“Lorene, this is my friend Clint Watkins. Clint, this is Lorene Hickham.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Clint set down the remaining half of his first sandwich and stood up, wiping his hands.
She shook hands. “Any friend of Chuck’s is a friend of ours. I hope you’ll make yourself at home.” She patted him on the shoulder and then put a hand on my arm. “Chuck, what on earth happened to your face?”
“Cut myself shaving.” I grinned to let her know I didn’t mean it.
Lorene smiled knowingly. “Hank tells me I should never ask you too many questions, so I’ll just accept that silly answer.” She patted me on the shoulder and stood up. “Clint, it was a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the game.”
The Jets won the toss. Bob Martinez announced that they would receive. The captains returned to their respective sidelines.
Hank took the stool Lorene had vacated and leaned close to my ear in the deafening noise. “Everything work out okay with, uh,” he glanced at Clint, “that party invitation I gave you?”
The teams lined up for the kickoff.
I looked around the suite. Nobody other than Clint was paying any attention to us. I looked at Hank and nodded once.
“Where’d you get them cuts on your face?”
“Cut myself shaving.” I noticed Clint’s smile when I said that. While he was driving us to the stadium, I had told him that I had been on a case the previous night. That was all he needed to know.
“One of them cuts is on your forehead.”
I smiled. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed you limping too.” He raised an eyebrow.
I winked. “You don’t want to miss the kickoff, Hank.” The kicker was running toward the ball. Hank gave Clint and me each a fatherly pat on the shoulder and left to rejoin his other guests.
Down below, the Jets kick returner took a knee in the end zone.
Clint was working on his second sandwich. I refilled my plate while Bob Martinez and the Jets offense took the field for the first snap of the Super Bowl.
Chapter 61
My phone whistled as I turned it on. My sprained ankle had been a pain all during the Super Bowl and Hank’s post-game party. At home after the game, I turned off my phone, crashed, and slept ten hours. Bob’s text said I’m up early. Let’s make lunch at 1:00. Don’t forget to bring your bill. I texted back, Great. C U then.
###
Bob limped as badly as I did when he led me out to the balcony.
I sat at the table across from him. “What happened to you, amigo? I thought you won the game. You look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”
He grinned. “I’m always like this the day after a game. Those two-ton linemen beat up on me pretty good. Part of the game.” He motioned to the server, who poured our coffee. “I see that you’re walking wounded too. What’s your excuse, Eighty-Eight? You get sacked by a charging defensive lineman? And how’d you get those cuts on your face?”
“As you say, it’s part of the game. Only my game is different from yours. It’s only a sprained ankle.” I clapped him on the shoulder as we sat at the table. “Will Gracie be joining us?”
“Uh, Gracie doesn’t feel well.” He forced a smile. “Let’s eat. You can give me your bill after lunch.”
He nodded at the server who was standing by. She lifted the covers off our plates, and we began to eat.
“Tell me Bob, how does it feel to be the Super Bowl MVP?”
He grinned like he’d won the lottery. In a way, he had. “Pretty damned good, Eighty-Eight. The icing on the cake is the million-dollar contract bonus for the MVP designation. My agent threw that one in when the Jets traded the Browns for me.” He raised his juice glass, and we toasted the Jets’s victory. “Thirty-five to twenty, we even beat the spread.” He set his juice down. “How’d it go with Vidali?”
I glanced at the server. “Let’s finish our championship breakfast. We’ll talk later.”
He took the hint.
An hour later, the server wheeled our dirty dishes away and we were alone. Seeti Bay sparkled below in the afternoon sun.
“Have you read the paper today?” I asked.
“Yeah. I clipped out the articles about the game for Mamacita’s scrapbook.”
“I meant the front page.”
“They were on the front page. This is the Super Bowl, Eighty-Eight. What page did you expect them to be on?”
