“Of course.”
We walked to the door and she opened it for us.
“I do hope you’re successful, Mr. Doyle,” she said, voice low and throaty. I felt her hand touch my arm. To me she wasn’t visible flesh and bone, she was intoxicating scent, tantalizing voice, close, seductive presence, and my arm hairs rustled again.
She said goodbye and closed the door.
“Well,” Kelley sniffed, as we headed for the elevator, “so much for Marlene Dietrich. Did she say anything useful, or does she just like to flap her kazoo and listen to that sultry voice come out?”
“Now, now,” I said. “She said a few things that might be useful, assuming she was telling the truth. Give me your impressions.”
“An older woman desperately trying to stay young.”
“If they all went to school together they’re the same age,” I reminded her. “Forty seven isn’t that old. We’ve both of us turned the corner on forty ourselves.”
Kelley sniffed again, letting me know where she stood in the matter of Relinda Smith. “Forty seven is old if your entire adult life has been spent trying to remain twenty,” she said emphatically. “That’s Relinda Smith in her entirety. As to the truthfulness of what she told you, I watched her like a fox. She didn’t seem to be hiding anything. My impression is she doesn’t know very much about Jimmy Pompo or Tommy DeMarco, bit player notwithstanding. I have the feeling we should talk to the wife.”
“Right again,” I said jauntily. The elevator gently deposited us into the lobby, and Buster led me through the coolness to the front door. “We’ll see Adele, then the wife, then head on down to Atlantic City.”
“Atlantic City?”
“All expenses paid, courtesy of Sammy Weese.”
“We can sure use the fee,” was all she said.
Back in the office, I called Sammy Weese. “I need to talk to Tommy’s wife, Sammy,” I said. “I need you to set it up. I’m not sure she’d see us if we just called out of the blue.”
“Probably not,” Sammy agreed. “Her name’s Irene. I’ll give her a call and get back to you.”
I hung up and said, “Radnor, babe. Not quite Villanova but close. Let’s go see the DA’s sister.”
8
Adele Clotherman lived by herself in what Kelley described as a cute little contemporary, lots of glass, kind of rambling. Buster made himself at home on the floor, and Kelley and I sat side by side on something a whole lot firmer than I was used to. I assumed it was a sofa. The armrest was slim and cool, and felt like polished metal of some kind. I had the feeling I was in a room full of very severe, very functional furniture. I had the feeling Adele didn’t often stretch out on it and watch a football game. She wore just a trace of scent, something expensive, though it didn’t smell as expensive as Relinda’s. I had the impression Adele Clotherman was a practical woman. I caught the lingering smell of tobacco smoke, the ever-present furniture polish, and a cat. I hoped the cat was safely put away. Not that Buster would start anything.
“I’m in the middle of an important project right now,” she said. “I have my own graphic design business, and I have a presentation tomorrow morning. I can spare thirty minutes.”
Nice voice. Crisp and firm. A lot like Cathy Cerullo.
“Thirty minutes will be plenty, Miss Clotherman,” I said, with what I hoped was a winning manner. “As you may know, Mr. Weese has engaged us to look into the murder of Tommy DeMarco. I understand you knew Tommy.”
“Yes, I knew him quite well.”
“Would you have any idea why he’d be sitting in his car at a South Philly corner at one in the morning?”
“Yes. He was waiting for me. Usually, he’d have come here to pick me up, but that night he said he was meeting someone, and suggested I drive in and meet him.”
Every once in a while an answer hits you right between the eyes. “Do you know who that someone was?”
“No, Tommy never mentioned a name.”
“What time were you to meet him?”
“Twelve thirty.”
“Did you usually meet him that late?”
“No, it was later than usual.”
“Where were you to meet him?”
“On Cameron Street. We were to go to a club, hear some music.”
I was listening carefully, trying to detect a hesitation, a change in tone. I said, “Were you gonna change cars, or were you going in separate cars?”
“I was going with him in his car. The club was nearby.“
“Did you often meet him like that, drive in and change cars?”
