Perfect Crime (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

  "I remember the last time I was in New York," she babbled. "It was in December, the weather was barely fit for penguins, let alone flying."

  "Yeah, if heights aren't your thing, flying can be a hard way to travel," Scott said, lowering the window shade. "Do you get motion sickness, too?"

  "No, nothing like that," she answered curtly, obviously not willing to fill in the finer details.

  "Let me guess…Christmas shopping in the Big Apple."

  "No," she said, her voice soft, "that trip was to claim my brother Rhen's body."

  Scott gave a murmur of sympathy.

  Feeling an unusual sense of vulnerability, Tessa blurted, "He was murdered…shot pretty much at point blank range; makes me consider, it was someone he knew." She paused, and then added, "Did I ever mention, that Christopher and Rhen used to be pretty tight?"

  Her companion looked at her, the betrayal she felt was so evident. "What do the police say?"

  Tessa gave a snort of disgust; Rhen had been a hit man, plain and simple. "Oh you know, the usual, they'll contact me if they get any leads. I haven't heard a word. I doubt they're out there looking very hard."

  He stared at her; she was so jaded. He pushed. "When was this?"

  "December 23rd of last year." The look in her eyes suggested a memory came with the disclosure.

  Well, we're talking my town now, I know people," he said compassionately, "Let me see what I can find out. Let me have your phone."

  The flight attendant announced that all electronic devices should be turned off and began the safety briefing, but Scott didn't heed the warning. He put through a call to an office at the New York Post.

  "Marlayna," he purred, "how are you doing, Beautiful?"

  A smirk laced the response. "Hello, Scott. I'm busy Darling, trying to get the next edition out."

  "I need a favor."

  "Uh-huh. Well, since you don't work here anymore, what can the Post possibly have that you want?"

  He ignored the loaded question. "I just need a name this time. Was it Vincent White who was the reporter that covered those murders late last year? I remember him calling them something catchy in keeping with the holiday season." Scott remembered but out of respect for Tessa, he didn't want to have to repeat it with her in earshot.

  "Which ones. Are you talking about the DeMarco killings in late November? White, the damn fool, titled one article, 'Garbage In/Garbage Out probably in relation to that garbage contract dispute. All three of those gentlemen were from the same 'family', if you know what I'm saying….the Mob is clannish that way. And then there was a retaliation hit in December – Christmas Delivery. A bow was put on the victim's chest."

  Scott could almost hear the frown in her voice as she added, "I can't believe you don't remember."

  "Retaliation hit?"

  "Now I know that brilliant mind of yours is ticking, Scott."

  Suddenly, silence reigned on the other end. "What are you sitting on?" she asked. "I get dibs on the article, too. I want to know anything you find out. We have the time zone difference; I want it to hit New York before Chicago."

  "I have to go Marlayna but I'm coming to town. Pull the file for me and I'll buy you dinner tomorrow night." He didn't bother saying it would be a group affair, the same dinner he had promised his contacts on the police force when he'd called them the day before.

  Marlayna consented. "Fair enough. You can pick me up at six tomorrow night. My place."

  The flight attendant gave Scott a pointed glare about his use of the phone, so he finished the call and passed the phone to Tessa. He wondered if she would release the stronghold she had on the armrest to take back her cell phone. Barely, but she did.

  "Do you ever turn it off?"

  He mimicked her exasperated tone, "Have you ever dealt with Marlayna Reed?"

  Taking her pointed silence as a no, he sighed, "You can come to dinner, too. I wouldn't want you to starve."

  The airplane jerked backwards, pulling away from the gate. As the plane started to move, her hand flew back to the armrest, effectively slapping his arm in the close proximity. "Sorry," she mumbled. To disguise her discomfort, she grabbed the in-flight magazine and flipped through the pages at random, only belatedly realizing that it was upside down.

  Taxiing continued, and Scott reached out and gently took the magazine from Tessa. "You need to relax. Statistically, flying is safer than driving."