“I meant the front page of the first section, not the sports section. The story with the headline, ‘Mango Island Mobsters Shoot It Out.’” I picked up the first section of the Port City Press-Journal that the server had brought with our breakfast and handed it to Bob.
I finished my coffee while he read the article.
He shook his head unconsciously when he got to bottom of the third column and turned to the continuation on page three. He pursed his lips as if he was about to whistle, but he didn’t.
He leaned back in his chair. “Wow,” he said softly. “Four mobsters all dead. Says here that Vidali killed three of his own men outright with a Glock. The third man killed Vidali with his Browning .380 after Vidali had shot him. All the bullets came from the mobsters’ own guns.” He set the paper down. “How’d you manage that?”
“Me? I was nowhere near 176 Mango Drive at 4:00 a.m. the day of the Super Bowl when that fight went down. I went to a party in Fort Lauderdale.” I raised my hand as if I had sworn an oath. But I crossed my fingers. Bob and I did that as kids in Bowie Elementary School back in Adams Springs.
Bob smiled a half-smile. “So it’s a coincidence that the guy who threatened me and Gracie got into a gunfight and got himself killed right before the Super Bowl game?”
“Rule Seven, Bob: There is no such thing as a coincidence.”
“Huh? What’s rule seven?”
“My personal rules about how to be a good private eye. Rule Seven is there is no such thing as a coincidence.”
“So you mean it’s not a coincidence that Vidali got into a gunfight with his own men.”
“My daddy used to say, ‘All I know is what I read in the paper.’ If the Press-Journal says it was a shootout amongst the bad guy themselves, then that’s what it was. Let’s leave it at that.”
“I don’t know what to say, Eighty-Eight. You risked your life for me and Gracie. And you did it more than once. How can I put a value on that?”
“You can’t, Bob. That’s what I do for a living. Like your bruises, sometimes that’s part of the game.” I reached inside my jacket. “Here’s the bill you asked for.”
To his credit, Bob didn’t raise his eyebrows when he saw the total. It was less than he would make in a week, especially Super Bowl week, but not much less. He handed me a check. “It’s totally inadequate to say thank you. But I’m no good with words.”
“No need, Bob.” I stuck the check in my jacket. “Now let’s talk about Gracie. I had a conversation with someone who tried to fix the Super Bowl game. I got a few answers that explained a few things.”
“You had a conversation with a certain someone. But he’s dead and you were in Fort Lauderdale.”
“For the sake of conversation, let’s assume I had a séance with his spirit while he was on the way to hell. This, uh, spirit said that Graciela approached him at his New Jersey casino a couple of days after the AFC Championship game. He said the whole idea to fix the Super Bowl was hers. She claimed she had you wrapped around her finger, and she could make you throw the game.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I shrugged. “Hear me out, okay?” I reached in my pocket and tossed him an envelope. “You recognize that?”
Bob opened it. “It’s full of cash. That looks like the envelope Vidali passed Gracie in the elevator.”
“It is. I lifted it from her purse right after we rescued her from Vidali’s yacht. It’s evidence in case anything ever goes to trial. It’s the money Vidali gave her to go hide at a hotel in Naples.” I took the envelope back and stuck
it in my pocket.
“That’s the Naples you mentioned the other day?”
“Yeah. That was the address she looked up on the GPS but didn’t drive to.”
“Then why would Vidali kidnap her?”
“He had second thoughts about her ability to stay hidden until after the game. She was so famous he was afraid someone in Naples would recognize her. So he kidnapped her and kept her captive on his yacht.”
“Geez, Eighty-Eight. That’s a lot to take in.”
“Yep. I expect it will take a little time to process that information. But it’s the truth. Gracie was behind the whole thing. Remember she has expensive tastes.” I looked him in eye. “And an expensive drug habit.”
“She kicked that habit last summer.”
I shook my head. “She started using again in September, maybe about the time you played San Diego in week three. When you were in Vegas after that game, whose idea was it to go into the sports book? Was it Gracie?”
