“You have some ID?” The woman was seventy-five if she was a day, and thin, with a full head of white hair hanging to her shoulders. She wore a martial arts gi with a black belt tied around her thin waist. “Quick, too. I’m training.”
I said, “Quick, Bear, she’s training.”
He flashed her his badge and ID wallet, and, after she’d read it three or four times, she opened the door halfway but never budged out of Bear’s path.
“Sorry to disturb you.” He pocketed his badge and said, “I’m looking for Stanley Kravitz, ma’am. Is he home?”
“No. He’s not home. And I’m getting sick of this bullshit.”
Bear blinked a few times. “Ma’am? Is Stanley—”
“That asshole doesn’t live here and never has. You’re the second one today looking for him. I told the other fella, too, I been in this apartment fifteen years. And I don’t look like no Stanley Kravitz either.”
Bear peered around her. “You sure? He’s not in any trouble, ma’am, but—”
“The hell he ain’t.” She slipped her gi sleeves up to her elbows. “If he shows his mug around here, I’ll give him a good whack. I been getting his mail, phone calls, and now you two. Enough. This is my place. My name is Brenda L. Sturges and I’m an old maid. Never had much use for a husband and never had no kids. So this twerp ain’t any relative of mine. Leave me alone.”
“Yes, ma’am, if—”
Brenda L. Sturges slammed the door and clapped, rapped, and snapped all her door locks back in place. “Go see the manager,” she yelled through the door. “I sent the last one of you to him.”
I laughed. “Maybe you should recruit her for the Community Police patrol.”
We went in search of the manager.
We found Tim something-Swedish behind his computer eating an early lunch of burgers, fries, and a half-gallon of orange soda. Tim was all of 130 pounds and smelled of the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray just in front of the “No Smoking” sign on the reception desk.
Bear explained what he wanted and ended with, “He works for Festival Catering.”
“Hah, those guys.” Tim the Swede laughed and gulped down several mouthfuls of soda. “I been fighting with Peter for weeks. And I already been through this once today with—”
“Peter? You mean Petya?”
Tim the Swede shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know. Funny accent, you know, like on TV or something.” He munched down on his burger and wiped the catsup up with a napkin. “They all sound the same on the phone.”
“Yeah, right.” Bear tapped the counter. “Okay, tell me about Petya, Tim—just like on TV”
“Hey, come on, I’m busy here.”
“Sure, okay, you’re busy. I’ll just go door-to-door and roust all your tenants. I’ll explain how you were too busy to help me.”
“All right, all right. I’m not busy anymore.” Tim moved his half-eaten burger aside. “The Kravitz fella never lived here—never. I’ve been getting mail for him for months. Him and a few other nobodies. Different building addresses but the same story. None of ‘em are residents.”
“How many?”
“Five, counting Kravitz.”
Bear watched Tim with narrow eyes. “So, what’s the deal, Tim? What did Petya have to say?”
“Big mistake, he says. Five of his employees just happen to have addresses in our village and all of them are wrong. Big coincidence. Big misunderstanding. Yeah, yeah. And he’s going to cater my fourth of July bash to make up for it. Just so long as we keep this between us, you know.”
I said, “Jeez, Bear, someone made a big impression on Petya. He’s offering restitution without any demand. Sort of odd, don’t you think?”
He repeated me. “So, Timmy, what’s with all this? What’s Petya’s underwear all bunched up about?”
Tim slurped long and deep on the orange soda and slid back in his chair. “You guys. Too much heat is my guess. We get mail for those mystery residents every once in a while these past few months. Not often, but now and then. We pile it up and return-to-sender—sometimes. I complained to him before, but this time, he called me this morning all in a panic. Said he was personally going to fix the issue and if anyone asked, just keep it to myself. You know, fourth of July and all.”
“Oh, yeah? Did he say why?”
Tim shook his head. “Nope. And I didn’t ask.”
“Okay, give us the names and addresses of the five then.”
“Us?”
“Me.” Bear stabbed a finger at him. “Give me the names and any extra mail you got lying around for them.”
