"Put that away, Fontana. I've got questions for you."
"You arresting me, Giuliani?"
"Not unless you've done something to be arrested for. From the looks of it I might have a case."
"All due respect, detective, I gotta make a call. Your questions can wait." I didn't mind pissing her off, she'd never minded making me wait when I needed something.
I turned, walked away, and called Anton.
When I got back to Giuliani, she looked like she'd blow a gasket.
"You done?"
"For now. What can I do for you?" I looked at her deep brown eyes and raven black hair and wondered what hostile thoughts she harbored against me.
"What happened here? Start with that."
So I did. But without telling her what case I was on or why the kid had contacted me or that he'd told me anything as he lay there. She listened, a puzzled look on her face. She was perfectly made up, even for this late hour. Lip gloss, perfect eyes, smooth complexion. And lots of venom. Just for me.
"I don't get it." Her usually perfectly modulated voice was laced with uncertainty. "You're gonna meet this kid who you claim is a lead in a case. A case you don't wanna talk about. But before you get here some joker puts a couple of holes in your boy."
"I think you get it," I said.
"No. No, I don't. Are you telling me somebody wanted this kid dead because he was comin' to see you? Or, are you telling me this was just a random shooting?"
"You got a third choice, Giuliani. Could be the shooter was after me and missed. But seeing as you've got nearly five hundred shootings in the city so far this year, the 'just-another-random-shooting' thing sounds good."
"There's something you're not telling me, Fontana. I can tell. Just like your brother. Your family is all secrets. You like it that way."
"Hey, I'm telling you what I'm telling you. I get here and the kid is bleeding out on the ground. I wanted him alive not dead. I have no motive for shooting him."
"Says you," Giuliani snapped. She made some notes on her pad and looked up at me. "You know the drill, Fontana. Don't go where we can't find you. I'm gonna need to talk to you again."
"You know where to find me."
It was after two and Anton would be waiting at Bubbles while the staff cleaned up. I headed that way.
The kid was dead but he'd given me a lead. Maybe that made him feel better about himself in the end. I hoped so.
But he'd also made me realize I had to act fast. The fact that he'd mentioned Jared meant Jared could be the next target. The dead kid had known too much and maybe Jared did, too. Whoever shot the kid might want him dead.
I had to find Jared before the shooter did.
Chapter 27
The morning sun blasted through my bedroom and tore me out of the fitful sleep I'd finally sunk into. My head ached, my mouth was dry.
The phone rang and I glanced at the clock. Eight AM. I'd slept three hours and my eyes felt as if they'd grown fuzz.
I reached for the phone.
"Fontana," I mumbled.
"You sound great," Luke said. "Heard you had a close call last night. You okay?" He'd obviously talked with Anton and both had gone into mothering mode.
"And you decided to call me at," I checked the clock again since I thought maybe the fuzzy covering on my eyeballs had distorted my vision, "eight in the morning?"
"Thought you might want to get an early start figuring things out." Luke had probably been at his desk for an hour. The housecleaning business was an early riser's game.
I had to admit he was right, but it didn't make me feel any more awake.
The night before came into focus. I'd left Washington Square and gone to Bubbles. From there, Anton and I went to the all night diner to talk. All of a sudden it was four AM. I was amped. A shooting tends to wire you like nothing else. I could've yapped for hours. But I knew underneath I was bone tired and needed sleep. Which is eventually what I managed to do. Until Luke's call.
"You're right, Luke. Make any progress finding Kent?"
"Not much. But I've got eyes and ears all over the place." His eyes and ears were the men and women who worked for him in houses, condos, apartments, and office buildings for miles around. If Luke told them he needed something, they were like army ants in their drive to find it. Their loyalty had nothing to do with the fact he paid well. Something about him inspired their allegiance and none of them wanted to let him down.
"It's all more urgent now."
"Because of the shooting?"
"Yeah, the kid mentioned Scanlan and Jared. If that boy knew something, others know that same something. Could be Jared's in deep shit unless we find him first."
"Right."
"Nando knows Jared. Maybe he knows where to find him. If we ever find Nando."
"I'll step up the search." Luke sounded grim.
I lay back on my pillow. The memories of that kid dying in the park were still vivid. Nothing seemed right. How did anyone know we were meeting? If I knew that, I'd know the answers to a whole lot more.
Then it hit me and I sat straight up.
I'd have to tell Hollister about the kid. He'd admitted shooting Brandt. But I had no idea who he was, or why he'd done it. All I had was what he'd whispered as he lay there. This was guaranteed to send Hollister into overdrive. I wasn't looking forward to that.
Instead of waiting, I decided to get it over with.
"Bancrofft residence." For some reason, Hollister answered the phone.
"Tim, just the one I want," I said.
"What is it? Are you all right?"
"I need to talk with you, Tim."
"What's wrong? Have you..."
"Meet me in two hours at Rouge. You know it?"
"I'll be there. But isn't there anything you can tell me?"
"I need some advice and I want to bring you up to date. Things seem to be moving and I need to bring you into this."
Hollister reluctantly hung up and I dashed to get out to the office.
