“All the way to the Soulard Market area, you can’t be serious.”
“Francesca, we’ve been driving around for forty-five minutes. What’s another ten or fifteen. Of course, if you have a better suggestion …”
Hell no. Any place, any location, anything to keep Perri quiet. They’d already inspected three condos in as many hours. The first Perri considered too pricey; the second, too ordinary; and the third, too far from Windsor Lane. Food, at this moment that’s what they both needed but Francesca was wise to Perri’s modus operandi: the further away from their target area the better for Perri. Anything to eat away the afternoon so they wouldn’t have time to visit another condo before Ria came home from school. And today Francesca would be there to greet her. She’d already vowed to put Ria first, right up there with Matt because he still needed her, now more than ever.
At Boomer’s Perri did the unthinkable, slipping the hostess ten dollars to seat her and Francesca ahead of everyone else. Francesca had only eaten there once before, with Ben who labeled the food as deplorable so they never returned. This time she perused the Friday specials with an eye toward the heart healthy, of which there were none while Perri complained about the lack of shellfish selections.
“You wanted shrimp and pasta,” Francesca said. “It’s right here on the menu, fresh from the Gulf.”
“And how many days after that before it finally arrives in St. Louis. You can’t beat the shrimp in Florida, direct from the boat to your plate in a matter of hours. And don’t tell me I should’ve stayed there.” She lifted her nose and sniffed. “What about the special?”
“Since when do you eat deep-fried fish?”
“When I’m so hungry I’d chew off my little finger if you gave me enough tartar sauce.” Perri turned to a woman seated at the next table. “Excuse me. How’s the catfish, greasy?”
“Honey, if you have to ask, the cat’s not for you,” she replied, casting her eyes beyond Perri. “Why, I do declare, what a nice surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here, Mrs. Canelli.”
The familiar voice crept into Francesca’s ears with all the finesse of a slithering centipede. She wiggled a little finger in one ear, gripped the menu to keep the other hand from shaking while Perri took charge.
“And I am her mother, Mrs. Rivola, but please call me Perri. Everyone does.” Perri cleared her throat and waited. “Francesca, dear, where are your manners?”
Back at the precinct, that’s where, along with what little had been left of her pride. “These are the detectives I told you about, Perri, and the Juvenile Officer who interviewed Matt yesterday.”
“Good grief, what a dreadful coincidence. In that case, I prefer you address me as Mrs. Rivola.” Perri stood, on her way nudging Francesca to join her. “Better yet, let’s just end this conversation with goodbye since I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”
CHAPTER 29
Later that afternoon at the Fourth Precinct Winchester and Reardan were again seated behind the two-way window. Quinella had finished reading Oliver Billings his rights and had moved onto the ground rules and how they differed from what she expected of his mother.
“Get to the point, Quinella,” Winchester said through a yawn reflecting too much lunch.
Reardan yawned too but offered a more succinct approach. “In other words, Mrs. Billings: sit back, shut up, and listen.”
Aurora Billings presented a picture perfect image of suburban decorum and some degree of smarts too, having brought along a top criminal defense attorney.
“Lamar Yates,” Winchester said in a low voice. “I smell money.”
“His, not hers,” Reardan replied. “Aurora Billings acquired her polish by way of substantial employee discount prices. She pedals perfume at Nieman Marcus. I suspect Yates volunteered pro bono since he made a point of telling me he grew up next door to Aurora in the Soulard area.”
“Before yuppies discovered the neighborhood and we discovered Mama Canelli’s mama. A mama such as Perri Rivola could drive any daughter to drink.”
“There you go again with the excuses,” Reardan said.
Winchester ignored the comment.
“Anyway back to Aurora,” Reardan said. “She eventually married up to the next income level but now the Billings family has fallen on hard times, what with husband Douglas being their main source of income. The self-employed computer whiz is undergoing his second round of chemotherapy.”
“No wonder she hasn’t cracked so much as half a smile.”
