“Possibly. But I’m not getting into all that. I’ve got to get out of here today. Right now.”
“Need some help?” I picked up a couple of folded shirts and looked at him.
“Sure, toss them in there.” He pointed to a battered, old leather suitcase.
As I placed the shirts gently on top of other things he’d carelessly thrown in, I looked up at him. “You were seen at Sammy’s building the other day.”
“What are you talking about?” He was good, but not that good, and was unable to keep a tremor of fear out of his voice.
“I’m talking about the day Sammy was bashed and left for dead.” I stood up again and looked down at him as he dropped some clothing into another suitcase.
“I was…” He hesitated.
“No use denying it, Bart. There were witnesses. What were you doing there?”
He exhaled as if a burden had been lifted, and he fell back to sit on the couch.
“When I heard what had happened… to Sammy, I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I didn’t go into the apartment. I didn’t know they—” He stopped as if he didn’t want to say more.
“They who? Who else was there?”
“You have to leave now. I’ve got things to do.” He scrambled to his feet and stared at me as if he were trying to explode my skull by sheer force of will.
“Bart…” I warned. “I’ll find out everything eventually. Why not make it easy on yourself?”
“There’s nothing else, Marco. I was there. But I had nothing to do with whatever happened. That’s all. That should be enough.”
“It won’t be enough for the police. This is gonna end up in their hands one way or another.”
“I’ll get my lawyer to handle it, then.
“Your lawy—” I was taken aback. Here was a boy who could hardly afford an apartment – no, could not afford an apartment on his own – and he had a lawyer. “The new boyfriend is a lawyer. I get it. I hope he’s a good one.”
“How did you— well, it’s really none of your business.”
***
I rode the reeking elevator down to the lobby of The Chestnut Arms and was ready to upchuck by the time the doors opened. Once outside, I gulped air to get rid of the odor.
As I enjoyed the fresh breeze, I noticed Preston Flaherty sitting in his Lexus outside the front entrance of The Chestnut Arms, as if he were waiting for someone. Anyone who knows Preston, knows that he is definitely not the type of lawyer who has clients living at a dump. Preston’s more comfortable in tony Society Hill or Chestnut Hill or on the quietly wealthy Main Line, but not here.
Then it dawned on me. I moved toward the car.
“Press! Waiting for Bart? He won’t be long. Just about finished packing now.” I leaned in at the passenger side window and watched the blood drain from his face.
“How did you know…?” He sputtered for a moment then regained his composure. You have to give it to these WASP-types, they can pull it all together at a moment’s notice. Members of my family would spout blood and scream until they were exhausted before they realized they’d given away what they were trying to hide.
Not Press. He threw a cold stare my way and snapped, “What is it you want, Marco?”
I’d occasionally done some investigative work for Preston when he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. He knew I always got the job done. So he knew me enough not to try and bullshit his way out of something. Confronting him on the street might end my lucrative association with his firm but that wasn’t important. Getting at the truth was.
“I’d like a little honesty for starters, Press. Bart won’t give and I figure, being an officer of the court and all, maybe you see honesty as more important.”
“Bart is none of your business, Marco. For all you know he could be a client of mine.”
“In a pig’s eye, Press. Bart can’t afford a drink at the Westbury let alone be able to afford your fees. And you’re wrong about the other thing, too.”
“What thing?”
“Bart is my business if he had anything to do with Sammy’s bashing. Between you and me, it’s looking more and more like he did.”
“He didn’t… he said he—” Preston shut himself up and stared ahead.
“We don’t have to finish here, Press. You can tell me later this afternoon. But you’re gonna tell me. Know how I know?”
“Beat it, Marco”
“I know because you don’t want a splash in the papers and the blogs about this business with Sammy and Bart. You being involved with the kid and all. I think maybe your high priced clients might not like to be associated with that mess either. They definitely won’t like their retainers going to a guy who hangs—”
“That’s enough, Marco!”