“Nope.” The crooked smile on his face between slurps of soda made it clear Tim enjoyed this part. “Can’t.”
“Why?”
“’Cause the fella who was here this morning said not to. Said no one was to know and I’m supposed to call him if anyone comes asking. So soon as you leave, I’m calling him ’cause you’re asking.”
Tim-something-Swedish had no idea how close he was to introducing his orange soda straw to his large intestine. Bear leaned across his desk, grabbed him by the shirt, and dragged him onto his tiptoes so they could see eye-to-eye. Neither of them noticed the half-eaten, catsup-dripping burger ground into Timmy’s groin.
“Who, Timmy? Who are you planning on calling? The governor?”
“Ah, better, I think.” Timmy dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. He held it up for Bear to see. “Easy, man. Be cool. Be cool. I’m doing what he wanted.”
The business card read “Special Agent James Dobron, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” and it listed a Washington DC telephone number.
“What’s the FBI want with my missing caterer?” Bear said, heading out the door.
“I don’t know.” I followed out. “Last night’s food wasn’t that bad, was it?”
twenty-six
Our next stop was a familiar gated two-story Tudor estate some ten miles or so west of Winchester, heading for the mountains. The property was lush and green with manicured gardens, rock landscaping, and an eight-feet high security wall combining old-world charm and modern-day security. The armed thugs patrolling the grounds added just a touch of authentic gangland style, too.
This was the home of the one and only Nicholas Bartalotta. My old pal Poor Nic.
As mentioned earlier, Nic was our resident retired mob boss who made Frederick County his home. Not by chance, though. In the summers of his youth, Poor Nic spent time with his uncle at Kelly’s Orchard Farms—the family estate. After some unsavory business split the families apart, as murder sometimes does, Nicholas returned to New York and entered the family business. The family business was organized crime.
Nicholas was very good at the family business. Very good.
Bear and I had called on Poor Nic many times since he moved into the neighborhood. And none of those visits were for expensive cognac or home-baked bread either. None of those times were we well received either. But the last time, at the end of my homicide investigation, Poor Nic became something of an ally.
As we rolled up, a big, burly guard waved us through the iron gate and past two uniformed guards. Two things were apparent—Poor Nic expected us, and Poor Nic was not poor by any means.
The too-bulky guard opened Bear’s door the moment he shut off the cruiser. “Good morning, Detective Braddock. Mr. Bartalotta is expecting you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bear said, and stepped out to face Bobby, the butler-driver-bodyguard and senior-henchman. “How come?”
Bobby shrugged and stepped back.
Bobby was six-six and weighed every ounce of three hundred pounds—three hundred pounds of raw meat and pasta. He was taller and fifty pounds bulkier than Bear. All in all, it would be an interesting slug-fest if they ever got so engaged.
“Come on, Bobby. How’d you know I was coming to see him?”
“Dunno, Detective. But go on in. The Boss is waitin’ on the patio. You know the way.”
“Sure I do, Bobby. How’s
your probation officer treating you? Okay?”
“Funny, Bear. I’m clean and you know it.”
“Do I?” Bear patted Bobby on the shoulder and went in search of the patio with me on his heels.
Any other time, I’d take this opportunity to snoop around. Mobsters, like untrained puppies, often leave piles of shit everywhere when they don’t know you’re around. Sometimes, accidents lead to bigger, better things. Like evidence and handcuffs. But not this time. Poor Nic knew we were coming.
Poor Nic had changed since my murder. He has been a real upstanding guy around town. He took a personal interest in Angel—not a bad one either—and he has even tried to be something of a close friend to her. I wasn’t altogether sure how I felt about it. He’d made some big donations to her foundation, dumped a boat-load of cash on the University for low-income family scholarships, and provided jobs to many of the students needing help to pay tuition.
Poor Nic was acting a lot like Saint Nic. At least on the outside. On the inside, I had no silly notion he was a reformed, retired gangster. No, he was a low-key, semi-retired one. Oh, deep down I figured he had a heart somewhere and wanted to help out when he could. But above all, he liked the power and influence brought on by sprinkling money around town.
