"Yeah, well, there's getting and there's getting." Kent chuckled. "We'll see what happens."
"I'm exhausted and I still have schedules to make out." Luke zipped up his jacket.
"Why don't you two take off? I'll hit one more spot."
I watched the two of them walk off, chatting like old buddies, amazed at Kent's resilient capacity for change. I knew hiring him wasn't a bad idea.
The Venture Inn was next. That's where Hollister and Brandt were headed and I thought maybe one of the regulars might've witnessed something. The Venture was a very old bar and a great restaurant. Quiet and cozy, it had a loyal following. The rush of the outside world disappeared when you entered. I'd started going there regularly after Galen disappeared and it felt like home.
Everyone at the Venture has his own story. Lots of them know loss and heartbreak. When someone eventually coaxed me to tell about my friend Galen's disappearance, he let me talk as long as I wanted. It felt good to get it out and left me with a fondness for the Venture.
Zack, the bartender, set me up with my usual, a mojito.
"Been a while," Zack said as he washed glasses. "You lead one of those glamorous lives catching bad guys, shooting guns, getting all the hotties." He sighed dramatically.
"Yep, really glamorous, always a hottie on my arm, always a gun in my belt."
"That's what I thought." Zack laughed. "You don't look like you're here for a good time. Something up?"
"That shooting the other night. Were you here?"
"When am I not here? Do I look like I have a life? I was here and scared shitless. That guy was killed right down the street."
"Anybody mention they saw anything?"
"You know what the guys are like. Come back in two weeks and everybody here will claim they were witnesses."
"That night, you remember anybody coming in who said they saw the shooting?"
"You're workin' this case, aren't you? I knew it." Zack smiled and I saw all over again why he was so popular with Venture's crowd. "I hate to disappoint you, Marco, but nobody said anything to me about it."
"Said anything about what, Zacky?" A grizzled older guy, two seats down, slapped a twenty on the bar.
"That writer who got shot, Chaz. Remember?"
"Gimmie a Rolling Rock. Shooting? The other night? I wasn't here. Don't know much about it."
"You hear anybody else talk about it?" I asked. The guy looked at me like I'd just dropped in from Saturn. "Marco Fontana." I held out my hand.
"Chaz," he said, his voice like a gurgle. "What's your interest in that shootin'?"
"I'm a P.I. Hired to investigate."
"Just a muggin' that's what they said. You tellin' me it wasn't?"
"Because the police said it was a mugging doesn't mean it's the truth."
"Not the police, man," Chaz said and took a long pull from his beer bottle. "There was two guys here who said they saw it. Can't remember what they said because there's so much bullshit tossed around here I don't bother keepin' it all in my head. If you catch my drift..."
"But you remember who said it, right, Chaz? Tell me you remember." I stared hard at the man, hoping to jog his brain cells.
"It was Artie and... uh... Jordan. Ain't that right, Zacky?"
"Hey if you say it was them, it was them. They were here that night."
"You know them?"
"We all know 'em," Chaz said.
"Yeah, they're regulars," Zack confirmed. "But they're not here tonight."
"Shit."
"They'll be in tomorrow. They always come in on Sunday because it's Trivia Night. They love trivia. Any kind of trivia. They love showing off. And if you mention I said that, I'll spike your next drink and take you home over my shoulder."
"Sounds tempting, Zack."
Chaz laughed until he started coughing.
"Have some water, Chaz." Zack placed a glass in front of the guy.
"You sure they'll be in tomorrow?"
"If they're not, you can take me home over your shoulder." Zack winked at me. "Aw, you can take me home anyway."
Chapter 11
Working at Bubbles after the day I'd had wasn't exactly on my top ten list. But the boss had to interview the newbies. Besides, Kent said he'd encouraged Jared to return. He could be persuasive even without a gun. I wondered what kind of encouragement he'd used. If it worked and I could question the guy, I didn't care.
Before anything else, though, I'd promised to check in with Hollister. Voicemails he'd left had a note of exasperation and I didn't have much progress to report. But on the principle that something is better than nothing, I called him.
