King and I met at the wrought iron gates surrounding Kimball’s estate. After some bullshit forced pleasantries on my part, we drove through the gates, past the large oak trees that framed his serpentine, stone-lined driveway, and right up to Kimball’s front door. There we busted Kimball, dragging the six feet one inch tall bespectacled con artist out to King’s Dodge Durango. Kimball kicked and screamed the whole time, proclaiming his innocence in front of his wife and two sons before I shoved him into the vehicle. All the while Kimball’s younger son, a three-year-old named Jesse, held on to a Winnie the Pooh bear and looked on, wide-eyed and fearful, at the spectacle unfolding before him. Kimball’s older son, Mark, apparently a veteran of such scenes, leaned against the doorframe, engrossed in the Nintendo DS he held in his hands.
Once at the Bureau’s Headquarters in Midtown Manhattan, King worked Kimball over in the interrogation room while I looked on through a two-way mirror. Kimball’s lawyer showed up a half hour into the festivities, putting an end to the party. While Kimball was being booked on multiple fraud charges, King and I decided where to go with him from there.
“So, this guy knocked up the babysitter, huh?” King said with his slow Southern drawl. “Fancy house in Greenwich, beautiful wife and kids, and he’s got to screw it all up for a few rolls in the hay with a bisexual, Icelandic whore. What an asshole. Got to admit, though, I wouldn’t have minded fucking Ingi myself,” King said with a sarcastic laugh.
“Uh, yeah, whatever you say RJ,” I replied in disbelief.
“It’s Agent King to you, boy,” the fiftyish-year-old FBI veteran replied. I brushed aside the “boy” reference, trying to think of it as habit on King’s part instead of the attempt to insult that I knew it was. “Now that you’ve got the facts on Kimball, where do you think we go from here, Agent?” I said, trying to keep my tone civil. If King and I had to work together, it was important I had as much insight into his thought process as possible.
“Well, he’s a professional con artist, so you never know quite what to expect. These guys are capable of anything and damn good at lying through smiling teeth while they pat you on your back. We got some useful information despite his best attempts to conceal it. For one thing, we know Rakel called her OB ‘CD.’ Assuming those are the doctor’s initials, dear old Doctor Dietz is still in play as a link between April Cassidy and Rakel Ingi, and maybe even their murderer, if Kimball ends up getting cleared.”
“I’ll have Kennedy follow up with Dietz or get over there myself and see if Rakel was a patient of his. In the meantime, maybe the DNA you pilfered from Kimball will give us some leads.”
“You noticed that, did you, boy?” King said with surprised admiration.
“Getting his prints and DNA from saliva left on the glass of water you gave him isn’t exactly an original idea. They do it at least once a season on Law and Order.”
“Original or not, it got the job done,” King responded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to see hits all around the country on the prints. Kimball moves around a lot. And the DNA will be quite useful if we can find the baby Rakel was carrying.”
“I agree. We should find something we can use to build the murder case against him. I’d sure hate to have to plant evidence to put this prick away,” King said with a chuckle.
I stared at him, sizing him up, uncertain how to respond.
“For Christ’s sake, Ravello! It’s a joke. Nobody’s planting evidence on this here case. We’ll catch the killer fair and square—with good detective work.”
My stare relaxed into a strained smile. King was hard to read, but I guess he was just joking, at least since I called him on it. “Well, that seems to do it on Kimball until we get the prints and the DNA back, and we can execute a search warrant on his place. Have you guys come up with anything on your surveillance of Johnny Briganti?”
“Nothing important. Tramboli’s latest captain’s been keeping a lower profile since you scared the shit out of him yesterday. We’ve got wiretaps on the guinea bastard, and a few snitches have started talking, but there’s nothing to report yet. If he’s guilty, we’ll be there to catch him when that guinea slips up,” King said with a determined nod.
“I just hope we don’t find anymore corpses before that day comes,” I said warily.
“On that we can agree,” King said as he bowed his head and crossed himself.
