Your assistant told me Brad was dead? Murdered? How’s that possible? I mean, the guy was so likeable.”

  “We don’t know anything for certain yet. That’s what makes you so important.” Never hurts to flatter but in this case, as my only lead, Fillmore was important.

  “Well, anything I can do, y’know. Brad was a friend.”

  “You knew him a while, then?”

  “Several years. I was one of his first clients. Nice guy. Never made an issue of my weight. Some masseurs won’t touch a fat guy.”

  “When’s the last time you had an appointment with him?”

  “Back in April. I know because I couldn’t get my usual appointment for a coupl’a weeks. Brad said he was on jury duty and his schedule was backed up and would I mind scheduling two weeks later than my usual. So I drove in for an early evening session.” He paused, smiled, and appeared to be reliving a pleasant memory.

  “You had your session and…?” I tried moving him along.

  “But… Brad was kinda nervous. Like I said, he’d been on jury duty. The trial was over but he complained about all the time he’d missed. I felt for the guy, y’know. I understand business.”

  “I gather something happened during the massage?”

  Fillmore placed a hand to his chin and closed his eyes. He exhaled then looked at me. “Well, I wouldn’t call it something, it was something but nothing big.”

  “Was this when you first got there?”

  “No, not right away. Everything was normal. I let myself in and sat in reception like always, only this was at night so everything looked different. Felt a little strange. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Brad came and took me to the large massage room. He left and I got undressed and hopped onto the table. Well, not hopped exactly. Guys my size don’t hop, ‘cause when we do, things happen. I was on the table when he came back in. Sometimes I think he’s got a peephole ‘cause he comes in right after I get onto the table. Every time. He just knows when I’m ready.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Brad started that relaxing music he plays in the background, made sure the air was scented with something nice and began the massage. But it was all wasted.”

  “Wasted?”

  “As soon as he started, someone came pounding at the door. Ruined everything.” Bart’s expressive face registered annoyance. “I was half asleep, y’know? The atmosphere made me drowsy and I was falling asleep. That pounding woke me up and I looked up at Brad. He seemed frightened. At least that’s what it looked like to me. I guess he could’a just looked surprised. Fine line there, y’know? He was probably surprised. Anyway, he was disturbed.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He just stood there for a minute. The guy kept banging on the door. Lucky he always locks the door.”

  “How’d you know it was a guy?”

  “Because Brad called out and told him to go away. And the guy yelled back. It was a guy’s voice, so that’s how I know it was a man. He said he wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Did Brad open the door? Did Brad ever say the guy’s name?”

  “Brad never opened the door. Told the guy he was going to call 911 and the guy pounded again.” Bart paused, seemed to be trying to remember. “Yeah, then Brad went over to the door. I remember because he was standin’ there and flinched when the guy started pounding again.”

  “You’re sure Brad didn’t open the door? You never saw who was out there?”

  “The way that guy was pounding on the door, even a hunk like you wouldn’t open it and let him in. Brad kept that door locked.”

  “Then the guy just goes away…?”

  “He didn’t. Not right away. Brad stayed near the door and mumbled something.”

  “A name? Something you remember?”

  “He was talkin’ kind of low. It was hard to hear. I think Brad called him something like Matt or Max. Sometimes it sounded like Mattsz. Like I said, he was mumbling against the door. Couldn’t hear clearly. It started with an M, that much I remember. M-something… coulda been Matt, coulda been something else but it started with M. Who could hear straight anyway? I was tense… hell, I was scared. There I was naked on a table and this crazy man is pounding at the door. I don’t know what I heard. I wasn’t hearin’ right is all I know. I was afraid the guy would break down the door. Then what would I do, naked as a jaybird?”

  “Matt or Max? That’s what Brad said?”

  “Could’ve been Mazz or Mattsz. There was some kind of z-sound sometimes when he said it. Brad’s voice was shaky and he was up against that door mumbling. He was on edge. Like I was. Maybe worse. Nah, I think I felt worse, after all I was the one naked on the table. At least Brad had his clothes on.” Bart chuckled.

  “You sure Brad didn’t say the name Johnny?” It was worth asking.

  “Johnny?” Fillmore seemed to swirl the name around in his mouth trying to remember. “No. Nope. Not even close. I’d’ve remembered because my niece just had a baby. Named him Johnny. No that wasn’t it.”

  “The guy never entered the room?” Sometimes you ask the same question and you get a different answer.

  “Nooo. No siree. Gawd, that woulda been awkward. Brad never opened the door. He yelled again about calling the police and the pounding stopped.”

  “The guy say anything after that?”

  “Yeah, kinda scary. He said whatever it was, it wasn’t over. That Brad was going to pay for what he did. Sounds scary crazy to me, don’t it to you?”

  “How’d Brad react to that?”

  “He was shaken up. Asked me if I minded waiting a few moments for him to calm down.” Bart laughed. “Shit, I needed to calm down myself so I knew he had to be rattled.”

  After talking a bit more, I left Bart to his work. He’d begun looking like he wanted to get back to his shop and I needed to move on the information he’d given me.

  The drive back to center city felt a lot longer than the ride up. Probably because I wanted to get to work finding this guy Max or Matt or Mazz or whatever his name was. Sounded like the thug might know a lot.

  I needed to get back to my office in a hurry. So this time, I allowed my building’s parking valets to take my car and said a silent prayer I wouldn’t find a new dent or ding when I picked it up the next time.

  I had the vague feeling something was wrong or off-kilter but I couldn’t figure out what. When I reached the corner and saw the sleek black Ford parked, illegally I noted, outside the building. I knew what that odd feeling had meant.

  I had unexpected guests.

  Chapter 7

  The car’s t
inted windows kept its secrets well. I’d find out who was in there soon enough. Strolling by the car and into the tiny lobby of the office building, I figured my uninvited guest would be at my back before the elevator arrived.

  I was wrong. The elevator arrived at the same time as Denny Shuster tapped me on the shoulder. He was agitated. I saw his puffy, haggard face in the mirror next to the elevator. I guess staying up late working on campaigns while worrying people will discover you’re gay takes a toll.

  “What’s up?” I said without turning around. Shuster’s reputation for being a major shit to a lot of good people didn’t make me feel the need to be courteous. I knew what was up. He wasn’t happy about having been called earlier.

  “What’s up is my dander.” Short and stubby, with one too many chins framing his baby face, Shuster could barely contain the fury in his voice. “We need to talk, Mister.”

  “Sure thing. Just call my secretary on Monday and make an appointment. In case you hadn’t noticed, today is Saturday and I’m not here.” I stepped into the elevator and turned to hit the button for my floor.

  Shuster made as if to enter.

  “Uh-unh, bucko. Private office. Step out or I might not stay so polite.”

  The chubby little politico quivered with rage but didn’t make another move.

  “You listen to me, Fontana. Stay out of my business. And if any of this, any of this at all, gets to the wrong ears, you’ll wish you’d been born on another continent.” Shuster turned and stomped out, a gesture that, for his size and weight, was comical.

  The elevator door closed and I was zipped up to my office. Luke and the others were gone but they’d left notes on my desk. Seeing the paperwork reminded me about Anton and Jean-Claude. Had they gone home together? Was there something brewing between them? I stopped those thoughts dead. I had no business wondering anything about them. I hadn’t earned that right and yet I felt a sense of loss.

  I needed to forget. I needed to concentrate on the case and on finding Matt or Max or Matz, whoever he was.

  After scanning the client list, I found no Max and no name even close to Matz but there were three named Matt. The notations Anton and Luke had left next to the names indicated these clients were fans of Brad. Of course, even fans do crazy things. So I couldn’t ignore them.