Lethal Play

by Loretta Giacoletto

  “Detectives, you should’ve called first.”

  “We won’t stay long,” Winchester said, wiping his feet along with Reardan.

  “You say that every time but do come in.”

  They followed her to the living room but refused her offer to sit, a good indication they didn’t plan on staying long.

  “Actually, we’d like to talk with Matt,” Reardan said, “but only with your permission and if you’re present.”

  “I’m sorry, Matt’s not here,” she said, the sorry part an outright lie.

  “And you expect him back when?” Winchester said.

  “He’s spending a few days with Vince Valente. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Sure, the hotshot soccer star of yesteryear and new coach of Pegasi. Not a problem.” Reardan checked his watch. “We’ll expect you and Matt at the precinct this afternoon. Four o’clock works for me. Detective Winchester?”

  “Four o’clock it is.”

  Damn, they were playing games again, trying to rattle her cage. “Can I ask what this is about, Detective Reardan?”

  “We prefer to discuss it then, Mrs. Canelli.”

  Her heart was racing, the finish line nowhere in sight. She could account for her whereabouts the night Rex died, but Matt? He was supposed to be home but she couldn’t swear to it. “Perhaps I should call my attorney,” she said, a ridiculous threat since she still hadn’t checked out the yellow pages.

  “That’s up to you,” Reardan said. “Since Matt is a minor, someone from the Juvenile Division will conduct the interview.”

  Winchester smiled, playing the good cop again. “About those photos, Mrs. Canelli, did you get them printed yet?”

  He had to bring up the photos, the stupid photos—her one saving grace that Perri in her infinite ignorance had destroyed. “Unfortunately, they’ve been deleted from my camera. And please, no disbelieving snide remarks. It wasn’t my fault; what more can I say.”

  The doorbell rang again and when Francesca made no effort to excuse herself, Winchester said, “You can let us out when you answer that.”

  How awkward was this, shuffling the detectives out and Sunny in, resulting in a bottleneck at the doorway, with Sunny and her leather boots straddling the threshold while she questioned the investigation of her husband’s death.

  “What about the Major Case Squad?” she demanded of Winchester.

  “After reviewing the case, they decided it should remain with us.”

  “They did what? My husband, a major player gets passed on to the B team. He may be dead but I will not allow him to be forgotten.” Sunny actually stomped her leathered foot. She pointed her finger upwards to Winchester’s face. “Rex Meredith exercised tremendous influence on select soccer, not just the Midwest but the entire country. He was a very important person.”

  “All our cases are important, Mrs. Meredith,” Reardan said.

  Hands on hips, she glared at the pudgy detective. “Yes, but where do you stand on my husband’s?”

  “Actually, we have some new leads. For now, I can’t say any more. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  He nudged Winchester and they hurried down the sidewalk before Sunny could continue her assault which gradually petered out to a few whispered obscenities. She stepped into the foyer, closed the door, and handed Francesca her jacket. “Coffee now, before I pass out,” she said without a smile. “And then I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Sunny’s fur-trimmed jacket carried a distinctive fragrance, Eternity for Men. Francesca had pitched Ben’s precious bottle after her encounters with Rex. She draped the jacket over the hall tree, led Sunny to the kitchen where the scent of pralines filled the air. A refreshed Perri hobbled forward, opened her arms, and embraced Rex Meredith’s widow.

  “Welcome, dear Sunny. Francesca has told me so much about you. Our cupboard is rather bare but I did manage to locate a marvelous box of imported biscotti we keep for special guests. Please, Sunny, sit. Here, next to me. Francesca, be a dear and pour the coffee. You know I would do it myself, but this damn foot been acting up again. Use the good cups and saucers, Francesca. Nobody wants to drink from cracked mugs.”

  “Spoken like a true lady,” Sunny said. “So, tell me: how did you injure your foot?”

  “I’ll get to that later, but first your news.”