“That’s what you think, Press. Why not just get it over with? Tell me now.”
“There’s nothing to get over, Marco. I haven’t done anything wrong and neither has Bart. As far as anyone is concerned I’m driving a client home or maybe he’s the son of a client. It’s just a good deed, Marco. Something you wouldn’t know much about.”
“Is that what Bart was doing when he tried to kill Sammy? A good deed? Because I’ve got an eyewitness that puts Bart in Sammy’s building. And now I’ve got you connected to Bart. Bart is no client, Press. He even said as much.” I didn’t like stretching the truth, especially as I wanted to get at a bigger truth that Press was trying hard to bury.
“He said—?”
“Said he was moving into better quarters. Said he had a boyfriend now who’d be paying the bills. Hush money, Press? Because Bart knows more than you’d like?”
Press turned the key in the ignition and started the car. I must’ve hit a very sensitive nerve. He didn’t want to stay and couldn’t go. He wasn’t going to pull away, not without Bart.
I stood there, riveted on his face, watching as he squirmed on his own hook, though exactly what the hook was, I needed to figure fast. There had to be more to this situation. Bart couldn’t be the whole story. Then I remembered the other guy Sassy had seen in the building, the short guy in the long coat. The one Sassy saw arguing with Bart.
“Press,” I said sharply.
“Huh?” His head snapped around and he looked at me with fear in his eyes.
“Press, maybe I had this figured all wrong. Couldn’t have been you involved. It had to be the other guy.”
“What other guy? There’s no other guy. There’s nothing else to tell, Marco.”
“The short guy. You know his name. Short, steamy looks, dark hair, youngish, partial to wearing long coats.” Except for the long coat, the description could fit any number of Preston’s many boyfriends. He was partial to smoldering Mediterranean types.
I didn’t think Press had any blood left to drain from his face but I’d swear he got whiter by the second.
“You’re good, Marco. Good at fabrication and deception. You’ve got nothing but a few tattered shreds of something you’d like to weave into whole cloth. It’s not possible, Marco. Didn’t they ever tell you there’s a time to forge ahead and a time to hang back?”
“No, never heard that one. I’ll keep it in mind.”
He threw me a poisonous look but said nothing.
“Didn’t you date someone who fit that description? Cute Italian guy, am I right? A hot little number everyone had their eye on. But you were the lucky one. You got him. Everybody was envious. I remember how they talked behind your back. They wanted you dead. They wanted to be you, have what you had. But they hated you. Not to your face. No one does that. Everyone’s better at sucking up. But you left a sour taste in their mouths. A rich lawyer like you always skimming the cream of the crop of hot young men because you had money and power. You have any idea how they coveted what you had? How lucky everyone thought you were?”
“Lucky, Marco? Luck was not in my corner. Then or now for that matter. Whatever I had slipped through my fingers like mercury and was just as poisonous. Even Car—” He stopped himself and lo
oked away. I didn’t see his expression but I could guess.
“Carl! That was the steamy little guy’s name. Whatever happened to him?” I tucked the name away. Carl could be the one Sassy had seen. Or, he could be another dead end.
I was concentrating so intently on Press that I didn’t sense someone come up from behind. I was already off balance, leaning into the passenger window. Whoever it was easily pushed me off the car and onto the ground. I went down hard, heard a car door slam, and got a face full of exhaust as tires squealed when Press peeled out of there. The car snagged my jacket as it sped off, tearing a long ribbon of material which trailed away with the car.
***
Things were more scrambled than ever. I’d made an inch worth of progress on Sammy’s case but was nowhere with Marty’s problem. Both cases were more tangled than a bucket of eels. As I trudged back to the office my thoughts were a jumble but not as bad as my clothes. It was Bart that’d pushed me to the ground. Had to be, or Preston wouldn’t have pulled away. That didn’t make either of them look innocent.
Luke was sitting in my office waiting for me when I got back. His broad smile faded when he saw the look on my face, my dirty clothes and ruined jacket.
