Body on Pine

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  Following Shuster’s directions I entered a vestibule and faced a panel of call buttons. When I pressed the one he’d indicated, his voice crackled over the intercom.

  “That you?” he asked.

  “Depends on who you’re expecting,” I said.

  “Can’t be too careful, Fontana.”

  The jarring buzzer sounded and the door was unlatched.

  Shuster’s office took up the first floor. Empty at this hour, everything was silent, but you could see it was a slick operation. The building was in great shape and better than you’d expect for a political nightcrawler like Shuster.

  I walked through a room of dimly lit cubicles and saw light spilling from a partially open door. Pushing the door in all the way, just in case one of Shuster’s thugs was standing back of it, I entered keeping an eye out for anything strange. He appeared to be alone.

  “What’s this all about, Fontana?” Shuster’s double chin wobbled with anger. “I don’t have time to play games with you.”

  “You had time to play games with Brad.”

  “What’re you talk….? We’ve been all over this. You pulling some kind of shakedown right before the primary?”

  “We didn’t cover the territory I just discovered, Shuster.”

  “There’s nothing else. I told you everything. Brad was my masseur. That’s it.”

  “Funny thing about the Internet. It never has memory loss and everything you think you’re doing in secret might as well be plastered on a billboard over I-95.”

  “Are you telling me the little shit recorded my massage sessions?” Shuster’s voice was strangled as he stood and pounded a fist on the desk.

  “Nah. Brad wasn’t like that. If you’d taken a little time to get to know him instead of using him, you’d have seen that.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” He leaned forward, propping himself with his knuckles on the desk. “You said you had something important. Now you say it’s old news about Brad. I wish I’d never contacted the shit.”

  I stared at him a while, imagining how such a squat, arrogant butterball would look in an orange jumpsuit. “So, tell me, Shuster. Are you in the habit of paying ten grand for a massage?”

  “Ten…?” Shuster looked confused for a moment then the anger returned. “What are you talking about? I paid his usual fee.” Hand out palm up, he swept his arm around as if he were showing the room to a prospective buyer. “What I put into this office, does it look like I have much left over for a ten thousand dollar massage?”

  “Looks like the classy nest of one of those things you see crawling the streets late at night. Doesn’t matter what the place looks like. You paid Brad ten thousand dollars several times.”

  “You need to pay for serious psychiatric help.”

  “Records don’t lie, Shuster. Especially bank records. You made several electronic transfers into Brad’s accounts.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Maybe you cut a few corners so you’d have the dough for a massage you’d never forget?”

  “You’re talking out of your hat, Fontana. I don’t have that kind of money to throw around.”

  “Oh, I know, bucko. I know just how much you have. Which begs the question, where’d you get the money to lavish on Brad?”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t lavish any—”

  “Save it, Shuster. I’ve got the records in black and white. I can have them printed in any color you want. It’s gonna say the same thing in every color: you transferred money into Brad’s accounts.”

  “You’re bluffing. Trying to get me to admit to something I didn’t do.”

  “I can have it in the hands of the press in an hour. You know how they crave juicy stories like this. The downfall of a political power player. You’ll be a household name for a few minutes, then you’ll sink into oblivion.”

  Shuster stared into the distance behind me and said nothing.

  “So I’ll ask again. Where’d you get the money and why’d you give it to Brad?”

  “Don’t you know?” Shuster snorted his contempt. “I thought the all-knowing Fontana and his Internet soothsayer knew everything.”

  “We’re workin’ on it, bucko. You can save us a lotta time if you tell me now.”

  Shuster’s piggy little eyes flashed with a cold anger.

  “Okay, then,” I said and turned. “See you on the front page.” I took a step toward the door.

  “Hold on.” Shuster suddenly sounded tired, drained of everything.

  “Truth coming back to you?”

  “Truth is I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Here we go—”

  “If the information you found looks like it came from me, then I’m being framed.”

  “Who’d frame you?”