  Her head snapped to the side to glare at him, "Is that so? You don't know how happy I am to hear that," each word dripped with sarcasm. "Aren't you afraid of dying?"

  Scott turned his head away from her, to look straight ahead, "No," he said.

  For the next ten minutes, he remained silent. Only then did Tessa clear her throat, causing him to turn his head. She was studying him in that intense way a cop does when they sense they're not getting the whole story.

  "What?" he said.

  If she were tactful, she'd leave the question alone. "What's the matter—you have the window closed, and your awfully quiet, almost tense – your shoulders are all stiff."

  "Oh?"

  "Getting motion sick?"

  He didn't find the repeat of his earlier question amusing. "Nope."

  The plane leveled off. Tessa removed her seat belt and pulled a leg under her for comfort. The forced air in the compartment was drying and she welcomed a bottled water from the flight attendant. She took a sip. Curiosity about Scott's actions took her mind off her anxiety. She wasn't about to let the puzzle go unsolved.

  "Want to play twenty questions?"

  "Sure. Animal, vegetable, or..."

  Tessa shook her head. "I'm the one doing the asking. I want to know who I'm spending the weekend with."

  "Don't get your hopes up."

  "What are you trying to say?" she asked, coyly. "You think we're going to solve this case by tomorrow? Great," she replied, taking another sip. "Saturday's my laundry day."

  Scott didn't respond right away but there was a ghost of a smile on his face. "I get to ask as many questions as you do."

  "Okay." she agreed, half glad for the distraction. "Where did you learn to drive like that?"

  "At high speeds dodging bullets? The military," he answered. "Is that your real hair color?"

  "Uh, no." Startled, Tessa touched the red tresses before she countered, "Why don't you want to look out the window?"

  "I don't like to watch the ground moving away." The answer was flimsy but true. "Did you change your name before Rhen was killed, or after?"

  "Years before—right before I started at the Tribune." She quickly moved on, "What did the military hire you to do in Afghanistan?"

  "Oh, a little of this, a little of that." Restless fingers now drummed on his thigh.

  "Vague. Hardly worth playing the game."

  "I don't have a problem with sharing," Scott said.

  "And you think I do?"

  "If the shoe fits..."

  "Fine, you wear it first," she fired back. Before he could counter with a question of his own, she asked, "More…What happened?"

  When Scott finally spoke, his voice was impersonal. "We were charged with humanitarian aid. I always thought it a bit of an oxymoron. Hunt down terrorists, kill people, and disrupt countless lives, then try and put things back in order. In the final month I was there, my unit was tasked with escorting Red Cross workers from the border, to their delivery locations." Casually, he shrugged, making a point of loosening the tense muscles in his shoulders. "Not everyone appreciated our efforts."

  Tessa studied him as he paused. There was more here. Defending his actions or a simple explanation; it was difficult to tell. War was hard. Putting things back even harder. She'd made a conscious effort to stay away from war stories. Too many sides, too many angles, nothing was ever black and white, and the people pulling the strings never told the truth; a complete replication of what she was trying to leave behind in her personal life.

  Scott looked at her fully, evasion over, he added, "One 18-year-o
ld stole a car, loaded it with C4 and paid us a visit. I died in the helicopter being evaced out."

  "Died?"

  "Yeah. For two minutes. Saw the white light and everything."

  The true impact of what Scott was saying didn't register immediately. Shock, embarrassment, sorrow, the roller coaster ride of emotion wouldn't stop and there was no way to hide it. The inference was all too clear; up until this point, Tessa had thought the military brat to be someone who flew under the radar; riding daddy's Navy-coattails and using the legacy to gain an education without having a price to pay.

  There was an edge in his voice. "Happy now? Anything else?"

  "No," she said quietly. Biting at her bottom lip, Tessa tried to mask the apology that threatened to spill from her mouth. "But it does help me understand."

