AND A TIME TO DIE

by Walter Erickson

  She fell asleep in my arms, breathing gently. I held her close, and the pictures came again, pictures of the beautiful girl I’d fallen in love with in high school, pictures of the senior prom, pictures of how she cried when I joined the Marines and held her close and kissed her and told her I’d be back and we’d get married and live happily ever after. I can still see her, smiling radiantly, still see the wedding dress, the church, can still smell the flowers. I was in night school when the babies came, and she never complained about my hours away from home, job and school taking most of my time. When I joined the force she was afraid, afraid I’d leave for work one morning and never come home, but she never tried to talk me out of it. She loved me as much as I loved her, and that was saying a lot, because I loved her more than life itself, and still do, and always will.

  When the pictures start like that it’s tough to keep them focused. They drift in and out, back and forth, jumping from one thing to another. They’re like runaway trains, racing down the track, switching from one track to another, and now the train was racing down with pictures of the kids, telling me about their day, and how I’d never see them in their McDonald’s uniforms, never see the change in them as they grew up, my picture of them forever frozen as they were on that day I got shot. I would never see Mike in his Marine uniform, never see Carol in her wedding dress, despite her claim of never getting married. I would never see my grandchildren, would never see my wife’s face wrinkle in laughter, never see her eyes close as I kissed her.

  Yes, I was feeling sorry for myself. I tried to shut out the pictures, tried to stop the train, but could not. Blackness, blackness for the rest of my life. How could I do my job? Relying on Kelley to do even the simplest things, relying on Buster to get me through the streets or up the stairs. I give every appearance of being in control, of being confident and strong, but deep in the dark of a sleepless night I know the truth. I’m afraid. Not of getting hurt, I’ve never been afraid of getting hurt, but of being inadequate, of failing Kelley or the kids at a critical moment. The thought of failure gnaws at me. I try not to think about it, but it’s always there. I guess that’s why I always act as if I can still do anything, because I know deep down that I can’t.

  I listened to Kelley breathe, felt her warmth and softness against me, and gave her a gentle kiss so as not to wake her. I finally shut off the pictures, but it was a long time before I got to sleep.

  9

  Morning was worse. Kelley was getting the car repaired, and I was alone in the office, wondering if Frank Kopf had gotten a useful phone number from Bobby Micelli. When I called the Roundhouse Frank said, “Hiya, Doyle. No, no luck there. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard, but maybe it didn’t make much of the news. Bobby was dead when I got there. Shot in the office Tuesday night, sometime after 2 a.m. closing.”

  “It had to be Leon, Frank.”

  “Well, possibly. It certainly looked like robbery, and the killing would’ve been out of character for Leon.”

  “It had to be Leon, Frank. Bobby had seen him. Leon was erasing a mistake.”

  “Could be, partner, but unless something ties him in, we’re inclined to believe it was robbery. Coincidences happen all the time, as you well know.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “Bullet to the back of the head. I don’t know if Leon even has a gun. Office turned out, day’s receipts missing. Doesn’t sound like Leon at all.”

  “Somebody shot at us on the Atlantic City Expressway last night. Luckily we had pulled over to feed Buster. If we had been moving and he pulled alongside he probably would’ve gotten us.”

  “You think it was Leon?”

  “I don’t know who it was, but things are getting out of hand. Leon called me to tell me about Constance Delavaria, and to say he wanted to play a game. I think he may have gone over the edge, from under control to impulse to pure crazy.”

  “We’ve got some hairs from the other scenes, partner. The forensics people are examining all their stuff as we speak. If we get a hair match we may be on to something.”

  “Hair matches don’t mean shit, Frank. They don’t tell you who it is, only who it can’t be.”

  “I know,” he sighed. “When we catch him we’ll ask him if he killed Bobby too.”

  We hung up. My head swam. Bobby Micelli dead. Cheerful, wouldn’t harm a fly Bobby Micelli. It just didn’t seem right.

  The phone rang, and it was Sammy Weese.

  “Everything’s arranged, Matt, we see Jimmy at ten.”

  I said, “I’ll be there,” and hung up.