  Francesca soon learned about Ted Logan’s failed suicide—Stella Logan had been in a state of near hysteria when she told Felicia Aquinas and as soon as their conversation ended, Felicia notified Sunny, who was shocked beyond words. Naturally, Sunny thought of Francesca, her sister widow—please don’t let her suggest sisdow. Francesca listened to the prattle with one ear, her mind racing with thoughts of Ted Logan, the nice boy with the sympathetic handshake. He’d stopped by the evening of Rex’s murder to see … to see Matt! The detectives were expecting Matt, and her, this very afternoon. They dare not be late. She excused herself, not that Sunny or Perri cared one iota. They were positively captivated by each other—such charm, such wit, such super colossal self-absorbed bullshit.

  Francesca hurried upstairs and telephoned Vince. To her relief, he answered with the first ring. She asked to speak with Matt. “It’s really important, Vince. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called.”

  “Matt just came home from school,” Vince said. “He’s taking a shower.”

  “Good, tell him I’m coming over right away. The police want to talk with us, this afternoon at the precinct.”

  “You want me to come along for moral support?”

  “No … yes … I guess. But only if you want.”

  “I want, Francesca. In fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  *****

  Vince lived in Holly Hills, not too far from Francesca’s childhood home. Holly Hills enjoyed its status as one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods. It offered a sense of comfortable stability. The proud owners of two-story brick houses maintained their manicured lawns and shrubs with admirable passion until they were carried out feet first, everybody, that is, except Lou and Perri Rivola. Such a scene Perri had created that dreadful day, how long ago was it, twenty-five years this past September. Every possession that bore her cheating husband’s name wound up on their front lawn. Perri doused the pile with charcoal lighter fluid, and with the strike of a single match, kissed their life together goodbye. Also, two Siberian Spruces nearby that couldn’t tolerate the raging heat. Of course, the cheating husband’s wife and daughter stayed behind, to suffer through the shame, as Perri often said. Marriage finally rescued Francesca, years before Perri sold out for the lure of Florida.

  When Francesca arrived at the home befitting Vince’s stature, he and Matt were waiting on the porch steps. Vince insisted on driving his Lexus SUV to the precinct, and Francesca didn’t object. In fact, she preferred having him in charge, if only for the brief journey. Matt was still pouting and would’ve climbed in the rear seat had she not beat him to it. After Vince backed out of the driveway she told them about Ted Logan and waited for Matt’s reaction. His jaw line quivered as it held his mouth tight to contain whatever he was thinking. Vince, on the other hand, behaved as her late father-in-law Al Canelli would have. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The car swerved, knocking Francesca’s head against the window.

  “Sorry,” he said to the rearview mirror. “I guess that’s why the cops called earlier, wanting to know where I was around seven-thirty this morning. Ted, of all people, he didn’t seem the type. His parents must be sick over this, him being an only child and all. ”

  Bingo! Vince had opened the door for Francesca. “Matt, didn’t you say Ted had a brother?”

  His jaw quivered again. “I might have.”

  “You did. I remember,” she said with a smugness soon regretted.

  “Okay, so I lied. Being less than perfect must run in the family.”

  Vince took his eyes off the road, half turned his head. “Show some respect, kid.”

  The car swerved again
, reminding Francesca to fasten her seatbelt. After buckling up, she gave Matt another chance to open up. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Her words sounded too familiar, as if they’d originated from Perri’s mouth.

  “Nothing that can’t wait until we get to the station,” Matt said, slumping further into the seat.

  What goes around comes around, Perri would’ve muttered to Francesca. But Perri wasn’t with them now. No, she was back with Sunny—the didow and the widow, an utterly bitchy combo if ever there was. When Francesca left them, head to head in a gabfest, she’d called out a cheery goodbye and heard nothing in return.

  But now at South County’s Fourth Precinct she presented an air of confidence, ushering Matt and Vince into the ante room where they stood in silence until Detective Reardan made his usual slovenly appearance, this time with gravy stains on his tie. Matt, he already knew from Rex Meredith’s wake. Vince, he also addressed by name, as if they’d met before. He gestured for Vince to take a nearby seat, and explained the interview room only accommodated a few people. In other words, Vince Valente was not considered a person of interest. Ever the paternal figure, Vince smiled and patted Matt on the shoulder.

