"He's in here." I heard Clifford say and I turned around.
A medium height, balding man with sallow skin and slightly bulging brown eyes moved into the room behind Clifford.
"This is Mr. Fontana," Clifford said, his voice dripping venom. "I'll leave you to talk." He turned to leave then turned back. "I'll assume you know how to let yourself out." Then he was gone.
Navarro stood awkwardly for a moment then sat in one of the side chairs.
"What's this all about, Mr. Fontana? You've interrupted my prayers."
"I'll get to the point, then," I said. "You're familiar with Helmut Brandt?"
"I've read some of his work," Navarro said. "A dangerous mind, if you ask me. Wants to pull the world down around him."
"Wanted to. He's dead."
"Yes, I'd heard that. God works in mysterious ways, doesn't He?" He didn't exactly smirk, but there was a smugness about him, especially when he mentioned God. I guess if you were supposedly doing God's work, you know the deity's mind, otherwise how would you know what work needed to be done? That would make a person smug.
"Sometimes, He does," I countered. "And sometimes mysterious organizations work in not so mysterious ways."
"Oh, I see," Navarro clucked softly. "You're implying that Opus Dei had something to do with his death? You couldn't sound more ridiculous if you stood there quacking like a duck."
"Just call me Donald, then. It's not beyond the pale of reason that the powers behind Opus Dei would be incensed enough to want Brandt dead."
"You expect me to listen to this nonsense?" Navarro stood. "I've got much better things to do."
"Of course I don't expect you to listen, that doesn't fit the profile. But maybe if I said Ciliceguy, your ears might prick up. Sometimes you call yourself Serviam. Kind of a giveaway, wouldn't you say?"
I knew I'd gotten his interest because he dropped back into his seat and stared hard at me. Anger and suspicion framed his face, his dark eyes burning.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, his mouth a thin line slashing his face, his eyes still boring into me. As if, with that stare, he could understand just what I knew and what kind of person I was.
"Threatening e-mails, Navarro," I snapped. "E-mails that went beyond the you'll-burn-in-hell variety. Way over into criminal territory."
"You don't know me, Fontana. I would never do anything like that."
"But you did, Navarro. You did, and you made the sorry mistake of thinking there'd be no trail to follow in the ether."
"You can't prove anything because there isn't anything to prove. I never wrote those e-mails. I never threatened anyone." He rose to his feet again, this time more confident.
"There's where you're wrong, Navarro. But I guess you need something less divine to show you we've got what we need."
"You'll excuse me, I need to get back to my prayers."
"You do that. You know," I paused and he stopped in his tracks. "It's only a hop, skip, and a jump from those threats to proving you were involved in Brandt's murder."
"You had better be careful who you accuse. A word to the wise."
***
Navarro had tried looking tough, but he was transparent. If Nina came up with something more, I'd nail Navarro to the wall with it.
One of the anonymous garage attendants smiled at me like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard, as I parked my car and walked to my condo.
I caught an empty elevator and savored the quiet ride. Once in the apartment, I threw off my shoes and prepared some food. I was about to sit down with a piece of salmon, some veggies, and a Beck's when the phone rang.
Caller ID said it was a restricted call. I hate restricted calls but in this business, you can't pass them up. At first no one responded when I answered. Then I heard someone clear his throat.
"Hello?" I always give them a few chances. Calling a private eye isn't the easiest thing to do and usually comes at a time of emotional turmoil. So, when they call, they're often nervous to the point of being mute.
"You the guy?" He was obviously trying to disguise his voice.
"The guy?" I asked.
"The guy who's investigatin' that killing? You him?"
"I might be."
"Well ain't you or ain't you?" His nervous impatience made him drop the attempt at disguise.
"What killing are you talking about?"
"The guy. Y'know. Look, I don't have no time to fool around," he snapped.
"You talking about the writer? The one shot in a mugging?"
