It was scary. My shadow from the flashlight made me look like a monster. I told myself not to be afraid of my own shadow as I swished my light back and forth, trying to get my bearings inside the long narrow cave.
It smelled of rotting wood, and I wondered why anyone would want to have a hideout in such a cold, dark, stinky place. But someone clearly did. I spotted a lantern, a damp mattress and a cooler, covered in mildew. On the cooler lay a tattered brown scrapbook.
Tiny tree roots like giant spiders extended from the cavern walls above the cooler. I noticed a saucer-wide opening at one end of the cave. I couldn’t tell how deep it was, but I got goose bumps when I heard a rustling noise coming from inside, making me think of what Jay said about the family of bats living there.
Then, I saw it--the safe--the one Dan and Jay lifted from the back of Stan Gambrini’s stolen Cadillac. It was wedged against the dirt wall near where I’d heard the rustling noise. I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing at first. I wondered how two boys managed to put this Wells Fargo safe down inside such a small cave.
I touched the safe, admiring it, before I tried the combination Dan showed in his journal. As I reached the final number a little bat flew toward me. I screamed and thought I was going to pee in my pants as its filmy partitioned wings ruffled my hair.
“Oh, please, God, let me get out of this place alive with the diary,” I prayed aloud, fearing the little nocturnal creature would soon make a return flight.
On the third try of fumbling with the combination, the steel alloyed door moved toward me. I flashed my light inside, amazed to see more stacks of hundred dollar bills like those in Dan’s suitcase. I rifled through the money until I felt a book’s hard leather cover, the diary.
My God, I’d found it, and in time, just as Martha, the psychic, said I should. The crystal she’d given me felt hot around my neck and I rubbed my hands over it, hoping to warm them while I decided what to do.
I didn’t know whether to take the money with me. At first, I thought it might be wrong and certainly dangerous to get it, but then I recalled the icy stare of that skin head. Suppose he’d followed me? I couldn’t let some Nazi run off with Dan’s money.
I cleaned out my purse, removing most everything to make room, then packed the money inside until I was satisfied it wouldn’t be visible. A little voice inside my head was telling me to Get the hell out of the cave, and I started to obey, then I remembered the scrapbook. How could I leave there without looking through it? Could be important, a clue to Lord knows what.
I scanned the book, the numerous newspaper articles Dan had glued to the pages, then tore out the ones on Tom Duffy’s death and stuffed them inside his journal.
My big tote was almost too heavy to lug as I stumbled out of the cave and somehow made my way back to Nick and his cab.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, looks like you been in a fight,” Nick said, opening the door for me and pointing to my wound.
I blotted my forehead with the tissue Nick offered. “I fell during my hike,” I answered, weakly.
The cabby stared at me, as if confused, and I knew he didn’t completely accept my evasive explanation but I didn’t care. Let him think what he wanted. I couldn’t be bothered. My mind was swirling out of control, and I needed to compose myself before my next stop.
Chapter Fifty-six
Baltimore Sun editor Basil Cronin shook his head sadly when I told him about Dan’s accident and death.
“His father was an eloquent speaker and gifted lawyer. The best,” Cronin said of Tom Duffy.
“I understand Gable worked with Mr. Duffy as his law clerk.”
“John must have gleaned enormous legal knowledge from him.”
“Tell me, Mr. Cronin, do you believe Tom Duffy killed himself?”
“Police ruled his death a suicide. I was never convinced.”
“Can you think of any reason why Mr. Duffy would have killed himself?”
“It has been rumored, although this is off the record, that Tom Duffy was gay. And the reporter who covered Duffy’s alleged suicide, told me she believed he killed himself because he was humiliated.”
“Humiliated? How?”
“By the raid at the Loch Raven bathhouse a week before Tom died.”
“What happened in the raid?”
“All the men in the bathhouse except Tom were arrested for indecent exposure.”
“Duffy was there but he wasn’t exposing himself?”
