“Just a sec.” The music faded. “Better now. What’s up?”
“Never mind, Ed. Sounds like you’re busy.”
“Lena and me are out dancing. You should see her. She sure can shake ’em down.”
I pushed any visuals of what that meant from my mind. “Like I said, forget it.”
“If this is about Merle, it’s top priority.”
I explained the whole situation in as few words as possible.
“Chunky’s, huh? Be there in twenty.”
“Don’t bring—” I was going to ask him not to bring my aunt, but he’d hung up.
Sunday, 10:55 p.m.
Nursing a Chunky’s diet soda, I drummed on the table, felt for my gun under my jacket, and glanced out the window. Ed arrived at last and I stood so he’d see me when he came through the door. My stomach dropped when I realized my aunt had tagged along.
Aunt Lena squeezed between the tables and got to where I sat first. “Don’t be mad at Ed. It’s not his fault. I insisted.”
I slumped into my seat. “Why?”
Ed pulled up a chair. “She says she can help.”
Glaring at her, I asked, “How are you going to do that?”
My aunt reached into her massive handbag to reveal a heavy marble rolling pin. “Deadly as a knife.” She spoke from the side of her mouth.
I slapped my hand over my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.” Removing my hand, I pleaded. “Ed, talk some sense into her, I’m begging you.”
Ed raised his hands like a victim in a robbery. “After I told her what was happening, she insisted. No sense trying to change her mind.”
Aunt Lena lowered her voice. “After that Bucanetti trouble, I practiced swinging this as a weapon. Best part is, I don’t need a license for it.”
I rubbed my face and growled. “Fine. Just don’t take it upon yourself to do anything unless I give the go-ahead. Okay?”
Flush with excitement, she smiled. “Okay.”
My stomach was churning by 11:10 and I dialed the number Eric had given me. No answer.
A high-pitched sound, like someone terrified, penetrated the room and a number of customers rushed to the door. My heart made its way into my throat.
“Aunt Lena, wait here.” I felt clammy as Ed and I shoved our way through the restaurant entrance and outside. There in the parking lot, two young women stood, holding each other, next to an old, rusted out Chevy with its driver’s door open. Eric hung out of the car, his throat a red ribbon of blood.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday, 11:40 p.m.
The police arrived and questioned everyone in the restaurant, including Ed, Aunt Lena, and me. Nobody had seen a thing. The investigation expanded to anyone who may have been driving past Chunky’s or had been here earlier.
My aunt sat in silence. Despite Ed’s arms around her, she remained as pale as the napkins on the tables. I was concerned Eric’s murder had brought up memories of Joey Corozza, her former boyfriend killed at Cannoli’s. I squeezed her icy hand and she rewarded me with a weak smile.
I hung my head, my mind running in a circle of guilt and regret. Beside it being my fault Aunt Lena was probably reliving her previous trauma, Eric had died because I’d been too scared to meet him sooner. If I’d gotten to him earlier, he’d still be alive. Yolanda first. Now Eric. I was just too late.
Then Corrigan showed up. Although the crime hadn’t taken place in his jurisdiction, he’d been called in. Upon approaching our trio, he scratched his temple. “Ed, Lena. I’m sorry you both had to be here. Claire, seems like any time you’re meeting with someone, they’re murdered.”
I crinkled my nose, although his observation did seem accurate. “Not funny, Detective.”
His jaw tightened. “No. It isn’t. Ed, if you and Lena have already given your statements, you can both go.”
Ed threw me a look saying he’d stay if I needed him, but I shook my head. This was my mess.
Before they left, my aunt handed me her rolling pin. “Take it, Claire. You never know if you’ll need it.” She tilted her chin toward Eric’s body. “Like that poor man…” Ed, with a gentle hand, led her away.
Once they were gone, Corrigan yanked one of the chairs from the table with so much force it teetered. “Now you tell me what the hell was going on before Allescio died.”
We talked until all the other customers had gone and both Eric and his car had been removed.
Over time, Corrigan’s expression softened. “Forget what I said. It wasn’t your fault, Claire. Eric was into something he couldn’t handle.”
