Body on Pine

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  Despite the fact I didn’t know Vega, I couldn’t shake the feeling his name gave me. There was nothing connecting him to Brad’s murder. Except that Vega’s murder pushed Brad’s case off the table. I tried forgetting about Vega for a moment.

  Papers, folders, bills, and the pastry stared up at me from my desk. I picked up the plate, closed my eyes, and breathed in the sweet aroma of almond cake. Placing it back on the desk I pushed it to the side. That would be a reward for actually getting some work done.

  I couldn’t ignore those names. I took out a sheet of paper and wrote: Smithson Wheeler and Peter Vega. I hoped staring at them would focus my mind. It didn’t. They meant nothing to me in and of themselves. Except they were both dead. But they weren’t dead in the same place or at the same time.

  Wheeler had been in the spa and might’ve been there as a client, even if he wasn’t listed as one on the night of the murders. That was the logical place to start for Wheeler. The journalist was another case entirely. His body was found miles away from the spa, on a different day. Nothing made him useful to Brad’s case as far as I could see.

  Olga would undoubtedly come up with information. Even with my office door closed, I could hear her keyboard squealing under her meaty fingers. She’d find something or that keyboard would collapse under her efforts.

  I needed to work Brad’s files to see if Wheeler appeared anywhere in them. I started with the client list and searched on Wheeler. Sure enough, Wheeler appeared in the client list. Had regular appointments, too. He was also listed in Brad’s address book, but only with a number and the notation: “private cell phone” next to it. Maybe Brad and Wheeler had some dealings outside the massage room. Few clients had listings in both the client database and the address book.

  As a regular client, it was odd that Wheeler hadn’t been listed in the appointment book for that Friday evening. If he’d been a last minute walk-in, it was the unluckiest choice the guy’d ever made.

  If he wasn’t there unexpectedly, then what was he doing at the spa? A romantic interest? From what I knew of Brad and his taste, Wheeler wasn’t his type. There had to have been some other connection. I recalled Brad talking about looking for investors when I’d asked how he was managing the mortgage and renovation expenses. Maybe Wheeler was a financial backer.

  It was odd Brad had no investor files. On the other hand, Wheeler might have been his only investor or could have wanted it kept secret. I’d have to run that down.

  Wheeler’s name teased me from the screen. Smithson Wheeler. A classy name and, from the photo I’d taken, it appeared as if, in life, he’d probably been a classy looking man. You could almost see that in the picture, if you didn’t count the being-dead thing.

  But there were still questions. Who was he to Brad, and what was he doing at the spa that night?

  I tooled around in Brad’s files a while longer and saw again that he left notes with the names of most clients and contacts. Sometimes a few words but often a few sentences describing the type of massage the client liked, what kind of pressure, what oils or lotions they preferred. He’d noted client health considerations like asthma, diabetes, heart or other conditions. Brad also left notes about frequency of visits, whether or not the guy was a good tipper, or if he was a decent person and not a weirdo.

  Two or three names had either no notes or only a sketchy phrase without detail. A person named Carney popped up several times. His name, a time and date, along with the notation: “showed up again.” Carney never had an appointment, and didn’t have an address or phone listed. J. Hoyer and R. Blitzer, appeared in a contacts file. Brad noted that Hoyer had “potential as a backer” and Blitzer was an “annoying salesperson.”

  One possibility was that Brad had told Charlie, his substitute, something about these guys.

  Since the phantom Charlie hadn’t returned my calls, I assumed he hadn’t yet returned. I decided to leave another message anyway. Dialing his number, I realized he might not know about Brad’s death, and I’d have to break the news to the poor guy.

  Placing the receiver back in its cradle, I continued puzzling over the names Wheeler and Vega. They still buzzed around the edges of my mind, the answer just out of reach.

  Olga buzzed the intercom.

  “Is Detective on line for you,” she said and put the call through without waiting.