"Yeah, 'ats the one. And it wasn't no mugging. I know."
"You willing to talk?"
"Maybe... but I need protection and money."
"I could arrange that. Tell me whe..."
"I'll call you with a time and place." He left me with an earful of dialtone.
Sitting back down to my salmon, I took a pull on the Beck's and shook my head. The caller was probably another nut job. But the more I thought about it the more I realized he could be on the level. For one thing, this was not a high profile case. As far as the police and the media were concerned, it was low priority. They called it a mugging. Tragic but that was that. They'd look into it when they got around to it which meant the day after never.
There was no way this guy could know I was on the case. Unless somebody connected to the case told the caller. Which meant somebody was becoming very nervous about something I was doing. I'd have to wait and find out.
Chapter 15
The ball was in his court, whoever he was. He'd call me when he was ready. In the meantime, I had other things on my mind.
Anton expected me at Bubbles to help pair up newbies with veteran dancers. He'd hit upon the mentoring idea a while back and it'd worked well. The old hands taught the newbies about dealing with customers and cranks. Once in a while, the pairings resulted in a budding romance which sometimes ended promising careers. The partner acts were good for business bringing customers in on slow nights, which made Stan, the owner, happy. I wasn't about to fool with the formula.
It'd gotten colder, forcing me to wear a jacket. The sky was clear and dark and velvety. The few stars cutting through the city glare, were diamond bright. The moon was a perfect silver crescent. I felt like things would go my way as I entered Bubbles.
The first floor crowd was sparse but Kent was there patrolling.
"Hey, boss," he said. "Got any more odd jobs like the other day?"
"Bored here already?"
"Bored? You kidding?" Kent laughed. "This is the best work I've ever had. School is dull compared to this."
"I'll have other work for you, never fear. You did well on Saturday."
Kent smiled boyishly.
"Anton around?" I asked.
"Upstairs." Kent gently grabbed my arm. "Can I ask you something? Just between you and me?"
"Of course." I moved to where we wouldn't be overheard. "What's up, Kent?"
"It's Anton. Is that guy ever gonna like me? Not like me... I mean... just trust me. Be regular with me? Not look at me like I'm gonna stab him in the back."
"Give him time. He's been pretty nice to you so far."
"Yeah, but sometimes I wonder. I've been trying. I always say hello. I run errands for him. But he looks at me like he wants me on another planet or something."
"Anton's a great guy. But it was just last week you pulled a gun on him. That kinda makes people a little sensitive. Know what I mean?"
"I know." Kent frowned. "I was an idiot."
"You were in love and hurting. I've been there. Not that I held people hostage or anything. But I understand how you felt and so does Anton."
"I woulda never hurt him... or Nando. Never. I just felt so low." Kent's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'll make it up to him. Whatever he wants."
"He'll come around. I'll talk to him," I squeezed Kent's shoulder. "Everything okay down here?"
"I saw Jared again," Kent said. "He's scared."
"Because of the guy he was arguing with
?"
"He says they're back together. Which I don't understand because the other night they couldn't'a been more apart."
"What's got him scared then?" This was a twist I hadn't expected after what Tony had said.
"Who knows? He left before I could find out."
"Well, keep your eyes open."
"Will do, boss."
***
The sunlight blazed into my bedroom like a wave from a fiery ocean waking me at seven thirty. I swore under my breath for forgetting to close the blinds the night before. I'd been tired when I got home from Bubbles. I'd stripped, gotten into bed, and fallen asleep forgetting everything.
There'd be no getting back to sleep now, even if I wanted to, which I did. Some days you just can't roll over and ignore the world. As I lay there everything seeped back into consciousness and I knew Hollister was depending on me. I had a list of angry, secretive people with things to hide. I'd have to pry their secrets loose.
