No it won’t. It will go to voice mail. I do not want this guy’s voice on my answering machine.
Now I really do have to pee.
I whipped it out—my cell phone—and flipped it open.
“Stanley. Where are you?”
“Not a good time, Alice.”
“Why? Are you driving?”
“Not at the moment.”
“The office called. You’re not answering your beeper.”
I certainly wasn’t. I’d put it on silent before I called on the widow and never turned it back on.
“Sorry, I’ll call ’em,” I said, but I didn’t. I hate business calls when I’m breaking and entering.
I put the phone on mute, continued my hasty inspection of the house.
I completed my search of the downstairs, found nothing. The phone in the kitchen was it.
It looked like I’d have to go upstairs after all.
I went up a flight of straight and narrow stairs. I figured using them was the only time Vinnie walked the straight and narrow. Realized that was very bad and I was getting punchy. Where’s the damn phone?
There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the landing.
There was no phone in the first bedroom.
There was no phone in the second bedroom.
There was a phone in the third bedroom, but I didn’t use it to check the caller ID.
Instead I stared at the body on the floor that I assumed was Vinnie Carbone.
15
HE’D BEEN SHOT AT CLOSE range. At least, close enough to hit him in the head. The bullet appeared to have shattered his right cheekbone just below his eye. I say “appeared” to allow that my assumption might have been wrong. Long years of living with Alice have taught me that.
The man was thin and wiry with dark, curly hair. He had sideburns down below his ears, which he probably thought impressed the ladies. I wondered if they ever did. The guy had the look of a loser, and it wasn’t just because he was dead. He was flashy in a cheap, obvious way. His hair was greasy and looked as if he’d spent a lot of time combing it. Vainly, pretentiously. As if he could get a girl to meet him at a motel.
No, this was clearly the dude. Or most likely the dude. Or the Dude Most Likely, as in my abortive set of Man Most Likely jokes: “The man with the bullet in his head is most likely to be Mort.” But that only works in French, and while I know the words for man, head, and dead, I don’t know the word for bullet. Or most likely, for that matter. Le plus possible?
I was not thinking that while I stood looking at the body. I was hyperventilating and vacillating. Not from the shock of finding someone dead, which I have done now and then in the course of my checkered career. But from the dilemma in which I found myself.
The phone by the bed was the type with caller ID. I know because Alice has it. And it keeps a record of incoming calls. Alice had sometimes asked me to look one up, and I’d fumbled my way through the procedure enough times to realize I could fumble my way through it now.
Did I want to do that?
Or did I want to get the hell out of there?
Don’t judge me too harshly. You gotta understand. I was out on bail. Which can be revoked, if you do anything to show you’re not a good citizen. Like get arrested for murder. Getting arrested at this crime scene would probably be the end, if not of my life, of my liberty and pursuit of happiness. Richard, who had put up the bail bond, would not be pleased. Did he forfeit the money if I killed somebody else? See, I’d never been out on bail before. I’d been out on my own recognizance, but no one gives a damn if you forfeit that.
I’d certainly be going to jail. Which was kind of like Rome, where all roads led.
There were tissues on the night stand. I took one out, used it to push the button on the phone that activated caller ID history. The most recent number came up.
It wasn’t mine.
Great.
Now, how did I exit the function?
I didn’t remember.
Picking up the phone ought to do it.
I took another tissue, used it to lift the receiver, put it down.
Yes.
Everything reset.
My number wasn’t in the caller ID, which meant I didn’t have to be there to begin with, but I was, with a dead body, so what did I do now?
I was skipping down the stairs while I had that thought. Which kind of answered the question. I ran to the back of the house, slipped out through the unlocked kitchen door.
Yes, I polished the doorknob with the tissue.
I went around the house, not running, but not dawdling to take in the scenery either.
I hopped in my car and pulled out just as the police cars came down the street.
16
RICHARD ROSENBERG LOOKED ANNOYED. “STANLEY. What the hell’s going on? The girls have been fielding calls for you all afternoon.”
“Really?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
“Wendy tried to say something on the way in, but I had to see you.”
“I’ll bet she did. She and Janet have been trying to beep you all day. Apparently, you turned off your beeper.”
“I was busy. I didn’t want to talk to any cops.”
Richard’s face darkened. “Why would the cops want to talk to you?”
“We have attorney-client privilege here?”
“We got more than that. We have twenty-five grand riding on you not fucking me over. So, tell me, what the hell stupid thing did you do now?”
I gave him the whole spiel. From MacAullif getting me the guy’s credit card receipt to going in and finding him dead. I left out little things like being afraid I’d left my number on the caller ID. It wasn’t on caller ID so it didn’t matter. But aside from that I told him the whole schmear.
When I was done Richard sat there in helpless smoldering fury. I got the impression the only thing keeping him from turning me in was the fact it might cost him twenty-five thousand bucks.