§
The prints and DNA came back negative on Brad Kimball. There were no matches in the National DNA Index System, NDIS, or the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, which contained fingerprints on over fifty million criminals. It was a surprise, but not a dead end. After all, we were interested in Kimball’s involvement in this case, not past ones. Once we found Rakel Ingi’s missing baby, we’d compare that DNA to Kimball’s. That, plus anything we turned up on the search of Kimball’s home would give us free rein in pursuing Kimball hard as a suspect.
Fortunately, Kev had turned up a few things of interest on Kimball. First, not all the Kimballs were con artist scumbags. Jack Kimball, Brad's brother, was a squeaky-clean geneticist and professor at UCLA. Their uncle, Frank Coletti, was a bigwig at UCLA Medical Center's Ronald Reagan Hospital in Los Angeles. He oversaw purchasing, including any hospital or lab purchases over fifty thousand dollars. From what we could tell, neither had any contact with Brad in recent years. It seems Brad had conned some of the doctors that Jack and Frank had introduced him to, and that didn't sit too well with Jack or Frank.
Brad was expert in flying under the radar and moved around a lot, so we couldn't absolutely rule out contact between Brad, Jack, and their uncle. Brad's scams included convincing physicians and attorneys that they were investing in hospitals and surgicenters. Jack and Frank gave us the names of twelve hospitals-surgicenters and forty-three physicians that Brad had contact with in the past three years alone. There was a lot of legwork for us to still do on Kimball and his contacts.
It was frustrating as hell, but we weren't getting anywhere with the Rakel Ingi investigation. All our previous work had taken us in the same direction: to a series of dead ends. Kennedy checked with Dietz’s office. Ingi was never a patient of his, at least not under her real name. It would take a warrant and a week of investigating to see if she was listed under an alias. No one on the street could confirm or not if Briganti ever met Ingi, just as none of Rakel’s au pair friends recalled ever meeting or hearing about April Cassidy. I assigned Joe Gibbs, Detective Second Grade, to follow up on Kennedy’s earlier inquiries. Gibbs was a ten-year veteran and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a real bulldog. Point him in the right direction and he would plow through all obstacles until he found what he was looking for. We needed that kind of tenacity in following up on Ingi’s case while Kennedy and I approached the investigation from a fresh perspective.
Our fresh perspective’s name? April Cassidy.
Now that we hit a wall with Rakel’s investigation, we had time to revisit April’s case. With any luck, April would lead us right back to Rakel Ingi and to the psychotic killer who took them both.
Chapter 48
The Golden Garter was one of the Bronx’s premiere strip clubs—which wasn’t saying a helluva lot. Owned and operated by the mafia, it featured the prettiest, raunchiest, and most accommodating girls in the tri-state area. There were worse places for me to be holed up, digging deeper into who April Cassidy was and why someone wanted her dead. Being at the Golden Garter offered me an opportunity to keep tabs on Johnny Briganti while I interviewed April’s girlfriends. The FBI was watching him, but they were too discreet about it. It could only help our cause if he felt the pressure of me for a few hours. He might lose his cool and tip his hand; stranger things had already happened.
The first six house girls didn’t know April well, providing little insight, personally or professionally, into the Midwest native. Then came my interview with Dixie Dakota, a forty-two-year-old ex-porn star now happily ensconced at the Garter as
a regular house girl. Dixie was five feet six with peroxide platinum hair. She had a very pretty face and a body with sleek, sharp curves reminiscent of a 1968 Mustang Pit Viper.
“I knew April real well, Detective. We worked together three, four times a week the last six months,” Dixie said as she adjusted her boobs and the silver sequined top that restrained them. “It’s so sad. She was a good girl, doing this temporarily, not a lifer like say…me,” Dixie said with a salacious smile as she shook her boobs to and fro and laughed.
“What can you tell me about April’s private life and background, Dixie?”
