Bones: Buried Deep

by Max Allan Collins

  Within, that same theme — and vibe — pertained, dark wood and dark support beams and dark-cushioned booths and just plain darkness, with pools of light provided not so much from electricity but the de rigueur red-and-white-checker tablecloths with their red-glass candleholders. The dining room was mostly full, the dinner crowd brisk — a fairly even mix of couples and families.

  A partitioned-off bar area to the left seemed largely illuminated by a pair of flat-screen plasmas high behind the counter with the same baseball game playing in silence. The changing lights of the TVs gave the bar an eerie, almost underwater glow.

  Frank Sinatra was singing “The Best Is Yet to Come,” a little loud for background music, as if the Chairman of the Board (deceased or not) demanded attention.

  The attractive, thirty-something hostess — a tall brunette in a crisp white shirt with a tux tie and a black skirt — stood at a low-slung narrow lectern with a seating chart and a reservation book in front of her.

  The woman had a ready, if brittle, smile.

  “Good evening,” the hostess said. “I’m Julia — how many tonight?”

  “Just one. Nonsmoking, please.”

  “Did you have a reservation?”

  Brennan shook her head.

  Julia swiftly scanned her book, then said, “It’ll be a short time before a table is available. You can wait in the bar, if you’d like. Your name?”

  “Brennan.”

  The hostess wrote in her book.

  “Julia, maybe you can help me. I heard a friend of a friend works here — Lisa Vitto? Is she on tonight?”

  The hostess’s smile remained but her eyes tightened. “Friend of a friend? Ms. Brennan, are you by any chance police?”

  “No,” Brennan said, and affected shock and confusion. “I’m an anthropologist, if it matters.”

  Julia didn’t know what to say to that; her eyes cut to the bar, then returned to Brennan.

  “Lisa’s a bartender?” Brennan asked.

  With a little shrug, Julia said, “You didn’t hear it from me. I’ll go check on your table now.”

  As the hostess disappeared into the dining room, Brennan went the other way into the small bar.

  A couple sat at one of the dark tables off to the left while two or three middle-aged guys sat at the bar smoking cigarettes, nursing drinks, and watching the ball game joylessly.

  The bartender was helped out by a single server, a haggard brunette in her late thirties wearing a white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks; she seemed surrounded by the bar as if life had provided her no way to get out.

  Brennan selected one of the tall stools, sitting as far away from the smokers and the couple at the table as she could get.

  Down the nearby wall hung framed photographs at various levels — the same two men, perhaps the owners, sometimes both, sometimes singly, were in almost every shot, shaking hands or getting kissed or hugged by presumed celebrities whose grinning faces Brennan mostly didn’t recognize.

  Slowly, the bartender, who was almost beautiful, worked her way down to Brennan.

  The woman had a heart-shaped face with large dark mascara-heavy eyes and a full red-lipsticked mouth; she might have been anywhere from her late twenties to early forties. A few gray streaks highlighted her hair, whether provided by otherwise ineffectual years or the beauty shop, Brennan couldn’t say.

  She smiled, not at all brittle. “Long day?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I’m gonna guess wine.”

  “Not your first night back there,” Brennan said with her own smile. “Chardonnay, please.”

  “I coulda guessed that, too,” the bartender said, and lifted a glass from a shelf behind her before going over to pick out a bottle of wine.

  She pulled the cork, poured, and brought the brimming glass down to Brennan. “There you go, sweetie.”

  The word brought Brennan’s friend Angie to mind, and she immediately felt warmth toward this woman. An illogical response, but after two days digging out skeletons, Brennan would allow herself that.

  Putting a twenty on the counter, Brennan kept a finger on it until the bartender tugged on it, then looked at her, still smiling but curious.

  “I’ll, uh, bring you your change…”

  Brennan said, “I’m not looking for change.”

  “What are you looking for, honey?”

  “Lisa Vitto…. Isn’t that you?”