“Never before. We didn’t see each other all that often, once or twice a month, and when we did he came here to pick me up, unless for some reason I was already in town. That has happened a few times.”
“He didn’t say he was meeting Jimmy Pompo?”
“He never mentioned a name.”
“I understand Louise Driscoll had taken up with Tommy just a short time before his death. Were you aware of that?”
“Yes. When I heard he was seeing Louise I called him and asked him about it.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was just one of those spur of the moment things. I think it was more or less Louise’s idea.”
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“Yes. She laughed and said I wasn’t using him and so she might as well. She said she’d be giving him back soon, she had more men at the moment than she could possibly handle.”
“Were you jealous?”
She hesitated. “I suppose I was,” she said. “I knew the kind of man Tommy was. After Louise it would be someone else. For Tommy it would always be someone else. He was very attractive.”
“Did Tommy have any problems at home, do you know?”
“You mean with the wife? I assume she knew what he was. You can’t hide that sort of thing.”
“Wives have knocked off philandering husbands before, Miss Clotherman. Did Tommy ever say anything that would lead you to believe Mrs. DeMarco could have had a hand in his death?”
“Lord no! I think Mrs. DeMarco did what any sane woman would do, she found a lover.”
“Speculation?”
“No. Tommy once mentioned his wife and Ray Villani were having an affair. He laughed about it. Said it made it easier for him.”
Ray Villani. Another name from my lighted past.
“Did you have a relationship with Jimmy Pompo?”
“No. I didn’t like Jimmy all that much, but Louise did, and so I saw more of him than I’d have liked.”
“Tell us about the night of the shooting.”
She paused, then said, “I arrived about twelve thirty. Cameron Street is a tiny street just north of Tommy’s jewelry shop. I drove past and Tommy was sitting in his car, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t see me, it’s a very dark street. I drove on past, looking for a parking place, and found one about in the middle of the block.”
“Was there any traffic on the street, was there anyone about?”
“No, it was quite deserted, though there was a lot of traffic elsewhere. I could hear the traffic going by, I could hear television sets on around me. I had just shut off the engine and turned off my lights when I heard shots. Poppoppop. Like that. Not loud at all. Right after that I heard footsteps, running. They were coming toward me. I was frightened. They ran past me and down Cameron. I don’t know where they went after that. I was too scared to look. I knew something had happened.”
“What did you suspect?”
“I knew what kind of people they were. I suppose that was part of the charm, part of the attraction. I assumed immediately that someone had been shot. I feared it was Tommy. The shots came from in back of me, from where he was.”
“What did you do?”
“I got out of there and drove home. I only hope whoever ran down the street didn’t see me sitting in my car.”
“He probably didn’t, Miss Clotherman, and if he did, he wouldn’t care. Real life is different
from the movies. There’s no way you can identify him, and he knows that.”
“All I saw was a form running by in the dark. I waited a few minutes before starting my car. I wanted to make sure he was gone.”
“Did you drive by to see if Tommy was all right?”
“Lord no.”
“Did you tell your brother about this, Miss Clotherman?”
“Yes. He said not to worry, the shooter never saw me. That’s what he called him, the shooter.”
“That’s what he was. Was there any chance the runner was Jimmy Pompo?”
She hesitated again. “No. At least I don’t think so. I just had a glimpse of him, just a form in the dark, but I’ve seen Jimmy Pompo often enough to believe it wasn’t him. Besides, it sounded like a young man running. That’s what I told Warren.”
“Was there anything else you recall about that night?”
“Just how frightened I was. I think about it often. I’ve never been so frightened.”
“Now you know,” I said. “People like Tommy DeMarco live in a frightening world. Thank you, Miss Clotherman.”
Back in the car, Kelley called the office and picked up the messages. “Sammy says Irene DeMarco will see us at six,” she said.
“Did he give an address?”
“Already committed to the memory hole.”