“She was your All-American type, definitely. Grew up in the Midwest near Columbus, Ohio. Studied dance from age three, was the captain of the cheerleading squad in high school, all the wholesome stuff, ya know? Her family was real straight-laced, which was how April started out too. Her dad teaches at Columbus University and directs the school’s marching band. Very Beaver Cleaver kind of stuff. Eva, that was April’s stage name, was real shy at first. She’d just about get her top off by the end of her number. But then she settled in and realized none of this is real. It’s just an act,” Dakota said as she leaned forward and showed off her cleavage while resting her left hand on my forearm and staring longingly at me. After an arousing and uncomfortable few moments, she leaned back and laughed. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said, her blue eyes riveted to mine. “April was battling depression. It started about four months ago when she broke it off with that cute pharmacist she was dating.”
“What do you know about him, Dixie?” I said, leaning forward to hear her better.
“He was an All-American too. Cute guy. Tall, athletic. Very well mannered. You could just tell he was from the Midwest too. Every girl in here wanted to jump his bones, but he only had eyes for Eva, uh, I mean April. It was really cute.”
“So what happened? Why’d they break up?”
“Hmmm. You want the official or the unofficial story?” Dixie said as she licked her thick, red lips and jostled her hair.
Dixie must have found this an irresistible combination: doling out the juiciest gossip at the club while helping the police catch one of her best friend’s killer. What else could explain the risk she was taking in revealing so much to me?
“Gimme both, Dixie.”
“Okay. Officially, they broke up because Gerry, that’s the pharmacist, wanted April to stop stripping and she refused. That lead to all sorts of arguments and then KABOOM, they broke up.”
“But that’s not what happened?”
“Hell no! Sure Gerry wanted to see Eva disappear so he could have April all to himself. He was a typical guy. It’s fine he meets her while she’s stripping, but once they get serious, the stripping is all of a sudden a problem…anyway, April was cool with giving this all up,” Dixie said with a sarcastic smile and her hands spread out over her head. “Gerry was doing really well as a pharmacist. He could support her, and April could concentrate on her dancing—legitimate dancing.”
“So why’d they break up then?”
Dixie thought about the question, considering her words before she answered. “You’ll protect me, right? If it gets out that I spilled the beans, I’ll need protection—big time.”
“Sure thing, Dixie. We’ll sequester you if it comes to that.”
“Sounds kinky, Detective Ravello. I hope you’ll be in charge of that see-quest-tration,” Dixie said with a sultry smile. “A girl could get kinda lonely all hidden away like that.”
I let out an amused and hearty laugh. Dixie Dakota was pulling out all the stops with me to jump my bones. The snitches on the streets we paid for information were less of a minefield to navigate than my encounter with Dixie.
With a chuckle I said, “Let’s forget about the sequestration for a minute, Dixie. What’s the scoop on April and Gerry’s break up?”
“Well, there were complications. Ya see, once April warmed up to this place, it awakened a wild streak in her that she never got back under control. Sure she was happy dating Gerry, but she was also spending time with—” Dixie looked to her left and right before continuing in a softer voice, “—Johnny Briganti. She got pregnant, maybe with Johnny’s baby, and had to break it off with Gerry. She didn’t want to, but if Gerry found out about the baby, Johnny woulda had ta hurt Gerry, and April didn’t want that to happen. Johnny didn’t want anyone to find out about the baby, it—”
“—would have been bad for business, his business. Next thing you know April’s dead and the baby’s missing. Any chance Gerry knew more than he let on?”
“I doubt it. He was such a wide-eyed, innocent kind of guy. So sweet.”
“Thanks Dixie. You’ve been a great help.” My eyes wandered up and down her body. With a smile I said, “If it weren’t for two beautiful kids and a lovely wife…” I kissed her on the cheek and took off. It was always better to leave people like Dixie feeling appreciated. We might need her help again soon.
The FBI had Briganti well covered. I had spoken to all the strippers at the Garter that evening. There was no need to hang around any longer. I climbed in my car and idled the engine while I checked in with Kennedy. He had an interesting update for me on one of our other suspects.
