"The police are no nearer a solution than they were when they found the body. Could be mob-related, of course, professional killings always more difficult to solve than family murder. Nonetheless, something must be done!"
What Z wanted to know was if the talk show host had special knowledge about the Kunkle death -- one of Jewell's "fans" calling in a tip that implicated Z -- or if Jewell's bringing up the Kunkle affair was just a coincidence.
"Actually, you'll be doing me a favor either way. Now that I've invited you, if you give me a little of your time, that's just great! If you refuse, I'll be forced to say I asked a certain local P.I., a Mr. Bob Zapolska, to talk to me but that, for some reason, he refused. The way the public takes a refusal like that is to figure the person who's ducked out has something to hide. So my advice is to talk to me. That way, you can put whatever spin on things you want, if you get my meaning."
"Yeah." And Z had gotten the D.J.'s meaning. The man would stoop to blackmail to get what he wanted. Not that Z gave a damn. Wanting to see if Jewell knew ... anything ... was why he said: "Yes."
"Great!"
"A condition."
"Shoot."
"That we just talk."
"You don't want to go on the air, is that it?"
"Right."
"No problem."
"And not quoted."
"Actually, the detective segment is a small part of the show. I just want to hear an honest P.I. tell of the services to the community a detective agency can offer. Skip tracing runaways. Deprogramming kids enslaved by cults ...."
"Never done that."
"I was just putting you in the picture. ... So. I'll get back to you. Probably be an evening. Probably soon. In my pad at the Valley Forge apartments."
"OK."
"Until then, this is Dan -- 'the D.J.' -- Jewell, signing off!"
Click.
Feeling like wreckage in the wake of a cyclone, Z recovered to regret agreeing to talk to the radio show idiot. Would never have done so except for the possibility the man might know something about Z's involvement in Kunkle's death.
Was it possible, just as a for instance, that Bud Izard had said something to Dan -- the Asshole -- Jewell?
Paranoid! Z was getting paranoid.
The phone rang again, Z snatching it up reflexively, half expecting it to be the police. "Hi, guess who?" Said before Z could get in a word.
"Who?"
"You mean to say you've forgotten me already?"
Unfortunately, no, now that he'd heard more of her sexy voice.
"Jamie."
"That's better. A girl's ego is a fragile thing."
Jamie -- the girl Z had been with on a recent stakeout -- Jamie Stewart, girl ghost hunter. Alone with her in an abandoned house -- night after night -- the inevitable had happened; tricky, given Susan's attitude about "something on the side.") Though Jamie had been exhausting fun, Z had hoped that, like the ghost they'd hunted, little Jamie would fade away.
"Hi."
"As uncommunicative as ever, I see," Jamie said in her "pouting" voice. "I got to thinking about you the other day and decided to ring you up."
Z didn't know what to say.
"Thought we might get together again sometime, for a drink maybe. To talk over old times."
No way. A drink wouldn't be enough to satisfy sex-mad Jamie Stewart.
"Can't."
"No? Why?"
"Susan."
"Ah, yes. Susan." There was a pause on the line. "I think I've been insulted."
"No." Z's fears that there could be repercussions from his Jamie-fling were being realized. Not that he could have done anything about it, thrown together with such an attractive -- and eager -- girl. Shorter than Susan by quite a bit, clipped blond hair, blue eyes, Jamie was ... built! Fun ... but touchy.
"What's Susan got that I haven't?"
Touchy. Enough for Z to take care what he said. For instance, it wouldn't be a good idea to say that the difference between the two women was that, while he'd enjoyed making love to Jamie, he was in love with Susan.
Meanwhile, time was marching on.
"I think I'd like to meet Susan," Jamie said at last. "Maybe you're right. Maybe she's terrific."
"I ...." Z had begun to sweat, something he seemed to do more frequently.
"Not a good idea."
"You don't have to be there, Z. Just Susan and me. Girl talk. Just to get to know each other a little better. After all, we've got a lot in common."