"Is Tim around?"
"Hold on, I'll get him. Who should I say is calling?" The guy sounded upbeat and cheery. I wondered if Hollister was in the mood for a host like that.
"Marco Fontana."
"Oooohhh, I've heard about you. You're the handsome detective Tim's hired. Well, hold on, I'll get him."
I waited and heard muffled voices, even what sounded like a giggle.
"Marco? I'm glad you called." Hollister sounded tired, maybe a little tipsy. "You think it's safe for me to get a few more things from my place?"
"Can it wait until tomorrow? I don't want you going alone."
"Certainly. And, Marco...?" Hollister paused.
"I don't have answers, yet, Tim. I'm working on some leads."
"But, you think..."
"We'll get to the bottom of this. Whatever happened we'll know why and who. I promise." It was a promise I intended to keep, not only for Hollister but for that beautiful, fresh-eyed author I'd met long ago who was kind enough to be nice to me. Maybe I was even keeping the promise for that Pope I never knew. He deserved a little justice, too. "I don't make promises lightly, Tim. We will find out what happened."
***
I stripped off my clothes, put a ManSized Chicken Dinner into the microwave, and poured a glass of merlot which would take the edge off the day.
The sofa was soft and I melted into it hoping the wine would lull me to sleep. I watched darkness engulf the city and lights twinkle to life illuminating the night and making the river shimmer. A happy, drowsy, wine-induced peace was about to help me forget for a while. Not.
The microwave's bell and the warbling telephone broke through the buzz.
Dinner could wait, I picked up the phone.
"Fontana," I said, my voice betraying how utterly relaxed I felt.
"Tom Quinn, here. I understand you're investigating Brandt's death." The man's voice was grating. Hollister mentioned he wasn't pleasant.
"That's right." Word was getting around fast.
"You'll want to talk to me but I have nothing to tell you."
"Why're you calling me, then, Mr. Quinn?"
"You think I'm involved with Brandt's murder. Don't beat around the bush."
"Never said that, Quinn." He was obviously an attention hog and wanted to be on my suspect list. Or, maybe that was his way of deflecting suspicion.
"You think I'm involved. They all think I had something to do with it. After all I have a good motive. The bastard stole my work. Filched my research. And twisted it into something that is patently a lie."
"When can we meet face to face, Mr. Quinn?" I had to stop his rant.
"Never. I've done nothing wrong. Nothing! But I know my name will surface in this investigation. Which is why I called." His breathing was labored and wheezy.
"You want to defend your reputation, I understand." It felt like I was talking to a child. "No one's forcing you to come forward. But..."
"But what? Now you're going to threaten me. Like if I don't talk to you, I'll just have to talk in court. Or, if I don't talk to you, then some bigger goon will come and beat it out of me. Or, maybe..."
"Not at all, Mr. Quinn. You're a respected author," I said, my voice oozing honey. "You may be able to help both yourself and the investigation."
"Good." He sounded as if he were ready to listen.
"You'll have the
opportunity to tell your side in your own words. I'm handling the investigation, you can talk to me. I'll get your story to the right people. Even the media."
"How can I be sure you'll tell the truth? How do I know you'll report exactly what I say?"
"We can record the conversation."
"No." He said with a swiftness I found paranoid. Then, "That won't be necessary. If you're willing to go that far, I'll have to trust you. No recordings. Do I have your word on that?"
"You got it. When can we talk?"
"This evening. I'm free now. Next week will be quite busy."
The Man-Sized Dinner was getting colder by the minute, the glass of ruby-red merlot beckoned, and I wanted to hang up the phone. The sound of Quinn's wheezing breath was annoying. Then I remembered promising Hollister I'd do everything I could.
"Give me an hour. Where do you want to meet?" I sighed.
"The cafe at Twelfth and Walnut, across from Starbuck's. Know it?"
"I know it well. One hour?"
"Come alone. No cameras, no recording devices. And no tricks. Understand? I'll be able to tell."
"One hour, Mr. Quinn."
He hung up without a word.
