Perfect Crime (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

  G.J. was at the window, using two fingers to move the cloth drapes only enough to peer at the street below. After a second, he let the curtain fall back into place. Silently she agreed with his dismissal—three stories up, the view was hardly inspiring. He moved away from the window before he responded, "We need more help than the cops can give."

  A look passed between them, rich in family history. Her voice was flat as she asked, "Is that what Gino said—did he send you?"

  "My Dad would have a fit if he knew I was talking about this," G.J. said. "All he says is 'God is merciful.'"

  Looking down at the Italian scrawl, Tessa said, half under her breath, "God didn't write this." The handwriting was sparse; its most notable trait, the writer's reversed 'e'.

  The junior Perelli began to pace, distracting her. She was about to snap at him to sit down and keep still when he grabbed her hand, lifting the postcard up so that the sun hit it. Etched on the front was some writing in blue pen that blended with Lake Michigan in the photo. It stretched out along the bottom edge, appearing more like a stock number than a message.

  24 17

  A frown puckered her brow. "Who's Levi?"

  "It's not Levi—it's Leviticus," G.J. snapped, becoming impatient. He marched over to her bookshelf. "All that time in church, didn't you ever pay attention?" Tessa could sense his frustration as he looked at the meager selection. "Where's your Bible?"

  "Well, let me see…" Tessa refused to admit that she might not have one handy. Her salvation had been found in a music book—her time in church spent practicing the organ and only half listening.

  "All good Italians are Catholic; all Catholics have Bibles." He ran a finger along the book titles, eyes intent on his quest. His next comment might have been innocent, but his tone was very serious. "How many of your neighbors know your name is Morgano and not Morgan?"

  "Chances are good that number will go up from zero, if you're here because you want me to do something with this."

  Looking over his shoulder, he cast a dark gaze on her. "But you'll do it if I ask?"

  Tessa didn't quite like the emphasis on the personal pronoun. "Do what?" she hedged.

  "You know people, Tessa."

  "Not anymore."

  "Call your father."

  She blanched. The word barely came out in a whisper. "No."

  "You can't deny your heritage. You can't deny the past."

  Tessa wanted to debate and disagree. Five years ago she'd relocated and changed her name. The past was over.

  She and G.J. were over. Their time as a happy couple was long gone.

  G.J had other ideas. His smile was flirty, charming, the look familiar enough to remind her of her own weaknesses. "So why did you stick around the bar last night? Figured you were there long after closing, just waiting for—"

  Something thumped against the front door. Tessa barely noticed the intrusive sound, but G.J. jumped like someone fired a gun in the room. His hand knocked a couple of books off the stand and he bent to straighten them, his body low to the ground.

  "What's the matter with you?" Tessa asked. She turned and opened the door, retrieving the newspaper before turning to her guest again.

  G.J. was suddenly close, nearly brushing her shoulder as he pushed his way out into the front hall. "I gotta go."

  Perplexed, Tessa watched as he darted out and started jogging down the hallway towards the condominium elevators. Before she could call him back, he'd slipped through the steel doors and was gone.

  Tessa looked up and down the hall. Perhaps some of G.J's paranoia remained as she stepped back inside her home and locked the door. Putting the postcard in the pocket of her robe, Tessa opened the newspaper and flipped through the local section in search of Scott's article.

  * * *

  Local police have linked the disappearance of two women in the Chicago Metropolitan area. Darla Perelli and Gail Lorence were reported missing by family members, one of whom confirmed kidnapping for ransom as a possible motive. The women were both waitresses who disappeared in the evening hours. Police will not disclose what evidence they may have in their possession, or if they are pursuing any particular suspects.

  * * *

  She couldn't help the small snort that slipped from her lips; the article was buried on page 4, far from headline material. "You're grasping, Crawford. I told ya, there's no story here," she muttered to no one present. The victory was minor, but it felt good. Life was back to normal; within the hour she would be dressed and on her way to work.