“I guess not.” A sly expression crossed the editor’s face. “He told police he was meeting a client on business. His explanation was accepted, and he was not arrested.”
“If they didn’t arrest Duffy, why did your reporter think he was humiliated?”
“She covered the raid and took pictures. Duffy’s name and picture appeared in the paper with the others but the article clearly stated he was at the bathhouse to see a client.”
I thanked the editor for his time and left. Trying to digest what I’d learned from Cronin, I was lost in thought when Nick pulled up in front of Archbishop Curley High. Gable’s former teacher, Father Patrick, came out to greet me. A jovial, elderly man, Patrick recalled a happy, overachieving John and the high-expectations of Stan and Rose Gambrini.
After spending an hour with Father Patrick, Nick informed me I didn’t have enough time to drive to Hagerstown and interview Sister Ruth. I chose to call her instead.
The sister answered the phone with a lilting Irish brogue.
“What do you remember about John Gable?” I asked after explaining the purpose of my call.
“He was a beautiful child but did not speak for several days after he was brought here.”
“Did he eventually talk about his abuse?”
“Not really, but I knew his mother died after he was born. I understand his father was an alcoholic who wrongly blamed the boy for his mother’s death.”
“How did you feel when John was adopted?”
“I prayed he would find a good home with Stan and Rose Gambrini. They really loved him.”
Moments after I said good-bye to Sister Ruth, Nick gunned the accelerator to eighty upon entering the Baltimore Washington Expressway.
“What time did you say your flight’s leaving?” he asked.
I glanced at my watch. “Eight-fifteen. It’s twenty after seven now, Nick. You think we’ll make it?”
“Come hell or high water,” he said, speeding by a Maryland Highway Patrol car.
I turned around and watched the patrolman, expecting to see a flashing blue light following us. Relieved to escape the radar, I settled back in my seat and rubbed the throbbing knot on my head, a reminder of the careless way I’d lifted the plywood and tree-limb entrance to Dan and Jay’s hideout.
I rehashed my day at that point, regretting not being able to talk with Patricia McLewie, Tom Duffy’s legal stenographer. Perhaps, she was out of town. If so, when she returned, she’d find her answering machine filled with my messages.
I was beat with barely the energy to sigh as I reached in my purse for Tom Duffy’s diary, careful not to expose the stacks of bills inside.
Chapter Fifty-seven
When Green Door manager Max Sexton found Jay in the bathroom throwing up, he was concerned. The club was packed and he couldn’t afford to lose his star attraction the busiest time of the year.
“What’s wrong, Jaybird? You sick? Must be that damn virus that’s been going around.” Sexton stroked his neatly-trimmed, white goatee and studied Jay. He had never known the Jaybird unable to perform. One thing he did know though, Jay’s sickness wasn’t drug related. Jay despised drugs, unlike other musicians who considered them their right of passage. Sexton tried to remember if he had ever seen Jay take a drink while performing. He hadn’t.
For a few moments, Sexton watched his star performer as Jay sloshed cool water around in his mouth, then vomited again.
“Damn,” Jay said.
“We’ve already got the people in here so I thi
nk it’ll be all right for you to cut out early,” Sexton said, patting Jay’s back. “We’ll explain there’s been a death in your family.”
“Go home and get some rest. It’s a big day tomorrow. The club’s spent a bundle on that float for the parade, and you’re our main attraction. My guess is, with a little rest, you’ll be as good as new,” Sexton said.
Jay splashed his face with water, grabbed his sports coat lying over a toilet stall door, then rushed out.
There was no way Sexton or anyone could possibly understand the sickening grief Jay felt. From now on, Duff would only be a memory, a thought Jay couldn’t grasp.
A lonely quiet washed over Jay as he turned into his driveway and cut the motor. He recalled the first day he met the little red-headed boy who became his closest friend. Jay was six-years-old, a crippled kid. Dan was pitching a baseball to Jay’s older brother Tony in the Cascio’s big backyard. Jay remembered watching them, secretly envying the boys who could easily run, pitch and hit.