“Omigod.” He looked like he’d been smacked with a two-by-four. “Gracie said she’d never been in a sports book and wanted to see what it looked like. Said she wanted to check the Super Bowl odds—just for fun.” Now he looked angry. “And she thought it would be funny to place a hundred-to-one bet on the Jets.”
I nodded. “She owes a lot of money to a dangerous drug dealer named Sam Torrence a/k/a Sharky. He threatened to throw acid on her face.”
Bob hung his head. “She must have been so desperate…” He looked at me. “Why wouldn’t she come to me? I got lots of money, more than I really know what to do with. I helped her before. I’ve always helped her.” He hit the table with his non-throwing hand. “Why not come to me? By God, I’m her freaking fiancé. I could’ve helped her.” He looked at me with teary eyes as the truth sunk in. “I could’ve helped her.”
Chapter 62
When I exited the elevator after leaving Bob’s suite, my phone whistled that I’d missed a call from Jorge Castellano. He didn’t leave a voicemail.
“Hey, Jorge, it’s Chuck. I was in an elevator and had no signal. You tried to call?”
“My squad has been handed the Vidali case, Chuck. We need to talk.”
“Sure, what’s on your mind?”
“Not over the phone. Can you come down to the precinct?”
“Always glad to help our men and women in blue. I’m in the lobby of the Port City Palace. I gotta get my car. I’ll see you in…forty-five minutes.”
###
“Thanks for coming, Chuck. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
We walked to the coffee station and Jorge grabbed the carafe. “A little cream, no sugar, right?”
“You remembered.”
“I’m a lieutenant of detectives now. I remember everything.”
“Does it get old, being perfect?”
He shrugged, then poured our coffees. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
When we were in his office, he closed the glass door. “I’ve assigned the case to Kelly Contreras and Bigs Bigelow.” Kelly was the senior detective of the two. She had spotted Bigs when he’d trained at the police academy and then become a ride-along, unpaid volunteer in the off-season. She was a big football fan. Bigs started as a patrolman. When he earned his detective rank, Kelly grabbed him as a partner. I’d worked with them before. Good cops.
“Kelly wants to talk to you, but I told her I wanted you first.”
I sipped coffee and waited for the other shoe to drop. This was tricky. Jorge saved my life and took a bullet meant for me when we were both patrolmen. But I saved his life when he was framed for murder. Call it even. He was one of my best friends. I would lie to him if I had to, but I wouldn’t like it.
“Vicente Vidali was killed in his mansion early yesterday morning. Neighbors reported they heard something, maybe gunshots, around 3:30 to 4:00 in the morning. Hard to say because they were asleep behind double-paned windows.”
He paused, so I said “Hmm” to let him know I’d heard him.
“Dante Orsinati and Pistolet Pisarczik were among the guys found dead.”
Another pause, another “Hmm.”
“And you texted me that all was well and I could end the protection detail. You know anything about what happened on Mango Island, Chuck?” He looked closely at me.
“Why would I know anything about that?” I hadn’t lied. I didn’t answer the question, but I hadn’t lied.
“Orsinati and Pisarczik shot up your office a few days ago. They work for Vicente Vidali. They were all killed at Vidali’s house on Mango Island. Graciela Perez’s text was sent from Mango Island, using the phone of a guy who worked on Vidali’s yacht. You rescued Graciela from Vidali’s yacht. Saturday afternoon, I told you that Graciela’s phone was near the Mango Island ferry terminal. Everything connects to everything else.”
He paused again, so I said, “Hmm,” again. We were getting into a rhythm.
“And you’re limping and you have cuts all over your face, like you’ve been in a fight.”
“Tripped on my balcony and cut myself shaving.”
“A lot of coincidences there, amigo.”
I sipped coffee.
“You always say ‘There is no such thing as a coincidence.’ Your rule six.”
“Rule seven.”
