Perfect Crime (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

  "Go ahead and park," Scott commanded.

  Tessa could see the crowd lining the sidewalk. Police and firemen were present and were trying desperately to get the situation under control. She followed Scott out of the car into the street, adding to the numbers.

  Flames had already claimed most of the four floors, while smoke billowed from somewhere at the back of the building. Most of the brick on the front was charred black from the flames that fanned out from the broken windows and licked up the face of the building. The mass of people let out a cheer when the address, '1909 Locust St', which was fastened next to the front entrance, succumbed to the heat and burst into flames. The visual was eerie as the numbers and lettering kept their form but burned brightly. "Looks like someone knew we were coming," Scott said.

  A short distance away, one teenage boy spoke to another teen standing next to him, "Aw man, there goes your piece."

  Tessa looked to the left and saw the beauty of the graffiti-artwork being taken by the flames. The 'masterpiece', painted with bright bold colors, now melted into the charred building and would soon be part of the rubble. Scott stepped away to look at something, so she walked over to the kids, asking, "Is that your tag just above it?" pointing to the less intricate writing scrawled across the wall.

  Suspicion flashed on the face of the artist. The other boy drew his gaze down the length of Tessa's petite frame and back up. "Who's asking?" he growled.

  "I'm a reporter and I like your work," she uttered matter-of-factly. She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture. The still-legible graffiti read 'Romans 12-19-21'.

  "You Roman?" she said, feeling silly for asking such an obtuse question.

  It most likely didn't mean anything to anyone else standing on that street watching the building burn, but Tessa knew as soon as she saw it, that it was another scripture reference. This time there was no need to look it up.

  Vengeance is mine

  "No way," the young artist finally stated, "I use color and that guy was in a hurry. I take my time. The name's Vastian."

  Mingling with the crowd, Scott caught snatches of conversations in various languages, although one or two words might actually have been in English. He eavesdropped on the harried fire chief who was concluding, as Scott was, that the building had gone up far too fast for a cigarette or space heater to be the source. An interview might be good. But then he looked around and noticed Tessa wasn't standing by herself. There were four kids crowding her, a couple more on the way, and she was taking pictures. He didn't run to her side, but he didn't linger with the fire department either.

  She looked at the boy named Vastian, she'd seen that look before, the one that furrowed a boy's brow too many years before his time. "Did you see the guy who wrote the tag?" Tessa asked, trying to sound casual. The number of teens near her seemed to double as she took another picture. She scanned the crowd and snapped another photo.

  One of the teens said, "A couple of my boys tried to find out what the hell the guy thought he was doin', marking up Vast's wall. But this crazy dude with a big freaky red tattoo on his arm, and some mean hardware was riding shotgun for the guy with the spray can. We didn't stick around long after he told us to fuck off."

  Scott had moved closer and Tessa wondered whether he'd caught the exchange. She didn't need to ask the boy to describe the tattoo, she was well aware of the unusual symbol permanently inked on the top of Cy's hand.

  So instead she asked, "When was this?"

  "Early this morning...before the sun was up."

  "What else did you see?"

  Vastian took one quick step, closing the small distance between them, his face lowered as he glowered at her, "Niente," he growled, "and if these other guys are smart, they saw nothing, too."

  Tessa offered a calm look in response, temptation to press the point clear on her face.

  Scott was about to step forward and counter one intimidating presence with his own. The teens however, looked up, and abruptly scattered. The surprise caused Scott to jump when a hand reached out and touched his shoulder. "Hey, Scottie," came a voice from behind his ear.

  Turning, a genuine smile crossed his face and Scott greeted one of his local sources, "Hi there, Marcy," offering to shake hands with the blond officer in uniform.

  The handclasp was warm and lasted perhaps a second longer than necessary. Over the roar of the flames, Scott could hear the fire chief directing his crew to save a neighboring structure. Hoses changed direction, giving up the pile of bricks behind him. Marcy ignored the noise and said, "What are you doing down here?"