  A few minutes later Eddie Westphal came in. He seemed to be deep into his store of licorice already. I waited while he pulled the client chair across the floor. When he seemed to be finished moving I said, “Good morning, Ed. How’s CopTalk going?”

  “Starting to repeat themselves, but it doesn’t matter. There’s so much stuff on the Internet you couldn’t possibly sample all of it, or get tired of it. Anything new on the DeMarco matter?”

  I told him of our interviews with Relinda Smith, Mrs. DeMarco and Adele Clotherman. “The District Attorney’s sister, eh?” was all he said.

  I told him of our trip to Atlantic City, and our interviews with the Bernices Renter and Tisman.

  “Sammy says old friend Jimmy Pompo didn’t do it,” I said, “and this time he might be right. Jimmy says he was in Atlantic City the night of the murder, playing blackjack at Harrah’s, in the company of a hooker named Maureen. Dan Acker interviewed the dealers, and none of them remembered Jimmy or Maureen. But Dan showed them mug shots, and last night I showed one of the dealers an artist’s sketch of Maureen, and she said she remembered her, she was struck by the lavender hair.”

  “Lavender hair?”

  “Closer to lilac, I understand.”

  “Could’ve remembered her, I guess. Probably not too many women with lilac hair. What do they have on Jimmy?”

  “Enough to put him away for a long time. I’m convinced Jimmy’s telling the truth about being in Atlantic City with Maureen, but was it the night of the murder? If she wasn’t with him the night of the murder, then Jimmy’s lying, and if he’s lying, then he probably killed DeMarco.”

  “He probably did. They were associates, weren’t they? They had a falling out over something, probably money, and Jimmy took care of it. Happens all the time.”

  “I think you’re right. But Sammy’s willing to pay us to look into it. He wants us to find evidence that Jimmy Pompo didn’t kill Tommy DeMarco. If it goes the other way, we give it to Acker.”

  “All right, it’ll be good getting back on a homicide, even if it’s just on the margins. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Start with Maureen Zobranski. Find out if she was really with Jimmy Pompo in Atlantic City the night Tommy DeMarco died.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to the neighbors first, that’s always a good place to start.”

  “Her address is in the green book on Kelley’s desk. I’ll call Frank Kopf and tell him you’re on the case. Do you know Frank?”

  “Know him well. We worked together for a couple of years, a long time ago. Good man.”

  “He is that. His partner’s a guy named Killarney.”

  “Don’t know him,” Eddie said. “Who’s working the DeMarco case with Acker?”

  “Carl Geist.”

  “Never worked with Acker, but he’s a good man. Carl I worked with on the Bleeding Heart case. You remember that one?”

  “Gotta be ten years ago.”

  “At least. What I think I’ll do, I’ll call the Roundhouse, see if Dan or Carl is there. If they are, I’ll take a walk over, tell them I’m looking into a few things, talk to Frank if he’s there. That way I don’t step on any toes. Maybe trade on old friendships for some helpful information from time to time, especially since they know I’m on their side and will share with them anything I might come across.”

  “That’s good, Ed. In the meantime, we have to look into the background of Tommy De
Marco, maybe Louise Driscoll. Her mother seems to think there’s a connection.”

  He was silent, and I didn’t know if he was getting up or just thinking of something. “A word to the wise, Matthew,” he said finally. “Louise Driscoll was a mafia woman, don’t ask me why. When she was seventeen she took up with Carlo Senna. That was thirty years ago. Carlo was just a soldier then, but Louise stayed with him for about eight years, until he made capo and married a good Italian girl and settled down.”

  “Do you think Carlo still has an interest in her?”

  “I don’t know. But Carlo Senna is Godfather now, and he might be touchy about digging up the past. What do you know about Tommy Demarco?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Whatever information I have about either Tommy or Jimmy is at least two years old. Jimmy was of interest to the Strike Force, but Tommy was just a fringe player, almost as much a mob wannabe as Louise.”

  “Things happen in two years, Matthew. Maybe Tommy went on to bigger and better things.”

  “Probably did. How’d it go at the soup kitchen?”