  The woman’s eyes flickered around the bar before returning to Brennan’s.

  “I can use the twenty,” she admitted, in a whisper, “but not the grief. So I will bring you your change, you don’t mind.”

  “Your choice.”

  When she delivered the change, the bartender said, still whispering, “A female cop, this time? What’s the idea coming around the restaurant?”

  “I’m not a cop. I’m just hungry. And thirsty.” She sipped the wine, but kept her eyes on the bartender.

  “My name is Temperance Brennan — I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

  “Well, uh… I guess somebody has to be. Whatever that is.”

  “I’m a scientist. I study bones. I work at a museum, in DC.” She shrugged lightly. “So, you know, sometimes I help out the government…?”

  The bartender turned, went down to the other end of the bar, gave the game guys some fresh beers, then slowly, seeming to think about it as she wiped the bar, made her way back to Brennan.

  “So, then, sometimes you study bones for the FBI,” she said, the whisper hoarse and throaty. A guy would have found it sexy; Brennan read it as desperate.

  She sipped wine. “On occasion.”

  “You want to ask about Stewart.”

  It was not a question.

  And “Stewart” was her boyfriend, Stewart Musetti, Booth’s missing, presumably abducted witness.

  “Yes, Lisa, I would.”

  She shook her head and dark hairsprayed-shellacked locks bounced, or tried to. “Listen, Ms. Brennan — God knows I’d like to help find Stewart. But I told the FBI everything I know.”

  “You’re sure.”

  Lisa Vitto nodded. “And you do know where you are? Who owns this place?”

  The Gianellis.

  Brennan ignored the question, asking her own: “Do you love him?”

  Tears welled in the bartender’s eyes and she wiped them away with a napkin she picked up from the edge of the bar; the industrial-strength eye makeup was unaffected. “Yes. I do. But you make it sound like he’s alive.”

  “He might be.”

  Her eyes were tearing again and she was shaking her head. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  “Lisa, did you tell the FBI guys that you love Stewart?”

  “No.”

  Casually, she asked, “What else didn’t you tell them?”

  The glittering eyes tightened. “Honestly, I don’t know. I suppose there are things they didn’t ask about, but… I can’t think of a goddamn thing. I mean it.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is?”

  Lisa glanced around the bar again. “Look — I got a couple ideas on that score, but they aren’t about where he is.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “They’re about where his body would be.”

  “Oh. How about sharing one of those ideas?”

  Behind the moisture, the eyes were hard. “I think they gave my guy a ride on the ol’ Dunes Express.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Brennan said.

  “You don’t want to know, honey. They killed him, and they buried him. Deep.”

  “They? You mean the father and son who own this place?”

  Lisa just stared at her.

  “You think they’re behind the death of the man you love, and yet you still work here.”

  Nodding, Lisa said, “Stewart stood up to them, and look what that got him. He was brave, I’m not…. By staying on here, I show them where I stand.”

  “That you stand with them, you mean? Not Stewa
rt?”

  “That’s right, because, honey? Stewart isn’t standing at all right now. He’s lyin’ down… and he ain’t never ever gonna get up again, much less get back at these boys.”

  If I can find where he’s buried, Brennan thought, he might….

  “Thank you, Lisa,” Brennan said, and she handed the woman a business card with the name and number of her hotel on the back. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”

  Lisa arched an eyebrow. “If I do, it won’t be from here.”

  But the bartender took the card, slipped it up her sleeve and moved down the bar without another word.

  Brennan turned and found a man standing behind her.

  “Oh!” she said. “You scared me.”

  His voice was smooth and resonant. “Didn’t mean to. My apologies.”

  Tall, with dark hair that stood up slightly in the front, the man wore a dark, beautifully tailored suit over a white shirt and geometric-pattern tie, along with dark Italian loafers and a smile that probably made some females swoon but which Brennan found smarmy.

  “Are you Ms. Brennan?” he asked.