I took a deep breath and threw off the covers. Unfortunately there was no one else under them. Some mornings I felt more alone than others. This was one of them. Two of the new guys had made passes at me. I generally don't mix business and pleasure. Generally. I'd have made an exception last night but Anton was there and it felt like I was doing something wrong. Hurting him. Which made me wonder. Maybe I cared more than I was willing to admit?
Even though I didn't exactly regret passing up those guys, I remember falling asleep thinking about the possibilities.
A hot shower always clears the mind. I let the water cascade over me a long time and soaked in the steamy warmth. The heat filtered down to my bones as warm fingers of water traced a path over my flesh. The shower signaled the start of another day, another chance to make things right. Shutting off the water, I slid back the glass door and the cool air made me shiver.
Morning ablutions over, I padded into the kitchen for breakfast.
One bowl of oatmeal laced with nuts, hot coffee, and I was on my way to winking at Carlos in the lobby, then heading to the office ready for battle. I stepped into a rush of autumn air filled with promise. I could do anything.
I caught sight of Drew puttering around his video shop as I passed by. He seemed blissfully unaware of the world outside. I envied that quality.
In the office building, I let the elevator cart me up to my floor. Its creaks and groans reminded me about searching for new office space. The lights were on and a Beethoven symphony floated on the air. Olga was already there.
"Good morning, luscious," I said as I closed the door.
"Is no use, this flattering. I am through with marriages," she said without looking up. "Informations on Jared boy I have been putting on your desk."
"Thanks, Olga. Are you sure you're through with marriage? I mean it hasn't been all that bad to you."
"Pffft, I am sure. Four dead husbands. Is this what I am wanting more of?"
"They weren't dead when you married them."
"And making of me a suspect in death of Igor? This is good thing? No. No more marriage. Not even for one who is looking like you."
"Aw," I groaned, placing a cup of coffee on her desk.
"No. Though...," she paused and looked me up and down. "You are good specimen of Italian men, no?"
"Me?" I suppressed a smile.
"Yes, I am sure of it. Boy with big glasses and bigger eyes has said you are... hot. Yes. He is saying to me other day that Marco is hot man."
"Big glasses?" I couldn't think who she meant. Then it dawned on me. "Drew? You mean Drew?"
"I am meaning boy who is working downstairs with films."
"Drew. Well, go figure."
"If you are not finding informations I have left, is because you are leaving such mess on desk. No one is finding anything."
"Don't worry, I know where everything is. If there's something new I'll find it."
My office was quiet and warm. When I shut the door behind me I felt alone and content. I liked my work and my office was my sanctuary.
I found the papers Olga referred to. The background check on Jared Beeton said the kid was squeaky clean. A transplant from Oklahoma where he'd lived until he was twenty-one, he came to Philly for grad school at Penn. He was no slouch in the intelligence department. He worked as a design assistant at Belasco and Dalgliesh, a pricey design firm.
The only address Olga turned up was the same one I'd gotten for Scanlan. Something wasn't right. Jared tells Kent he and Scanlan are playing house again. Jared tells Tony and Niko that he wants out. It was time I talked to Jared myself.
Belasco and Dalgliesh had offices near Rittenhouse Square and probably a load of clients there as well, since that's where a lot of money chose to live. These days, though, with New Yorkers moving into Philly like it was the cheapest borough they could find, the money spread itself around town.
Belasco's receptionist who answered the phone sounded as if she'd swallowed jaw stiffener. Her Main Line speech pattern was perfect for the firm.
"Mr. Beeton is not in today, sir. May I have him call you?"
"Do you know when he'll be in?" I coaxed.
"He's due back at the end of the week. May I take your information?"
"Thanks anyway."
I decided to try Scanlan's place and see if I could find Jared. If he'd taken a few days off, I figured he might be up to something. Like moving. Maybe I'd find him there. If Scanlan happened to be there, I'd kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Given Scanlan's violent nature, Jared was probably acting when Scanlan wouldn't be around to stop him.