“Okay, seven. There is no such thing as a coincidence.”
“Except when there is.” I set down my cup.
“Tell me what went down at Vidali’s place. Just between the two of us.”
It was my turn to shrug. I spread my hands, palms up. “I couldn’t possibly tell you what went down at Vidali’s place. Why are you asking me? Am I a suspect?”
Jorge looked straight at me for a long time. “Okay. Kelly and Bigs want to talk to you.”
###
I sat on one side of the table. Kelly and Bigs sat on the other, between me and the door. They didn’t mean anything by it; that’s just the way cops do it. I did it that way when I was a police detective.
After hello-how-are-you’s all around, Kelly plopped a three-ring binder and a manila folder on the table in front of her. “This interview is being videoed and recorded. Please acknowledge that you are aware of that.”
I did, and Kelly read me my Miranda rights. “Do you want an attorney, Chuck?” she asked.
I grinned at her. “I remember the last time you read me my Miranda rights, Kelly. It was just before you and Bigs arrested me for murder. No hard feelings.”
She forced a smile. I think she and Bigs were still embarrassed about that arrest. “That time things worked out all right for you, thank goodness. This is just routine. You willing to talk without an attorney?”
“Sure. How can I help you?”
“We’ve got a few questions for you.”
I nodded and gestured for her to proceed. When I was new to interrogation, Snoop had taught me, “The guy that asks the questions controls the interview.” I needed to ask the questions.
She set an eight by ten crime-scene picture in front of me. “This is Vicente Vidali, the way we found him in his bedroom yesterday.” His blue silk robe had fallen open in front and his chest and the robe were both covered in blood. He had the Smith & Wesson revolver clutched in his right hand. He had rolled onto his back before he died.
I picked up the photo and studied it. “Lotta blood on his chest. How many times was he hit?”
She ignored me. “Do you know Vidali?”
“I know him by reputation. I had a researcher do a complete background check, and I recognize his face from the security videos I reviewed at the Port City Palace. Have you seen those yet?”
“This is the first we’ve heard about security videos. Tell me about them.” She flipped open a note pad.
I filled her in on my activities, starting with my Sunday morning breakfast with Bob. I included almost everything that had transpired until I delivered Gracie safely to the hotel. I was specific and thorough. Rule Four: Always be specific when you lie. Include as
much truth as possible. I wanted to give Kelly and Bigs lots to do that involved things they would find out regardless. It would keep them busy for a few days to verify everything Snoop and I had done. “How many times was Vidali shot?”
This time Kelly answered, probably because I was so cooperative. “Three.”
“Whose shells hit him?”
“Browning .380’s. Don’t know whose they were. We found a Browning near Dante Orsinati.”
“He shot up my security camera with a .380. You could compare the shells with ballistics. That could tie them to Orsinati.”
“Where are the shells from your office?”
“In the ceiling, I guess.”
“We’ll send a guy over to your office to collect them.”
I looked at another photo. “What room is this?”
“The sitting room.”
“Where in the house is that?”
“At the entrance to Vidali’s bedroom. It’s like his own private living room.”
“Hmm. Must be nice to have that kind of money. I see a Browning in the photo. Is that Orsinati’s?”
“Yeah, he must’ve dropped it when Vidali shot him.”
“Is that a vest he’s wearing?”
“Yeah, we found three nine millimeters in the vest. And two hits to his head were consistent with a nine.”
“But the picture of Vidali shows him holding a revolver.”
“Yeah, but we found an empty Glock near him. He must’ve emptied the Glock at Orsinati. Then he went to his closet for the S&W. We found a niche in the closet the right size for the S&W. The closet had been modified as a safe room.”
“Must have been a long shoot-out, huh?”
“The girl says she heard about a hundred shots. Of course, she’s a stoner, so who knows?”
“This girl?” I picked up another crime-scene photo. “Who is she?”
Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3) Page 20