Olga followed me into the inner office.
“Boss is hurt?” Olga asked. When I shook my head, she looked me up and down. “You are needing tea and dry cleaner. Maybe seamstress.” She tugged at my torn jacket.
“Olga’s right. You look… battered. What happened?” Luke moved to my side and ran a hand over my face. For a guy who ran a housecleaning agency, Luke didn’t have a callous or a cut on those hands.
“Settle down. I’m fine. It’s nothing. A little fall, a snag or two. I’ve looked worse.”
“Yes. I am seeing worse. I will make tea.” Olga waddled out of the room.
“You find anything on Marty’s case while I was prowling the gutters?”
“I did,” Luke said. “Here’s the list of people Marty eviscerated in his column and his blog. It isn’t short. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Luke held up a sheaf of papers, his silky black hair spilling into his eyes.
“I didn’t figure it’d be a short list. Marty’s got a big mouth and spews a lot of acid. Bound to be a long list.”
“What about you?” Luke asked. “The way you look, you must’ve come up with something.”
“I have a couple of leads. All it took was legwork. And a little slumming.”
“Leads on Martin’s case?”
“On Sammy’s bashing.” I shrugged out of my jacket and threw it onto a chair. “From Sassy.”
“That must’ve been fun.”
“She described a couple of people who sound a lot like Bart and a guy named Carl. Do you remember somebody named Carl?” I asked. Luke and I hadn’t known each other all that long but we knew a lot of people in common. Luke through his housecleaning business and other connections and me through the different jobs I’d been involved with. It made our friendship seem older and deeper than it could be in the time we’d known one another.
“Can’t say that I— wait a minute. Is he the cross-dresser who kept thirty-five cats in his studio apartment at the Locust Towers? He was a funny guy. Bad taste in clothes but funny.”
“No, his name was Chaz. Not him. Carl was a short guy, serious-looking, hot but no nonsense. He was kind of stuck on Preston Flaherty for a while.”
“I vaguely remember someone like that having a crush on Press. Or, maybe it was the other way around. But that was before I knew you, so it’s been a while.”
“If Sassy was right, it could be Carl who was at Sammy’s building around the time Sammy was beaten. She remembers faces really well. Especially when those faces are attached to hot young men.”
“I guess that means we’ve gotta find this guy. Any ideas?” Luke was an enthusiastic person and when he worked a case with me, he brought an energy to things that made a difference. But things weren’t always as easy as he assumed.
“Sure. We’ll find him. Just like that,” I teased. “Neither of us even remembers his last name.”
“Okay. True, But you’ve got a plan, right? You’ve always got a plan. We can start with Press.” Luke said.
“Preston’s not gonna tell us a thing. He’s a lawyer. He knows when to keep his mouth shut. We’ve gotta come at this sideways.”
“How’s that?”
“We look into Preston’s friends. Some of them must remember Carl. Press and Carl weren’t together long but it was a splashy affair and all Preston’s friends were riveted on Carl. They lusted after the kid, were all envious of Press. They’ll remember. Maybe they’ll even tell us something we can use.”
“You still in contact with any of his friends from back then?” Luke asked.
“I know a few. Can’t say we keep in touch but they’ll remember me.”
“Two of his friends use my cleaning service. Press is pretty cozy with some of them, from what I could tell. I’ve been invited to some of their parties and Press was always there, too. Maybe one of them remembers Carl.”
“Parties? You’re on the Preston Flaherty circuit?”
“Not exactly his circuit. Just parties he’s also been invited to. I’ve never gotten an invitation from him just from his friends. It’s not like you ever missed anything, though. Plenty of booze and lots of gossip. Always tons of great food. But mostly a bore.”
“Maybe talking to your clients is worth a shot, Luke. And if they don’t pan out, I’ll try the guys I know.”
***
After a brief visit to Luke’s office to get the information on his clients, we were on our way.