Was there any way Jamie could find out enough about Susan to trace her down? Z was thinking, and thinking fast! The way Jamie discovered there was a Susan was Z had a picture of Susan in his wallet, Jamie "lifting" his billfold, going through it to find Susan's picture, signed, Susan. Signed Susan, with Susan's phone number, an old number, thank God! A "dead" number plus no last name.
Still, no one knew better than Z that Jamie was resourceful ....
For a wild moment, Z thought of threatening Jamie -- how, he didn't know. ... Quickly gave it up. He didn't know how to sweet talk her either.
"That concludes our little talk, I think," Jamie said brightly.
On the other hand, sinister was what Z did best. "Listen," Z hissed. "It wouldn't be smart of you to bother Susan."
"Don't threaten me, Buster." Said less in anger than with amusement. "You may be bigger than me, but I'm the toughest little bitch north of the border." She laughed sweetly. "So, having made one mistake, you've just made another. You've upped the ante. And here's my call. I was going to settle for meeting Susan. No revealed confidences. I wasn't going to kiss and tell, if that's what you're worried about. And I still won't do that. But now, just meeting Susan won't be enough." She paused, thinking, "The only thing I'll settle for now, is seeing the bed you two make love in."
"What?!"
"Want to try to threaten me again and see what I come up with next?" This time, there was a long pause. "I thought not. Better quit while you're behind, Z." A laugh and the click of Jamie's receiver in the phone cradle.
Crazy! Crazy, the only explanation Z could come up with as he fumbled down his own receiver.
The girl was mad.
Wanting to meet Susan?
Wanting to see the bed Z and Susan slept in? ............
What a relief!
It was that last request that had done it: convinced Z that Jamie was only joking. An unmerciful kidder, little Jamie Stewart. Maybe she'd been serious about wanting to meet Susan; probably had in mind running into Susan and Z in a store -- accidentally on purpose. Would have enjoyed making Z squirm for fear Jamie would spill the beans.
But to actually demand to see the bed ....!?
Ridiculous.
Just kidding.
Had to be.
Z took a deep breath. Jamie Stewart was a ball of fire in more ways than one.
A fire, fortunately, that had ... gone out.
Two phone calls in one day. One right after the other.
Unprecedented. ..........
Where was he? Oh, yes. Reviewing his other problem.
It was while going over his talk with 'the D.J.' once more, that Z remembered something he'd barely heard the first time, a suggestion that the radio guy had slipped into the conversation. When bringing up the example of Howard Kunkle's death, Jewell had advanced the supposition that the murder might be Mafia-related.
A possibility that had never occurred to Z!
Not that Kunkle's death had been a mob hit, of course -- though Jewell may have had that in mind. No. What was troubling Z was the possibility Kunkle himself had mob connections.
Leading Z to ask himself if he'd been ... at least partly responsible ... for the death of a mob figure.
As far as Kunkle's death was concerned, Z was pretty much off the legal hook for that, the cops so pressed for time with other nasty business that the Kunkle case was already in the "cold case" file.
Interfere with "family" business, though, and you'd better watch your back ... foreve
r!
Could it even be -- this being what everyone always said, a small, small world -- that Kunkle had been one of Johnny Dosso's boys?
Z didn't like that thought. Didn't like it at all!
Taking another minute to think about a possible Cosa Nostra connection helped to cool Z's fear. There's been no sign of organized crime activity in Howard Kunkle's place. No drugs. Some hidden cash, but small change in the drug business. True, there'd been those decks of cards. Could indicate Kunkle was a gambler, gambling and hookers John Dosso's part of the "family" business. Could be a rackets connection ... but Z didn't think so, mostly because Kunkle lived in a dump. While big-time crime couldn't promise you a future, it seemed to pay well in the present.
Still ... just to be on the safe side ......
And Z was up and shuffling to the office's flimsy front door.
* * * * *
Entering the south end of the Antioch Shopping Center mall ten minutes later, Z was still so upset he'd practically stolen a pay phone. (Done that by scaring off a sub-human-looking teenage boy.)