  “I make enemies. More than you can count on fingers and toes. In politics you’ve got to develop eyes on the back of your head and everywhere else. There are so many people who want things… money, favors, jobs, you name it.”

  “Me, I want answers. So, I’m askin’ again, who’d blackmail you?”

  “There are people who’d want to sink this campaign.”

  “Which, Kelley’s or Nussbaum’s? You work for both of those jokers.”

  “Kelley’s campaign. He’s running for the Senate. I just consult for Nussbaum. He’s small potatoes. His House seat is a go nowhere position. Nobody cares who’s in it.” Shuster said.

  “So you’re sayin’ Terrabito wants to wipe Kelley off the playing field?”

  “Yes. His assistant Nolan is an underhanded player with a killer instinct.”

  “Kinda like you.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever. Terrabito’s not the only one. Wheeler hated Kelley. Who knows why, but he did. So did Berwick. That’s practically the only thing Wheeler and Berwick agreed on.”

  “You used to work for Wheeler, right?”

  “A few years, which is how I know his thinking. He wanted Terrabito to win the Senate seat. He probably saw the race tightening up and he had access to lots of things.”

  Shuster sounded sincere, but I’m not a trusting soul. Even if he was telling the truth, he wasn’t telling the whole truth. My Italian blood wouldn’t let me believe him.

  “Who else wants Kelley to lose?”

  “I don’t know. Could be half a dozen people. You have to let me think about this before you shoot off your mouth to the press.” His voice had faded to a dry hollow sound and he sat heavily in the chair behind his desk. Cradling his head in his hands he was silent.

  “I half believe you, Shuster. But only half. Maybe you’re right and somebody’s framing you. So, why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”

  Shuster didn’t answer.

  “Tomorrow, Shuster. Figure out who else might want to pull you and Kelley down, and call me. I don’t hear from you tomorrow, then bright and early Monday morning I’m headed to the Inky and the Daily News. They’ve got some sharks there who need a meal, and this is juicy stuff.”

  Chapter 30

  It wasn’t easy believing Shuster was framed. Who’d benefit by putting him in a squeeze? If it looked like Shuster paid Brad lavish amounts, reporters would have a field day and Kelley would be out. Could be Shuster had kinky sexual things to hide and paid to keep Brad quiet. Could be he was making payments for Nolan. Or, it could be he was making payoffs on Kelley’s behalf. Any way you cut it, that would kill Kelley’s chances in the primary. If that was the motive, then Wheeler and Terrabito were back up on the suspect list. They both hated Kelley and wanted him to lose.

  I was convinced that part of Shuster’s story was a lie. Even if he was ignorant of the money transfers, which I doubted, he knew something he wasn’t divulging. Which meant he was either covering for someone or protecting himself. One other possibility was that Shuster knew everything, the money transfers and more, but couldn’t tell the truth because whoever dropped that money on Brad had some kind of hold over Shuster.

  By
the time I reached Bubbles my head was spinning with possibilities, and I needed a drink. I slipped through the doors just before closing and snagged a beer from one of the bartenders. The show had finished, customers filed out in a noisy unorganized way, and Stan’s cleaning crew started their work.

  I poked my head into the dressing room as I passed by but it was dark and empty. The guys usually left before the patrons for obvious reasons. Sometimes there were stragglers. Not tonight.

  My office was equally empty and dark. Anton had probably left with the dancers. I flicked on the lights and sat in the chair. There was no muffled thumping of music from the bar, no teasing and shouting from guys in the dressing room, no laughter filtering up from the first floor. I felt totally alone and isolated. I hadn’t expected Anton to wait, but somewhere deep down I wished he had.

  I gulped down the beer, gathered Nina’s papers and the rest of my things, then went down the stairs to exit through the bar where the crew was hard at work.

