“Wire service for radio stations and a few papers.”
A pang for the lost, forever-dead MT. That was how this cop had found him. That was how anyone was ever going to find him.
“Thought maybe you’d listen.”
“I came up to Yonkers to work on the story. I can get a train in a bit and meet you in Dobbs Ferry.”
Settled in at Flora’s Coffee Stop on Main Street, Taylor ordered his usual coffee, double cream, double sugar. Dove asked for a hot tea, which immediately caused Taylor to doubt the man’s credentials as an investigator. The detective was tall and bulky, but not in a threatening way. His head was round with a fringe of gray hair, and he wore a tan suit showing a lot of miles.
Dove took a sip of the tea and told his story. “About three months ago, a patrolman tells me about some odd activity on Hudson Terrace. I park over there and watch for a while. When I leave, I get tailed and run the plates. FBI. Next day, I pay a visit to the apartment where they’re all coming and going. Couldn’t be more obvious. The guy in charge pulls his FBI ID and tells me it’s none of my business. Forgetting would be the best way for me to hold onto my little local job. His name is Jeremy Gilly. Says he’s agent-in-charge, but not of what.”
“No one calls them the Friendly Bureau of Investigation. You see recording gear?”
“Sure. Several reel-to-reel tape decks going. I guessed they had an entire house wired. Then, I didn’t know who they were working. That came more than two months later. Sorry if this seems all bits and pieces.” He drank more tea. Taylor indicated he should keep going. “Rumors spread around town Carl was having an affair with his secretary. The talk began at about the time the FBI showed up, but meant nothing to me.”
“Debbie Pour, the blonde?”
“The very one. This is where the ‘small’ in ‘small town’ comes in handy. Carl and Debbie were seen going out to lunch. To dinner. A lot. Leaving the office late at night.”
“That’s a start. But an affair doesn’t make murder. If that were true, you’d be chasing a quarter of the population of your village.”
“No, you’re right. It surprised me, though. I know Carl well. My wife and I became friends with Carl and Bridget soon after they moved in. Seemed like good people until all this.”
“Good people with mob ties.”
“Didn’t hear about any of that until Bridget was killed. And I’m not so sure about the mob stuff. At least, you’d never know it from Carl’s life. I mean if he was running a front, he was working awfully hard on the ‘front’ part. Far as I can tell, the only people who visited his office were couples for closings and folks getting wills signed. He dealt with some friends of mine early on. They were pleased with his work. Made things easy. Did the closing on my son’s house this year. He’s a patrolman. Good kid, but I don’t think he’ll do much more than write tickets his whole life ….” He sipped and gave his head a little shake. “Sorry. I wander sometimes. My wife says … no, more wandering. Back on track. About three weeks ago, Bridget is having cocktails with my wife out on our deck. She has a few drinks—a few too many for her own good. Starts crying. She knows Carl is sleeping with Debbie. She confronted him. Threatened divorce. He denied it. Shushed her. Physically covered her mouth and made her go for a ride in the car.”
“Because of the surveillance?”
“That’s my guess.”
“Did she know?”
“Didn’t ask her. Was worried about blowing the FBI operation. Now I wish I had. Once in the car, Collucci finishes by saying Bridget better stay quiet or she is going to get herself killed.”
“Those exact words?”
“I come home, mix a daiquiri, and join them on the deck. Tears are streaming down Bridget’s face. She repeats the story. Pretty sunset over the Hudson. Hard evening to forget. They fished her body out of the harbor three weeks later.”
Taylor drank the sweet creamy coffee. He’d been ready to dismiss this small-town detective as just that. Dove took his time getting the story out, but he’d given Taylor the first good information since Bridget’s body had been recovered.
“You’re saying he killed his wife and set it up to look like a hit by the tong. Pretty sophisticated.”
“I’m saying he threatened her life. Anyone else do that to her? Needs investigating.”
“There’s one problem. If he’s clean of mob ties, where’d he get the heroin used in the murder?”