  “Mr. Donaldson was there three nights ago, hasn’t been seen since. I thought I might mosey on out later this evening. The problem is, it’s summer, Matthew, those people don’t stay indoors, don’t stay in any one place longer than it takes to get a meal or a couple of hours sleep.”

  “Did you get a description?”

  “Five ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, about thirty-five, red hair and beard.”

  “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

  “More than I expected. Do you mind if I use the phone?”

  That’s the way he was, polite to a fault. I heard him punch in the numbers, heard him ask for Dan Acker, heard him talk to Dan. He hung up and said, “Dan and Carl are there, Dan said he’d be glad to talk to me.”

  “There’s more. Somebody took a shot at us last night after we talked to people about Zobranski.”

  “Took a shot at you?”

  “Coulda been mistaken identity, coulda been road rage, but I don’t think so. Bobby Micelli was killed Tuesday night, the same night Leon called me. The cops think it was robbery, but it doesn’t add up.”

  “Things don’t always add up, Matthew.”

  “No they don’t, but I don’t like the way this is going.”

  “Neither do I, but if it was Leon, it means he’s making mistakes. We’ll ask him when we catch him.”

  “That’s what Frank said. In the meantime, Leon is still loose, and getting even more dangerous than before. Do you still have that list of Driscoll’s emailers?”

  “I kept a copy. What do you want to do?”

  “Can you get the real names and addresses?”

  “I know a guy, for a price, Matthew, but I think we should let the cops handle this. I don’t like stepping on toes.”

  “For all we know they haven’t even gotten a court order yet, and in the meantime Leon is killing women and Bobby and shooting at Kelley and me.” I felt my voice get louder, agitated. “He said he wanted to play a game. How do I know his game isn’t to get Kelley? Or my daughter? Why else would he call me if he didn’t have something in mind?”

  “I’ll look into it, Matthew,” he said. “It’ll take a couple of days. What do we do for money?”

  “He killed Driscoll. Use Mrs. Lapham’s reward money.”

  “All right.” He said so long and left for the Roundhouse.

  Still upset, I put Buster’s harness on and headed for Sammy’s office. When Eddie gets those names I’ll call them, one by one. I’ll know Leon when I hear him. And when I do I’ll call the cops, toes or no toes.

  So absorbed was I with my thoughts of Leon I arrived at Sammy’s without being conscious of walking there. Autopilot and Buster. A wonderful thing.

  “Okay, Doyle,” Sammy said, when I’d finished telling him of our interviews with Renter and Tisman. “She was there Thursday or Friday, eh? I can always tell when a client is telling the truth, probably because I experience it so seldom. Keep at it, nail it down. Somebody can place Jimmy at Harrah’s Thursday night, Friday morning. In the meantime, we’ll see what Jimmy has to say. Incidentally, I told Jimmy Maureen was dead.”

  Even a blind man can tell the difference between driving the city streets and driving the Interstate. Sammy hit the ramp at a fair rate of speed, causing Buster in the back to slide around on the leather seat, and before I knew it we were racing along, tires and engine singing and humming. It wasn’t a long drive to the city jail complex, but I was glad when Sammy let up a bit and I felt the car glide to a halt, the drive to the northeastern corner of the city at an apparent end.

  “Curran-Fromhold,” Sammy said. “At least Jimmy’s in a new facility, not like that ancient House of Corrections next door.”

  It was cool inside, but even a new jail is unmistakable. There’s a smell to even the best and newest of them that just grabs you by the hair. God knows what Buster thought of it. Sammy led us down corridors and through doorways, disconcerting when you don’t know where you’re going and don’t have the layout in your mind. I was reasonably familiar with the other three prisons in the complex, but I’d never been in Curran-Fromhold. I followed along, trusting Sammy’s sense of direction. I figured since all of Sammy’s clients were in jail, had been in jail, or would be in jail, he knew his way around. Jail smell might even be a reason Sammy wears that mint aftershave.

  “Here we are,” Sammy said. “A chair for you and a chair for me. If you’ve never been here, we’re on one side of a counter and Jimmy’s on the other, with bulletproof glass between us. There’s a telephone on the counter for each of us, and Jimmy has one too. There’s a guard about fifteen feet away, but he’s been instructed not to listen in on privileged conversations, not that he doesn’t.”