“So,” he said. “Does MacAullif know the guy whose address he gave you turned up dead?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Otherwise there wouldn’t be enough of you left to scrape off the floor.” Richard snatched up the phone. “Any of those phone calls for Stanley from MacAullif?… Uh huh. Any of them official?… Yes, like cops … Uh huh.” He hung up the phone. “Why would the police be looking for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Guess. Were you seen at the guy’s house?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Were you seen driving away?”
“Again, I don’t think so.”
“You didn’t leave anything behind in the house that could be traced to you?”
My eyes flicked.
“Aha! Just what is it?”
“Ah, hell,” I said, and told him the whole caller ID bit.
He was almost as scathing as Alice. Which wasn’t fair. I was granting her the title without her having even competed. But there was no doubt that she would win.
Before Richard had another shot at the championship there came the sound of a ruckus in the outer office, the door slammed open, and MacAullif surged through. That was not supposed to happen. Richard had told the girls he was not to be disturbed. Not that I could fault them. There was no doubt they were doing their best. Wendy was actually clinging to the sergeant’s leg. He shook her off, uttered a remark that probably would not have gotten him invited to be speaker at the local DAR. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, wheeled on Richard.
“Pardon the interruption, I need to borrow your employee.”
“He’s my client.”
“I need to borrow your client. Don’t worry, I’ll return the unused portion.”
He wrestled me toward the door.
“You can’t do that,” Richard said.
Apparently he could.
17
MACAULLIF DRAGGED ME OUT FRONT, threw me in the back of his police car. He h
opped in the front and took off.
“Where we going?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
MacAullif had an unmarked car. I didn’t know if the doors were locked, but if I wanted I could have hopped into the front seat, or reached up and strangled him, or put my hands over his eyes so he couldn’t see what he was doing. If that occurred to MacAullif he didn’t seem too concerned, just kept flying down the street.
“You mind telling me where we’re going? It’s not just an idle question. There are some places we probably shouldn’t go.”
“Like the Jersey Shore?”
A woman with a laundry cart leapt to safety, a look of sheer terror on her face.
“MacAullif!”
“I do you a favor. A favor I probably shouldn’t do. A favor that is out of my jurisdiction. I pull a fast one, impersonate an officer—and don’t say I am an officer, I mean a New Jersey officer. I pull it off and get you a name and address. And do you investigate the guy who lives at that address? No. You kill the guy who lives at that address.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“He’s dead.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Oh, no? You don’t investigate this guy, you think he’s lying on some slab in the morgue, or out playing the ponies?”
“It doesn’t have to be cause and effect.”
“No, it doesn’t have to be.”
“It’s probably not. Come on, MacAullif. The motel manager doesn’t know you. The motel manager doesn’t know you’re connected to me. The motel manager doesn’t know squat. The motel manager is just a guy giving you a name and address. Of someone we thought might be mixed up in the murder. Well, guess what? He is. This is good news. The death of the dipshit indicates we’re on the right path.”
“We’re not on the right path. We’re not on any path. We’re on no path whatsofuckingever, you and I. Is that clear?”
“What do you mean clear?”
MacAullif ran a red light and swerved around a bus, at the end of which he gave a perfunctory toot on the siren. “Don’t be dense. I am not involved in this case. There is no reason to involve me in this case. If you do involve me in this case, I consider it a bad move and a breach of friendship. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“So what are you gonna say when a cop asks you how you got this guy’s address?”
“I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.”
MacAullif slammed on the brakes, pulled in next to a fire plug. He turned in his seat to grab me by the lapels long before the car stopped. “Asshole! I’m serious. Have you given any thought as to what you’re going to say?”
“I want to call my lawyer.”
“Don’t pull that shit on me.”
“No, that’s what I’m gonna say. I’m gonna call my lawyer and I’m going to shut the fuck up. I’ve been arrested for murder and I’m out on bail.”
I could feel some of the tension go out of MacAullif’s body. “Well, that’s something.”
“Yeah, it’s wonderful,” I said. “It’s not great news for me, but some of the people in this car ought to be happy.”
“All right, let’s have it. How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. Why did you kick down Richard’s door and drag me out of there?”
“You know why.”
“Yeah, but the details matter. When you heard the guy was dead, how did you find out, and in what context? Was it brought to you personally, or was it just something you plucked out of the general pool of information?”
MacAullif exhaled noisily, shook his head. “If you were only half as good analyzing crime as you were at nitpicking my motivations. Okay, dipshit, you’re closeted with your lawyer, you’re not the least bit surprised to find the asshole’s dead. Assuming you didn’t kill him, what did you do?”
“Will you stay on that side of the seat?”
“Don’t be a schmuck.”
I gave MacAullif a rundown of the situation. I can’t say I improved his mood any.