“I’m telling you what I know. The couple led a normal life until the FBI showed up.”
“He worked for a year at Yonkers Carting. Garbage company run by his father. Or front, to be more accurate. Paid them a visit today.”
Dove raised a thick eyebrow. “Get anything?”
“They weren’t very communicative. You know Collucci’s got muscle protecting him.”
“Yeah, hard to miss. Not the type of folks we like in Dobbs.”
“This is all worth pursuing. It brings up questions. Questions make a story. For more than a week, I’d been on another angle. Had the idea the Leung tong killed Bridget because the tong is muscling in on the mob’s heroin business.”
“Helps Carl Collucci’s cause if that’s what people believe.” He poured more hot water over the Lipton bag. “Assuming I’m right and he killed his wife.”
“One of the leaders of the tong denied they did it.”
“To you?”
“Yeah. Before he ordered one of his guys to kill me.”
“Pretty good test of the truth with that sort of fella. You’re busy-busy there in the big city.”
“My one stray strand of string in all this is Bridget’s family. The father and brother visited Collucci at home last Thursday and attacked one of the goons—guy named Lucco. The father blamed Collucci and his associates for the murder. I’ve since learned O’Malley does his own bit of racketeering in Queens.”
“I see, said the blind man. We got a call to the house last Thursday. By the time we showed, no one wanted to make a report. Lucco was pretty banged up. Messy, messy.” The tea finished, Dove took out a pack of Kools and offered one to Taylor, who shook his head. Dove lit up. “A cup of tea and a cigarette. Perfect way to get the mind working. My son says the cigarettes are the only thing cool about me.” He laughed. “Less funny, a sergeant at work told me they’re for niggers. I suggested if he said the word again, I’d put him on the floor. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no radical. But there’s no reason to use that sort of language.” Dove noticed the impatience on Taylor’s face. “Wandering again. Sorry. Back to the point. Maybe the tong and the mob are warring—and Collucci killed his wife. Maybe both are true? A war is nice cover for a murder.”
“That’s complicated.”
“What’s wrong with complicated?”
“Readers don’t like complicated.”
“Then I feel sorry for you, young man. Life’s complicated. Murder’s complicated. You boil it down too much, the real thing isn’t there anymore.”
“My struggle every day. One thing looks simple to me. I need to figure out what’s going on with Carl Collucci. The FBI ordered you to stay away. The thugs did the same with me. A sure sign there’s something worth asking about.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
Taylor gave Dove a quizzical look. No cop had ever asked his permission for anything before.
Dove took a quick puff from the Kool. “The murder is the NYPD’s problem, and they don’t want my help. Made it clear when I tried to tell them all this. I can assist you with the thugs. To be honest, if Carl did it, I want him picked up and charged. What I want most is Dobbs Ferry cleared of thugs, the FBI—government thugs these days—anything and everything to do with mobsters. This isn’t the Bronx or Jersey. I’ve got enough common, garden-variety burglary, assault and domestic trouble to be the happiest detective in all of Westchester.” The smile said the town clown enjoyed his own irony. “So what’s the plan?”
“Do you deal with reporters often?”
“Sure. The Ta
rrytown Daily News covers us. They feed into all the other papers in the Macy chain. The White Plains Reporter Dispatch and the Yonkers Herald Statesman and the rest. Though I misspoke. It’s not the Macy family anymore. Bought by some big corporation.”
“Gannett.”
“Nice young men, the reporters. Always seem to be on the way to somewhere else. Most recent one, I swear, has the exact same haircut and jacket as Dustin Hoffman in All the President’s Men. Excellent movie, I thought. Made you folks look pretty good. Anyway, their reporters check the blotter. If we tell them something’s not a story yet, they wait.”
“You wouldn’t like me.”
“Suppose I wouldn’t. That’s one reason I want this cleaned up. If this is the crime I think it is, we’re going to get all the New York papers. I want the commotion over and done with.”