South Philadelphia was all brick and concrete, and even in early evening it was baking. We found a parking spot not too far away and walked to the DeMarco row home. Mrs. DeMarco was very gracious. She had no objection whatsoever to having Buster in her house, and as far as I know, Buster had no objections either.
“Will you have some coffee?” she asked. “I can have it in a moment.”
She had a pleasant voice, but more or less nondescript. Certainly not as distinctive as Relinda Smith’s. She was apparently not wearing a scent, but there were fresh flowers nearby, though I couldn’t tell what kind, and, of course, the ubiquitous furniture polish.
“Thank you, Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, “we’d love a cup.”
Mrs. DeMarco said, “I’ll be right back.” She walked away, light footsteps on a carpeted floor. The footsteps changed from carpet to a hard surface and I knew she was in the kitchen. A moment later I heard a coffee grinder come on briefly. The scent of the fresh ground beans filled the house.
“What a lovely home,” Kelley whispered. “There’s been a lot of money put into it. Beautiful furnishings. The kitchen is absolutely gorgeous, what I can see of it. I guess the jewelry business is very profitable.”
“The way Tommy ran it, it was,” I whispered back. “He was tied in with the mob. We thought he was doing a little trafficking through the store, but we could never get anything on him.”
“Didn’t Relinda say he and Jimmy Pompo were business associates?”
“They were, the way Bonnie and Clyde were business associates.”
I heard footsteps and touched Kelley’s arm, just in case she hadn’t caught them. I didn’t want Irene DeMarco to catch us whispering like a couple of schoolgirls.
“Coffee will be ready in a few moments,” Mrs. DeMarco said, coming back into the room. “Now, what can I do for you? Mr. Weese wasn’t at all specific.”
“We’ve been engaged by Sammy Weese to look into the death of your husband, Mrs. DeMarco,” I said. “I hope our coming here doesn’t reopen the wounds.”
“I’ve done my grieving, Mr. Doyle,” she said in a firm voice. “He had a lovely funeral. All his friends and associates were there. Mr. Senna himself honored my husband by being there. And now it’s over. I’ve gathered myself up and set about seeing to the rest of my life. I have my home, I have my children. We shall survive.”
If you can judge people by the words and the tone of voice, then Irene DeMarco was a tough lady. I had no doubt she’d survive.
“I have a few questions, Mrs. DeMarco,” I said gently. “As you know, Jimmy Pompo is accused of the murder of your husband. Do you believe he did it, and if you do, why?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Doyle. He could have, he was capable of it. Jimmy Pompo didn’t let friendship stand in the way of business.”
“Was there anything they were engaged in that might lead to a falling out?”
“Mr. Doyle, they were always engaged in something that might lead to a falling out. They were engaged in the business of making money. Money has a way of coming between people.”
“What specifically were they doing at the time of your husband’s death?”
“I never inquired into my husband’s business. He owned a jewelry store. That’s all I knew, all I cared to know.”
Well, that was clear enough. Hear no evil, see no evil. “Was Jimmy Pompo a part owner of the jewelry store?”
“No,” she said evenly. “Jimmy and Tommy were boyhood friends, all the way back to elementary school. They met in the fourth grade, and have hung around together ever since.”
“I’ve reason to believe Jimmy Pompo may be telling the truth when he says he was in Atlantic City the night your husband was killed. If Jimmy is telling the truth, then someone else killed your husband. I’m trying to find that someone else.”
“I hope it’s someone else,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t like it to be Jimmy. He has always been welcome in this house. He is godfather to our son. I hope with all my heart it’s someone else.”
“Help us find your husband’s killer, Mrs. DeMarco,” I pressed. “The police believe it to be Jimmy. Is there someone who will talk to us about what your husband was involved in at the time of his death?”
“Mr. Doyle, you must be quite naïve,” she laughed softly. “No one will talk of these things.”
“Would it have been anything illegal?”
“My husband owned a jewelry store, Mr. Doyle. That’s all I know. Excuse me, the coffee is ready.”