First up was a Mr. Clyde who lived in the Society Hill section of the city. According to Luke, the guy was retired and spent his time day-trading. So, Luke was reasonably sure we’d find him at home.
Walking down Pine was a treat now that tourist season was past. It was quiet, less trafficked, and peaceful. The red brick buildings all around gave a sense of stability, history without overwhelming grandeur. Clyde’s home was an impressive three-story, red-brick townhouse near Second Street. It had obviously been cared for over the years and that took money. A lot of it.
Luke decided it was better if he stayed out of the picture so as not to have to explain that he gave out confidential client information. I stepped up to the deep-maroon door, prepared to tell Clyde that I was a friend of Preston and knew him to be one also, having been at some parties together. That was a small stretch. But I was sure we’d each been to some party or other that Preston had given even if it wasn’t the same party or at the same time. Jesuitical thinking, sure, but it came in handy at times like this.
I used the brass knocker which made a satisfying thud. After only a moment, a natty older man opened the door.
“Mr. Clyde?”
“Yes? How may I help you?” He looked at me with a mix of mild sexual interest and not so mild suspicion. He had to be eighty or older, but the weight of years did not slow him down one whit. Though Mr. Clyde came to the door himself, Luke had assured me that the man had money enough for servants, a chauffeur, and then some. Clyde’s eyes were bright and clear and his movements sharp.
I introduced myself and explained the case I was investigating. I mentioned Preston, and Mr. Clyde smiled.
“We think he had a boyfriend a while back who might be a witness in this case,” I said, without naming Carl, so as not to affect what he might remember. “We’d very much like to contact him. Unfortunately, though people recall seeing him, no one remembers his name or where he might live now.”
Clyde opened the door wider, indicating that I should enter. I stepped into the cool interior and felt a little overwhelmed by the lush surroundings, the subdued lighting, and the music filling the air like a fine mist. The house was deeper than it was wide but it was filled with so much furniture, books, and bric-a-brac that it didn’t seem as large as it was.
“You play the market, Mr. Fontana?” He said, as he walked toward
a room at the back of the first floor.
“No, I haven’t tried my hand at that.” Hell, I hardly had money enough to look at the stock market pages of a newspaper, let alone buy a share.
“You should. You’re young but you should be thinking about the time when you’ll be my age. Which is, what would you guess, Mr. Fontana?”
“Please, call me Marco.” I smiled. “Guessing someone’s age is the quickest way to lose a friend or never make a new one.”
“Go on, take a guess. I won’t be offended. Haven’t got anything to be offended by. I can buy whatever I need or want. Age doesn’t matter when you have money, Mr. Fontana. Remember that. Another reason to start dabbling in the market now.”
“I’d say, maybe seventy.” I took at least ten years off whatever I was thinking and that usually worked with some men.
“Ha! You aren’t serious.” He laughed. “Seventy! Ha! I’d like to see that year again, Mr. Fon— Marco.” He laughed again and opened a door into what looked like his study. “Thanks for the laugh. But the real number is hovering around eighty. I won’t tell you which side of that number.”
So, there was a bit of vanity involved in his game. You can never be too careful.
“I’d’ve never guessed.”
“Guessing is only good for parlor games, Marco, remember that. With the market you need to analyze things, study the companies, look at the external climate. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to be a bit of a magician. But I’ve come up with a system that, if you follow it, can make you a small fortune and you wouldn’t have to gumshoe it around all your life. Know anything at all about the market?” He sat down at his desk and stared at the large flat screen of his computer monitor. Vibrantly colored stock charts flipped and changed constantly. A stock ticker ran across the bottom of the screen. “And pay attention to the Vix, that’s one of the keys. The Vix can tell you what to do, if you know how to read it.”
“I only know what I’ve seen on TV or read in the paper. Nothing close up like owning a stock. What I’m really concerned about is settling this case. Maybe then I can spend a little time studying the market.”
Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana Page 22