  He wasn't so sure he wanted to be understood. The play of emotions on her face was so freakishly transparent that Scott was suddenly uncomfortable with his honesty. Not everyone appreciated the military. But it was a reality for him, a family legacy and frankly a financial necessity. Even though the outcome had been less than optimal, he wouldn't change the choice.

  Tessa patted his hand with her fingers. It was a rather helpless and awkward gesture of comfort and it only caused him to look at her with one eyebrow raised.

  The stewardess interrupted, offering them both a snack. Scott declined, using the opportunity to grab a pillow and lean against the wall, feigning sleep. He didn't want to answer any more questions about his life, and while he was pleased that the tension between him and Tessa eased, he was at a loss as to where they should go from there.

  Eyes closed, Scott tried to relax, but found himself counting as he often did when he couldn't sleep. It passed the time, keeping his mind rather than thinking about the future or the story that they were pursuing.

  Perhaps he did actually lose consciousness—either that or it only takes a thousand and five seconds to reach New York from Chicago by air. His eyes opened as his ears popped, indicating the plane was coming in for landing at Kennedy International. Scott glanced about, hoping he hadn't snored or drooled conspicuously on his pillow. Fortunately, Tessa offered no comment on his sleeping habits.

  Scott pushed open the window shade. Leaning his head back, he lazily looked outside as the plane landed, bringing them to the gate as the sun started to rise. He turned to his flying companion, "As promised, we made it here safely. Now it's time to get lost in the crowds while we find some answers. New York City, home to millions of people; you can go days without seeing someone you know."

  Tessa looked at him, her smile was weak.

  Chapter 10

  Creative Writing

  Squeak, squeak

  Somewhere between Chicago and New York, the wheels of Tessa's luggage acquired an annoying squeak. Scott tried to ignore the sick birdlike sound as he rolled the bag through the crowded airport terminal. Preoccupied, he almost missed the man in a black suit holding up a sign with his name on it.

  Tessa walked beside Scott. "Did you call for a car?"

  "No, I didn't." Scott said. It was completely foreign to him to be among the set with a chauffeur at their disposal. The man in black didn't turn or hail them as the two reporters walked past. Scott looked over his shoulder at the driver who continued to scan the crowd. "But now, I'm curious."

  He asked Tessa to wait for him near the glass doors, and retraced his steps. "Hello."

  "Mr. Crawford?"

  "Maybe. Who sent you?"

  The driver tipped his head and blinked at the hostile tone. "The Post. Marlayna Reed wanted to be sure you had everything you needed."

  Typical. "Worked for her before?"

  "Yes. I routinely drive Ms. Reed."

  Scott's eyes narrowed. "Never seen you before," he declared, his jaw set in condemnation.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "If you know Ms. Reed, you know her address."

  "Of course, Apt. 45, Northlake Terrace."

  "The other address."

  "Excuse me?"

  Remaining calm, Scott said, "You could have looked that one up on Google. I'm waiting to see if you know Marlayna."

  The stranger glanced around, apparently reluctant to give specifics that someone might overhear. "She has a home in Westchester. Rudger Lane." Back stiff, he added, "She has a dog. Would you like his name?"

  "No, thanks." With a wave of his hand, he motioned for Tessa to join him. "We've been shot at and firebombed in the last 24 hours. You should probably know that if you're going to be driving us around."

  The driver extended his hand in greeting. "Glad it won't be boring."

  Scott returned the handshake. "I'm Scott; this is Ms. Morgan."

  "Phillip." The man took a moment to acknowledge Tessa before he took her bag. "Is this it?"

  Scott nodded. "Yep, and we won't be going to the hotel right away, there's something uptown we want to see."

  "Okay. Follow me."

  They'd made a plan as they'd left the plane—a visit to Spanish Harlem to look at the murder scene was first on the list. Traffic flowed at a reasonable pace as they drove in the shiny town car towards the Locust Street destination. Scott looked out the window—he missed this city. Chicago had its charm, but there was just something about New York. It felt more comfortable than anywhere else.