  From the serious tone of Olga’s voice, I knew I’d hear Giuliani’s voice and I wasn’t wrong.

  “Just giving you a heads up,” she said. No greeting. Straight to the point.

  “Good afternoon, to you, too.”

  “Not in the mood to spar, Fontana. Since Brad Lopes was your friend, I wanted to let you know what’s been happening.”

  I was suspicious. The old Gina would make a call like this. Once upon a time, when we were friendly. The new Gina was about to let me know, without saying it directly, that Brad’s case was being assigned a lower priority. She obviously didn’t know I was already aware of what was going on.

  “Not much is happening, I gather from Detective Shim. Or was he just being close-mouthed?” I thought it would be good to hint that her guy wasn’t giving away secrets without her say so. That way, she’d pat him on the back and he’d keep doling out information to me.

  “We’ve got a name on the dead guy you found in the spa. Other than that, we’ve got nothing. The lab is still processing trace evidence. That’ll take a while. I don’t have a lot of hope they’ll find much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It was a spa. Everybody and his grandfather was in and out of the place. It’s like processing a hotel lobby. We have too much trace and it’ll give us a lot of nothing. The bodies will tell their own story. I’m waiting to hear from the coroner.”

  “So… what’re you saying, Gina?” I knew but I wanted her say it. Not that she would.

  “I’m saying we’ve got nothing. It’ll be slow going. We’ve got our hands full and not enough people to do the work.” Her voice was tense and she hadn’t corrected me for using her first name. That meant something, too.

  “In other words, you’re putting Brad’s case on a back burner.”

  “Not my words, Fontana. We’re still investigating. Just wanted to let you know where we were. It’s not an easy case. There’s too much we don’t know yet.”

  There was no use pushing her. I knew the deal and I knew how to handle things. Gina’s a smart woman. She had to know I wasn’t going to let this case go. I was hoping somewhere deep down she wanted me to jump into the investigation. Nah, that’d be too much to ask.

  “What was the dead guy’s name?” I asked pretending I didn’t already know. I like to play the game.

  “The… why’re you asking?”

  “You know me, Gina. I like knowing things.”

  “Yeah, well, this is one thing you don’t have to know yet. Keep your shirt on and I’ll get back to you. Like I said, we’re overloaded.”

  “Just don’t forget I’m here, or that Brad was a friend, Gina.”

  She hung up without saying good-bye or that she’d keep me in the loop. Didn’t matter. I was making my own loop.

  I glanced at the computer monitor. Before Gina called, I’d been thinking about Wheeler and Vega and trying to figure out why those names kept doing backflips in my head. Wheeler was a client, maybe even a backer. He was relevant to the case. But Vega wasn’t connected to the whole mess. So why did his name keep rolling around in my thoughts? I couldn’t shake the feeling that Vega had some significance, and that got some wheels turning.

  Brad had always left a note of some sort, even if it were only a name, in his appointment book. He’d been a little compulsive in that, but it also served as a business record and a bare bones diary. Which meant he’d have left some note of Wheeler’s visit the night of the murders. Even if he was a last minute walk-in, there’d have been some notation. That’s when I remembered the only note Brad had left about visitors he’d had on Friday night.

  I turned to my
computer, opened the folder with my pics from the crime scene and found the photo of Brad’s day book showing two sets of initials: “SW” and “PV”

  Bingo!

  Chapter 14

  The initials in Brad’s daybook matched the initials of the two dead men, Smithson Wheeler an Peter Vega. There was no way those initials meant anything else. Not even coincidence, which I never buy, could account for that.

  Olga was still tracking information on Wheeler. In the meantime, I couldn’t ignore the possibility that Vega had been in Brad’s spa. I’d bet my grandmother’s silver that Vega was there following a story and not getting a massage. Another possible lead. Things were looking up.