  “You got nothing to worry about, kid,” Vince said. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

  To Francesca he winked and then sat down, picked up a tattered magazine, and began flipping through the pages. She wanted to pat Matt’s shoulder too but he stepped out of her reach, hurrying instead to keep up with Reardan.

  “By the way, Matt,” Reardan said. “You’ll need to turn off your cell. We enforce the same rules here as in church or the classroom.”

  “He doesn’t have a cell phone, Detective Reardan.”

  “I hear you, these kids and their texting.” Reardan gave her a sympathetic look, his first. “We finally bought into the phone company’s family plan. It was either that or take a second mortgage.”

  In the hallway of the controlled area Reardan introduced them to a juvenile officer who would’ve made an ideal candidate for plus-size modeling. She smiled, exposing a gap between her front teeth Francesca hadn’t expected. Had Perri been there, she would’ve suggested an orthodontist who specialized in adult problems, the amazing genius who corrected her overbite that no one else had noticed.

  “It adds character to an otherwise ordinary face, don’t you think?” Quinella Armstrong said.

  Francesca felt her face heat up and issued a one-word reply, “Absolutely.”

  Her previous experience with police procedures now worked to Francesca’s benefit. When they walked into the interview room, she pushed Matt to the far seat against wall. She took the chair across from him, which left Quinella sandwiched in-between and facing the two-way window, with Reardan and Winchester most likely stationed on the other side. She could almost sense their breathing, those predictable know-it-alls who didn’t know jack, as Ben would’ve said. With Quinella Armstrong, she’d have to start from scratch. Except this interview would not focus on Francesca Canelli the soccer slut; this was about her son Matt and how much he knew, if anything.

  While Quinella read Matt his rights, Francesca tried to ignore the beads of perspiration dotting his upper lip. Since when did he work up a sweat without engaging in some form of physical activity? Damn. Francesca should’ve prepared him for this, instead of wasting precious time arguing in the car. He had nothing to hide, her almost straight-A student on the verge of his first date with a yet-to-be-named girl, Matt, who rarely showed any emotion, not even over the loss of his father. But here in this room, his apparent discomfort was giving Queen Strongarm a definite advantage. As for Queenie, there was something about the woman—her interaction with Francesca. That’s it, a failure to connect, which had not been the case with Winchester and Reardan. The reading ended with Francesca signing the papers along with Matt, acknowledging they understood the aforementioned proclamation.

  Quinella started fanning her face, also her generous chest which was heaving from the heat Francesca had just begun to feel. Perhaps this heat had prompted Matt’s sweat beads. Maybe the detectives had turned up the thermostat, a cheap ploy to make Matt feel guilty for no reason whatsoever. After a minute or so, Quinella pushed back the chair, lifted those proud bazooms with help from her forearms, and stood with a slight waver to accommodate what appeared to be size eleven, extra-wide stilettos.

  “Whew-ee, after reading such a lengthy discourse, my mouth feels drier than old paint crackling in the sun. I could use me a sodie pop. How ‘bout you, Matt?”

  He licked his lips. “That sounds great.”

  “Diet for you?” she asked Francesca.

  “If that’s what you’re having.”

  “Do I look like a diet woman?” Quinella flashed her dental gap. “Now here’s the deal. While I’m off playing waitress, the two of you will play musical chairs. Sorry, we cannot afford the audio but I feel sure you know the score. On my return, I expect to find Matt in the chair I just vacated and Mama Canelli in the chair Matt vacated. Any questions? No, I didn’t think so.”

  The door closed behind Quinella, confirming Francesca’s earlier assessment. They hadn’t made a connection, nor would they. Not ever.

  Do we have to do what she says?” Matt asked.

  Francesca whispered her reply. “Only if you want to get out of here before the soccer season ends.” She got up, took three steps to where Matt sat, and poked his shoulder. “Now move before the return of Queen Strongarm.”

  He almost laughed but quickly recovered. “What did you call her?”

  “Never mind, the walls have ears.”

