I told him about the connecting door.
“Oh, wonderful. The old adjoining room theory. You know how much credence the cops are going to give that?”
“They’re not.”
“No shit. They got the killer dead to rights. You think they’re going to waste time with something that undermines the theory?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s why you gotta do it.”
“Do what?”
“Check it out.”
“I can’t check it out. The motel manager thinks I’m a killer.”
“It is inconvenient being a murder suspect.”
“But you could check it out.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Why not? No one thinks you’re a killer.”
“Because I don’t do stupid things like that.”
“So he doesn’t know you from Adam. You could walk in, take a look at his ledger.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You’re a cop.”
“I got no jurisdiction in Jersey.”
I smiled. “He doesn’t know that.”
11
MACAULLIF PARKED DOWN THE BLOCK not that far from where I’d been pissing in my Gatorade bottle. I figured that was probably a poor thing to point out. I sat in the police car, waited while he went in.
He didn’t come out. I’m sitting there, waiting for something to happen, and nothing did.
I started getting punchy, thinking maybe the guy called the cops. That was stupid. He’s talking to a cop, he’s gonna call the cops? I mean, the motel manager didn’t strike me as someone who’s going to cross-examine MacAullif on his authority, wrestle his badge away from him, accuse him of being from New York.
I got more punchy. It occurred to me maybe I should call the cops, get them to pick up MacAullif. That’d show him, after lecturing me about getting arrested, claiming it had never happened to him. Though he might have said “arrested for murder.” I couldn’t recall the details. I was sure MacAullif could.
Before I could opt for such idiocy, MacAullif came out the door. He hopped in the car and we took off.
“Any luck?” I said.
“No. I was in there pricing motel rooms in case I ever want to hang out in this hell hole.”
“Did he believe you were a cop?”
“I am a cop. I got the guy’s undying gratitude for not busting him.” He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, handed it over.
“What’s this?”
“Photocopy of the register. At least the page you want. It’s got the dead guy, and the guy next door.”
“Really? What’s his name?” I looked at the photocopy. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah,” MacAullif said. “John Smith. You think there’s any chance that might be an alias?”
“Did he remember him?”
“No, he did not. Nor did he remember any of the other John Smiths who checked in all week.”
“Damn.”
MacAullif reached in his pocket again. “On the other hand, this might be of more use.”
“What’s that?”
“Photocopy of the credit card receipt. A lot of John Smiths don’t think of that. Sign a phony name on the register, but then don’t bother to pay cash. You know how many women get divorced just on the strength of the credit card bill? It’s astounding.”
“Son of a bitch.”
I had MacAullif drop me at my office. I didn’t want him to know what I was going to do next.
12
MY CLIENT COULDN’T BELIEVE I was there. “How dare you!” she said. “How dare you!”
I held up my finger. “Well, think about it. Do I want to be here talking to you? No, I do not. I’ve been arraigned for killing your husband. You probably think I did it. This is the last place in the world I’d want to be. I don’t know who killed your husband. It wasn’t me, but the cops think it was, so they’re not looking for anyone else. That means I gotta find the killer if I don’t wanna take the fall.”
I leaned in. “I don’t know what the cops told you, but if it’s like they told me, I’m the only one who could have possibly done it. Did they tell you about the connecting door?”
“Yes.”
That took the wind out of my sails. It was the first rise I’d gotten out of her, but it wasn’t the answer I wanted. The way I saw it, the cops wouldn’t have even mentioned the door.
I blinked at her stupidly. “They did?”
“Yes. They said you told them some fairy story about how the killer came from another unit, but it was a really stupid idea and no one was buying it.”
“It may be a stupid idea, but it must have happened. The guy didn’t kill himself.”
Her face contorted.
“Sorry. I know. He was your husband. All right, look. Here’s the deal. I’m trying to find out who killed your husband. If I can, and I can prove it, I wanna get paid.”
She stared at me. “What?”
“You hired me and this is the result. None of it is my fault. From what you told me, I had every reason to expect your husband was going to meet a young woman in that motel room. The fact that that didn’t happen was your mistake, not mine. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still on the job. If I can’t prove who was shackin’ up with your husband, I’m gonna prove who killed him. If I can, I wanna be paid. And I would think you’d wanna pay me.”
She stared at me for a long moment. I thought she was softening.
Ever get tired of being wrong?
“Get out!”
13
MY CAR WAS ON A meter on the corner of Madison Avenue and Eighty-fifth. I sat in it wondering what the hell I was going to do.
A car pulled up next to me and honked. The driver pointed, asking if I was going out. I was, but I just wanted to sit for a minute. I didn’t want to roll down my window and have the guy roll down his window and tell him that, and have him sitting there watching me for the minute I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse him the space when I was actually going out. Besides, if I did, within seconds someone else would pull up and honk. So I made the guy’s day by nodding yes and starting my car.