***
"He is alive," Olga greeted me in typical Olga fashion. "There is talking you were involved in shooting. But you are here. No holes in chest or head."
"Only the ones I was born with." I laughed. "Good morning to you, too, gorgeous."
"Getting shot in park is affecting eyes. No one is gorgeous here."
"Not even me?"
"Handsome. Movie star face. Stunning. But gorgeous, no." Olga resumed typing.
"I'm wounded."
"What?! Is true? Where is wound?"
"By your words, Olga. Wounded by your words. I'll be in my office licking my wounds."
"Coffee is made. Strong like poison," she said. We had two coffee makers, one was Olga's and only for tea. In mine, she made powerful, hair raising, coffee.
The intoxicating aroma of coffee permeated the room and my nostrils tingled. I'd already had some at home, but more caffeine never hurt. I filled a mug and sat at my desk.
If I were inclined to make To-Do lists, I'd put finding Scanlan and Jared at the top. Next would come Quinn, Navarro, and Wren.
The kid had mentioned someone named Colt at Stella's. That'd have to wait for the bar to open.
The phone stared me in the face. Scanlan was hiding and Jared was missing. I decided to start with Navarro and called him at work.
"Navarro."
"Mr. Navarro, Marco Fontana. I think it's time we talked again. Your name's come up in some documents. Before I turn the information over to the authorities, I want to get your side of things." I wasn't about to turn anything over to anybody but he didn't know that.
"I have no idea what you're talking about and I resent you calling me at work."
"Just wanted to give you an opportunity. I guess you won't mind sitting in the precinct office once I turn this stuff in. They'll want to hear your story." I paused a moment. "Won't be as nice as I am but..."
"There is no story to tell. There is no reason for the police to see me. I'm a simple man. I work, I go to ch
urch. I serve my God. There's no more to my story than that."
"A simple man? You're a simple man?"
"I live a Spartan life, Mr. Fontana. You've seen my home. It isn't even my home, really. Just a place to pray and sleep. A place to house my earthly shell. It doesn't get much more simple."
"But...," I wanted to sound innocent. "Aren't you the same John Navarro who worked for Silvio Calvino? In Rome? Calvino the communications and financial mogul? You're not that John Navarro?"
Silence.
"Weren't you there at the Bridge of Four Heads?" I pressed. "The place of the plotters, isn't that what some people called it? The documents say Navarro was there."
Silence again.
"The documents might be wrong, I suppose. I'll let the police sort that out. The bio on this John Navarro sure sounds a lot like you. I guess you'll be able to explain that to the police."
"What documents? Why would my name appear in any documents?"
"Remember what we talked about at your home? I was thinking maybe Opus Dei had something to do with Brandt's murder."
"I remember your ridiculous assertions about Opus Dei. There isn't a more dedicated group..."
"Save it, Navarro. I was off-track when I thought it might be them. Actually it was you. A different organization but the same John Navarro. You were involved in P2."
"I was nev..."
"You were one of the interns working for Silvio Calvino. He kept good records and you probably kept a pretty nifty set of records of the meetings he attended. Including the ones at The Bridge of Four Heads."
"What is it you want, Mr. Fontana?"
"Meet me and I'll tell you all about it."
"I'm at work. I can't just..."
"They let you out for lunch, don't they?"
"But..."
"Yes or no, Navarro."
"Noon. At the Clothespin."
"You got it."
The Clothespin, a gigantic Claes Oldenburg sculpture set in front of a skyscraper across from City Hall, had become an instant hit as a meeting point for people. Who could miss a forty-five foot high clothespin?
Making guys like Navarro squirm was almost better than a shot of caffeine, so I decided to stir another pot. After what Palmer had told me about Quinn, I wanted to coax him out and see if he'd trip himself up. I wouldn't have to pressure the egomaniac. He'd be only too happy to meet and puff up his profile even when he had no idea what he was walking into.
His phone rang ten times before sending me to voicemail.
"Professor Quinn is not here to take your call. Please leave your name and... yadda, yadda, yadda."
I asked him to call me as soon as he could about important new information I had. Quinn would fall for that before he could think it through.
It was nearly time to meet Hollister. I gulped some coffee, picked up my jacket, and headed for the door.
"You are just arriving and now boss is leaving?"
"A P.I.'s work is never done, Olga. I won't be back until later this afternoon. If you need me..."
"I am having your cell number."
I headed down the stairs and out into the fresh air. I needed to think about the case. There were still missing pieces. Not to mention missing people. And I wasn't sure what I was close to discovering.
Aside from telling Hollister about the kid, I dreaded asking him about allowing Kusek to read the documents. It was like asking him to give everything over to the enemy. Hollister was smart enough to understand that Kusek might see something we missed, might recognize names or places we didn't. Anything could help get us closer to a solution.
But why would Kusek tell us anything? What would motivate him to help us if it made the Church look bad? Would he tell the truth if he did find something? All questions Hollister might ask. And I didn't have an answer that weighed more than a slice of prosciutto.
