The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  “I’m early,” she said. “And you’re even earlier. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Shall we find a place and sit?” I asked.

  “Down to business. I like that.”

  I let her lead the way into the lobby/lounge, as if I had any choice. She chose a corner with a leopard-skin loveseat and a chair that looked like a big, high-heeled shoe. It was metal and didn’t seem to have been designed for sitting, but she went straight for it. Maybe she liked pain.

  “How is your investigation coming? Have you found your murderer?”

  “My investigation is going well,” I said.

  “Did you check my alibi?”

  “Of course.”

  “And did it check out to your satisfaction?” Her tone was slightly mocking.

  “It checked out.”

  “But not to your satisfaction.” Her skin seemed particularly translucent in the early afternoon light that came in through the patio doors. She was so pale, like a soapstone statue.

  “An independent sighting would have been more satisfying,” I said. “The people who claim to have seen you all work for you.”

  “And here I thought you invited me out to tell me I was off the hook.”

  A slim man with long sideburns who had been wandering about stopped by. Turned out he was a waiter. Vanessa ordered a Metropolitan. I asked for my customary sparkling water and couldn’t wait to see what kind of bottle came out. I knew it wouldn’t be Poland Spring.

  We settled back into our quiet conversation. “I’ve found out some new things about you, Vanessa. About your clients.”

  She sat back in that horrible chair, crossed her legs, rested her elbows on the armrests, and made a steeple with her fingers. She pointed it straight up under her chin, and I could tell by the way she waggled her leg that she knew where I was going. And she was ready. “I have many clients. I manage their money. Where they get their money is of no concern to me.”

  “I’m talking about your other business. You launder drug money for a living, your biggest client is Ottavio Quevedo, you use Jimmy Zacharias’s repair stations as sinks, and I believe you know who killed John McTavish.”

  Her sedate, satisfied smile made me think she was not surprised, but pleased, at last, to be given full credit for what she was and what she did.

  She raised her eyebrows. “And…?”

  “And I’m here to ask for your help in catching the person who murdered John.”

  “You want to bring him to justice?”

  “Call me an idealist.”

  “Very well. Let’s take these items one at a time, shall we?” She glanced around the general vicinity. The closest patrons were two knife-thin boys shooting pool in the corner. One of them had a lizard tattooed on his shoulder blade.

  “You are correct,” she said. “I do provide a service to individuals with a specific kind of problem related to their cash flow, and Ottavio is a particularly active user of my services. I know of Jimmy Zacharias through Ottavio.” She leaned forward. “And why on earth would I help you do anything?”

  “You skipped a point, the one about how you know who killed John.”

  “Jimmy killed your friend.”

  I had expected her to say that, whether it was true or not, but not so quickly and not without encouragement. “What did you say?”

  “I said Jimmy killed your friend. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? But I find that point to be irrelevant, unless you can convince me that it’s not.”

  The waiter slinked by and set down two drinks, including my bottle of water, which was a tall, frosted glass cylinder. I’d never seen one like it. I waited for him to clear out.

  “How do you know Jimmy killed John?”

  “Arturo saw him at the hotel that night.”

  “You said Arturo was with you on the island.”

  She blinked at me over the martini glass and I knew if she hadn’t been sipping, she would have been smiling.

  “Did Arturo see the murder?”

  “No.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “That’s a long and complicated story.”

  “I have a big bottle of water to drink,” I said. “At least thirty-two ounces.”

  She sighed and I wondered if I was going to have to whip out the discs to encourage her. Somehow I thought not. “Will you stop bothering me if I tell you?”

  “I’ll stop bothering you when I get what I need from you.”

  She turned her head to watch the boys playing pool. Like all pool tables, this one was covered in green felt, but not billiard green. Olive green. She let her top leg bounce a few times and didn’t seem anxious to leave. When she turned back, she looked as if she was ready to gossip. “Several weeks before that night, I was contacted by Ottavio and told to use his funds to make a loan to Jimmy. A rather substantial loan.”

  “A loan for what?”

  “Something to do with parts. I don’t know. I hate that business. It’s filthy and the people in it are filthy scum, Jimmy chief among them. I pay him and I pay him well not to use those businesses that way and he does it anyway. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Was the money for the Sentinel parts?”

  “Was that the unfortunate incident in Ecuador?”

  “It was.”

  “Then the answer is yes. As I understood it, Jimmy was to use the money to get an organization in place to refurbish and sell a large quantity of parts. A highly speculative venture if you ask me, especially for someone who claims to be so risk averse. Ottavio never invests in my funds. But he didn’t ask me.”

  “Why would a drug lord get in bed with Jimmy on a parts deal?”

  “Jimmy talked him into it. He kept telling him what a great business these parts were. Ottavio was on the fence, but he was intrigued, and then an airplane dropped out of the sky practically on his head. He took it as a sign.” She shrugged. “What would you expect from an ignorant drug dealer?”

  “Was he thinking of making a career change?”