I wished I could believe him.
When we finally left Chunky’s, Corrigan offered to take me for some coffee, and I accepted. What I wanted more was someone to hold me and remind me that, although I was surrounded by death, I was still alive.
Corrigan didn’t want me to drive, but I insisted, so we rode in separate cars to The Clock, a popular all-night diner that pulled in people not only from Cleveland but from suburbs such as Lakewood, Rocky River, Fairview Park and North Olmsted.
Once we were seated, Corrigan lightly touched my arm. “Do you want tea or coffee?”
“Tea.” I glanced around at the clientele. Most were subdued, minding their own business, except for a young woman at the table across from us. Her clingy, super-short dress and spiked heels made it difficult, but she rose from her chair and wobbled a bit while she hurled insults at her companion, a fashionably dressed man about her age.
What were they doing in a place like this?
The guy hissed, “Sit down. You’re drunk.”
“No I’m not.” She hiccupped.
“Yeah, you are. How else do you explain why you acted like a $2 whore at that bar?”
Her voice rose. “You can’t talk to me like that.” She threw her glass of water at him, drenching his suit. In an instant the guy, oblivious to his surroundings, popped out of his chair and grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her.
Corrigan got in the guy’s face and flashed his badge. “Police. Let her go.”
The guy snarled, but dropped the woman’s arm and pushed her away so hard she stumbled into the table, crashing to the ground.
I helped her up, but she didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, she jutted her chin out toward the guy. “Satisfied?”
He combed his thick hair back with his fingers, and sneered. “You ain’t satisfied me for a long time.”
She tried, without success, to pull away from me and go after the man. “My brother’ll kill you. I swear. You wait.”
Corrigan, his hand on the man’s shoulder to restrain him, addressed the woman. “Do you want to press charges for assault?”
She squinted at her companion and twisted her mouth. “Nah, I can handle it.” Her eyes settled on Corrigan. “But I need a ride home.”
“We’ll arrange that.” Corrigan’s face was as expressive as a portrait of George Washington but there was no mistaking his alpha dog tone. “Okay, Mr. Big Shot. What’s your real name?”
The guy drew his head back and I thought he was going to spit at Corrigan. Instead he spat out his words. “I ain’t saying.”
“It’s Ethan DeBlancio.” The woman said it as if she was cursing.
Corrigan smiled. “Okay, Mr. DeBlancio, you’re lucky the young lady doesn’t want you arrested. Are you going to behave?”
Ethan was silent until Corrigan squeezed the man’s shoulder harder. “Well?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Corrigan released him. “Get out of my sight. And don’t bother the lady again.”
Ethan straightened his shirt and adjusted his jacket’s lapels. “I’m leaving.” But when he got to the restaurant door, he turned his head, and as if Corrigan had never said anything, yelled, “I’ll make you sorry, bitch.” He dashed through the door with Corrigan after him.
My hand fell from the girl, at a loss what to do next. I was still reeling from Eric’s death and now this. I collapsed into the nearest chair and the woman did
the same.
The Clock’s owner appeared from behind the counter. “Show’s over, folks.” His voice was calm, almost jaded, as if this sort of stuff happened here a lot.
Corrigan returned, escorting Ethan who was now in handcuffs and protesting in a loud voice. “This ain’t right. I’ll sue your ass.”
Corrigan had an I’ve-heard-it-before look on his face. “Quiet.” Corrigan addressed me. “This guy’s under arrest for attempted assault on a police officer.” He jostled the soon-to-be jailbird. “He and I are going to wait for a black-and-white to take him away. It could be a while.”
My shoulders sagged. “Do what you need to do. I’m going home.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. Make sure you’re okay.”
The woman who’d started this all, pouted. “What about me?”
Corrigan gave a weary shrug. “If you want to press charges, you can come down to the station when the officers get here.”
“Uh uh.” She wagged her index finger. “No charges.” She glanced at me, her eyes still a bit glassy from imbibing alcohol. “Can you drive me home? It’s not far, maybe fifteen minutes. Really.”