  As the elevators at the Tribune opened, the corners of her mouth were forced into a small smile. Other than a hint of red in her eyes as outward evidence of the late night, it was Tessa's usual morning face; pleasant but not overly cheerful. Picking up the pace to her office, she rounded the corner of the cubicle and let out a small yelp. The sight of Scott sitting in her office was unexpected. "Jesus, you really should wear a bell around your neck," she snapped.

  He leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, alert and waiting. If she'd been a bit more observant, she would have noticed he didn't offer her a smile.

  "Excuse me," Tessa's voice was tired and rough. She reached alongside the monitor and produced a pill bottle. Taking two out she popped them into her mouth, only then realizing that she had nothing to wash them down with.

  Her faced screwed up as the acrid taste reached her taste buds. "Ewww," she groaned, at the same time grabbing Scott's coffee mug from his hands and swigging back the lukewarm liquid. "Yuck, that's even worse," she said, passing the mug back to Scott. "How can you drink that stuff?"

  "What are you up to?" he asked.

  His voice was colder than the coffee. She'd never seen him without a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin. Now his face was flat and expressionless.

  "Aspirin, headache," she said, holding up the pill bottle, then pointing at her head. She had sworn she'd be friendlier and cull less gossip. Tessa tried to be cheerful. "If there's a problem, I'll buy you another cup of java."

  "I'm not talking about the coffee."

  "Then what are..."

  "Candice told me you went into my cubicle yesterday. What were you looking for?"

  "Nothing," Tessa said, even though it wasn't the complete truth. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

  "Spying on me."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "I'm not really sure." He shrugged in a casual way, but his voice held condemnation. "Maybe I shouldn't have thrown the gauntlet down in front of you, yesterday. Competition makes people do the strangest things."

  Tessa was mad. There were a lot of things in life she didn't like, and being accused of something she hadn't done, was one of them. Her hands moved to lay low on her hips, and her head snapped in the direction of Candice. The nosy coworker was out of earshot but that didn't stop the woman from sneaking glances in their direction.

  "Candice is a bitch," Tessa said, "I wouldn't listen to her."

  Scott's eyes narrowed, "You haven't exactly vindicated yourself."

  Drawing a deep breath, she let it out loudly before continuing. Her heart was pounding, making it that much more difficult to utter the confession, and yet, she spoke sure and to the point. "I was in your cubicle. I had no right to go in but I did not touch a thing…not a thing," emphasizing the pertinent words.

  He appeared unmoved. She paused, and switched tactics. "Why? Is there something in your office I shouldn't see?"

  Scott stood, peeling himself out of Tessa's office chair to tower over her diminutive form. "If there was," he said softly, "you'd never find it."

  "You're confidence is misplaced," she said, pushing past him to take the seat. "I'll admit that I have a competitive streak. You have to in this business, you know that, and yeah…you beat me out a couple of times. I won't deny that didn't piss me off, but don't imply I would do something shady because of it."

  "Fair enough."

  She blinked at the sudden end to animosity. Before she could catch her breath, Scott was head
ing out of her cubicle.

  "Hey," Tessa said, calling him back, "I read your article. It was…tactful."

  "I thought you didn't want me to pursue it." Scott said, his voice skeptical and rightly reticent that her words were a compliment, "Did you change your mind?"

  "You don't have much."

  "True. But there are two things about these cases that I don't like." He spoke slowly at first, but then seemed to warm to the idea of sharing, "One, the women looked alike—roughly the same age, brunette. And they both disappeared on the 19th of the month, Gail in February, Darla in March. Then in April..."

  "What about it?" Tessa asked.

  There was a pause, as though Scott wondered how much more to say. "It took some time, it was buried deeper and it's listed as murder. Our third victim, a woman named Russo, was found dead a few days ago. Her body and car were pulled from Lake Michigan. She lived alone, was reported missing almost to the day as the others. She also appears to match the same general description, waitresses that worked for family run restaurants. I got some details from the local precinct."