When a wayward ball came crashing through the windowpane, Dan came inside to claim it. “You wanna play with us?” Dan had asked, probably not knowing Jay couldn’t walk.
“I’d rather play the piano,” Jay said proudly, hobbling over with his crutches to the piano stool. Instead of going back outside, Dan listened as Jay played all the songs he knew, mostly Christmas carols and his favorite, the Notre Dame fight song.
“I’m gonna learn to play the guitar,” Duff had said.
Trying to shake the memory, Jay stepped from his Jeep and thought about Lilah. It was eleven-thirty. If he hurried he could freshen up and meet her plane. He decided to do just that as he walked up the brick path.
Something about the front door didn’t seem right. It wasn’t locked and the door knob had a dent in it. Son of a bitch. Jay flicked on the light and spotted his books strewn all over the floor. Instinctively, he grabbed a broken microphone stand as a weapon and with the heavy metal rod held stiffly at his side, he turned on all the lights and inspected the house. The place had been ransacked. Cabinets and their contents littered the floor, his closet empty and his clothes jumbled in a heap on top of the slashed mattress. Oddly, the intruder left his music equipment. Even the one-hundred dollar tip from Trudy lay untouched on the wicker dresser although the drawers had been searched and dumped upside down.
“What does this bastard want?” Jay wondered aloud.
Chapter Fifty-eight
It was twelve-twenty-eight when my flight circled for landing at New Orleans International Airport. An extended layover in Atlanta caused the hour-and-twelve minute delay. I used the time to buy a small zippered bag at an airport gift shop. In the ladies lounge I quickly transferred the bills. Carrying so much cash made me jumpy and destined to watch for the military skin head. At least, I reasoned, carrying the bills in another bag made them less visible until I had time to stash the cave money in the safe deposit box with the rest.
“New Orleans is sixty degrees and clear, a beautiful night,” the pilot greeted us from the cockpit. The flight time had passed for me like a millisecond while I read Tom Duffy’s diary of murder involving the Gambrini, Capezzio, and Costelliano families. Tom Duffy was the best lawyer illegal money could buy.
I held my breath when I saw the name Rubio written in Duffy’s meticulous, right-slanted handwriting: “How is it possible for my dear Rubio to believe I murdered my friend and client Stan Gambrini?” Duffy wrote. “I could never commit such carnage. The butcher who mutilated Stan’s body veiled his evil by hiding Stan’s car in my barn. How could Rubio believe Mario The Mouse, a ruthless, hit man? Johnny Capezzio told me The Mouse did the job on Stan, drove away in his Cadillac and planted it in my barn to set me up because I refused to represent Mario’s brother Nick at his federal bribery trial. The Mouse blames me for Nick’s six-year prison sentence. I must make Rubio understand that I had nothing to do with Stan’s murder nor the safe he accused me of stealing. Last week, Stan told me he ordered the 1928 Cadillac built for Rubio, and it was to be his gift. I told Rubio I loved him and would never steal anything of his, certainly not the car he covets. To make matters worse, he accused me of killing Gambrini over a telephone line that might be tapped. Had Rubio not been drinking, he would recognize his accusations are false. When we meet tomorrow at Loch Raven, I pray he will be his lucid, splendid self and understand the grave error of his allegations.”
I closed the diary to think about the implications of what I’d read. Dan’s father had arranged to meet Rubio at Loch Raven the day he died, and I was willing to bet all of my savings bonds that the Rubio Mr. Duffy referred to in his diary was the very same Rubio I’d met at Lotta Love’s club and the Vice President’s party.
But what did it all mean? I was still trying to figure that out as I walked down the stairs through the landing tunnel into the airport terminal. The strap to my heavy tote cut into my right shoulder. So, I shifted it to my left, then decided to call Billy Joe and check on Angela.
“I’m back,” I said as he answered the phone. “I apologize for calling so late but my plane just landed.” Before Billy Joe said anything, I noticed Jay propped against a side wall looking at me. “Hold on a moment, Billy Joe,” I said while rushing over to hug Jay.