  "Sightseeing," Scott offered. He then motioned towards his partner. "Tessa, I'd like you to meet Detective Marcy Finch."

  The two women sized each other up, but Marcy kept her focus mainly on the blond man. "You're the only press here."

  No one wanted to come to this end of town if they could avoid it. "Everyone will probably wait and get it off the wire. You know I don't work for the Post anymore."

  "Doesn't really matter, does it?" she smiled, giving him a glance that implied she knew him better than some.

  "Nope. So what can you tell me?"

  "That this is the second time I've been to this address, in as many days." With a jerk of her head she motioned to the burning building as the source of all the controversy. "I got reassigned to this beat after they found a dead woman in there late on the 17th. Perelli woman from Chicago. They pulled another body from the same apartment, right before the place got too hot. This one's a male…probably late twenties...no ID. I won't know more till after an autopsy's done."

  Scott continued to play the innocent bystander, nodding in all the right places, and acting astounded that such a thing could happen. The information confirmed what he already knew, and maybe more.

  A handful of additional words were exchanged before Scott brought the conversation to a close. "We should let you get back to work. We'll see you tonight then. Six o'clock, Amici's. Don't be late," he said, lowering his voice as he said the time and place.

  Scott put a protective arm around Tessa and started walking with her towards the car. "I say we get out of here."

  Tessa almost sputtered in disbelief, but held her tongue long enough to be out of earshot of the friendly cop. "Amici's? Are you nuts?" she snapped, shaking her head, "Or do you just have some death wish?"

  Opening the door to the dark sedan, Scott restrained himself from shoving the woman inside, but followed so close behind that she was forced to scramble over the seats to keep ahead of him. Thankfully, the driver was already in position and ready to go.

  "There's a chance someone knows we're here," Scott said, as Philip turned the car back towards downtown. "If I'm being watched, I want to stay out in the open, someplace busy."

  Perhaps she needed sleep or maybe the stress of the situation finally got to her, but Tessa started to giggle. "Okay, I'm not going to fight you on this one, Scottie."

  Normally he liked the sound of humor, and Tessa had a pleasing laugh, but he stiffened slightly, realizing that he was the butt of her joke. "I've never appreciated being likened to a terrier."

  Something tickled at the back of Tessa's mind, but as quickly as the thought entered, it was gone.

  He was still talking. "Hmm?" she asked. The sound indicated he needed to repeat the question.

  "The Bible quote."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why spray one on the wall? Who would see it?"

  "Us," she said, stating the obvious, then snapped her fingers as if that simple word gave her an idea. "Maybe that was the reason for the fire, we weren't suppose to see it."

  "Seems a bit of a stretch – who knew we were coming?" Scott ran a hand through his hair as though that would stimulate his thought process. "And, why send a Bible quote to Darla's family? It doesn't feel like business. It feels personal."

  Tessa didn't say anything, just chewed at her bottom lip and stared straight ahead, seemingly deep in thought.

  But her silence di
dn't deter Scott's rant, "Any idea how the latest quote reads?"

  Turning to look at him, she forced a small smile to the corners of her mouth, "In Latin or English?" she teased. "Vengeance is mine," she finally recited.

  "Then that proves my point—revenge usually refers to something personal." Glancing outside, he watched the passing landscape. Without being directed, Phillip was taking them back towards Midtown. "Hate to speculate."

  "Ok, so while we wait for the police to come up with the name of our latest victim, and our exciting dinner plans to materialize, what should we do? So far you've taken me to a burning building." Tessa looked around. "Any other highlights of the big city you want to show me?"

  If he were a smart investigative reporter, and Scott considered himself to be one, they would make a turn and head towards the New York Post offices, use the computers and make some phone calls. Restless, he didn't feel like pursuing the story at the moment. With an odd jolt of rebellion, he simply wanted to get out and walk. He wanted to go home.