  Tapping a few keys, I pulled up AllNewsAllNow.com, Vega’s online employer. The page flashed onto the screen with a screaming, huge headline: “Peter Vega Murdered” I skimmed the story just in case they had information I could use but they were as clueless as everyone else about the details. They didn’t even seem to know what story Vega was working when he was murdered.

  All News All Now’s contact page gave phone numbers, e-mail addresses and a street address. I decided to skip calling and drop in on Laura Leahy, the Editor-in-Chief. I like starting at the top.

  I sailed through the office. Olga, still engaged in slapping her keyboard around, hardly noticed me until I neared the door.

  “Boss comes back soon?” She tilted her head and looked in my direction, her eyes having that, bleary, been-staring-at-the-computer-too-long look.

  “Later on.” I glanced at the wall clock. “You need me for something or…?”

  “I am maybe having report on businessman. Some are calling him king of pins. Many sites are saying he is big in cheeses. So far, I am finding no cheese or pins. But Olga keeps looking.”

  I smiled. “Take it easy, precious. You’re the only secretary I’ve got.”

  “Is true.”

  I winked at her and left the office.

  All News All Now had an office in an old commercial building on Walnut near Sixteenth. The city was littered with aging office buildings housing tiny business ventures. With the success of All News All Now, I’d have thought they could afford classier digs. Internet fame doesn’t often translate into big bucks.

  Claustrophobically small, the threadbare lobby had probably never looked good. A speck of a guard’s desk with no guard faced the front door, next to it a battered directory with letters knocked askew or missing, and two rickety-looking elevators. I hit the call button.

  When the elevator arrived, a woman dressed in what looked like a tattered blanket sauntered out. She wore a bicycle helmet from which her frizzy hair was trying to escape and carried a leather briefcase.

  The odor of something pungent suffused the elevator and stayed with me until the door slid open and I entered a corridor only marginally better than the lobby. The combination of cheap carpeting, peeling paint, and crackling fluorescents overhead made for an eerie downbeat atmosphere. It was hard to believe this was home for one of the Internet’s brighter stars.

  I moved down the hall scanning signs until I came to an old oak door with a cracked plastic sign: “AllNewsAllNow.com”

  Knocking, I pushed open the door and was faced with a fair-sized office, a couple of desks, a long table on the right supporting three monitors, and windows looking South which lit up the room considerably. Odors of stale smoke and food filled the air.

  Curls of cigarette smoke rose above one of the monitors which was strategically placed on a desk facing the door, preventing visitors from seeing who was behind it.

  I cleared my throat. Loudly.

  No response.

  Cautiously I moved toward the coils of smoke rising with increasing frequency. When I was near enough to see the woman sitting behind the desk, I cleared my throat again.

  A gasp. A cough.

  Expelling clouds of smoke from nose and mouth, the woman half rose from her chair and turned her startled gaze on me.

  “You oughta get a buzzer,” I said. “Or one of those bells visitors slap so it rings when they’re about to creep up on you.”

  “Who the hell are you?” she snapped, stubbing out her cigarette angrily in an ashtray piled with abandoned cigarette butts. “You another cop? Somethin’ about you says cop.”

  “Close. Private Investigator. Marco Fontana.” I stretched out a hand.

  Her dark eyes flashed suspicion. She stood in a defensive posture. Dark hair against her pale complexion gave her a faded appearance. Sharp eyes and a generous mouth were set in a pleasant face. There wasn’t a lot of trust in that face but I figured that went with the job. In her thirties she appeared older, probably because of the black circles under her eyes. Her bone-tired look probably due to the late hours she must keep making All News All Now successful.

  “Laura Leahy.” She squeezed my hand. “You sneak into offices a lot, Fontana?”

  “Only when I have to. This place, I didn’t have to, the door was open.”

  “Damn. I always forget that and I shouldn’t. The guard at the desk is as useful as a toothless Yorkie.” She snorted. “All News All Now makes enemies. I have to watch my back.”

  “Peter Vega seems to have made some enemies,” I said.

  “He had a knack, but…” She sat back down and indicated I should find a seat.