  His voice was smooth as brandy, but about as sincere as twist-cap wine.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Your table is ready,” he said, turning to lead her, but then stopped and turned toward her again. “You aren’t — Temperance Brennan, are you? The writer?”

  “Actually, I’m Temperance Brennan the anthropologist. But I have done some writing.”

  “I should say! A bestseller is some writing all right….”

  He extended a hand and she had no choice but to shake it.

  “Vincent Gianelli,” he said, gesturing to himself. “One of the owners of the place.”

  She had already suspected as much, yet she still fought the urge to snatch her hand back.

  “Well,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m in town consulting and one of the guidebooks said Siracusa was the best Italian food in the suburbs.”

  The handshaking stopped finally. She resisted the urge to count her fingers.

  “I like to think best Italian in Chicago,” he said, and flashed that white smile. “Listen, I’m a big fan — loved your book. Your money’s no good here, Ms. Brennan.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, Mr. Gianelli.”

  He held up a stop palm. “It won’t be free — it will cost you….” He turned to the bartender. “Lisa! Getthe camera!”

  “Oh… no….”

  “Now don’t be shy.” He took her hand again, and she let him, squirming inside. “We’re very proud of our Wall of Fame.”

  “I noticed. So many celebrities….”

  She didn’t mention that she hadn’t recognized many of them.

  “We get all kinds of famous people in here,” he said. “My dad knew Frank and Dino, y’know.”

  Well, even she knew who they were….

  “Of course,” Gianelli was saying, “I was just a kid then… but in the years since? Belushi, Aykroyd, anybody who’s anybody in Chicago has eaten at Siracusa and become a member of the Wall of Fame.”

  “Well, that is impressive,” she said, and tried to make her smile convey that lie.

  “Ditka, Walter Payton, Jordan, Sammy Sosa, you name ’em, they’ve broke bread here. Even writers like Bill Braschler, Eleanor Taylor Brand… and now you.”

  She swung her head toward the photos to make a show of studying them, even though rarely recognizing any but the most famous on the wall… until she saw one photo in the corner, in the shadows.

  The photo depicted a balding middle-aged man shaking hands with a much younger Vincent Gianelli.

  She recognized the balding man to be John Wayne Gacy.

  One of America’s most notorious serial killers might have been more appropriately displayed on a Wall of Shame… but for some sick reason, there that notorious killer was, grinning like a demented clown.

  “Ms. Brennan…. Are you all right?”

  “That’s… that’s you shaking hands with John Wayne Gacy, isn’t it?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, I know, not the best of taste, huh? My dad feels the same way — the old boy takes it down, but I put it back up, then he takes it down, and I… It’s almost a running joke between us.”

  Hilarious, she thought.

  “See, the guy, Gacy?” Vincent was saying. “Was real respectable. I had my picture taken with him when he was a Chamber of Commerce president or somethin’ — Nancy Reagan or Jimmy Carter’s wife or somebody, they did the same thing, I think.”

  “So it’s up just as an… oddity? A conversation piece?”

  He grinned that hideously handsome smile. “It’s workin’, isn’t it? Aren’t we conversing?”

  Vincent pointed to a picture near the bar, showing him in casual clothes, squatting next to a big tan dog.

  “Now, that’s my favorite,” Gianelli said. “That’s me with Luca, my Neapolitan mastiff.”

  Brennan nodded approval. How could you abhor an alleged killer who loved dogs?

  Wasn’t that hard, actually.

  Coming up behind them, Lisa said, “Got the camera ready, Vince.”

  Turning at the sound of the woman’s voice, Brennan found herself standing with Vincent Gianelli, his arm around her and shaking her hand.

  She thought, You know what would make an interesting picture?

  And into her mind came the mini-movie of her grabbing Vincent in a wristlock, dropping him to his knees, then crushing his larynx with a martial arts chop….

  Of course, in what she laughingly thought of as real life, that might not be the most socially acceptable way for a writer-headed-to-the-Siracusa-Wall-of-Fame to behave herself.