  Phillip provided some commentary; acting as a tour guide, pointing out landmarks as the car sped on. Scott turned, and he watched Tessa's profile. He wondered how long it would take Chicago to feel like home.

  "Locust Street…Spanish Harlem," Tessa said. "Something still bothers me about what G.J. said, "'Why do you think they found her in New York? Harlem is Harlem.'"

  "What do you think he meant?"

  Tessa shrugged.

  Scott said, "Maybe we're making it more complicated than it is. After all, that area was originally settled by Italian immigrants and it's not like there are none there now.

  "Nevertheless, why New York? Why not keep this—whatever it is—in Chicago?"

  "Good question. You mentioned something about a takeover attempt last year. Maybe it's not such a stretch to think it might be related."

  For a long while Tessa sat quiet, noticeably fighting with some inner conflict. Finally, with a look of resolve, she opened her purse, pulled out a bound notebook and handed it to him. The look on her face was somber and her tone echoed the same, "On the plane, all that 'sharing' talk…well, better late than never, right? These are just some notes; I don't know, maybe you'll find something."

  Scott flipped through the pages, looking at the precise neat penmanship. Tessa had chronologically listed all the murders, starting with the New York Mob hits that took place back in November and December of the previous year; notably included were first and last names, and rank in the 'family'.

  DeMarco was next on the 19th of January, and then the three women, Gail, Darla and Kate, filled in the blanks for the same day on the next three consecutive months. The last entry, yesterday, was left open.

  On the next-to-last page, surprisingly detailed biographies were included, of Christopher 'Cy' Perelli, Pascal DeMarco and Anthony Aiello.

  Scott tapped the notebook against his thigh, deep in thought. Tessa's involvement. Not all the dots connected in the way he'd theorized.

  The final page of the notebook was blank, except for a faint shadow—scraps of letters and lines. Scott couldn't resist the temptation to hold the book towards the morning sunlight, to see if he could make out what had been so violently erased. It appeared to be highlights of a conversation with Father Luke. She'd taken the trouble to circle, several times, one cluster of words; the quotation marks surrounding the phrase suggested it was something the priest had said "…predominant families have left…..gone to the East Coast."

  "So," Scott said, handing the book back to her, "been busy, I see."

  "You were snoring on the plane. I needed a distraction," Tessa responded dryly.

  She accepted her notes back, expecti
ng a barrage of questions to go with the return, but it was quite the opposite. He didn't seem to have much to say, only looking at her with that steady gaze she'd only now begun to grow accustomed too.

  Without preamble, Scott divulged, "I met your father."

  "Really? How is he?" She said, sarcastically, "We don't keep in touch much."

  "It was a long time ago." Less than a year really, but to Scott it felt like ten. Donatello Morgano was second in command of the New York operations of one crime family and their paths – or rather his business interests had crossed with Scott on more than one occasion. Something more than the moment put an edge in his voice as he asked, "So why aren't you sitting in a fancy apartment somewhere, being the stereotypical Mafia princess?"

  Tessa fought the urge to twist in her seat and glare at him. Instead, she masked her chagrin and was quick with a comeback. "You'd have to do more than buy me plane fare to get the answer to that one."

  "How much money would it take?"

  "Money doesn't drive me. I just want all this stopped… and you want a great story." She sighed. "In the end, I hope we both get what we want."

  Scott was saved from having to respond, by the sound of an approaching siren. Their car coasted to the side of the road, he turned his head in time to see a fire truck speed by. Craning his neck, Scott tried to see where the vehicle went, but it rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

  It was clear they were entering a more depressed part of town. Buildings were crammed together, and the cars parked haphazardly on the streets were later models, showing the wear and tear of their years. A few rather expensive vehicles were sprinkled about, but as the locals would know, those were off-limits to any petty thief who wanted to live beyond lunchtime.

  Coincidentally, Phillip turned the car onto the same road as the fire engine. Locust Street was residential, filled with brick apartment buildings. The car slowed, traffic blocked by emergency vehicles.