He wrapped his arms around me but said nothing.
I noticed he had the unfocused stare of someone in shock. “I’m so sorry about Dan. Billy Joe told me,” I said.
Jay slumped up against a post.
“I’ll only be a second,” I whispered, placing the phone back to my ear. “Jay surprised me,” I said to Billy Joe. “I didn’t realize he’d planned to meet me.” I smiled at Jay who looked very sad and confused.
“Didn’t think you needed a ride. Thought you drove your van,” Billy Joe said.
“I did but,” I hesitated, unwilling to explain to Billy Joe that Jay had probably decided to meet me because he was devastated over losing his friend.
“But what?”
I lowered my voice and deliberately tried to be ambiguous so as not to alarm Jay. “I want to know if you have any more information concerning your news this morning?”
Billy Joe understood. “You mean about Dan Duffy?”
“Yes?”
“Just as I suspected, he was murdered. The medical examiner’s report states he had an excessive amount of potassium chloride in his system which caused coronary arrest and killed him.”
“Oh, God, Billy Joe. Do you know who’s responsible?”
“Not really.”
“How could someone kill Dan when there was a policeman outside his door.”
“The last person to see Duffy alive was some doctor no one’s been able to identify. I’m thinking he was bogus, and convincing enough to get by the guard.”
“When I pick up Angela tomorrow I need to talk to you. Maybe you can make sense out of what I discovered today.”
“What time will you be coming by?”
“Probably around eight.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Is Angela still up?”
“She and Melissa went to bed an hour ago. Don’t worry about her. She’s fine, enjoying Mardi Gras to the max.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
I followed Jay and parked beside him in his driveway.
“Why are all your lights on?” I asked as he helped me out of the car.
“Someone broke in.” He wore a blank expression.
“When?”
“Today sometime, but don’t worry, I checked out the house and we’ll be fine.”
I froze when I saw the scattered books and clothes. His house had been torn apart, but, according to Jay, nothing was missing. Whoever broke in obviously didn’t find what he or she was looking for, and I thought of the letter Jay wrote to Dan, and the other correspondence from Dan’s suitcase. All of that turned up missing from my purse when my gun was stolen.
“Did you call the police?” I asked.
“Not yet, but I will.” Jay shook his head, then bl
ew out a long breath as if to say, too much for one day. “Strange.”
“How do you mean?”
“My keyboards, speakers and the hundred bucks I left on the dresser weren’t stolen. Hard to figure.”
Jay leaned forward to kiss me, but paused to examine the cut on my forehead. “What happened?”
I described my blunder at the Loch Raven hideout.
He kissed my wound. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Did you find what you were looking for, the diary?”
I knew I could no longer keep secrets from Jay. “Yes, and we need to talk about it.”
“Let me get you something to drink first. I know I could really use a cold one.”
I nodded, and sat on a barstool in the kitchen. Jay poured me a glass of wine, then popped himself a beer. He sat on a stool next to me and listened while I told him what I knew about Dan’s accident, starting with the money in his suitcase.
I mentioned officer Ben Comeaux’s murder with my missing gun and covered every other detail I could recall, then shared the contents of Tom Duffy’s diary. “The day Dan’s father died, he had a meeting with a man named Rubio who had accused Mr. Duffy of killing Stan Gambrini.”
“Why would he or anyone else think Mr. Duffy killed Gambrini?”
“Because Rubio, whoever he is, believed Gambrini’s murderer stole his Cadillac. And as you said, Gambrini’s car along with the safe had been stashed in Duffy’s barn. Also, Rubio knew the safe was filled with money and may have thought the money was a motive for murder.”
“How would he know the safe had money?”
“It seems Gambrini had decided to give the car and the money to Rubio.”
“Why would Gambrini give this Rubio guy a 1928 Cadillac and all that dough?”
“Maybe he owed it to him for some reason.”
“If Gambrini’s killer took the car why did he leave the safe behind?”
Sex, Love and Murder Page 20