  "What was that name again?"

  "Russo. Kate Russo. Know her too?"

  Tessa shook her head gently, but didn't meet his eyes. "You didn't print anything about her."

  "'Cause there's something else," He said cryptically. "She was found in the lake….barely a mile from Navy Pier. Detective Blaine filled me in on the exact location."

  Her face paled. "Making friends are we?"

  Scott put his hands on his hips as though trying to halt the questions. "Speaking of…How did you make out with the Perellis?"

  She glared at the assumption she'd done her own inquiry. But she admitted truthfully, "They didn't want to talk."

  Scott's cell phone rang. The frown on his face communicated his displeasure at the interruption. His expression only darkened as he looked at the number displayed on his phone. "I need to take this," he mumbled.

  Tessa watched him wander away. It was obvious it was a woman he was talking to on the phone, his voice held that charming singsong quality. She rolled her eyes and wondered about the undeniably handsome man's love life. Scott's hands showed no rings and he talked almost less than she did about a personal life. She knew he'd evaded questions from others on the topic. Her imagination busily built a jaded past—some dark secret that forced him to leave New York and hide out in Chicago.

  She rolled her eyes again and gave her head a small shake. Yup, this is why I don't write fiction, she thought.

  Shifting her attention, she studied the news archives, unknowingly covering much of the same ground as Scott had the day before, trying to find every printed fact about Kate Russo's death.

  Tapping the postcard in her pocket, she turned to the computer and ran a search for Leviticus, refreshing her memory on the quote.

  And he that smiteth any man mortally shall surely be put to death

  G.J. had been right about one thing. Catholic and Italian went together. Who better to know what might be going on than the family pastor?

  Tessa exchanged the Bible for the telephone book.

  Chapter 3

  Economics

  Rinnngg..

  Plum shades and muted golds trimmed the outer corners of the room— rich tones that suggested opulence and yet appeared understated in the glare of all the lights. Scott sat in one of the plastic hotel conference room chairs, and ground his teeth, transferring the caller to voice mail. It had been a long day; his jaw was set in frustration at all the distractions.

  "Most people call a press conference in the morning." Scott looked at the man seated beside him, one of twenty-odd reporters in the hotel ballroom who added, "It's going to be dark before I get this written up."

  Scott twirled his pencil, his pad lay open to a blank page, not that he expected to write much. "Politicians like control. Then again, maybe what he has to say isn't all that important. This is the second one of these my editor sent me to today."

  "Well, don't hold your breath thinking Barton Malone is going to be forthcoming. Scandal breeds silence."

  "Maybe."

  "I'm Jerry Grimes," the man said offering his hand.

  "Scott Crawford."

  There was a spark of recognition in the man's eyes as the two shook hands. "I thought so. You're new to the Trib, right?"

  He groaned inwardly at the same boring phrase. How long does it take to get over being the new guy? "The Tribune pays my salary."

  A voice to his left said, "Nice to hear. Some of the crew here are double dippers."

  Jerry turned to address the dark haired man who had interrupted them. "Now, Detective," he grumbled, "last year's investigation of the Sun Times, showed no evidence of wrongdoing. We print facts, not what we're told."

  "I wasn't talking to you," the detective said, his tone businesslike but dismissive. He cocked his head and gave Scott a long look.

  Returning the scrutiny, Scott saw a man dressed in plain clothes. He could have been a reporter, fitting the rest of the pseudo-uniform of Dockers and polo shirts. Still, he went with his gut. "Detective Blaine, I presume?"

  "Can't get nothing by you." The man smiled. "I figured you'd be here, Crawford. I've been following your articles on the City Council this last week."

  Scott couldn't help but wonder why the police officer he'd spoken with on the phone would seek him out. "I'm just getting started. Thanks for your help yesterday, on the Perelli matter. My network here isn't large."

  "But mine is," the detective countered, "New York speaks favorably of you."