Olga rolled her eyes when I told her I'd be back soon. The number of times I'd said that and didn't return until the next day was anybody's guess.
Scanlan lived on Spring Garden, not far from his work at the Archdiocese and a long but easy walk for me.
Bright sunlight made everything look fresh and new. Outdoor plantings reached out with rich foliage. People wore the sun like a smile. I felt great and whistled as I walked. Something good was in the air.
Twentieth Street always seemed the longest part of the walk when I'd lived in that neighborhood. A wide boulevard, as streets go in Philly, Twentieth was lined with large impersonal buildings: An assisted living facility euphemistically named Sparkling Mews, a darkly brooding Anglo-Catholic church, sinister research institutions, monuments. Tall London plane trees stood guard along the way. Eventually the Franklin Institute loomed and with it memories of childhood visits when I'd test all their scientific paraphernalia. My favorite was the liquid nitrogen presentation in which a scientist froze, then shattered, roses. I'd always wanted to freeze Phil, the kid who teased all the girls in my seventh grade class. Shattering him would've been fun.
Then came the Ben Franklin Parkway, a wide early twentieth century boulevard where traffic zoomed treacherously in all directions. Confusing stoplights and drivers in a hurry often left pedestrians stranded in the middle of the street.
Once you reached the main Library, Twentieth Street turned human-sized and comfortable.
Another two blocks and I was at Spring Garden. Lined with nineteenth century homes and more plane trees, it was a neighborhood that'd seen better days. Most of the old homes had been turned into multi-unit apartment buildings. Scanlan lived in one of them.
The building was constructed of red brick, a Philadelphia trademark. But this house was in need of brick pointing and paint. The white marble steps had a century's worth of character and wear.
I noted a small U-haul truck waiting at the curb and I knew I'd been right. Jared was moving. He'd lied to Kent about Scanlan.
Scanlan's name was on the doorbell list. I pressed and the door buzzed open. A musty, cat-litter odor clung to the air in the hall. The threadbare carpeting needed replacing.
"Up here," came a thin, trembling voice.
I climbed the stairs slowly, wary about what I'd find. Walking into the middle of a crumbling domestic situation had its dangers. People's emotions were raw, their minds cloudy. Thoughts, if the
y had any, were often dark and vengeful.
At the top of the stairs I saw an open door at the end of the hall. I made my way slowly, the floor complaining under my feet.
When I reached the door, I saw Jared. His face red and swollen, his nose bleeding. He sat limply on the sofa and barely looked up when I entered.
I went to his side and knelt on one knee.
"Who did this? What happened?"
"Who-who're... you?" He winced when he spoke as if moving his lips was painful. "Wh-where are my friends?"
"Jared, right?"
"Yes, but... who are you?" He mustered some strength.
"Marco Fontana. A private investigator," I said and looked around for the kitchen. I wanted to get a towel, wipe up the blood, put some ice on his face.
"What're you doing here?"
"Let's get you cleaned up first." I found a clean towel on a rack in the tiny kitchen, soaked it in cool water and brought it to him.
He was too weak to protest as I wiped his bloody face. He'd been hit in the nose and there was a cut near his hairline which had made a mess. He winced a few times as I gently sponged his face but otherwise he seemed grateful for the care.
"The ER is where you should be, not here." I examined at his face. "You need x-rays. You could have fractures."
"No... no. I've got to get my stuff out of here. I've got to get out." His voice became stronger. "I have f-friends coming."
"That who you thought I was?"
"Yes..."
"Who did this to you?" Had to be Scanlan. But I wanted to hear him say it.
Jared shook his head. "I just want to forget. I want to get out of here."
"You really think he's gonna let you go that easily?"
Jared was silent. He hung his head down and I saw a few tears fall. I placed a hand on his back and let it rest there to reassure him.
"I can help, Jared. I can make sure this won't happen again. Tell me who did it."
"He said he'd kill me if I told anyone."
Murder on Camac Page 16