by David Grace
Villarosa rolled the tire up against the back wall and pulled a new one from a steel rack. Kudlacik wrote down “Drugs and guns commonly found in vehicles.”
“How about the week that Mr. Randazzo was killed? Did anyone find any drugs or explosives or guns in any of the vehicles that week?”
Villarosa laid the new tire on top of the wheel then paused to think. “No drugs,” he said a moment later. “No explosives. Jeez if I ever found dynamite or any of that shit I’d be out of here in a flash.”
“What about guns?”
Again Villarosa paused, apparently deep in thought. “Yeah, I think so,” he said finally. “I think Benny found a pistol, a nine millimeter or something like that, in a van he was working on. He didn’t take it if that’s what you’re thinking. Whatever’s in the car when it comes in is in the car when it goes out. That’s the rule.”
“Benny? That’s Benjamin Goldstein?”
“Yeah, Benny, but he doesn’t work here anymore.” Villarosa looked around. “He couldn’t take Sherzer’s shit so he quit,” Emilio said in a whisper. “Me, I got kids to support so I gotta put up with his crap until I can find another job.”
“Did Mr. Randazzo know about the gun?”
“Ahhhh, maybe. I think Benny might have showed it to him, but he wouldn’t have touched it.”
“And this was the day that Mr. Randazzo was killed?”
“Yeah, but like I said, nobody touched the gun.”
“What kind of a vehicle was it? You said it was a van?”
“Yeah, a white van.”
“Do you remember the make or model?”
Villarosa just laughed. “All the tires I put on, you’re lucky I remember that much, but it should still be in the records. We keep all that stuff for the warranties, you know.”
“Do you remember anything else? Any other vehicles around that time with guns or anything else out of the ordinary?”
Emilio thought about it for a moment then shook his head.
“It was just an ordinary week,” he said then spotted Sherzer watching him. “Hey, I gotta get back to work or that asshole’s gonna dock my pay.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him,” Kudlacik said and walked back to the office.
“Are you done interfering with my employees?” Sherzer asked.
“No, I’ve got three more to interfere with, but while I’m doing that I need you to go through your records and pull out all the work orders for the day that Robert Randazzo was killed. I want copies of all the paperwork on any and all vans. I also want the home and work address and all the phone numbers for Benjamin Goldstein.”
“You got a warrant?” Sherzer asked with a smarmy smile.
“You’re going to get me that information because you’re a good citizen who wants to cooperate with the police.” Sherzer’s smile grew wider. “Or, I’m going to get a warrant for all your business records for the six months before Mr. Randazzo’s family was killed and I’m going to back a truck up to this place and I’m going to take every piece of paper and every computer in here back to police headquarters and keep them there for two or three weeks while we go through them.”
“You can’t do that,” Sherzer complained, his smile collapsing. “That would put us out of business. We need those computers to do our job.”
“Does that mean you’re going to cooperate?”
“Fuck!” Sherzer snapped.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ All the vans from the day he died and Benjamin Goldstein’s information. I’ll be back. I’ve still got three more of your guys to talk to.”
When Kudlacik returned to the office fifteen minutes later Sherzer pointed at a large manila envelope lying on the counter and then stormed away.
After a quick lunch Stan found Benjamin Goldstein working at the Discount Tire Store in Dearborn. After flashing his badge at the manager Kudlacik led Goldstein out of the repair bay and bought him an orange soda from the machine in the break room.
“I’m interested in a white van you worked on at Randazzo’s the day Mr. Randazzo was killed,” Kudlacik told him. “Here’s a copy of the work order. Does it ring any bells?”
“I don’t know,” Goldstein said staring at the page as if it was written in French.
“I want to know about the gun you found in it. Was it a revolver or an automatic?”
“Automatic,” Goldstein said after a moment’s hesitation, “like the guns the gang bangers use in the movies.”
“Describe it. Was it black, chrome, dark blue?”
“Black, well, gray, like charcoal.”
“Did you see a name on it?” Goldstein shook his head. “Where did you find it?”
“Inside, in the back. I was moving stuff out of the way so I could check the spare. That was part of the service. We always checked the spare to make sure it had air and everything. Anyway, there was like a blanket or tarp or something in the back and when I pulled it out of the way I saw the gun.”
“What did Mr. Randazzo say when you showed it to him?”
Goldstein almost asked, How did you know I showed it to Mr. Randazzo? but let it go.
“He told me not to touch it. He said to just do the job and pretend that I hadn’t seen it.”
“What did the van’s owner look like, this James Johnson?” Kudlacik asked, reading the name off the work order. Goldberg just shrugged.
“Ordinary looking. White, late twenties maybe. Average size, what? five-ten, average weight. Ordinary build.”
“Any facial hair?”
“No.”
“Tattoos?”
“Ahhh, one,” Goldberg said, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate. “He had a lightning bolt on his neck, the right side, but I could only see the top half of it above his collar. I didn’t look too close. A guy’s got a gun in his van and a lightning-bolt tat on his neck, he’s not the kind of guy you want to be pals with.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“Yeah. ‘When’s my fucking van going to be ready?’ I told him, ‘Ten minutes’ and he said, ‘Hurry the fuck up. I’ve got things to do.’“
“Then what?”