  A bar is a strange place, if you think about it. Open every day, a home away from home for a lot of people, and nothing much in itself without them. Bubbles right now was an empty shell. Bring in the dancers and their fans, the bartenders, the bouncers, the barbacks, turn on the music and the lighting, and suddenly it was another world. Self-contained and, even if an incomplete world, Bubbles gave the appearance of being everything a guy needed for a while. A party, a place to forget, a place to be alone with his thoughts in the midst of a crowd.

  A few of the cleaning crew waved as I walked past and I nodded, not in the mood for conversation. I walked out the door and headed home.

  I was getting closer to figuring out what’d happened to Brad. Things were fuzzy though, and I needed clarity. Shuster was involved. I had to believe Branko was, too. How to connect them still escaped me.

  It was difficult for me to believe Wheeler had anything to do with Brad’s murder but if he had been involved, something had gone terribly wrong that night at the spa.

  I walked through the doors to my building expecting to find Grace at the front desk, saw Carlos there instead. “How’d you get the late shift on a Saturday?”

  “Emergency. Grace got sick or her kid or something. I’m on call this weekend. We all take turns. Just my luck.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “Hey! Wait a minute, Mr. Fontana.” His eyes lit up and he held out his hand like a stop sign.

  “What’s up, Carlos?”

  “Somebody left a package for you. Hold on.” He disappeared into the back room.

  It wasn’t Sorba’s way to send more than one dead animal per person he was threatening. Maybe Matus and old Dusty Voice had left me some stomach turning warning in a box.

  Carlos held a rectangular package in his hand. “Got it right here.”

  Wrapped in brown paper and tied around with twine, it reminded me of old fashioned parcels you’d see in old movies. When Carlos placed it in my hand, I realized it must be a book.

  “Thanks, Carlos.” I smiled and turned the package over inspecting it for markings. There were none.

  “Gonna open that?”

  “You remember who left this for me?”

  “It was here before I came on tonight. Maybe one of the other guys remembers. You can ask ‘em tomorrow.” He eyed the package. “Leavin’ anonymous packages like that is unusual.”

  I fiddled with the twine but the knot was unworkable.

  “Got a scissors?”

  He whipped out a pair of scissors so fast, I was astonished.

  “Now we get to see what all the mystery is about.” I cut the twine and slipped off the brown paper. It turned out to be three slim daybook-diaries for this and the two previous years.

  “That’s it?” Carlos seemed disappointed.

  “You expected a magic lamp or something? A beautiful genie? I don’t lead that kind of life, Carlos.”

  “You have a pretty exciting time, you ask me. I hoped it was something interesting.”

  “I’ll let you know how interesting these are after I read them.” I waved as I moved to the elevator bank.

  I flipped through the books as the elevator took me to my floor. They were Wheeler’s personal daybooks and there appeared to be a lot of entries. The person who’d left the package hadn’t included a note, but I figured it was Caragan. He’d been bothered by the implication that Wheeler was involved in something criminal. I had a feeling he’d keep searching for answers after our talk. Maybe he’d found something useful.

  It was late but the idea of sleep had vanished as soon I’d unwrapped the package and saw its contents. There was no way in hell I’d be able to set the books down then fall asleep not knowing what secrets they held. After slipping off my clothes, I padded around in my underwear making coffee and rummaging for something to snack on while I read.

  A yellow legal pad, a couple of pens, and the daybooks lay on the table waiting as I plunked down the coffee and a croissant I’d forgotten about which had lost all its oomph.

  Though I wanted to start with the weeks leading up to the murders, I knew the explanation for Wheeler’s actions could lay in the months before that. There was no way to skip the earlier entries.

  Flipping through, I noticed that Wheeler kept clipped but precise notes, except when it came to names. Sometimes he used initials instead of whole names.

  In first daybook, Wheeler’s notes held nothing unexpected. He’d made entries indicating his participation in community projects. I saw Xinhan’s name mentioned several times in conjunction with Chinatown projects. Wheeler believed in Xinhan’s ability and honesty. “He has my confidence. Steered other developers to him. Developers I trust.”