When we walked through the French doors onto the stone patio, Bear stopped and stared. I almost ran through him.
Angel sat opposite Poor Nic at a round, wrought-iron table sipping coffee. She looked up and gave us a big smile and a wave. “Bear, we expected you an hour ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” He recovered and walked to the table. “What are you doing here, Angela?”
Poor Nic—a distinguished, aged man with a shallow face and big, bright eyes—stood and offered his hand to Bear. He was dressed in slacks, a golf shirt, and a heavy cardigan sweater. His hair was groomed with meticulous care and his manners were old-world and instant. His smile was thin, but warm, and his eyes were a grandfather’s eyes greeting family.
“Detective Braddock, I’m so glad you could make it. Please, join us for some brunch, won’t you? Coffee or tea?”
“None, thanks.” Bear did a passable job of shaking the old gangster’s hand but kept his eyes on Angel. “Same question, Angel. What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I’m sure.” She patted the chair beside her and waited for Bear to sink into it. “Nicholas sent a car for me this morning. He wanted to explain about his departure last night and apologize for any issues it caused.”
“Yeah, departure—issues.” Bear waved off the maid with the sterling-silver coffee pot. “And you’re here the same as me?”
Poor Nic laughed and sat back down. “Come now, Detective. We all know the score. The first murder since our dear Detective Tucker was taken from us, and, of course, I am a suspect. It comes with the legacy, I’m afraid. Croissant?”
I said, “Legacy? Sure, it comes with the legacy. Like plague comes with the rats.”
Poor Nic spilled his coffee and waved for the maid to bring a towel.
“Well, Nicholas, you were there last night and disappeared,” Bear said. “Why?”
“Come on, Bear,” Angel said. “You being here is why. Every time there’s a crime, everyone looks at Nicholas. That’s not fair, is it?”
“Well, sorry, Angela, but yes, it’s fair.”
It was strange hearing Angel defend the old codger. During my murder investigation, she was pretty sure Nic was involved. Very sure, in fact—serial-killer sure. This morning, they seemed like family and the reason the New York mob sent a hit man to whack him last fall was a misunderstanding. Just a gag among mobsters. No big deal.
“Now, now. I do understand, my dear,” Poor Nic said. “Go on with your questions, Detective. I will answer them without benefit of counsel.”
“How good of you, Nic,” I said. “Surrounded by guns and thugs and you don’t need a lawyer. You’re really coming out of your shell.”
Bear laughed.
Nic looked down at his coffee and smiled. “It’s a sign of innocence, Detective.”
“Sure, okay.” Bear grabbed a croissant from the plate on the table and stuffed half of it in his mouth. “I get it. So, let’s talk about last night. Give me the nickel tour, okay? You talk, I’ll snack.”
Poor Nic sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. “I arrived late, perhaps eight thirty. You can check the sign-in register—”
“I did,” Bear said between chews. “You had one of your men with you. You didn’t sign him in.”
“No, I did not. I offered to sign Bobby in, but since he wasn’t drinking and had no donations to make, they agreed to forego the formality. The decision was mutually agreeable.”
“Ah, good, mutually agreeable.” Bear leaned forward. “André Cartier greased it.”
“Yes, I think it was André. And before you go any further, I concur with Angela. You have the wrong man. Professor Cartier is innocent. A man of sterling character.”
I said, “Well, I gotta agree, Nic. But, evidence is evidence. Bear had no choice.”
Nic smiled. “But you know this already, Detective.”
“Sure I do,” Bear said, liberating another croissant. This time, he gestured for the maid and waited for a cup of coffee. “But facts are facts and I can’t play favorites.”
“Which is why he’s here, Nicholas,” Angel said. “He has to follow up with you just to be fair and thorough. Right, Bear?”