  “He was thinking of diversifying.” She had already downed over half of her Metropolitan. The elixir seemed to loosen her tongue, although it was also possible she’d been dying to share this story with someone. “And, as I understand it, Jimmy also promised him several hundred cases of AK-47s if he would provide the backing on this job. Jimmy has access to those sorts of things.”

  “Tell me about the murder.”

  “All I know is this. Jimmy’s been paying the loan back to me in installments. The night your friend died happened to be a night Jimmy owed us a payment. I sent Arturo to pick it up. Jimmy wanted to meet him at The Harmony House Suites.”

  “Why there?”

  “He said it was convenient for him because he had other business there that night.”

  I felt a tug in my stomach, picturing what the other business had been.

  Vanessa continued. “That’s why my Volvo was seen in the parking lot. It was Arturo meeting Jimmy to pick up that week’s payment. Nothing more than that.”

  “We haven’t been able to put Jimmy at The Suites that night.”

  “I know he was there because Arturo came home with the money.”

  She had answered all my questions so quickly and logically, I had to regroup and find more loose ends. “Did Arturo have any business that night with George Speath?”

  “George Speath?”

  “Speath Aviation,” I said. “One of your sinks.”

  “No. We normally don’t do business that way. Only with Jimmy.”

  “Why would Jimmy have used Ottavio’s MO for the murder?”

  “Because he’s a very clever boy. Maybe too clever for his own good.” She’d drained her glass and ordered another drink before I’d finished half a glass of water.

  “We’ll need a statement from Arturo,” I said.

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. According to you he can put Jimmy at the crime scene.”

  “Please, I would expect be
tter than that from you. Arturo is too valuable to me. It’s out of the question. And obviously his activities can be traced back to me. I can’t help you beyond what I’ve already told you, and I’ve already told you too much.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for you if Jimmy goes to jail?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a confidential informant for the FBI.”

  Her eyes brightened. “On whom would he be informing? Those scummy brokers he works with, or those—what does he call them… ‘parts-pickers?’ The U.S. government must be desperate.”

  “We think he’s working with the FBI on an operation to take down Ottavio, and not for stolen parts.”

  “That would be a profoundly unintelligent plan, and Jimmy knows it. He generally has a keener sense of survival than that.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have any choice. Maybe he got nailed and this is his best alternative.”

  “Crossing Ottavio is never the best alternative. There is nothing the FBI can do to Jimmy that would be worse than what Ottavio will do to him.”

  “Isn’t it true that if Ottavio goes down, you go down with him? You are, after all, his launderer.”

  “Jimmy has no access to anything important. I am quite well insulated, which is a necessary precaution when doing business with Jimmy and people like him. I’m afraid you’ll have to find another way to get him. I can’t help you.”

  Someone opened the patio door, causing the air pressure in the room to shift. All the white curtains billowed out like parachutes, and I knew this was the moment. “What would Ottavio do to you if he knew you were stealing from him?”

  She managed to control every part of her reaction, except that her already pale face turned white. I had her.

  “Of your seventeen different clients, Vanessa, Ottavio’s are the only accounts that are light. So we know it’s not because you can’t count. You’ve been stealing from him, systematically siphoning off funds that go straight into your own secret accounts. Fifty million dollars at last count.” I pulled the jewel box out of my bag. “We have copies of your files, the whole road map, in a convenient CD format.”

  She had regained her equilibrium and even managed to pump some blood back into her face. “It’s a mistake to threaten me.”

  “I’m simply laying out alternatives and hoping you’ll choose the one that benefits me. Personally, I’d rather not meet Ottavio. But then I can always FedEx these files. Or… does he have an e-mail address?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you what I want. I’m tired of chasing Jimmy around. I want to nail him, and the best way I can think of to do that is for you to help me.”

  “If I help you, you will give me that disc?”

  “You can have this one.” I passed it over to her. I’d chosen Rage Against the Machine for her copy. It seemed to suit her.

  “How many are there?” she asked calmly.

  “Only one more. Jack has it. We’ll turn it over when you give me something I can use. I’m not interested in your operation. If Ottavio had nothing to do with killing John, I’m not interested in him either.”

  “How do I know you won’t keep copies?”

  “There is nothing else I want or need from you, Vanessa. You hand me Jimmy, I hand you the disc, and our business is over.”

  She considered that. “I will not give up Arturo. If I help you, it will be some other way.”

  “What other way?”

  “I have other ideas, but I will have to do research and get back to you.”

  “You have two hours before we start looking for a way to contact your biggest client. I’d much prefer to work with you on this than Ottavio, Vanessa. But one way or the other, I’m getting what I came down here for.”

  Her eyes were burning. Glimmering green emeralds in a geisha-white mask. And I knew what she was feeling. She wasn’t used to being pushed around and she didn’t like it I wouldn’t have wanted to be in her position, either.

  Jack wasn’t at the truck when I got back. I started toward the beach to see if I could spot him when he sauntered over from the street side.

  “Where were you?”

  “Keeping an eye on Arturo.” He unlocked the truck and we got in.