Feeling ashamed of himself but rattling in his quarter nevertheless, Z dialed International Imports.
"International Imports." Always a cultured, older female voice.
"A musketeer would like to speak to John Dosso, please."
"I'm sorry, sir. No one of that name works for International Imports."
"Sorry," Z said, hanging up.
All part of the routine. Johnny Dosso never worked for International Imports. The way it worked was this. Because of John's fear someone would tap Z's office phone, if Z wanted to talk to John, Z would go to a pay phone and call International. Hear, once again, that John didn't work there.
After that, Z would return to his office, someone calling within the hour with another phone number. (Always a different number. No sense memorizing it.) Leaving to find yet another pay phone, Z would dial the mysterious second number to find John on the other end of the line.
That being the arrangement, Z went back to his office to wait -- a wait that turned into three, long hours.
Troubling.
So worrisome that, on his way home, Z put in another call to International Imports. Was again told John didn't work there.
At 10 o'clock at the outdoor pay phone at the 72nd and Prospect QuikTrip, Z called again. Same story.
In the morning, at the Sinclair station just to the south of the shopping center -- same thing.
So, where was Johnny Dosso?
Could be on vacation -- John's nerves seeming to have been shot at the reunion.
Could be out of town on family business.
Could be holed-up so deep with one of his young call girls that even his own "family" didn't know where he was.
Or maybe, given the nature of Johnny's work, that he was pushing up daisies.
Z was sweating once again. And no wonder. Within the week, he'd had something to do with a man's death, had his relationship with his girl threatened, and had a friend ... evaporate.
Like straddling a California fault line, when your world rocked, all you could do was sweat!
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Finally, Johnny D. had called. Followed by tonight's adventure, reminding Z of the mission of Star Trek: "To boldly go where no man [Z] has gone before."
It was a dark night -- dark and hot and sultry. Clouds had moved in, snuffing out the moon and stars.
Even from across the street, Z could make out John's security-- some of it, anyway. A couple of infra-red, circuit breakers beams; a box near the house that looked suspiciously like the guts of a motion sensor. Doing some security installing himself, Z had a better shot than most at spotting the house's protection.
No sign of a dog. Neither the front or backyard fenced.
Z remembered. Johnny Dosso didn't like dogs.
John still lived on North Enrico, in his parent's house, his parents long gone to meet whatever "Maker" a crime family had to meet.
Traditional house, traditional "family" values.
Back to security.
Probably pressure-sensitive pads built into the decorative rock walkway leading to the front door. That would have been Z's recommendation, anyway.
With all the curtains and blinds drawn, no light showed through to interrupt the quiet blackness of the night. No other indication that the house was occupied.
Fortunately, Z didn't have to dismantle the security. This being a social call, Z the invited guest, all he had to do was get out of the Cavalier and walk right up to the house. Viewed that way, tripping the alarms was the friendly thing to do. Showed sincerity.
And still Z sat in the little car, looking at the house from across the street. Was John looking back? Did John have the latest in classified, "army surplus" night vision equipment? If so, it wouldn't be a surprise. John always seemed to get whatever he wanted.
Z was hesitating, he told himself, because it was bad for John's image to be visited by an "out of the family" friend, moreover, a friend who was a private eye. Z also didn't want whoever might be watching John's house to see Z.
Another fifteen minutes of watchful waiting went by, Z convinced that, at least on this night, he watched the Dosso house alone.
Good.
Opening the greased-silent door catch, Z eased himself out of the car, feeling ... strange. In all the years of their friendship, Z had never visited the Dosso home. Except for an occasional phone call, Johnny Dosso lived in a closed society.
Pushing the door shut, Z crossed the street, jolted his leg over the curbing, and strode up the front walk.
Nice yard, what Z could see of it in black silhouette: trees, with shadow pools of river rock around their trunks -- bushes, plantings.
The place smelled of new-cut grass, a variety of flowers, chemical fertilizer, and recently applied insecticide.
Not John Dosso's handiwork, the place with that "professional lawn care" look.