The microwave is my friend. I punched the buttons and reheated the food. The aroma, when I opened the door, was enough to make my stomach growl. The chicken was dry but I was hungry and in a hurry.
I freshened up, got dressed, and left.
Carlos didn't work the desk on Saturdays. Instead, Grace, as fierce a guardian as there was anywhere, stood watch. A barrel of a woman, she had bulldog intensity in a sweet-faced package. She peered at me with her sensitive, liquid eyes as I passed.
"What's up, Grace?" I smiled.
"You all right, Mr. Fontana? I mean, you been havin' any trouble?" Concern creased her face.
"No more than usual," I said and laughed. "Did I forget to pick up a package?"
"No. It's not you, exactly. There was a guy in here looking for you earlier," she said. "Don't worry. I didn't give him anything. Not a word. No apartment number. Nothing about your schedule."
"But he asked all that?"
"Said he needed to talk to you, something urgent."
"He leave a name? A number? What'd he look like?"
"Didn't leave a trace and looked like hell," Grace said. "Short. Wouldn't even come up to your shoulders. Dark hair, really dark eyes, and, whatta' they call it? Three days growth. Grungy clothes. Didn't stink, just looked dirty. Kinda tired lookin' and scared, too."
"How old?"
"Impossible to tell. Not too young, not too old."
"Anything else?" I asked as I made notes.
"Jittery. Really jittery. Kept walkin' up and down, up and down. I finally told him to leave. I wasn't gonna let him ambush you. I didn't know what he'd do."
"Thanks, Grace. You're a life saver."
"Tried to call you, but I guess you were out. Exciting. Your P.I. work, I mean."
"Sometimes. If that guy should to turn up again, you know what to do."
"You bet." She laughed.
The cafe wasn't far. On the way I spied a lone squirrel, acorn in his mouth, darting up an oak tree with yellowing leaves. Another sign the seasons were rapidly changing. But Quinn was on my mind and I was steeling myself for the meeting. He sounded annoying.
The cafe wasn't crowded when I entered, which wasn't surprising. This time of day, people were at dinner or doing other sensible things, not meeting with cranky writers.
I saw a guy I figured had to be Quinn. His face was wreathed in dour frowns matching the voice on the phone. He was a tall, long-limbed, wiry man in his fifties. Thick black-framed glasses, stringy gray hair, and rumpled clothes completed the picture. Wrinkles set his sour expression into permanence. His swarthy complexion served to intensify the dark and brooding cloud hanging over him.
He saw me staring and glared. I went up to him, introduced myself and invited him to sit with me. He grunted assent, chose a place way in a corner, and sat with his back to the wall.
I got us each a coffee and sat across from him.
"You and Brandt go back a long way?" I emptied some sugar packets into my coffee, stirred, and waited for him to reply.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Hey, pal, you called me. You want me to know your story, then answer my questions. I need to understand Brandt and why his work made people hot under the collar. You both worked on similar projects. You can give me some insight into him through his work. That way I learn about you, too."
"I can tell you that he was a johnny-come-lately to the subject. Hollister put him on to it. I'd been working on it far longer and had far better sources. I just didn't have the breaks, or the pretty face."
"Tell me about your work. Then you can tell me where Brandt had it wrong."
"I was and still am investigating the death of John Paul the First," he snapped. "It's taken years to develop sources, dig out materials, compile documents, get people to give me any scrap of information or leads no matter how seemingly insignificant. I have amassed files. I was close to what I know must be the truth, when Brandt comes along with his piece of crap book."
"Why crap?" I asked and watched his face morph from one emotion to another.
"It's innuendo and unsubstantiated material. It may have the ring of authenticity, some of it is based on the same material I've used. But Brandt spins off into directions nowhere near the truth."
"Does anyone really know the truth?"
"You're too young, aren't you? Too young to have been aware of that Pope and what he meant to people. You're too young to know what a stir his death caused, how it echoes down the years." Quinn's breathing was rapid. I realized he was just winding up.
"I only know what I've read. He was an unusual man with unorthodox views."