“But she did come prepared. Word about our in-depth interviews must be getting out.”
“Which comes as no surprise,” Winchester said. “Parents talk, their kids talk. What’s your take on young Oliver?”
“His friends call him Bills. My daughters would go nuts over those bedroom eyes and floppy curls. As we used to say in my day, this kid oughta be in pictures.”
“You know, he’s almost too good looking.”
“Sh-h, lights, camera, action: Quinella’s on a roll.”
“I must apologize for the short notice,” she said. “But considering Ted Logan’s near fatal disaster, I knew you’d want to give the department your immediate and full cooperation. Do you read me, Oliver?”
“Well yeah, anything for Logan, he’s a good guy.”
“I’m sure his parents would agree with your assessment, his many friends too, but that doesn’t explain the horrific act he nearly committed. Any ideas as to why he tried hanging himself?”
Oliver shook his head. “Sorry.”
“As in ‘Sorry, I don’t know,’ or ‘Ted was sorry’?”
“The first, as in ‘I don’t know.’ Logan’s just a guy I used to play soccer with, and now I don’t. It’s not like we were best friends.”
“But you do bum around together, every so often.”
“Not just the two of us, if that’s what you mean. We’re always with a bunch of other guys.”
Quinella checked her notes. “What about White Castle, Monday afternoon, February 25?”
He chewed his lip and thought before answering. “February, that’s a long time ago. I don’t remember.”
“I know the feeling, indeed I do. So let me refresh your memory. Monday the twenty-fifth, one day before Rex Meredith died. You do remember him, don’t you?”
“Well, sure. Mr. Meredith coached me for five years.”
“Until you decided to end your participation in select soccer, at least as it relates to Pegasi United. The best team in all of Missouri and beyond, so I’ve been told.”
“Quitting soccer was no big deal. My dad’s been sick, Mom needed me.”
Not what Aurora wanted to hear, considering the immediate spillage of tears. “Oh, Oliver, don’t ever say that to your father. You know how much Pegasi meant to him.”
Yates handed her the monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket.
Quinella tapped a row of fingernails on the table. “White Castle, Oliver.”
He gulped. “Yeah, I do recall being there, I mean the afternoon you mentioned.”
Quinella read from her notes. “Along with poor Ted, Ian Shepherd, Matt Canelli, and Zach Stilworth, did I miss anyone?”
A tinge of red lined his ears. “Maybe Parker Eliot … yeah, Park showed up too.”
“What about the following evening? Did you all go back to White Castle for more of those yummy sliders?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not me. As for the other guys, I don’t know. I think Pegasi might’ve played that night.”
“I do believe they did, which puts you where at ten o’clock.”
“Home, where he belonged,” Mrs. Billings said.
Quinella pressed a forefinger to her lips. “I know you want to help, mama, but let’s play fair. Oliver is quite capable of answering for himself.”
“I was home,” he said, looking at his mother.
“Right, where you belonged,” Quinella said. “And would that be texting or chatting on Internet?”
“No, I was
getting ready for bed.”
“Damn, he’s quick,” Reardan whispered. “We could’ve requested a warrant to search his computer.”
“Yeah, but too much time has gone down since the murder,” Winchester said. “These kids will have an answer for everything.”
“Their cell phone records might help. Think positive, Guy. If they were involved in the murder, somebody’s bound to slip up and I’m counting on Quinella to provide the banana peel. So, listen and learn.”
Quinella pushed but with a velvet glove. “Now Oliver, let’s return to the previous afternoon at White Castle. Does any particular incident stand out in your mind?”
He sighed, cleaned gook from under his fingernails. “Nothing I can think of.”
“What about Parker Eliot’s nose.”
Oliver chuckled—short, sweet, and too shallow for sincerity. “No big deal. Park bent down to pick up his napkin and bumped his nose on the table.”
Quinella stood up. “Thank you so much Oliver, I do believe we’re done, at least for the moment, but I must ask you to stick around until I complete several more interviews. Now, now, look on the bright side of this. Maybe you won’t have to come back on Saturday.”