“I hurried the fuck up. That was one hard dude. I figured he got that tat in prison.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Because he looked like he’d done time. Fuck, he looked like he’d shoot you as soon as look at you and I already knew he had a gun.”
“Hair color? Eye color?”
“Brown hair, dark brown.” Goldstein closed his eyes again to concentrate. “Blue eyes,” he said a moment later.
“Did he ever ask you for your name?”
“Hell no. And if he had I would have told him Carl Schmidt or Kurt Hockstadder. I sure as hell wouldn’t have told that Nazi that my name was Benjamin Goldstein, I’ll tell you that.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“Beyond the fact that he was one scary dude? Not really.”
“Anything you remember about the van?”
Goldstein looked back at the work order.
“Ummm, it was a Ford E-150 like it says here. I guess it was a 2012. I couldn’t tell you the year by looking at it. It was white, like it says here, though the paint was screwed up.”
“What do you mean, ‘screwed up’?” Kudlacik asked.
“I don’t know what color it was originally, but it looked like it had been painted like twenty times, and not with real baked-on auto paint. Jeez, up close it was a mess, like somebody had spray-painted it with glossy-white house paint. Real amateur hour. From ten feet away it would look sort of all right but up close it looked like crap. If he’d been a normal guy I might have asked him, you know, what happened, like had it been in a wreck or something, but no way I was going to say anything to that guy.”
“Is there anything else you can think of about this James Johnson or his van? Anything at all?” Goldstein thought about that for a moment then shook his head.
“OK, thanks.
You’ve been a big help. Here’s my card. Please call me if you think of anything else.”
“This guy, what’d he do?” Goldstein asked before Kudlacik could turn away.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Stan said then headed back to his car. Once inside he called Carl Montgomery on his cell.
“Hey, Stan, what’s up?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe something. It turns out Randazzo installed a set of tires on a white van the day he was killed, a Ford E-150. The worker found a gun in the back under a blanket.”
“You’re thinking the van maybe belonged to our guys?”
“I’m not thinking anything. Right now I’m just checking out what might be a lead. Listen, I’m going to read you the plate and the VIN number. Can you get me the registered owner’s name and address? With any luck I’ll be able to interview him and take a look at the van before the shift is over.”
Five minutes later Montgomery called Stan back with a name, Anthony Gershner, and an address out near Zug Island. Kudlacik punched it into the GPS, checked the travel time against how long he had before the end of shift and tapped the “Go” button.
Chapter Seventeen
The address Lyla Olsen gave Virgil turned out to be a two-story brick house off of Mack Avenue near the edge of Grosse Pointe. It was a neighborhood composed of quiet, tree-lined streets fronting big homes on quarter-acre lots.
“The psychiatry business must pay pretty well,” Virgil muttered to himself as he parked out front. When he pressed the bell, chimes bonged his arrival from somewhere deep inside.
“Marshal Quinn, please come in,” Lyla Olsen said and pulled the door open wide. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, maybe a woman in her fifties, thin with sharp features, hair short or maybe tightly packed in a bun. Whatever it was, this woman wasn’t it. Virgil figured her for someplace shy of forty, pretty, with honey hair just touching her shoulders, and a nicely rounded figure that her silk dress did nothing to hide.
Well, that explains the big house, he thought. A woman like this probably has a husband and three or four kids, maybe even a dog.
“I’ve cleared the dining-room table for us,” she said as she led him deeper into the house, then stopped in a formal room centered with an oak table surrounded by eight high-backed chairs. Through the arched doorway behind her Virgil caught a glimpse of the kitchen and a large backyard beyond.
“You have a beautiful home,” he said when he noticed her following his gaze, then he asked, “Do you have children?” and saw her smile fade.
“No, I live here alone,” Lyla answered in an almost embarrassed tone. “You must think it’s strange, such a big house for only one person.”
“No, it’s a lovely home,” Virgil said. “I’d live in a place like this if I could.”
“Are you married? — Oh, sorry, please sit down.” She waved him to the chair across from her in the middle of the table. Virgil took it and dropped his files on the oak surface a couple of places down.
“No, I’m not.” He tried to keep his tone casual but it sounded like an apology.
“Well, good for us,” Lyla said with forced brightness then changed the subject. “I picked up some lunch. There’s a very nice Italian restaurant nearby. Veal scallopini for you and a chicken Caesar and soup for me, if that’s all right.”
“It sounds terrific,” Virgil said, but she was already heading for the kitchen. A minute later she filled the table with glasses and plates.
“I’ve opened a Pellegrino.” She handed him a tall glass filled with ice and a slice of lemon.
“Thanks.” Virgil was starting to wonder where all this hospitality was going.
A moment later she sat down across from him.
“I thought we could eat and get acquainted before diving into the gruesome details of your murders,” she said, glancing at the pile of files.