  “Where was he?”

  “Outside on the patio sitting where he could see her. He just drove her out. She was on her cell phone the second you left her.”

  “She said Jimmy did it. She told a convincing story, too.” I relayed what she’d said, including as many details as I could remember.

  “Maybe he did do it,” he said. “We’ll wait and see what she comes up with.”

  “We’ve got two hours.” I was relieved to have the meeting behind me, but still juiced by the experience. I reached over and traced the curve of his ear. “Want to wait together at your place?”

  He smiled and started the engine.

  We had all the phones lined up on Jack’s headboard—my cell, his cell, and his cordless. Vanessa was supposed to call me, but she had all the numbers. At one hour and forty-five minutes after the Delano meeting, it was my phone that twittered out my distinctive tone. I reached up to answer, and it was Vanessa.

  She didn’t even offer a cordial greeting. “Go to Jimmy’s house and look for a box with all his Vietnam souvenirs. It’s there. Check the fingerprints and you’ll have all the evidence you need.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “The murder weapon.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Even as we made the turn and started down the long driveway, we heard Bull crying—sending forth long, high-pitched, wailing laments from somewhere in the back of Jimmy’s house, from somewhere in the depths of his canine soul.

  Jack had already reached under the seat and pulled out the Glock. “You should stay out here,” he said.

  I turned again to study Jimmy’s stucco cube. It looked exactly as it had the last time we’d come to visit, except all the curtains were closed. I didn’t see any windows open, at least not from the front. It would have been sweltering inside.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to go see what’s wrong with that damn dog.”

  My heartbeat started to drag, not accelerate. Everything seemed to slow down, and I wanted to ask if we shouldn’t call the police.

  “I want to go with you,” I said, though that’s not exactly what I meant. What I meant was “I’d rather do almost anything else at this moment than go in that house, but if you insist, I believe I should go with you so you won’t be by yourself and since I’m the one who basically got you into this in the first place.”

  His answer was to reach down for the second gun, the one he carried in his ankle holster. It was the .22, the one he’d tried to give me the night in the swamp. Seeing it reminded me of how much I didn’t want to carry it, then or now. But I also remembered that I had promised to take it the next time it was offered.

  “That’s an automatic,” I said. “You have to tell me how to use it.”

  “Here’s the safety.” He pointed to a small red switch. “It’s off now, ready to fire. It’s a double action, so if you do this”—he pulled back the piece on top—“it’s ready to fire. All you have to do is point and pull the trigger. Aim lower than where you want to hit. You’ve got a full clip, which is eight rounds. When you’re not pointing it, hold it up in the air like this, away from your body and your head. You don’t want to shoot your ear off. Don’t shoot first. Don’t sweep across me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll be behind me. If a target moves across the front of me, don’t follow him and shoot me instead.”

  “Good point.”

  He turned the gun and offered it to me. When it was my turn to hold it, I had a sudden, desperate urge to embrace my old life, the one where I sat at a desk and reached for a calculator, not a gun, and the most dangerous thing I did was go running along the Charles River after dark. That all seemed very far away.

 
; I took the gun.

  It was a Smith & Wesson. It said so right there on the barrel. It had a crosshatch design etched into the grip that I could feel when I wrapped my hand around it. I touched the trigger. It felt tight. He was right about there not being much to a .22. It certainly wasn’t going to weigh me down with its heft, but it had its own gravity that had nothing to do with its mass. It made me nervous, holding-a-bottle-of-plutonium nervous, but I also couldn’t deny that behind the anxiousness, and not too far, was a surge of something—power, exhilaration. I didn’t want to admit to feeling it, but it was there.

  We climbed out of the car. I kept my eyes nailed to the front door as we moved toward the house. He hadn’t yet fixed his screen door.

  Short rapid bursts of barking and slow stretches of inconsolable whimpering embroidered Bull’s long, mournful howls. He seemed inexhaustible, and I wondered how long he’d been at it.

  When we got to the door, Jack motioned me to one side and stood on the other. He started to reach for the bell, then pulled out a handkerchief and used it to press the button. Bull reacted instantly, pushing his howls to the next level, an almost unimaginable hysterical keening that made my spleen hurt. Something was definitely keeping him in the back of the house.

  “Jimmy. Jimmy” Jack called out as he tried the knob. Locked.

  Sweat ran into my eyes and made them burn. I wiped them with the sleeve of my shirt.

  “Let’s go to the back.” Jack moved in that direction. “We’ll see what that damn dog is so excited about. Either that or I can shoot him. Stay behind me.”

  “Don’t worry.” I had no plans to blaze any new trails.

  Bull heard us invading his sanctuary as we approached the back door. He tried to tunnel out, frantically scratching the wall or door—whatever was holding him in. It was apparently an old habit of his; the outside of the back door was a scarred landscape of deep furrows and rough gouges.

  “It sounds like he’s trapped in an inside room somewhere,” Jack said. “You were in this kitchen the other day. Do you remember if there was a closet or pantry? Any kind of inside room?”