Aurora Billings heaved her slender chest. To Yates, she opened her hands. “Please, can’t you do something, Lamar?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Armstrong,” he said, pointing to the wide gold mesh encircling his wrist. “It’s almost time for supper and Oliver is a growing boy. He must be famished. I know I am.”
“Nice timepiece, Mr. Yates.” Quinella showed him her toothy gap. “There are a number of restaurants nearby which you’re most welcome to patronize. However, we’d prefer Oliver and his mother stay here until the completion of our other interviews.” She opened the door, and with a flourish of one hand, showed them the hallway. “One of our fine detectives will direct you to the conference room where you’ll find an abundant selection of pizzas and cold sodies.”
As soon as they were out of sight, Quinella popped into the adjacent room where Reardan and Winchester had kicked back, their feet propped on the desk.
“Since when do fast-food kids pick up their dropped napkins?” Reardan asked.
“I always did,” Winchester replied. “But I was the exception.”
“I’m not surprised,” Reardan said, “having met your mother. She’s quite the lady.”
“And still capable of making his life miserable if he crosses her,” Quinella said. “So, detectives, how am I doing so far?”
“A nice performance but you’ve given us zero,” Winchester said.
“I do appreciate your candid evaluation but not to worry. As my dear pappy would say, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Please, not another vaudeville routine.”
“Knock off the repartee, you two,” Reardan said, dropping his feet to the floor at the same moment Winchester did. “Our second interview has entered the room. Meet Parker Eliot, offspring of plumbing contractor Maurice Eliot and Belinda, the doting wife and office manager.”
“Wowee, a double whammy, I do appreciate parental dedication,” Quinella said. “These folks must’ve dropped everything in support of their child but did they bother to bring a lawyer, no. They’re either terribly naive or overly confident.”
“Make that number two,” Reardan said. “Their night-of-the-murder alibi is tighter than aging actor’s facelift.”
Quinella fluttered her fingers. “Dear me, having read so many reports in the past twenty-four hours, I seem to have forgotten the Eliot version.”
“After the soccer game Parker experienced difficulty breathing due to the recent repair of his nose,” Reardan said. “Take it from one who’s been there; the aftermath can be more traumatic than the initial injury.”
“Obviously you survived,” Quinella said.
“Only because I passed out and then started breathing on my own. Anyway, the kid panicked and yanked out the gauze stuffed in his nose, which created a bloody eruption worthy of Yellowstone’s Old Faithful, according to the account of several eye witnesses. Mama and Papa Bear rushed Baby Bear back to the ER where some intern repacked the damn thing.”
“This boy has nothing to fear except his parents, and maybe his peers.” She gazed into the window. “Nice work on the deviated septum.”
“Yeah, the nose fits squarely on his face,” Winchester said. “As for Oliver’s version of the incident, we don’t buy Parker bumping the honker without some help from a second party.”
“I hear you,” Quinella said on her way out the door.
“You hungry, Guy?” Reardan stretched his arms into two half circles. “We could grab some of that pizza while she’s reading Parker his rights.”
“Nah, my stomach’s still revisiting Boomer’s catfish.”
“Whatever, but if we wait much longer the pizza crust will turn tough as cardboard.”
Reardan leaned back and popped a soda. In the time it took him to drain the can, Quinella had finished the preliminaries with Parker and his parents, a no-nonsense couple still dressed in the comfort of their no-nonsense work clothes. “What do you see?” he asked Winchester.
“Blue-collar bucks. He’s thinking about a plumbing contract; she’s annoyed about leaving in the middle of her billable accounts. As for Parker with the shag haircut, he’s probably figured out we’re behind the window and doesn’t give a shit. He’s cockier than most kids in this situation but attitude could be his usual persona. I don’t predict an epiphany here but it wouldn’t be the first time somebody threw me a curve. Maybe Quinella will surprise us.”