  Several months of entries were dedicated to the mundane business of dealing with contractors, local governments, developers, and politicians. In July of that year, things were different.

  “The Chuffe Group will never get the Northern Liberties Tutto Mondo underway. Anders was furious at lunch. Two property owners refused Chuffe’s offer. Every week’s delay puts the project in jeopardy. Chuffe’s funds will evaporate,” Wheeler had written.

  A week later, Wheeler wrote, “A. says they found the perfect compromise. The Tutto Mondo deal will happen. He offered to include me. I refused.”

  The next day: “Either The Chuffe Group is darkly lucky or something else is going on.” He detailed the accidental death of one of the holdout owners and the capitulation of the other.

  Two months later Wheeler mentions meeting “a beautiful young man. Has dreams of owning a spa.” They’d apparently met at a business networking meeting which eventually developed into Connections, a once-a-month networking meeting. Brad had impressed him but there was no sign he’d intended to invest in the spa.

  I slugged down some coffee and took a bite of the mushy croissant. Bleary-eyed, I continued reading. Wheeler mentioned Nussbaum, Terrabito, Kelley, and other politicians as being encouraging. After reading more of his notes, I understood that “encouraging” was Wheeler’s word for politicians trading favors for contributions. That was all the first volume held.

  Early in the next volume, Wheeler mentions using Brad’s massage services, and noted each visit. Wheeler never hinted at anything remotely like sex in the sessions.

  Other entries mentioned disagreements over methods with other development firms, chiefly Berwick, Inc. and The Chuffe Group. Wheeler didn’t spell out the methods he referred to.

  I ate the rest of the croissant and decided I needed more caffeine to finish reading the daybooks. Whether I’d make sense of them was something caffeine wouldn’t help.

  A couple of months into the next year, Wheeler indicated he’d decided to invest in Brad and the spa. “I must confess to being enamored. I know my assistant is more than enamored. Not entirely sure about Brad’s business sense but he’s a worthy person. This is an investment my heart wants even if my head doesn’t agree. So be it.”

  That answered a few questions I had.

  Wh
eeler had filled the February section with notations on developments around the Philly area and side notes on fellow developers. Few came off in a good light. The Chuffe Group was singled out as “unscrupulous and greedy.” He considered Remy Berwick “untrustworthy but unavoidable.” Wheeler mentioned meeting with two former employees, Shuster and Nolan. He didn’t spell out what they’d met about but it looked like politics. Both of them vying for his political and financial support. Terrabito, Kelley, Clarke, even Mayor Stroup had come to visit Wheeler. Each with his hand out for a campaign contribution. Even in his private notes, Wheeler was too cagey to hint at the candidate he liked best.

  Midway through the second volume, Wheeler made a note about projects stalled because of property disputes. “Our turn to sweat. Berwick is partnered with us. We won’t take a financial bath alone.”

  He said property owners on three different projects were “being difficult.” According to his notes, he was willing to make deals which would cost more. But not his partners. “Berwick refuses to spend more for the property.” Wheeler noted that Berwick claimed he would find another solution. “Remy will go the political route. He thinks politicians are in his pocket and they think all of us are waiting to be used.”

  In May, Wheeler noted Berwick’s suggestions. “Remy wants to bring the Branko Company in. I know about Branko. His concerns are not open and above board. He has a criminal mind and uses any means to get what he wants.”

  Several entries later: “Berwick is on notice that I will have nothing to do with Branko’s company.”

  Reading Wheeler’s notes gave me a different perspective on the man. He painted himself as the only one opposed to Berwick and other developers. Wheeler intimated that Berwick and the others resorted to “things I have no desire even to enumerate here.”

  That could mean anything but when you couple that with the number of “accidental” deaths found in those articles, and the association with Branko, it was easy to draw certain conclusions. Some developers were in bed with Branko, a man whose violent past they all knew about. The question nagging me was whether Wheeler had written the truth about himself or had made a false record to keep his reputation intact and avoid possible legal ramifications.