“Sure.” Virgil stabbed one of the petite green beans with his fork. “Do you work with the police a lot?”
“No, no I don’t. My practice is rather specialized. It’s difficult to describe.”
“Well,” Virgil said, glancing around, “whatever it is, you must be very good at it.”
Lyla was silent for a moment, weighing Virgil’s comment.
“It’s a blessing and a curse,” she said at last then looked down and busied herself with her salad. “Sometimes I think I’m like King Midas,” she added, not looking up.
“What?”
“Oh, let’s talk about you. How do your parents feel about your working in law enforcement?”
“My father’s dead. He was a cop. He was killed in the line of duty when I was ten. My mother pretends I’m more of a paper-pusher in the federal bureaucracy than a field agent.”
“Because that’s what you told her,” Lyla replied.
“She’s happier that way.”
“Was your wife also unhappy about your job?”
“How did you know I was married?” Virgil asked, pausing in the middle of slicing off a piece of veal.
“I just assumed that a handsome man like you would have gotten married and you told me that you were single so I figured that there was a divorce somewhere along the way. Sorry, if I intruded. It’s a habit of my profession.” She gave him another nervous smile and turned back to her meal.
“No, it’s all right. It’s not a secret. . . . Actually, my wife, my ex-wife, hated my job. She was obsessed with the idea that because of me some band of criminals was going to come after her. She hated it so much that she ran away. I came home one day and she was gone. Poof,” Virgil said, his mind sliding back in time.
“How long ago was that?”
“A bit over nine years.”
“That must have been very painful.” Lyla’s expression suddenly turned serious, but Virgil didn’t notice. His attention was now far away.
“I wouldn’t have minded if it was only her, but she took our daughter with her,” he said bitterly.
“And you haven’t seen your daughter since,” Lyla replied, more a statement than a question.
“I’ll find her. One of these days I’ll find her.” Virgil’s mind snapped back to the present and he was surprised at the sadness he saw in Lyla’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to burden you with my problems. You must get that a lot. As soon as someone finds out that you’re a therapist, they blurt out all their troubles and want you to tell them how to fix their lives.” Virgil said it lightly, as if it were all a comical little concern.
“No, they don’t. I don’t meet many people, socially, and my clients . . . my practice doesn’t work that way.”
Lyla looked down and picked at her plate.
“Well, good. I’m glad people don’t pester you like that.” Virgil paused but she continued to stare at her food. “We’ve spent all this time talking about me. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”
Lyla speared a fragment of chicken then thought better of it and put down her fork.
“All right,” she said, looking Virgil full in the face as if answering a challenge. “I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ve never been married. I make a quarter of a million dollars a year watching business negotiations and then telling my clients how much more money their opponent is willing to spend and which terms they really care about and which ones are only a bluff. I can read people’s emotions the way you can read a watch.” She stared at Virgil as if her outburst was a dare.
“I . . . ,” he began then drifted to a stop. “That’s what you meant about being like Midas, isn’t it? That you can’t turn off your gift.”
“Gift? There’s such a thing as seeing too much. . . . Physician, heal thyself,” she said, then looked down, and pushed her plate away. “I thought . . . . I’m sorry.”
“You’ve done nothing to be sorry for. I asked about you and you told me.”
“You’re very nice, but now I see that you’re not, that we could never . . . fit.” She took a breath then looked at Virgil’s mostly-empty plate
. “Would you like some coffee and desert?”
“I’m good, thanks. It was a lovely lunch.”
Lyla forced her lips into a smile. “I’ll clear the dishes and then we can talk about your case.”
Virgil spent the next half hour describing the killers’ actions and answering Lyla’s almost constant stream of questions until, finally, she said, “All right. That’s enough,” and leaned back in her chair.
“What do you think?”
“They’re sociopaths, not psychopaths. For them there isn’t any right or wrong, just what they see as good or bad for them in the next few hours or days. They aren’t killing people because they enjoy it. They’re doing it for some other reason.”
“Some reason other than robbery?”
Lyla shrugged. “I don’t know. I can only tell you that somehow they think killing their victims benefits them. Their motives are financial or personal, not emotional or psychological. Is it possible that one of them has some physical characteristic, a missing limb, a peculiar voice, something that they’re afraid someone would recognize, something that could be used to identify them if anyone was left alive?”
“One of their victims survived and he didn’t notice anything like that.”
“Perhaps they were hired by a sadist or some other deviant who accompanies them and pays them to let him kill the victims.”
How does that help us catch them? Virgil thought but asked instead, “Is there anything else you can tell me about them?”
Lyla closed her eyes and thought for a moment.
“At least one of them is intelligent and very organized. The rest are probably just brutes. I would expect them to be spending large amounts of money and bragging about what they’ve done.”
“We’ve been watching for that but our CIs haven’t heard anything.”
“Then I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your time.”
“You haven’t. I appreciate your help. If you want to send the city a bill. . . .” Virgil gave her one of his new business cards.
“No, I don’t,” Lyla said but still accepted the card.