"That's what they'd like you to believe. They want you to think the conservative factions killed him. They didn't."
"The money people killed him? It was all about the Bank scandal?"
"Wrong. It was the liberals. They had to stop him. The money guys, that was just the surface. He would've taken the lid off that, too. But not for the reasons you might think. He was set to expose everything, all of them. They hadda stop him. And they did."
"How does anyone even know it was actually murder?"
"The evidence! That's how they know. The evidence. They were all in on it. The Bank, the Masons, the Curia, and some of the Cardinals. But not the ones they think." His brown eyes flashed with a malevolence I could feel.
"The Masons?" I knew he was flying on one wing. Next he'd mention the Knights Templar. "What about Opus Dei?"
"Opus Dei? You're kidding. They're the right wing. They wouldn't side with the liberals if that was their only choice."
"You've got a point. But..."
"What about the undertakers? Huh?" He leaned in and glared.
"The undertakers? Whose undertakers?"
"The Pope's undertakers. The Signoracci brothers. A family business. Four brothers. They were called in to deal with the Pope's body."
"Standard procedure, right?" I asked and realized Quinn sounded wackier by the minute.
"They were called in before anybody knew the Pope was dead. You want unusual? They were put in a limousine an hour before anybody discovered the Pope's body. That unusual enough for you?"
"I'd say it was," I mumbled. Now he mentioned it, I vaguely remembered reading something like that.
"You don't have to believe me. Other people have written about it."
"No one's ever offered hard evidence, though. Unless you've got some."
"Hard ev... are you crazy? You think people like that are gonna leave solid evidence? Cardinals, Bankers, Masons? They're gonna leave a trail to their front door? You gotta be kidding me."
"Almost all of them are dead. Easy to say anything now they can't defend themselves. Am I right?"
"You think I'm making this stuff up?" He rose to leave.
"Hold on, Quinn.
You got me out here, make it worth my time. All I'm seeing right now is a jealous competitor. For all I know, you're trying to cover your ass."
He reluctantly sat back down.
"Nothing I'm saying is made up, Fontana. You hear? I don't have what you like to call evidence, but I can prove my case."
"That's what Brandt said. He had new evidence to prove his case." Nothing I'd read, including Brandt's book, offered anything in the way of a smoking gun, or in this case, a tea cup with poison residue. Which is how they say it was done.
"Showboating. That's all it was. Brandt had hoity-toity inside contacts thanks to Hollister but they didn't provide anything more than what I have. Anyway, they're on the other side of the fence."
"How so?"
"They're a bunch of fag liberals who want to prove Papa Luciani was a homo who would accept them all. That he was gonna end the prohibition on birth control and endorse women's rights."
"That was all in Brandt's first book." I tried to restrain myself from punching Quinn for what he'd said. "Nothing new in what you said. Everybody knows all of it. Old news floating around since the day the man died."
"But that's my point. There wasn't anything new in Brandt's first book. Maybe he added in the homo stuff. All the other crap was there before Brandt knew how to get milk from a tit. The only new thing was he claimed he had proof on paper. Something that would make his case airtight."
"And you don't believe him?"
"You see the proof? You have the papers he bragged about? Nobody has. All hype for his next book. I'd love to get my hands on that pack of lies and prove Brandt was nothing but a charlatan."
"What would you do if you found the papers and they proved Brandt's case?"
"That won't happen."
"Did you, by any chance, take a look through Brandt's stuff? At his house?"
"His house? What're you talking about?"
"You tell me, Quinn."
"It's getting late." Quinn drained his cup and stood.
"I'll have more questions."
"You know where to find me. But there's nothing else I can tell you." With that he pulled his jacket tighter around him and left. The draft from the closing door wasn't the only thing that gave me chills.
***
Later that night, I found myself walking to Bubbles, wanting to be at home, eating popcorn and watching a movie. It'd gotten chillier and the moonless night seemed sinister and unfriendly. I still loved October with its promises of holidays and cheer. But tonight I was loving it just a little less.
Murder on Camac Page 11