  Without consulting his companion, Scott directed their driver, "Times Square. Pull over where you can."

  The car cruised to a stop next to a loading-zone designated yellow curb. Scott leaned forward so that he could speak directly to Philip. "If you could run Ms. Morgan's luggage to the Westin, and leave it at the front desk, that would be a great help. We'll call you later if we need a lift back."

  Nodding his head for Tessa to open her door, Scott followed her, sliding out of the car until they both stood on the sidewalk. She appeared puzzled. Sure, it was a notable landmark, but did he really think she wanted to go sightseeing?

  A whiff of her perfume reminded Scott that a pretty woman stood next to him. He inhaled, reminding himself that he was alive. With a lopsided grin, he grabbed one of Tessa's hands, using the excuse that she might get separated in the crowd if she didn't stay close.

  His long fingers laced through her smaller ones, his grip firm. "I do know what I'm doing."

  The statement could have meant anything: a final comment on his choice of dinner venue, an assurance of his good judgment or the protest of a man who never asked for directions. Right now, Scott wanted to enjoy the day regardless of the consequences. "My place is this way."

  Chapter 11

  Ethics

  "Welcome back, Mr. Crawford."

  The building that Scott lived in was a far cry from the Spanish Harlem apartments. The 5th Avenue address with a stucco exterior in a pleasing shade of peach, and a uniformed doorman who recognized and called the reporter by name.

  "What did you do," Tessa asked as they went through the front door, "rob a bank?"

  Scott led Tessa through the marble-floored lobby. "Maybe I'm more like you than you think. I like nice things. I'm willing to pay for security." Of course, the sublet cost him more than the $50 a month she shelled out for an alarm system; things came at a bigger price in New York.

  A man sat at the front entry desk. "Mr. Crawford," he said, before the pair could reach the elevators, "you received a package this morning."

  "Hope it's not a postcard," Tessa mumbled as Scott moved away to collect a manila envelope.

  "It's from Marlayna," Scott explained, as he returned to her side and held it out for her to take, "Maybe you can look at the file. See if there is anything new in the background information that doesn't match your history."

  Tessa could smell perfume on the front face of the document. "She always do this?"

  Scott chuckled and pushed the elevator button for the seventh floor. "Marlayna is very…territorial."

  "Mark you with her scent, does she?"

  He nearly laughed. "Only a handful of people know I actually live here. Think of it as a calling card. A bad habit we got into last year." The elevator doors opened, and Scott took a quick glance down the hall before walking on. "Marlayna isn't my type."

  "You're buying her dinner."

  "I buy lots of women dinner."

  "That's probably true," Tessa guessed, leaving the envelope unopened, preferring to chat rather than view what was inside.

  Something in the way she said it made him ask, "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "If you liked her, you wouldn't flirt."

  Shaking his head, Scott used three keys to unlock the door to Apartment 7B. "Really?"

  "You'd want to be taken seriously if you cared."

  He didn't look at her as he twisted the door knob. "Know me already, do you?"

  "Observing people is what I do," Tessa said, following him inside.

  The apartment had a modest-sized living room linked to a small kitchen. The view was hidden behind heavy drapes that were closed and blocked the sunlight. Scott turned on a table lamp; the small click a lonesome sound.

  There was more furniture here than in Chicago. No evidence of moving boxes. The breakfast-nook table held a stack of mail, which he ignored. "I don't flirt with you," he said.

  Tessa smiled. "Thank you for that."

  "It doesn't mean that I like you."

  "If you say so."

  "I fight with you most of the time," Scott said, as though she needed the clarification. He tossed his keys on the counter. "Wouldn't you prefer that I was a bit nicer?"

  "No."

  The answer surprised him. He changed the subject. "Make yourself at home. I'll only be a few minutes."

  He left her in the living room, moving off to the door that led to his bedroom. Tessa set the perfumed envelope on the counter beside the keys, the smell making her queasy.