Just what I needed, a drunken party girl in my car. I sighed and was ready to refuse, but the nuns at my school, Holy Trinity, had taught me well with their stories about helping people in need. Plus, it was a safe bet she’d keep me from dwelling on Eric’s death. At least until I got her home. “Fine.”
Corrigan’s eyes opened wide. “Be careful.”
She answered, “Don’t you worry, honey.” She blew Corrigan a sloppy kiss.
I’m pretty sure he meant the warning for me.
The woman staggered on her stilt shoes trying to keep up with me. When I unlocked the car doors, she giggled. “This piece is your car?”
I may have learned charity from the nuns, but they failed to teach me patience. “You want a ride or not?”
She tapped her lips like they’d acted without her permission. “Sorry.”
I wanted to get her home and then hole up in my own place. “Just get in.”
We pulled out of the lot, and I realized she hadn’t told me her name. “My name is Claire. What’s yours?”
“Ashley. Ashley Martinelli. Next street, go right.”
I made the turn. “Any relation to Trace?”
She looked at me with surprise. “My brother. You know him?”
Not wanting to tell her the circumstances, I bent the story a bit. “At the bus stop. We talked.”
She giggled. “Hit on you, didn’t he? He’s like that.” She deepened her voice. “Gets what he wants. Big shot with some dangerous friends.”
“You mean, like gangsters?”
“Maybe.”
With a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I asked, “Are we getting close to your place?”
“Couple more minutes. Hey, don’t tell Trace about tonight, okay? He’d choke the crap out of Ethan.”
I forgot about getting her home and glanced sideways at her. “Your brother looked harmless enough.”
“Ha! That’s probably why he’s so good at—” She clapped her hands over her mouth and her eyes went wide.
My muscles tensed. “So good at what?”
“Nothin’.” She tapped on the window with her two-toned, painted fingernail. “Turn left.”
I intentionally turned right instead. “Oh, sorry. You said left.” The longer I could keep her in the car, the more I’d learn. “What did you say Trace was good at?”
Ashley, her back straight, stared out the windshield. “Being my big brother.”
My excitement deflated, like a tire with a slow leak. Convinced I wouldn’t learn anything else from her, I righted my detour and got her home. She thanked me, got out, and stumbled to her door.
Monday, 2:00 a.m.
I unlocked my apartment door, dropped onto the sofa, and kicked off my shoes. It was late, but going to bed was the last thing on my mind. I was too wired, thinking about Trace and what his sister had said. Apparently, there was more to him than it seemed.
My thoughts toppled over one another. Martinelli was the only witness to see Coco at Merle’s apartment before she died. Martinelli and Merle lived in the same apartment building, even the same floor. Martinelli had dangerous friends. Rico? Diamond was Rico’s alibi, but could Martinelli have done the job on Coco for him? Then he killed Eric because Eric knew too much? But then why would Martinelli step up and be a witness? Also, how did Bucanetti fit in this?
Hoping Corrigan wasn’t still tied up with Ethan’s arrest, I called his cell. It went into his voicemail. I briefed him on my conversation with Ashley and asked him to see if Trace Martinelli had any priors.
I paced the perimeter of my small living room while thoughts of going to Trace’s apartment pinged in my head. I tried to squelch the idea. It wouldn’t be a good idea to traipse over there by myself. Determined to wait for Corrigan’s call, I had a bowl of cherry chocolate chunk ice cream and turned on the TV.
It didn’t help. By the time the last melty bite was gone, I’d made up my mind to visit Trace’s apartment building. Not to confront him, just to snoop outside. It was a long shot I’d find anything, but my instinct said it could be worth the trouble. It was too late to even call Ed, so nobody else had to be involved.
On the way over to Martinelli’s apartment, I laid out my game plan. The mailbox first, then the trashcan by the boxes. People tossed all kinds of things they shouldn’t in there, like they’d never heard of identity theft. Who knew what treasures the trashcan might hold? I laughed, but it wasn’t funny.