I pulled out and managed to get three blocks up Madison before my cell phone rang.
Only three people have that number: Alice, MacAullif, and Richard. Even the switchboard girls don’t have it. If they want me, they beep me, same as ever, and I call them. So a call on my cell phone’s gotta be something important.
You know, like milk.
I pulled up next to a fire plug to answer the phone. I don’t text-message and drive. I wouldn’t, even if I knew how.
I flipped the phone open. “Hello?”
It was MacAullif.
“The guy who rented the motel room is Vinnie Carbone, a low-level mobster from the Jersey Shore.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No.”
“Then what’s he doing in a Jersey motel?”
“There’s no proof he was. The guy rented the room, signed the register John Smith, used his credit card like a schmuck. It doesn’t mean he ever set foot in the place, and odds are he didn’t. Like I say, he’s low level. The type of guy who rents the room, gives the key to someone else. Someone who doesn’t want to be seen renting a room. That person uses the motel room and no one is the wiser.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I don’t, but it figures. The guy’s got no reason to rent a room. He’s single, has his own digs. If he wants to have an orgy, who’s to stop him? On the other hand, if some married big shot Vinnie Carbone reports to wants to have a discreet little fling, well what better place than a motel room he has no connection with whatsoever?”
“Someone could see his car parked in front of it.”
“Yeah. And the bluebird of paradise could shit on your head, but that don’t mean it’s going to happen. Did you notice a car parked in front of the unit?”
“That�
�s not the point.”
“There you are. The guy could risk no one seeing his car more than he could risk walking into the motel manager’s office, signing his name, and letting the guy get a look at his face and a scan of his credit card. Which doesn’t mean it happened. This schmuck Vinnie could have rented the motel room just so he could go next door and knock off your client’s husband. I’m not sure why he would do such a thing.”
“You think the big shot he’s working for might do such a thing?”
“Big shots have more to lose than small shots. Again, I’m not saying it happened. How long were you watching the motel?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“It was several hours, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“The thing about a stakeout job is it’s boring. Staring at the same thing for hours. Your eyes glaze over. You nod out, don’t even know you did it.”
“I didn’t nod out.”
“Hey, don’t get so huffy. I’m not saying you’re a bad PI. I’m saying you’re mortal. You fell asleep, maybe it hurts the exalted image you have of yourself as a fearless private investigator, but it’s a damn sight better than being convicted of murder. As I’m sure your attorney will advise.”
“Are you saying Richard is going to tell me to say I fell asleep?”
“No. He’s gonna say you got bored with surveillance so you killed the guy just to liven things up. You gotta understand you’re talking lawyers, theories, reasonable doubt. Doesn’t have to have happened. You just gotta show it could have happened.”
“It didn’t happen.”
“You, of course, take a moral stand and cheerily march off to jail, rather than even suggest an untruth.”
“So who’s the big shot? Who’d Vinnie work for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Hell, no. And I’m not gonna, either. I want nothing to do with the case. I pulled his rap sheet, so I know he’s connected. I can do that without seeming like I’m interested. But I’m not asking any questions.”
“You got an address on Vinnie?”
“Yes, I do. If I give it to you just to get you off the phone, will you try to stay out of trouble?”
“I’m not going to get in trouble.”
“You’re already in trouble. I mean stay out of any more.”
“Just give me the address.”
He did. I copied it into my notebook, slipped the cell phone back in my pocket, and headed for the Jersey Shore.
14
I DON’T WATCH THE SHOW. I know there’s a Snooki and a Situation. Or maybe that’s Real Housewives. Or Desperate Jersey Wives. Or some equally improbable concept the public inexplicably likes. To me the Jersey Shore always reminded me of beaches. Not the movie, which I also haven’t seen, but the sand with the ocean attached. Riding the waves is one of my favorite occupations. I used to do it with my son Tommie. Now I generally do it alone. But I don’t get to do it that often. Throw the word ‘shore’ into an assignment and my interest picks up immensely.
Not this time. Vinnie Carbone may have been involved with the Jersey Shore mob, but he lived in a suburb of Elizabeth. When I found the guy’s house it was as far away from the ocean as one could imagine. In fact, you wouldn’t have even known there was a shore involved. He lived on a grungy street of modest dwellings, further proof that Vinnie Carbone was not high up on the food chain. Vinnie’s house was a two-story affair painted a shocking but dirty pink, faded, and in ill repair. It was stark with no visible amenities, with the exception of a garage, the door of which was closed. Naturally. The guy could have had no garage or a garage with the door open. Then at least I would have known if he was home. But, no, the son of a bitch had to have a garage with the door closed, so there was no way to know if he was home or not.
What am I saying? I’m a PI. I can do these things.
I whipped out my cell phone, called information, asked if they had a listing for Vinnie Carbone at that location. Sure enough, they did. I wrote the number in my book, broke the connection, punched it in.