  Still, though being this close to Booth’s gangster nemesis made her skin literally crawl, she also noticed that her host’s expensive cologne wasn’t half bad.

  What the hell.

  She stood stiffly beside him, shaking hands, as Lisa snapped the photo.

  The flash blinded Brennan and she saw multicolored spots behind her eyelids. The feeling was just dissipating when she opened her eyes and the flash went off a second time. Again, the colored spots exploded in her vision.

  She could barely see Lisa and the camera fading back toward the bar, though she thought she caught the bartender’s smile, which was strained.

  “Thank you so much for this,” Gianelli said, slipping his arm from her shoulder, but squeezing her hand even harder. “I loved your book so much — great read. Let me show you to your table.”

  Brennan followed along, her vision slowly clearing, her mind still a little blurred.

  “You’ve been really terrific,” he said.

  “You’re welcome. Glad you like the book.”

  “Oh, I love that kind of stuff — I wore out my copy of Silence of the Lambs.”

  “Really.”

  He looked back at her, his dark eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “Yeah, but even before that, from when I was a kid? Always had this fascination with mysteries and crime and horror.”

  He paused and she almost ran into him as he glanced back to share a whispered secret.

  “Especially serial killers,” Vincent said.

  “No wonder you liked my book,” Brennan said, doing something with her mouth that was almost like smiling.

  Vincent gave her a real, strangely disarming smile. For a reportedly sociopathic gangster he had a certain charm of sorts.

  At a small table by a window onto the parking lot, her host withdrew a chair for her and she took a seat.

  But he did not go — he hovered, leaning a hand against an empty chair beside her, as if hoping she would invite him to join her.

  “So,” he said, “I suppose you’ve heard these stupid rumors about my family.”

  “Rumors?”

  He shrugged. “The usual stereotypes — as if every Italian in Chicago is Al Capone.”

  She decided to pander. “My understanding is that most of the organized crime in this city is in
the hands of street gangs, grown older and more savvy.”

  She was practically quoting a Chicago Tribune article she’d read the other day.

  But Vincent took the remark at face value. “Exactly! You want to hear something interesting?”

  “Sure.”

  “No one in my family… no one… has ever done time or even been convicted of a felony.”

  Brennan blinked. “… Well. How many families can say that?”

  “Right! What are you working on in Chicago? Is it for the FBI or research for a new book?”

  She tried to smile again but it felt like a wince; she wondered what it looked like.

  “You’ve been so gracious,” she said, “and I don’t mean to be rude… but, really, that’s something I can’t talk about.”

  Vincent patted the air. “It’s okay, it’s okay… business is business. I understand. The feds get nutzoid about leaks.”

  “…Thanks for not pressing.”

  “No problem.” Then he leaned in. “But tell me — is it this serial killer thing? The bones at the Biograph?”

  Somehow Brennan willed her mouth not to drop open.

  She had thought that no one outside of the Booth/Brennan circle knew about the case; but once the Chicago police were in on it, she should have known nothing would remain secret. Too many people were involved for it to stay quiet.

  At least the media didn’t seem to have it yet.

  But Vincent Gianelli did.

  “You don’t have to answer,” Vincent said. “I just figured, with your background? You’d be in on that.”

  A waiter approached, short, in his early twenties, with swept-back black hair. Like the rest of the wait staff and Lisa the bartender, he wore a white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks.

  “This is Hector,” Vincent said. “He’s our best. He’ll be your server.”

  The young, Hispanic-looking waiter smiled and placed Brennan’s glass of wine from the bar on the table. The glass had been refilled.

  Despite all this hospitality, she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask Vincent to join her — she really didn’t feel she had the interrogative skills to pump the man about the missing Musetti without giving herself away.

  Besides, Vincent was taking his leave, finally.

  “I really do love your writing,” he said. “It’s so true to life…. If you need anything while you’re in thearea, don’t hesitate to call.”