“My plan, since you asked, is to go to Collucci’s office first.”
“What if he’s not back at work?”
“I figure there’s some questions I—we—need to ask Debbie Pour before we confront Collucci.”
Chapter 19
Dove lit another Kool. Debbie Pour already had an Eve fired up. Both cigarettes were so long it looked like the two of them might be readying for a sword fight. Pour’s transistor radio played as it had when Taylor visited last week. “Silly Love Songs” by Wings. What calamity had befallen the world to make a Beatle release a bad song?
Too-long lashes flickered, something out of a black and white movie. “What’s up, Charlie? Giving reporters the town tour these days?”
“We have similar concerns.”
“You are working together?” The question was an accusation, and from the way the corners of Dove’s mouth turned down, perhaps a dangerous one in Dobbs Ferry.
“He wants a story on who killed Bridget Collucci. I want the whole thing settled so we can get back to normal. Get whoever doesn’t belong out of here.”
Taylor had already decided there was no point in dancing around with Pour. If she’d lied before, she’d lie again. Maybe having Dove standing there would get her talking. At this point, confirming the affair seemed more important than proving the law firm was a front.
He pulled out his notebook. “Last time we talked, you said you were no threat to Mrs. Collucci. She felt otherwise.”
“Don’t know what you’re on about.”
“She thought something was going on between you and her husband. So did others. Lots of lunches and dinners together—”
“Jeez, we work with each other.”
“Leaving the office late at night.”
“We had a lot of work. Still do.”
“Bridget Collucci told two people you were having an affair.”
“No need to be coy.” Dove knocked ashes off into the glass ashtray on Pour’s desk. “Bridget told Peg and me. She said she’d threatened to divorce Carl. He told her if she did, she’d die.”
“That crazy lying bitch. You can’t publish lies.”
“Let me explain how this works,” Taylor said. “I have a story that you and Carl Collucci were having an affair. That Bridget confronted her husband. That she was threatened three weeks before the murder.”
Instead of getting hysterical, Pour pulled herself together. “You print a lie, it’s libel. Carl’s a lawyer. He’ll do whatever he needs. He has other resources. He’ll protect himself.”
“I’ve met some of his other resources. You’re in communication with them. Only way I can explain how Lucco and his pal jumped me at the station after I talked to you. Would Carl resort to assault? Murder? For you?”
She ignored the question and turned to face Dove. “Carl’s very good friends with the village trustees. He only needs to tell them what you’re up to and there’ll be questions.”
Dove inhaled from the Kool, the picture of cool.
“Don’t stare at me out of that fat face of yours.” Pour’s tone said she might stamp her foot next.
Dove took a step toward the desk. His voice was low and gentle. “I’m taking care of this village, as I have for going on twenty-five years. The trustees will understand what I’m doing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t control a reporter. What he can put in print and what will work in court are two different things.”
“You’ll both be sorry. Carl has friends. Connections.”
“Would you like to name them?” Taylor said.
She didn’t answer.
“I thought not.”
As they walked together along Oak Street toward Main, a patrol car rolled north. The officer inside waved to Dove.
“My son.” Dove saluted back. “He’s one of many who noticed how much time Debbie and Carl were spending together.”
“Lot of threatening talk from her. Something’s at stake. Could be the affair. Could be the murder.”
“Could be something else.”
“Uh-huh. Interviewing Collucci will be interesting.”
Collucci answered the front door right away. His face soured as soon as he saw Dove and Taylor. He didn’t ask them in, only stepped out of their way.
Taylor sat in one of the square leather and steel chairs. “Are you alone?” he asked.
Dove stayed on his feet.
“Lucco went to get groceries. Jimmy had other business.”
Taylor would love to know what that other business was but knew it wasn’t a tangent to follow, not yet. He was happy to get Collucci without the goons.