All the mailboxes were housed in a well-lit gazebo at the side of the building. I parked and scanned the area. No one was around. Martinelli’s mailbox was in the top row. I jiggled the handle, but it was locked. A bunch of junk mail addressed to him lay on the wide ledge beneath. I leafed through the envelopes, but found nothing of any interest.
Next, the trashcan. I donned gloves, held my breath, and lifted the lid. Empty. Frustrated, I kicked the receptacle. All that was left to me was to find his car, not that he’d have a sticker on it saying, “I ‘heart’ murder.” But the interior of a car tells a lot about its owner.
Back in my own messy car, I cruised behind the apartment building and found Trace’s parking spot, number 655, the same as his apartment number. Grabbing the flashlight I kept in my glove box, I shone it on his front and backseat. Strewn across the back were issues of Soldier of Fortune magazines. Why would a restaurant worker read that stuff?
“What are you doing?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I jumped and banged my knee on the bumper of Trace’s car. “Merle!” I rubbed my leg and swallowed my heart. “Looking for evidence. What about you?”
“Sorry I scared you. I took a drive. Sometimes it relaxes me. Would have been back sooner, but on the way home I stopped to help some poor girl with a flat tire.”
My breath slowed to normal. “That was nice of you to help someone. Hey, do you know Trace Martinelli in apartment 655?” I described him.
“I’ve seen him in the hallway but that’s it.” He hesitated. “It’s kinda cool out here. Let’s go to my apartment and talk. I can make some coffee and you can tell me why the interest in this guy.”
Once inside Merle’s apartment, I told him about a new lead. I didn’t provide details, saying I would do so if it panned out.
Merle puffed up his cheeks and then blew out the air. “The guy in 655 is part of your new lead?”
Not wanting to commit, I settled for vague. “Don’t know yet.”
After one cup of coffee, I stretched and, through a yawn, said, “I better go so you can get some sleep.” I hoped to do the same at my apartment.
There was very little traffic, allowing me to make it home before 6:00. Teeth brushed again, jammies on, I collapsed into bed. No sooner had I pulled the covers over my head than my phone rang. “Hello?” My voice was as fuzzy as my brain.
Monday, 7:00 a.m.
; Corrigan sounded like a drill sergeant. “You gonna sleep all day?” Without waiting for an answer he continued, “Got your message. Seems Trace Martinelli has quite a history. He’s been hauled in on a number of occasions, but never charged.”
I was wide awake now. My instincts about Trace had been right. “Isn’t it a coincidence he’s a witness against Merle?” An unwelcome thought hit me and I sucked in a breath. “With Eric dead, he’s the only witness.”
“Yeah. That reminds me, Pokov is in the interview room for questioning right now. No murder weapon yet, but your client doesn’t have an alibi other than some story about helping a girl change her tire. Plus, he’d benefit from Eric’s death.” He hesitated. “Admit it. You thought about that too.”
The dark thought I’d had a second ago turned black. I’d been too preoccupied to ask Merle for details or even warn him he may be a suspect. I sunk into the mattress, wishing I could hide under my bed.
Corrigan and I spent the next five minutes debating Merle’s guilt in Eric’s death. We ended the call with grudging goodbyes.
Thinking Harold was already with Merle, I left a voicemail for him in case he wasn’t.
That done I sat there, my stomach churning, without a clue of what to do next. It was like someone had rubbed my brain with petroleum jelly. Thoughts bounced around but none of them stuck. The best I could come up with was to take a shower. Maybe the steam would clear my head.
Dressed and ready to go, I checked my phone for messages. Harold texted me saying he was on his way to the police station. The knot in my stomach released a bit.
My thoughts cleared, I picked up my car keys and headed to my office, determined to put the pieces of this case together in as many different ways as needed to find the true killer. I shook my head, shaking out the revolting idea that perhaps it was Merle, after all.
I’d been sitting at my computer reviewing every note I had on Coco’s murder for a while, even making a decision tree. Nothing. Worse, my brain was again growing fuzzier by the minute. I stood and stretched to shake off the fatigue. In so doing, my thoughts heated up, remembering Ashley’s comment about her brother, Trace, choking her boyfriend.
Bake Me a Murder Page 18