“So, the cops haven’t picked you up yet,” he mused.
“I like to think of it as they haven’t picked me up.”
“Fat chance. Suspect out on bail when a second murder occurs. I think even you would want to talk to him.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Why?”
“How do I know the two crimes are even related? The cops don’t know that.”
“Of course they know that.”
“But they don’t credit it. They’re not buying the guy next door theory. There’s no reason for them to even notice.”
“Now you’re dreaming.”
“They don’t credit the guy next door because they think I did it. If the guy next door is connected, I’m no longer a suspect.”
“Dream on.”
“Come on, MacAullif, they can’t have it both ways.”
“Oh, no? Try this. You’re connected. The guy next door’s connected. You’re both connected. When you get picked up, you try to put the blame on him. He doesn’t take kindly to this, and the end result is you have to rub him out.”
“Jesus Christ. How’d you put that together so fast?”
“I’m a cop. It’s what I do.”
“Interpret extraneous facts to frame an innocent man?”
“Well, it’s more challenging. The guilty ones have the disadvantage of having actually done it.”
“It’s good to hear you say that.”
“Why?”
“It means you’re getting your sense of humor back.”
“Oh, you think so? Just wait until that dumb fucking motel manager IDs me as the guy who got the address. Then we’ll see how much sense of humor I have about this.”
“I’d kind of like to head that off.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinking if we could solve this thing—”
MacAullif exploded. “Jesus Christ! You never learn, do you? You bring me a steaming pile of shit and expect me to find a pony. Well, I ain’t playing.”
“You object to catching this killer?”
“I got no problem catching this killer. As far as the Jersey cops are concerned, I just caught him. I could drive you there now, collect the reward.”
“Except they’d want to know how I got the line on my victim.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“Come on, MacAullif. What you said before. About me and the guy next door working to set this guy up. That didn’t happen, but something similar did. You and I have the inside track in knowing that. Now, setting aside the great solution that I killed this guy, how does he wind up dead?”
“Which guy?”
“The second guy. The mafia guy. Vinnie what’s-his-face.”
“He winds up dead so he won’t talk.”
“What’s he gonna say?”
“He’s gonna say he rented the motel room for high-level wise guy whatever-the-hell-his-name-is. Who, as far as he knows, was shackin’ up with a broad. It would have come as a real shock to him to find out the guy in the motel room next to the one he rented wound up dead.”
“If that’s true, why is he dangerous?”
“He’s dangerous because he can name the guy who rented the room. He doesn’t know that makes him dangerous, but it does. Someone else knows it makes him dangerous.”
“Yeah, the guy who killed him.”
“No,” MacAullif said. “The guy who tipped off the guy who killed him. The way I see it, there’s only one person that could be.”
“The motel manager?”
“That’s how I figure.”
“You’re right. We gotta take him apart and see what makes him tick.”
“No, we don’t!”
“Why not?”
“We’d just give him reason to go to the cops.”
“Not if he’s the guy who tipped off the killer. If he’s in on this thing, he’s not running to the cops.”
“Assuming he tipped off
the killer,” MacAullif said. “Which is still just an assumption.”
“Who else could have done it?”
“I don’t know. But my ass is hanging fairly far out on this one. And prodding the motel manager could fuck me good. Which is why you’re not going to do that.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? What do you mean, ‘oh’? Are you telling me you already did?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. Because talking to the motel manager would be just about the stupidest thing you could do right now. Short of talking to the dead guy’s wife.”
I blinked.
MacAullif nearly gagged. “Oh, my God!”
“MacAullif—”
“I don’t believe it! Are you telling me after you found the dead mobster’s body you spoke to the widow?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did you talk to her before?”
“Well—”
“You did, didn’t you?” MacAullif’s voice was rising. “You talked to her before you found the mobster’s body, but after I got the credit card receipt from the motel manager. You talked to her to see if she’d hire you! To investigate the murder of her husband! Whom she suspects you of killing! You figured if you were going to check out the guy anyway, you might as well have someone pay for it!”
“It wasn’t the money.”
“No, of course not,” MacAullif said scathingly. “That would be logical. That would make sense. That would be a simple, basic motive anyone could relate to. But you—correct me if I’m wrong—you want her to hire you because you want to convince her you’re a basically good person who would never harm her husband.”
“I’m accused of murder. She’s a witness against me.”
“Exactly! She’s the last person in the world you should be talking to! But you figure you can charm her! What did you do, appeal to her better nature? Show her your dick?”
MacAullif wrenched the car out of the spot, sped down the street.
“Where we going?”
MacAullif said nothing, just kept heading west.
“My car’s back there.”
“I know where your car is.”
He got on the West Side Highway, headed uptown.
“It’s nice of you to drive me home, MacAullif, but I’d rather have my car.”
Stakeout (2013) Page 5