  “Yeah, and the windows have eyes. It’s so cozy in this sardine can, I almost forgot.” He glanced around, his eyes stopping at a chain attached to the wall.

  “For the prisoners with handcuffs,” Francesca explained. “Don’t say another word.”

  The room remained silent until Strongarm returned with soda cans chilling in a cardboard bucket of ice. “I brought two each. In the event we go into overtime, I’ll get more, whatever it takes, sandwiches too, if our stomachs start growling. Don’t look so worried, Mama. This interview will focus on the spirit of cooperation. In other words, how well we play together as a team determines the length of our stay.”

  Quinella selected a Classic Coke, popped it open, and bent her head back for a long drink. Matt and Francesca followed suit, although Francesca did go for the Diet. Actually, she would’ve preferred a glass of Chianti and would’ve excused herself for a quick trip to the kitchen for some type of fortification had the interview taken place at home.

  “Now here’s the game plan,” Quinella said. “I’ll tell you what I know and then you, Matt Canelli, will tell me what you know. Back and forth we’ll go until I finally decide to call the game. Mama, please do not contribute to the discussion unless asked to do so, or unless you feel absolutely certain I’m taking unfair advantage of your son, which I will make every effort to avoid doing. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

  The two Canelli heads bobbled in unison.

  “Oh, and one more thing before we commence,” Quinella said. “A special moment which I hope won’t offend either of you.” She directed the comment to Francesca, as if asking her permission, to which Francesca nodded with her eyelids and Quinella continued, “Matt, I couldn’t help but notice the crucifix hanging under your shirt. I’d venture a guess that you’ve been blessed with a Catholic upbringing.”

  Damn, Francesca wanted to yell foul. The crucifix had been Ben’s; she’d have told Matt to remove what might be perceived by Quinella as another advantage—Catholic guilt. Too late now, Matt offered the typical St. Louis response, his high school.

  “Bishop Dubourg.”

  “Excellent! You’re looking at a Baptist who attended Rosati Kain. On a scholarship, I’m proud to say.”

  “Cool,” Matt replied, a comment he’d never made about Francesca’s scholarship to St. Joseph’s.

  “So, now that we’
ve established our religious convictions, would you all mind my starting with a little prayer? Usually I do this in private, but if you agree … good.” She placed a warm hand over Francesca’s, the other over Matt’s, and bowed her head. “Oh, Lord in Heaven above, we thank you for bringing us to together on this glorious afternoon and pray we will return to the comfort of our homes before the sun rises tomorrow morning. Please lead our team to a sportsmanlike victory, which in this case means telling the whole truth and nothing but.” At this point she squeezed their hands even tighter, and finished with, “In the name of justice and everlasting peace, amen.”

  In the darkened room next door Winchester sat behind a two-way mirror with Reardan, who whispered, “Quinella telling the whole truth, give me a break.”

  “Her prayer referred to the kid,” Winchester replied. “I suspect Quinella prays to the devil. In fact, she may have sprung from the Beelzebub’s head, like Athena from Zeus’s.”

  “You mean Athena the Virgin?”

  “No way am I going there.”

  “Where?” Reardan asked with a grin.

  “You know—mythology. It ain’t my strong suit. But this much I will give Quinella: she gets more than she gives. Whatever Matt knows, he’ll wind up telling her. If not today, the next time they have a sit down.”

  “You think there’ll be a next time?”

  “Depends on today’s chapter, so let’s listen and learn.”

  As promised, Quinella was running the show.

  “Okay, me first,” she told Matt. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard this through the unsubstantiated Pegasi grapevine: your teammate Theodore Logan tried to off himself earlier today, in much the same manner as the late Mr. Rex Meredith.”

  “Then Coach wasn’t murdered.”

  Quinella tapped a forefinger against her lips, their ruby gloss a perfect match to her enameled nails. “Hush, boy, it’s still my turn. Now, as I was about to say: of course, Mr. Meredith did not choose to die by strangulation whereas it seems Ted may have although his attempt at suicide, however misguided, was thwarted with the arrival of two police officers. I might add, after receiving an anonymous tip which led them to the soccer field.”