No trumpeted medieval knight made a grander entrance, Z was sure, meaning that silent alarms inside the house must be going off like crazy.
At the carved-wood-looking, solid steel door, Z was just ready to push the lighted buzzer when the door opened.
"Z!" Johnny Dosso, grinning. "Come on in!"
John standing to the side, Z entered, John shutting the heavy door and easing a thick bolt into its iron keeper. "Here you are in the flesh," John said, the two of them shaking hands before John turned to lead Z down the long, formal, laser guarded entrance hall and into a blue-walled living room where John motioned Z into a plush armchair to the near side of a fireplace, Johnny Dosso easing his bulk on a short divan not that far away.
Called a conversation "pit," this space was fronted by a huge, cut-stone, never-had-a-fire-in-it fireplace.
A number of dried cattails stuck up from a blue Japanese vase placed on the floor beside the firebox screen. The room was done in blues, expensive blue-flocked wallpaper for starters. Z sat in a gold-and-blue-striped Thomasville chair with saddlebag arms, John, in a matching love seat on the same side of the fireplace. A twisted-brass lamp and an antique clock decorated an early American table beside Z's chair. At the other end of the room was a blue velvet, sofa-for-ten, over it, five small pictures, possibly framed pages from an illuminated manuscript. A complex-patterned Persian rug covering the dark wood floor near the end wall, an ornate walnut sideboard centered on the rug.
The wood fireplace mantle held a tin ocean liner (an object d'art made to look like a toy,) two brass candlesticks, and three softball-sized rattan spheres. The oil painting over the mantle was of lions lying down with lambs.
Sure.
In spite (because?) of the perfect balance of the room's colors, shapes, and textures, the place had a mummified look; that of being done to no one's taste -- but the decorator's.
John was wearing a dark brown smoking jacket with leather elbow patches, fitted loosely over a blue silk shirt. Had on vanilla-colored slacks. And handmade shoes.
&
nbsp; The whole place -- yard, house, Johnny -- reeked of money ... if not class.
"Saw you sweating your ass off across the street," John said with a "gotcha" grin. "Must of been twenty minutes. If I'd had a dog, I'd of sent a keg of brandy out to revive you."
"Someone might be watching."
"And you figured, could be a gunsel not liking me associating with a cop? Even of the private variety?"
"Something like that."
"Good old Z. Thinking of his friends. Don't any man have enough friends. Except for the kind who're thinking only of themselves.
But we've been together through a lot of years, Z-man. Since grade school. Been through a lot you and me, me supportin' you when I could, you supportin' me when you could."
"Yeah."
Johnny looked ... good. Not pasty, like in his big car at the reunion. Of course, being sober improved anybody's looks.
More than good, John looked ... relaxed, the smoking jacket hiding some of the fat, the light low enough to give John healthier-looking skin and shadow-enhanced hair.
"Get you a drink?" Z shook his head. John grinned again. "You got a problem. I got some news. Makes me no never-mind what we do first."
"Murder."
"That could be a problem, especially if it's you that's murdered." John laughed. Leaned back. Crossed his chunky legs as best he could.
"Howard Kunkle."
"That? Been three -- four days -- old news."
"I need to know if he was connected."
"Connected? You mean to our organization?" John laughed -- seemed to be enjoying himself. "Hell no, Z. What you think? We've fallen on such hard times we've got to hire a two-bit hustler?"
Z was relieved. Hoped he didn't show it. "You knew him?"
"Knew of him, if you know what I mean. Gambler. Penny ante stuff. Good to have his kind around, though. Chasing small fry gives the cops something to do. Convinces the taxpayers they're getting value for their dollar."
"Pimp?"
"You think a woman would work for a piece of shit like that?"
Z had the answers he'd come for.
Just one more question, pretty far out, but .... "Know a hooker named Carrara Marble?"
"Now you're talkin'. That one's a triple-crown winner. How'd you get mixed up with expensive goods like that? She's out'a your league, my man. Three hundred an hour, easy."
Murder by Candlelight Page 6