  Tessa shifted her weight from one foot to the other, spending time inventorying her surroundings. One final door in the apartment remained closed. Figuring it was the bathroom, she went over and opened it, but instead found an office. A mahogany desk was the centerpiece of the room. Two computers and a large bulletin board filled with articles, pictures and photographs made the area feel cluttered and small. It was obvious Scott had been researching something.

  It was there that he found her. "Maybe I should have been more specific," Scott said, "I was thinking you'd scrounge for coffee, not treat yourself to a tour." While nervously glancing around the room, he hitched a freshly packed duffel bag over his shoulder, "We should go."

  Tessa stood rooted to the spot. "You know, I specifically remember asking if you ever heard of Anthony Aiello."

  "Yes," Scott said. He came and stood beside her, looking at the same newspaper clippings. "We were sitting in my living room discussing the Bible, among other things."

  "You told me no."

  Lifting a finger, Scott corrected her, "Actually, I didn't answer your question."

  "Oh, so this is the way we're going to do things?" She waved at the wall and the time line from Aiello's suspicious dealings in connection with the Mafia, to events in November that indicated he might have been involved in a major hit. "You should have said something, you obviously know him."

  "I interviewed him. That's different," Scott said. "Look, up until yesterday you and I were more like rivals. The last time I worked with a partner, I got my nose broken. It took less than $10,000 for someone to share my home address—it doesn't exactly build a history of trust."

  He opened a drawer in the desk but looked for nothing, and then effectively slammed it shut "They torched that place too." Scott adjusted his grip on the duffel, "I lost my favorite teddy bear and I want revenge." He turned, cocky grin in place. "Vengeance is mine. It's the kind of thing I do alone."

  Tessa didn't laugh.

  Her brother Rhen's obituary was tacked up with a white push pin. One of her hands rose to touch it. "How long have you been working on this?"

  "Almost a year." Scott couldn't see her face. She kept her back to him. "I was mostly looking at corporate connections. The Xenex Corporation has their hand in the Chicago Pier and Exhibition Authority. There were hints and whispers in Chicago—corruption on the City Council, and plans for a new event center that the city doesn't need."

  Walking over to his desk, he set the duffel
bag down. Taking a thumb drive from his pocket, he opened the same drawer and tossed it in. It clinked against two like companions. "The Xenex Corporation has similar holdings in New York—same start-up pattern, and it's almost to the point where they control the tourist trade.

  "You showed up at the Tribune five weeks ago. Why?" Her tone was abrupt and suspicious.

  "Does it matter?"

  "Yes. I feel set up. The whole Darla thing was a ploy. You were already working a story."

  "From a different angle," he defended. "I didn't know about the women and kidnappings until recently."

  She wasn't looking at him, so he wouldn't look at her. Instead he focused on why he'd come into the office in the first place. Opening another drawer of the desk, he pulled out a handgun, checked to see that the clip was loaded, and then slid it into the waistband in the back of his pants.

  "Darla didn't have anything to do with any of this," Tessa said, staring at the newspaper clippings, "she was a good friend." Her face was blank but her eyes betrayed an emotion she was battling to keep in check.

  He fought the urge to reach out and touch her arm, to somehow bring comfort to her. Scott was surprised at how much it hurt him to see her wrestle with grief. He let out a sigh. "Come, I'll walk you over to the Westin."

  "Why?"

  "It's a nice hotel, and..."

  "No," she said taking a step towards him, "why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because," he said, his head dipping forward so their difference in height was minimized, "like it or not, you are Contessa Gianni Haven Morgano, daughter of the second most influential Mob boss' in New York City."

  "And for that, you don't trust me? That's my name, not who I am."

  He stood straighter, unsure of his answer.

  Her jaw clenched and then she said, "You going to take me to the Westin and disappear?"

  This he did know. "No, I'm going to get the room next door."

  "Why?"

  "What is that—your favorite word today?"

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she challenged, "You don't trust me. Logic says we should be as far apart as possible."