With this interview, he planned to play it easier than with Pour. To start, at least. “Thank you for seeing me.” That was for the FBI mics. If Dove wanted to let the feds know he was there, it was his call. He could stay silent the whole time if he chose. “Does the NYPD have anything new on Bridget’s death?”
“No, nothing.”
“Last time you were pretty upset about the progress the police were making.”
“I don’t … I don’t know. I guess I don’t have the energy. I miss Bridget so much.”
“I’d been pursuing one angle until yesterday. Thought the Leung tong might be tied to your wife’s murder.”
Collucci’s eyes lit up a little bit. “Why?”
“A war over who imports heroin. Problem is, one of the leaders of the tong denied any involvement in the murder. So here I am back at square one, trying to figure out who would kill your wife and make a statement out of it. Any ideas?”
“No. Of course not.” His voice rose. “If I had ideas, the police would know.”
Collucci looked around like someone might hear him. Because several someones did, and they were recording all of it.
“On the up. Do you have any connections to organized crime?”
“I shouldn’t have to answer those kinds of questions. My wife’s dead. It’s an insult.” His downturned mouth, eyes glancing around suggested fear, not anger. “But no. None. I run a clean practice. It’s easy enough to check.”
“Debbie says the same thing,” Dove said.
“You talked to Debbie?”
Dove nodded once. He didn’t need to do anything else.
Nice way to bring Debbie into it. Dove is slick in his own way. Throw Collucci a curve next.
“What about your father?” Taylor said.
“He died eighteen months ago. I worked for him for a year, which I’m sure you know. It was a mistake. What he did in his life had nothing to do with Bridget and me.”
“Bridget thought you were having an affair.”
“Yes,” a pause, “she did.” He shook his head sadly.
“She was going to divorce you. You told her it would get her killed.”
“No … I … I told her there was no affair.”
“She believed there was. She told others.”
“Things got confused. Difficult. I hadn’t been myself. Hadn’t told her everything. She took it the wrong way.”
“What hadn’t you told her?”
“It was between us.”
“What about the threat?”
“I wou
ldn’t threaten her.” He was almost whispering. “I couldn’t. Ever.”
“This is about something she didn’t know. What was it?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
Taylor wrote FBI surveillance? on a sheet of the reporter’s notebook, tore it off, and handed it to Collucci.
One look at it and his lips pressed together in a long flat line, whitening. He took a pen from the pocket of his yellow dress shirt and wrote on the same sheet using the coffee table.
The front door opened and Lucco came in carrying two bags of groceries. “What the hell is this?”
Collucci crumpled the paper and tossed it under the coffee table.
Lucco half dropped, half set down the groceries and stormed over to Collucci. “You agreed to let me handle anything official. You’re in no shape.”
Dove, who was already close, moved fast for a big guy, sliding his arm under Lucco’s and wrapping him in a half-nelson. The detective hooked one of Lucco’s ankles and the thug was on his knees. Dove put his mouth right at Lucco’s ear.
“We haven’t had the pleasure. Detective Dove, with the Dobbs Ferry Police. As you may now be gathering, I don’t like you in our village. Right here is the reason why. We’re in the house with Carl’s permission.”
“That doesn’t sound right.” Lucco grunted in pain as Dove pressed the hold. “That the truth, Carl?”
Collucci got out of the chair. “They asked to talk to me. What was I supposed to do?”
Collucci’s back was to Taylor and his body blocked Lucco’s view. Taylor left his chair, stooped quickly to pick up the balled piece of paper, stuffed it in his jacket pocket, and moved behind Dove.
“We agreed … no newspapers,” said Lucco.
Dove put more pressure on the hold. “I’m a friend of the family’s and the local police. You have an agreement on that too?”
Collucci walked around both men to get to the groceries on the floor and stooped. He shoveled the food into the bags and hustled to the kitchen like the only important thing was storing the groceries—and getting away from the conflict.
Bet he puts the food away a lot slower. Odd behavior. The average mobster likes to watch violence no matter who’s getting hurt.
A Black Sail Page 15