The phone rang six times, then an answering machine picked up. “I’m not in. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”
The voice sounded terse, frustrated, sulky almost. I could imagine the guy had some sort of wise-ass voice message he thought was hysterically funny, only some of the big boys didn’t think so, and told him to change it.
I hung up the phone, contemplated my next move. It was disappointing the guy wasn’t home. I’d planned on following him up the food chain to see who he worked for, but you couldn’t follow a guy who wasn’t there. It was a little counterproductive to stake out an empty house. If MacAullif found out, his sarcasm would reach new heights.
Of course, if I didn’t, the guy would come driving up five minutes after I left, and I’d never know it.
So what did I do? Go home and keep calling his phone until I got an answer? That would be a bitch if he had caller ID. He could trace me and kill me.
Shit!
Could he trace me from the hang-up?
I didn’t think so, but I’ve been wrong before. Alice could point to the occasions.
If I remembered correctly, our caller ID has lists of all the phone calls that had come in, so you could look back and see what they were. Could you delete from that file? I wasn’t sure, but I thought you could. Surely you wouldn’t have to carry them forever. And if you could, it must be very simple to do, or jerks like me couldn’t do it.
And Vinnie Carbone wasn’t home.
I wondered if he left his door open. In a suburban setting, people didn’t always leave their doors locked. Of course, most people weren’t in the mob, but still. Wise guys would have a sense of entitlement, of power, a feeling they were invincible. Even low-level wise guys like Vinnie. Especially low-level wise guys like Vinnie. That sense of entitlement was what it was all about. He might have even left the front door unlocked. I could get in there, delete my cell phone number from the tape.
The only thing stopping me was MacAullif’s warning not to get into trouble. I’d said I wouldn’t. That wasn’t a lie. I had no intention of getting into trouble. But I hadn’t promised to do absolutely nothing to make sure I didn’t get into trouble. I’d just basically promised to be careful. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
Well, he comes home, catches me, and shoots me.
That was a bit of a deterrent. But what was the likelihood? He’d have to put his car away in the garage, and I’d hear the garage door.
Or he wouldn’t. I don’t know that he parks in the garage, I’m just assuming he does, but he may not use the garage at all. He could just park in the driveway. And the only reason I don’t know that is because he isn’t home.
That started a train of thought. Could I recognize car tracks in the driveway? If so, could I tell whether a car had been parked there or merely driven straight into the garage? Well, certainly not from where I was staked out in my car. I’d have to get out, cross the road, check it out.
And leave my car parked where?
Right where it is.
Where anyone could see it.
But who would be looking? And why would they care?
It told myself for the umpteenth time that I was in the wrong line of work. Unfortunately, I’d never learned any other.
I got out of my car, crossed the road.
If there was a message in Vinnie’s driveway, I didn’t get it. Not only couldn’t I tell if car tracks led into the garage, I couldn’t even tell if there were any car tracks at all.
I began a succession of increasingly stupid moves, beginning with seeing if the garage door was locked.
It was.
Then was the door to the breezeway locked?
It was.
Was the front door locked?
It was.
Was there any reason to continue circling the house?
Only that it would keep me from going bonkers in the ca
r.
I continued around the house. A back window looked promising, but wasn’t.
The kitchen door clicked open.
What?
How did a low-level mobster live this long, he doesn’t even lock his door?
It occurred to me it would be a really good time to get out of there.
Right after I erased my number from caller ID.
I pushed the door open, stepped into the kitchen. I was lucky in that it wasn’t dark out yet, I didn’t have to risk a light.
All right, where’s the phone, where’s the answering machine, where’s the caller ID?
There was a phone on the kitchen wall, but there was nothing attached. That wasn’t the one I wanted. There would be an extension in the office or the living room.
I hoped I wouldn’t have to go into the bedroom upstairs. A bad place to be when you hear a car. I’m way too old for jumping out of upstairs windows. Which is not as depressing as it sounds. I was never young enough for jumping out of bedroom windows.
The door from the kitchen led into a small living room with couch, chairs, TV, and a coffee table littered with racing forms. Nothing to indicate Vinnie was the type of swinger who liked to hang out in cheap motels. Which indicated, as MacAullif had suggested, that in all likelihood he had not rented the room for himself.
This was all very interesting, but there was no phone. How’d the guy get along without a phone? He must use his cell phone and—
Jesus!
Could I have called his cell phone?
Then there’d be no way to erase it. It would be in his pocket. He could be looking at it right now. It would say Missed Call, just like mine did when someone failed to leave a message. And he’d press it and it would give him my phone number. And he’d trace it and find out who I was. He could even call me and—
My cell phone rang and I nearly peed my pants.
And me without a Gatorade bottle.
Jesus Christ, where the hell was it? Jacket pocket. Pants pocket. Why can’t I be consistent? I can never find the damn phone. It’ll keep ringing and ringing. Until it stops. Then it will say Missed Call.
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