“Yeah, she omitted the prayer again and hurried through poor Ted’s fiasco. But look out…”
Quinella’s pace had slowed to a crawl. “So, Parker, I understand you sustained a recent injury to your nose,” she said, “which, by the way, appears to be healing quite nicely.”
“Jeez Louise,” his father groaned. “We came all the way down here for this.”
“Hush, Maurice,” his mother said. “Parker hasn’t a damn thing to hide.”
Quinella imparted her syrupy smile, mouthed a thank you to the mother, and returned to Parker. “Your nose, I’m waiting.”
He rolled his eyes before answering. “I feel like such a dork, running into that stupid door.”
“At White Castle, the day before Rex Meredith died.”
He twisted his mouth, played with his fingers. “Yeah, I already told those detectives who came to our house.”
“About the door, you mean.”
“Right, the door.”
“Really?” She ran her finger down a page of notes. “That’s not the story … hm-m … Oliver gave me.”
“Bills, he’s here?”
“Eating pizza this very moment.”
“There’s pizza? Nobody told me. So, what did Bills say?”
“Now, Parker, I’ve already explained the rules but let’s go over Number One again: you are here to answer the questions I ask. So, let’s take it again from the top: how did you acquire the broken nose?”
He sighed, looked at his parents. One scowled, the other bit her lip.
“Bills freaked out and popped me.”
“Ouch, considering the aftermath, it must’ve been extremely painful. What did you do to provoke him?”
“Not much. I made some comment he might’ve taken the wrong way.”
Quinella checked her watch. She leaned into the boy’s face. “Do I look like your dentist, Parker? I’m not here to extract every word from your mouth.”
Parker faked a cough; he slouched down in the chair.
“Don’t you dare ask for water,” his mother said, handing him a stick of Wrigley’s from her purse. “Your siblings are waiting for their supper.”
He peeled off the wrapper, stuck the gum in his mouth, and sat up straight. “I made some remark about Coach Meredith—the exact words I don’t remember—but Billings thought I was referring to him too.”
“And were you?”
“Sort of … but not really … yeah, maybe. But I didn’t mean to rile him and I didn’t expect him to punch me.”
Quinella stifled a yawn with her open palm. “I have all night and no family, Parker, but I do hate inconveniencing your parents any more than is necessary. Let’s get this drain unplugged so you can all go home.”
He looked at his mother. “Don’t make me say this in front of you.”
She stood up, kissed his forehead. “I guess this is my cue to check out the bathroom’s plumbing fixtures.”
“Okay, Parker,” Quinella said. “It’s just the three of us. And trust me, there’s nothing you can say I haven’t heard before.”
“That goes double for me,” Maurice Eliot said. He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Just cut the bullshit.”
Parker didn’t look at him or Quinella, choosing instead to concentrate on lacing his fingers and thumbs into the usual church and steeple. “I was talking to Nelli—”
“Hold on, who’s Nelli?”
“Matt Canelli, the new guy. Anyway I said something about not letting Coach stick it to him. Bills must’ve thought I meant him and Coach. You know what I’m saying?”
“Not unless you say it. I’m not a mind reader.”
“Jeez Louise, I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it, Pop.” Parker untwisted his fingers and leaned across the table, into his dad’s face. “Coach had this thing about certain players. He liked to stick his dick up their ass, make them squirm. Bills, he was on Coach’s special team until he got tired of playing the game.”
“And you know this because …” Quinella said.
“Coach invited me for a threesome.”
“Sonofabitch!”
“Relax, I told him ‘no way’.”
“You swear?”
“On my soccer shoes.”
“Those smelly things?” Quinella wrinkled her nose.
Behind the window Reardan spoke in a whisper. “Welcome to the teenage sports of West County. My nephew’s Perdidoes retail at two hundred bucks.”
“Don’t get me started on shoes and leather,” Winchester said. “Kids from the ghetto have pricy standards that rival the rich boys.”
Lethal Play Page 20