  Scott looked away, surveying the ballroom, noting the presence of the television cameras and half listening to the hum of other conversations around him. Seemingly preoccupied, he said, "Specifically?"

  There was a pause. "Marcy Finch."

  Was it professional courtesy that caused the man to leave off the title of detective from her name? Before Scott could ask how well Blaine knew Detective Finch, they were interrupted by a flurry of activity at the door with everyone turning to see the city council member walk purposefully towards the podium. Scott wondered how Chicago could pay for all its bureaucrats. Four suits dogged Barton Malone's patent leather steps.

  'City manager, planning committee chairman, short-skirted girl that gets his coffee, and…bodyguard?' Jotting notes on the pad of paper on his lap, Scott listened as the first questions were launched. He didn't feel a need to focus too hard on the dialogue; he'd already heard the evasions from another member of the Chicago Pier and Exhibition Authority earlier today. Scott had been silent at that press conference.

  Accusations of bribery, the Perelli case, along with any more questions for Detective Blaine, would have to wait for a less public venue. Twirling his pencil, Scott looked up and studied the council member who spoke to the audience. Ten minutes had passed and the man hadn't even broken a sweat. Impeccably groomed, Barton Malone looked like he belonged on a postage stamp.

  Jerry held his hand in the air like an expectant student, eager and excited. Scott mimicked the gesture, although his arm rose tentatively and only half as high. If everyone in town thought he was the new guy, he'd put it to his advantage and let the politician gamble on the rookie reporter.

  Sure enough, he got the nod.

  "Scott Crawford with the Chicago Tribune, Mr. Malone," he introduced as per protocol, "I understand before you became a city councilman two years ago, you were not a resident of this county."

  Preening, the councilman said, "That's correct. I moved here and immediately wanted to become involved."

  Raising his voice, Scott said, "So involved, that in the last eighteen months you have invested in twelve rental properties along the proposed development perimeter—investments that are being underwritten by the same credit union that was a primary campaign supporter and spent a record amount to defeat the incumbent. Should we believe that your recent move to this part of town, the low interest loans, and land purchases are all in the name of 'getting involved'?"


  "What?"

  "How long has the Xenex Corporation had these plans to own four city blocks by the Pier?"

  Barton Malone stared at Scott. His wrinkle free face appeared calm but something flickered in his eyes and his knuckles grew white as they gripped the edges of the podium. Scott stared back, hoping the man would wonder how much he knew. Money laundering or payment for services rather than bribery? On the first count he had only theory; on the other it was only a matter of time.

  The City Manager moved towards the microphone. With the television cameras still rolling, Scott launched one final question. "You're not the mastermind behind the Xenex Corporation. Who are you fronting for?"

  It didn't surprise Scott that the press conference came to a rapid close with his questions unanswered. He remained standing, half expecting some sort of parting jibe or at least a dirty look as the City Manager was ushered from the room. Instead, he was ignored. Even Jerry avoided his eye, and gathered up his tape recorder and hustled out.

  "You should learn to be more subtle," Detective Blaine said.

  The cell phone on his hip vibrated, a quiet reminder to Scott of other pending conversations. "The Mob doesn't scare me," he said.

  "With that attitude, Mr. Crawford, you may find more than just your nose broken."

  Only a couple of people knew about that history: a bit of a squabble over a garbage collection contract that hadn't smelled right. A twist of fate with an enforcer for a Mob boss in New York named Aiello. Scott resisted the reflex to touch his own face and thereby confirm what could only be the Detective's speculation.

  "I've done my own research," the detective admitted, "be careful. You're in Chicago now."

  Cocking his head to the side, Scott asked, "Is that what you came to tell me? A phone call would have done."

  "The last time we talked on the phone, you didn't use all the information I gave you. I find that...interesting."

  The detective made his exit, saving the reporter from having to respond. Scott stared at the door for a long time, a frown on his face. It was the vibration of his cell phone that returned his thoughts to the present.