  I half sat on the desk next to hers.

  “You were saying…”

  “I’m gonna miss Pete. He was one of my best. His work was miles better than what passes for journalism in the mainstream media. His stuff was red meat. Always took risks. Found details no one else could.” She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away from me and over her shoulder. “And, yeah, he made enemies. When you expose the truth you make enemies.”

  “Any idea what story might’ve gotten him killed?”

  “Who’re you workin’ for, Fontana?” She took a long drag on her cigarette and kept the smoke down a long time.

  “I’m working another case. Trying to see if they’re connected. Short answer is I’m not working for anybody connected to Vega.”

  “I see. You don’t give much away, do you? I’ll bet you want lots more than you give.” Leahy stubbed out her half-finished smoke. “What can I tell you? I told the cops everything I know which is zilch.”

  “How’s that possible? You’re his editor. Wasn’t he working assignments for you?”

  “That’s not the only way we do things here.” She turned to survey her office. “You see anybody but me?”

  “No.”

  “Most of my reporters work on their own terms. I make sure they know what’s important to cover. I give assignments to a few. My best, they work their own beats. They’ll give me a heads up on stories they’re following. I make sure there’s no overlap. Even if they stumble onto the same story, they always have different angles. I usually iron everything out. It works.”

  “Vega? What was his beat?”

  “Vega was special. He’d proven himself to me. I gave him latitude to do whatever he wanted. Besides…” She brushed ashes from her blouse.

  “What?”

  “Vega had sources. Sources he never talked about. He got stories no one else could or did. So I gave him plenty of room. No one complained.”

  “Must work, you guys are a success.”

  “Tell that to my bank account.”

  “So you don’t know what Vega was following when he was murdered?”

  “Like I said, most of my reporters tell me what they’re working on. Vega… Vega was different.”

  “More secretive?”

  “More paranoid.” She looked at me as if she’d said the wrong thing. “Don’t get me wrong. He was smart. An ace. He knew what he was doing. He just didn’t like anybody else knowing until he was ready.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Hey, if I knew things like that, I could make a fortune in another career.” She pulled another cigarette from her pack. “Could be he had leads stolen in the past.
Could be he was just eccentric. The Internet is a funny place. Hard to keep secrets. But Vega never got scooped.”

  “Any of his other stories ever result in physical violence.”

  “Police asked the same thing and I’ll give you the same answer. No. Not that I was aware of. Threatening calls. Nothing recent.”

  “E-mail threats?”

  “He said he’d gotten some on past stories. After the fact e-mails. You know, like, ‘You’ll be sorry.’ Stuff like that. We never got any real threats here that I remember. Run of the mill stuff. Most people like to shoot off their mouths and that’s the end of it.”

  “Who’d know what he was working on? Even if he was paranoid, he’d have to have a confidante, right?”

  “Wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She puffed away on her cigarette which seemed more like a pacifier than an addiction. “We got along fine but he never told me diddly about stories until he turned them in.”

  “He didn’t have a place here in the office?”

  “Does this look like the city desk at the Times? Nobody’s got a place here but me. Sometimes when I need tech assistance, I clear out space for her and her gang. Otherwise I’m the only one tied to this desk.” Leahy eyed her dwindling pack of cigarettes.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Vega had a laptop, of course. It was like his best friend and mistress at the same time. Never went anywhere without it. Shame they didn’t find it when they found him.”

  “I’m guessing it’s at the bottom of the Schuylkill,” I said.

  “That’s just what the cops said. They’d searched his place before they came here looking for the same stuff you’re looking for. They came up empty and they weren’t too happy when they left here either.”

  “Did he ever work with anyone? Another reporter?”

  “You kidding?”

  “You’re sure there’s no one…”

  “There was someone he’d take along sometimes when he was finishing up a story. I guess by then Vega was sure no one else could get a handle on the piece if word got out. Far as I know he never told the guy much of anything.”