Walking on Walnut Street was good if you wanted lots of people without being overwhelmed. It was early enough so the city felt fresh and the air was cold. People hurried to their offices or strolled into cafes. Some looked stolid and resigned, as if they couldn't wait to retire. Others resembled worker bees on their way to help the hive survive.
The high fashion shops weren't open yet and I imagined their oh-so-fashionable clerks readying themselves at home, donning too-tight clothes, or whacky name brand outfits to impress fashion snobs. I noticed yet another clothing store was being outfitted: all glass, chrome, and lacquered wood.
When I got to Eighteenth Street, I stood by the bank at the corner and took in the scene. Rittenhouse Square to my left, old magnificent townhouses turned commercial properties to my right. And people. Walking dogs, jogging, strolling the Square. Some weighed down with briefcases and papers, others burdened with whatever troubles clouded their dour faces.
The Square was still green, the weather not cold enough to wither the leaves. Tall oak, maple, locust, and plane trees sheltered dozens of people. Someone once told me the Square had been a notorious gay meeting place years before and I smiled thinking how it must've been.
I headed to Rouge, a cafe people frequented in order to see and be seen. From the famous to the unknown, well-heeled men and women came to sit at the faux rattan tables and sip outlandishly expensive espresso, cappuccino, or more pricy drinks. The food was overpriced but good, the service efficient. But the reputation was everything. And everyone wanted to sit outside no matter what the weather. How else could one be seen by the hoi polloi?
There were a few tables available, in less than prime locations. A waitress in a slinky black dress approached. You'd never know she was a server but that was the idea, all the waitresses were required to look as high class as their customers. After all, if you were a nobody wanting to be thought a somebody, would you want a frumpy waitress in a stained smock taking your order? Of course not. You'd want a classy woman in a tight, black, low cut dress to make it appear you were worthy of just that type of attention.
I smiled and asked for a table. She smiled back, with a little wink thrown in, and showed me to the best of the remaining tables. I asked for espresso and told her I was expecting someone. She looked mildly disappointed but the smile reappeared as she turned to leave.
She returned quickly with the espresso and placed it in front of me. And, there was that wink again. I smiled.
The bitterness of the espresso was like the taste of a long-held grudge. Savoring the feeling, I looked up to see Hollister standing by the table.
"You look right at home. One of the beautiful people." Hollister laughed and sat in the chair opposite me. "My host will never forgive me for not inviting him along. He is absolutely fascinated with you and I don't think it's merely the type of work you do. If you know what I mean."
"He'll get over it." I chuckled. "Besides, we're talking business. He'd be bored."
"Not as long as he could stare at your face. That's what he said when I told him this was a business meeting."
"I'm flattered and when this is all over, we'll all go out for a drink."
"In that case, he'll insist on helping you solve the case."
"I'm getting closer. Last night..." I hesitated not knowing exactly how to tell him.
"Go on, last night... what?"
"I got a call to meet someone who said he had information on the shooting."
"Good! This is progress."
"He wanted to meet in Washington Square. When I got there, I found he'd been shot."
"Marco!" Hollister drew a breath sharply. "This is terrible! How could this happen?"
"You've gotta keep this under your hat, Tim. Because I didn't tell the police."
"What've you done?"
"Tim..." I paused then decided to just tell him. "Before he died, the kid told me that he'd shot Helmut."
Hollister gasped and his already pale face turned paper-white.
"Are you all right, Tim?"
He nodded, his eyes glistening with tears. Hand over his mouth, he shut his eyes for a moment and remained sil
ent. When he opened his eyes, he looked more composed.
"Who... who was he? Why did he do this?"
"Two questions he didn't answer, Tim. But before he died, he gave me a lead. I think he was trying to make up for what he did."
Hollister was quiet again.
"I thought I'd want him to rot in hell. You know, Marco? I thought I'd be satisfied if I ever got news like this. But I'm not."
"I understand."
"You say he was just a boy?"
"Young. Probably nineteen or twenty."
"And now he's dead." He looked at me. "There's too much death. Too much."
I allowed Hollister a moment to absorb it all. A dog barked in the Square and Hollister, hand trembling, picked up his water glass.
"Now we'll never know why he killed Helmut."
"That's what I'm working on. I keep thinking those documents have more in them than we've found. Something neither you nor I have noticed."
"I gave you every name I squeezed out of them. I don't think there's any more useful information in them."
"I was thinking..." I paused and downed the rest of my espresso.
The waitress sidled up to the table again.
"What can I get you, sir?"
Hollister glanced at the menu.
"A cappuccino and a croissant," he said.
"Anything more for you?" She turned her green eyes on me and waited, smiling.
"I'll have the same."
"What were you about to say?" Hollister asked once the waitress left.
"I was going to ask if you'd mind someone else looking at the documents."
"Someone else?" Hollister was wary.
"I've read them, Tim. I don't see anything more than you've found. I was hoping someone with a different perspective might have more luck."
"Well..." Hollister mulled over what I'd said. "It's basically a sound idea, I suppose. It would all depend on the person. I'm pretty well acquainted with all this material, all the background, and everything that Helmut's already done."
"True."
"You have someone in mind, don't you? Someone who might have a different sort of insight?"
"Yes, but I want your approval."
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