  I sat down, Buster curled around my feet, and Sammy said, “Jimmy, this is Matt Doyle. I believe you know one another. Matt has some questions for you.”

  “Hiya, Doyle,” Jimmy said, “how’s the wife?” He seemed quite chipper.

  “We found a dealer recognized Maureen,” I said.

  “That’s good,” he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “The cops sent a couple of stooges down there and couldn’t find her, not that they tried very hard.”

  “We’re trying to figure out what DeMarco was doing that might’ve gotten him killed,” I said. “I talked to the wife, and she said you and he were good friends. If DeMarco was into anything, and you know what it was, tell me and maybe you get out of here. Otherwise, they’re gonna put you away for a long time.”

  His voice changed tone, became sly. “Sammy says this comes under lawyer client privilege, is that right?”

  “That’s right. Anything you tell me goes no further.”

  “You’re not gonna run right down to your buddies?”

  “I’m not gonna run right down to my buddies, not even if you tell me you shot Tommy. If you did, they’ll get you without my help. They’ve got enough to put you away right now.”

  “Yeah,” he said dispiritedly, “I heard about the fingerprints. I been wracking my brain trying to figure out when they coulda gotten there. A couple of weeks ago I ran into Tommy in the lot at Sears. We stopped to talk. He was sitting in his car with the window down, and I was standing right alongside, shooting the breeze. That’s when it musta happened.”

  “That’s a good story, Jimmy. I think I’d like to be there when Sammy tells it to the jury, especially when the DA tells them the car was washed two days before he got whacked.”

  “I know, I know. What am I gonna do? How can you prove the carwash missed a coupla prints?”

  If I didn’t know Jimmy so well I’d have sworn the anguish in his voice was real. “Tell me what Tommy DeMarco was up to that got him killed. Even if it was you and Tommy that were up to something that got him killed.”

  “Don’t have much choice, do I?” He laughed a short, sharp bark. “You know Tommy had a jewelry store in South Philly, right? Well, up on Sansom Street, u
p on jewelers row, Tommy says they got diamond merchants walking up and down the street, seeing customers, selling diamonds. Tommy says them diamond merchants carry around a million bucks worth of diamonds in their briefcases. Can you imagine that? Hasidic Jews they are, from New York. Well, me and Tommy knocked one of them over. Took him right off the street. Guy was walking down Sansom, carrying an attaché case like all he had in it was his lunch, and me and Tommy snatched him right off the street. Had a little over a million in the case, retail value. Of course, we weren’t gonna realize anywhere near that, but it was a good score nonetheless.”

  “What happened to the diamond merchant?”

  “Well, I dunno. We let him go.”

  “Jimmy,” I said, my voice level, “what did you do with the diamond merchant?”

  “Well, we kept him in Tommy’s basement at the jewelry store. Them guys are kinda clannish, we figured we can ransom him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “We got a hundred grand for him. I told you they were clannish. They were also given to understand that if they went to the cops the next one walked down Sansom Street wouldn’t be alive long enough to get to Walnut.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About two weeks before he was hit.”

  “Who else was with you?”

  “There wasn’t nobody else, just me and Tommy. Tommy was driving and I jumped out and grabbed the guy.”

  “Sansom’s a narrow street, Jimmy,” I said softly, “there’s parking on one side, there’s just one lane of traffic. One guy couldn’t have gotten the merchant into the van without a struggle. There had to be two guys make the snatch, and that meant there had to be a third guy, a driver. Stopping a van in the middle of the street would’ve jammed everything up, would’ve called attention to you, so you’d probably have tried to keep rolling. Who was the third guy, Jimmy?”

  “You’re right,” he said, a bit sheepishly, I thought. “The third guy was Billy DeMarco.”

  “Is Billy Tommy’s son?”

  “Tommy’s son and my godson. I didn’t want to call attention to him. He’s a good kid. He’ll be all right some day. Right now he’s only nineteen, and he was just helping out his father and his uncle Jimmy.”