She was right, I’d been aware of that delightful fresh brewed smell for some minutes now. I heard the footsteps change and change again, living room carpet to kitchen flooring and back again. I could feel her near me, and heard her put something down on something. I guessed a coffee table.
I heard the coffee being poured, smelled it being poured, a thoroughly delightful sound and smell.
“Cream and sugar, Mrs. Doyle?” Mrs. DeMarco said.
“Black, please, thank you.”
“Mr. Doyle?”
“Black, please,” I said, and held out my hand. She placed a cup and saucer in my hand like she’d been doing it all her life. Nothing awkward about it at all.
I said, “Thank you,” and hoped I didn’t spill it on the carpeting. Hot, black and fresh, it tasted as good as it smelled.
“There’s a table in front of you, to your left, Mr. Doyle,” she said.
I said, “Thank you,” again and put my cup on the table. “Wonderful coffee, Mrs. DeMarco.”
“We buy the beans,” she said, pleased I liked it. “Grind them ourselves as we use them. You get a much fresher cup of coffee that way.”
“Absolutely delicious,” Kelley said.
“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, returning to business, “do you know where your husband was going the night he was murdered?”
Her voice changed. “He was meeting someone.”
“Did he say who?”
“He said he was meeting Jimmy Pompo.”
From the tone of her voice I gathered she believed he was meeting someone else. “Did he say what the meeting was about?”
“He did not, and I didn’t ask.”
“Did you tell the police your husband was meeting Jimmy Pompo?”
“I told the police that’s who my husband said he was meeting.”
“Mrs. DeMarco, could you share your thoughts as to what that meeting with Jimmy could’ve been about?”
“My husband wasn’t meeting Jimmy Pompo, Mr. Doyle,” she said bitterly. “He was meeting a woman. My husband was always meeting women. They found him attractive.”
“Did you tell the police he was meeting a woman?”
<
br /> “No. They asked me if my husband said who he was meeting, and I told them the truth. He said he was meeting Jimmy Pompo.”
“Do you know the name of the woman your husband was meeting?”
“No, I don’t. I never cared to know their names.”
I asked a few more questions, but it was clear Mrs. DeMarco either didn’t honestly know anything, or wasn’t about to talk about it to a stranger, even one vouched for by Sammy Weese.
Back in the office, I called Sammy Weese to report on our interview with Mrs. DeMarco.
“Nice woman,” I said by way of preamble. “Didn’t tell us much. She did say Jimmy and Tommy were involved in something, she wouldn’t or couldn’t say what. I’d like to talk to Jimmy. Whatever it was may have had a bearing on Tommy’s murder.”
“All right,” Sammy said. “Good idea. I’ll make the arrangements right away. As his lawyer I can go in and out. If I present you as an associate, I think we can get you in there. But I have to be there. I want to know what he says.”
Sammy called back about thirty minutes later.
“All set for tomorrow morning,” he rumbled. “Stop by the office about nine thirty, we’ll talk about it beforehand. I want to know where you’re heading.”
I hung up, and Kelley said, “I’m hungry. I suggest we get something to eat before heading for Atlantic City.”
I called home and left a message for the kids, telling them we wouldn’t be home till late.
Hannigan’s was bustling and cheerful, as usual. We had a leisurely before dinner drink, and a satisfying hour later we walked over to Chinatown and got something to eat. The homebound crowds were thinning out, crowded sidewalks and high intensity traffic noise gradually easing. Buster took it all in stride, and he got us to my favorite Chinese restaurant without incident.
The Floating Cloud was cool and smelled absolutely wonderful. I stopped just inside the door and tasted each and every smell. Black beans, soy sauce, sesame oil, ginger, Chinese chili paste. I’d have gladly stood there for another hour, but a pleasant sounding young woman asked if we would come this way, and we did.
I came in here a lot when I could see, especially when Bobby Cho and I were working the late shift. Bobby’s uncle Ho owned the restaurant, and Bobby was his uncle’s favorite nephew. Bobby could do no wrong, and in the kitchen, neither could Uncle Ho.
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