Bear choked on a mouthful. “Ah, no, Angela. André, I would vouch for, but Nic on the other hand—”
“No, of course not, Detective.” Nic waved the maid into the house and waited for the French doors to close. He turned to Bear and his dark eyes lost their grandfatherly smile. “I shook some hands and provided Angela with a sizable donation. My second donation, I might add. I was not feeling well, and after a glass or two of champagne, felt tired. Bobby drove me home. I was on the front porch—leaving—when Mr. Grecco was killed. I know this because two of your deputies almost knocked me down charging into the house. They will recall the incident. Bobby was quite irritated with them. I knew what would transpire, so I continued home. I had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Grecco’s killing.”
“Detective Spence tried to reach you all night. Your boys out front told Spence you weren’t at home and didn’t know where you were.”
“I prefer my privacy after midnight. And besides, as I said, your own men saw me outside at the time of the shooting.”
Bear looked at him and pondered it all. After a sip of coffee to wash down another croissant, he continued. “You just left? No curiosity? No interest?”
“None. Come now, Detective, if you were me, what different course would you have taken?” A smile broke Nic’s face again. “And be honest, I did know I’d be very high on the ‘persons of interest’ list.”
“You sure are.”
“As I said.”
“Did you know Stephanos Grecco?”
“No.”
“Ever do business with him? Know his wife, Bonnie?”
“No and no. I do not do business with those I do not know.”
“Ever—”
“No.”
Bear tapped the table. “What can you tell me about Festival Catering?”
The question sent Poor Nic’s eyebrows up. “The caterer? I own a security guard company, part of a construction company, and some other business assets. I don’t believe a caterer is on the list. Why?”
“How about Stanley Kravitz or Petya Cherna … Chernykov … No, Petya Chernyshov?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, no. I have never heard of any of them.” Nic threw a chin at the French doors and they opened. The maid headed for the table. “More coffee? We’re through here.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Bear snapped forward. “And we’re done when I say we’re done.”
“Bear, please,” Angel said, touching his arm. “What more is there to ask? Nicholas doesn’t know anyone, he left before it happened, and can’t of
fer anything.”
“As Angela said, Detective, I’ve told you all I can—nothing.”
Bear looked at Angel and his eyes narrowed a little. Then he sat back and sipped his coffee, looking out beyond the patio.
I said, “Angel, ask him about Vincent Calaprese.”
She glanced over at me—just for an instant—and picked up her coffee cup. “Nicholas, the Vincent House is spectacular. You lived in Winchester when you were younger. Do you know its history?”
Poor Nic threw his head back and laughed. “My dear, Angela. Quite the detective you’re becoming, yes? Your question is about Vincent Calaprese, is it not?”
She grinned and nodded.
“I’m an old man, but not too old, my dear. And I can honestly say I have never met the man.”
“Not the question I asked, Angel,” I said. “Ask him—”
“Come now.” Poor Nic held up a hand. “You cannot believe that I commune with one-hundred and twenty year-old wise guys, can you? We don’t all know one-another either.”
She laughed. “No, Nicholas, but—”
“Angela,” Bear said. “Can I have a moment with Nicholas?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled at Nic, stood, and went into the house.
Bear tapped a finger on the table, vibrating the spoons off the coffee saucers. “Okay, Nic. Let’s put the cards on the table, shall we?”
“Yes, Detective, please do.”
“You’ve got the attention of the Attorney General’s office—”
“Ah yes, Ruth-Ann. Lovely woman—if you like spiders who eat their young.”
I said, “That’s harsh, Nic.”
“Your leaving last night looks bad. André vouching for you is worse. But I get it, I do. And I get you and Angela being friends. But I don’t like it much. Just so you know.”
“Of course, I understand.” Poor Nic patted the air. “Detective, as one of Angela’s friends to another, my intentions are honorable. Her husband—the smart-aleck Oliver—was a good man. And despite circumstances, I am sorry I could not have stopped his killer before his death.”
“Yeah, circumstances,” Bear said, crooking his eye at him. “Whatever. Anyway, here’s the deal. You stay ‘honorable’ or I’ll send you to see Tuck, got it? And if you know anything about this Grecco thing, you’d be wise to tell me. The faster Marcos lets go, the better.”
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