I threw the Firebird into drive and peeled out of the parking lot, determined to pay Gerry Buehler another unexpected visit.
Chapter 49
Gerry and I sat at his dining room table. “Tell me again, Detective Ravello, what it is you want with me so late at night?” Gerry Buehler said with a trace of exasperation in his voice. Buehler’s brown hair, despite his best efforts to straighten it, pointed off in several directions. According to him, he had been asleep for about an hour before I woke him up with my persistent banging on the front door.
“I wanted to talk to you about April Cassidy and her murder. I understand you knew her…quite well.”
“Yes. We dated for several months before parting ways back in January,” Buehler said as he stared at the wood table in front of him. He turned his head and faced me. “It’s so sad what happened to her.”
“And her baby. You knew about the baby, right Gerry?”
“Umm. Well, only since your partner told me about it the other day. Was it mine?” he said as tears welled in his eyes.
“Don’t know. We have yet to find the baby. Perhaps you have some idea where it is?”
“I’m confused. If someone killed April wouldn’t the baby have been killed too?” Buehler said with a perplexed look.
“We’re not sure, Gerry. There’s a chance the baby may still be alive.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good news. I hope you find it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said with obvious skepticism. “Well anyway, we think the baby was Johnny Briganti’s. April was screwing him on the side while she dated you,” I said offhandedly.
“No! That’s not possible. April wouldn’t even give that degenerate the time of day. I don’t believe you,” Buehler said with indignation.
“Well, believe me. She gave him the time of day, time of night, shirt off her back, panties off her backside. You name it, April gave it to Briganti,” I said, trying to get him riled.
“Whatever happened…or didn’t happen, it’s all water under the bridge now since April’s death,” Buehler said with as much restraint as he could summon. His face and neck were bright red, the veins bulging forward on each side of his throat. His hands were clenched in tight, white-knuckled fists by his sides: I was getting to him. Hey, good for me. I’d spent my share of time on his side of the table when I was young. Nothing wrong with me enjoying being on this side now.
In a calmer voice Buehler continued, “Now if there’s nothing else, Detective, I need to get back to sleep.…”
“Well, there are a few more things, Gerry. What can you tell me about the dropped rape charge back in college?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Buehler said in a tired voice. “The girl had second thoughts after the fact and wanted to call it rape. When s
he came to her senses, she dropped the charges, as you know.”
“I see…well just two more things then. First, how come you never mentioned all the research you’ve done over the years with Merck, Pfizer, and Granall, plus all the other big pharmaceutical companies?”
“I didn’t see how my consulting work had any bearing on a murder investigation, Detective. I must say, I still don’t see the connection.”
“Maybe there is none. But we just like susp—, uh, everyone we talk to, to be upfront with us. Holding stuff like that back makes you look suspicious, even shady, Gerry.”
“I assure you, I am not holding anything back, Detective! I’ve been quite forthright with both you and your partner—despite the poor timing and unannounced nature of your visits,” Buehler said, his anger seeping through. Then in a softer, more restrained voice. “Once again, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yeah. During your work with Granall you did some tinkering with their Boxin formula, didn’t you?”
“No, I did not. There is no ‘formula.’ Botulinum is a purified toxin from the bacterium C. Botulinum. I helped Granall denature the compound so it wouldn’t lose any of its properties when reconstituted.”
“One more time in English please,” I said, concealing my amusement at riling Buehler up again. Everything was proceeding according to plan—except I had to be careful now. This guy might pee all over the place if I kept it up much longer.
With resigned exasperation he replied. “Granall paid me to figure out how to convert Boxin into a powder that doctors could freeze and then add sterile saline to when they needed to use it. Their previous version of Boxin lost efficacy in just a few hours upon reconstitution, meaning it lost its effectiveness. They wanted to improve on it.”
“So you had nothing to do with altering the concentration or effectiveness of Boxin? You just dried it out for them so it would last longer?”
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