The Guilty: (P.I. Jack Marconi No. 3)

by Vincent Zandri

  By the time I arrived, Miller was already drinking a beer at the long wood bar. He was wearing his usual uniform of dark gray blazer, white button-down shirt with a white cotton T-shirt underneath, and a pair of dark slacks. Black lace-up shoes for footwear. Also as usual, his blond hair was cut immaculately short, his face shaved clean. Not that it required shaving in the first place.

  “Took you so long,” I said, bellying up to the bar.

  “Cut out earlier than expected,” he said. “You could have messaged me the pictures. Or emailed them.”

  “Call me old-fashioned,” I said. “’Sides what are you complaining about? You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  I pulled my smartphone from the interior blazer pocket, went to Gallery, then My Library and pulled up the series of pictures I’d taken at Junior’s house.

  “Get a load of these and tell me what you think,” I said.

  He did it.

  Meanwhile, I ordered a tall-necked Budweiser from the college-aged young woman who was tending bar. She had on a black tank-top and her ample chest was covered in colorful tattoos. She wore a nose ring too. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail. Ahhh, youth.

  Miller handed me back the phone and took a drink of his beer.

  “I’ll need copies of everything, naturally,” he said. Then, wide-eyed, he added, “Wow, Junior’s got some serious fucking issues.”

  “Ya think?” I agreed, reaching into my blazer pocket, producing the micro-cassette tape of my little talk with Albany’s most famous food blogger. “And some well-known anger issues to go with them,” I went on while I handed over the tape to him. “Just have a listen and you’ll hear scoop right from Bolous’s gravy-stained mouth.”

  He stared at the tape in his hand for a minute, then slipped it into the chest pocket on his blazer. That’s when I dug into my pockets and realized I’d left Junior’s coke on my kitchen counter.

  “You still own a real tape recorder?” he asked. “You’re so twentieth century, Keeper. I’m surprised you own a smartphone. You realize you can record with it if you want?”

  “My girlfriend thinks I’m still so 1950s and I don’t know how to record with my phone.”

  He took a sip of his drink and shook his head.

  “So what kind of interesting illegal chemicals is Junior filling his veins with?”

  I told him about the coke that was sitting out on my counter first, but then I told him about the good stuff. The Molly. When I was finished, I pulled out the handkerchief that contained the red bead I’d found in the gravel bed beside the lowest stair tread on the exterior staircase outside Junior’s house. I unwrapped the handkerchief and exposed the bead as though it were some kind of diamond in the rough.

  “Present for you,” I said.

  He stared at the bead.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking, Keeper?”

  “You’ve got a man with an obvious drug problem, a temper, vampire fangs, and who knows what the hell is going on inside that satanic basement sex chamber.”

  “More like a torture chamber.”

  “Prints,” I said. “You need prints. Then you can grab yourself a search warrant.”

  He cocked his head at the red bead.

  “Starting with this here bead,” he said. “I can test it for prints. If only Sarah’s prints are on it, we’re SOL. It won’t prove anything other than what we already know. That she was present at the house at some point.”

  “But if Junior’s prints are on it too, then it at least suggests the two might have had a struggle in the driveway which might have led to her bracelet snapping off and her falling and hitting her head. Just for starters. Think you’ll be able to convince a judge enough to get him to sign off?”

  “It’s still a stretch,” he said. “But it’s more possible now than ever, thanks to you. Problem is, these pics don’t mean anything since you took them by illegal means. Doesn’t mean I can’t get a judge to look at them though.”

  “I took his laptop too.”

  He shook his head.

  “Jesus, Keeper. Anything else you’ve done that will fuck up our chances of nailing this asshole?”

  “I think it’s possible we can find some very good stuff on that computer, Nick. Anyone who goes to that kind of elaborate basement setup is saving the best footage for himself. Capisce? You ever read the book Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  “Can’t say I have. But I can say this: you need to put the computer back before I can grab a warrant.”

  “I have somebody working on the password now. When they break the code, I can download the contents of the computer onto a zip-drive. You go ahead, grab your warrant all the same. I’ll arrange it so that you can simply bring the laptop with you when you make a surprise visit to the place. It will be as though it never left his upstairs office at all. And besides, if he bitches about it, who are people going to believe? Him or Albany’s finest?”

  “Yeah, toss up,” he said. He got up, finished his beer. “You talk to Sander’s lawyer, Terry Kindler, yet?”

  “Once,” I said. “Not much of a conversation though.”

  “Now that you have some meat to mull over with him, might be a good time to grab his attention again. Maybe even show him some of these pictures. You should give him a copy of the tape too.”

  “You think if we put the pressure on the Davids, they might be willing to cooperate with the police? Maybe even accept a plea if it appears charges will be pending?”

  “That would be the strategy,” he said. “Just might get Sanders and Kindler their forty mil too.”

  “I’m going to talk to Sarah’s ex,” I said. “He should be aware of the dangers facing her should she begin to remember what happened that night. What about her security detail? I was there this morning and it wasn’t all that secure.”

  “I’m working on it,” he said. “Not the easiest thing in the world providing a very personal, and very expensive I might add, police bodyguard protection unit when technically speaking, there’s no real and imminent danger. It’s also the Davids we’re talking about here. Our benefactors.”

  “But we both know better than that, don’t we?”

  “We do.”

  “The first Mrs. David,” I interjected. “Joan. Sure she wasn’t pushed off that stepladder?”

  He exhaled as if every time I brought the subject up I was also stepping on his big toe with my boot heel.

  “Can’t be sure of anything,” he said. Then, pulling out a ten-spot, he set it on the bar. “I got yours.”

  “Mighty large of you,” I said. “But you’re still avoiding the Joan David issue.”

  “Keep working this job the way you been doing, Keeper,” he said, stepping away from the bar. “And in the end, I might actually buy you that burger.”

  “Talk about motivation,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  He snickered and left.

  I stayed and drank two more beers while the tattooed bartender texted her boyfriend. For a time, I thought about getting a tattoo. Maybe a big coiled snake to match Daphne’s. Then I was reminded about how my youth had fled the scene a long time ago and I decided against it.

  I ordered another beer instead.

  37

  BY THE TIME THE sun went down I was feeling hungry enough for a good meal. Sometimes I did my best relaxing while cooking. Some people like to watch TV. I like to toss a little Miles on the record player, and slowly make a meal. Even if that meal is for only me. Maybe if I were to ask him nicely, Ted Bolous would allow me to guest blog sometime about the relaxations of cooking. Maybe when he stopped blogging about the Davids, and the lawsuit Sanders was trying to crush him with. The lawsuit I was trying to validate through my superlative detecting skills. Keeper, the modest.

  With Miles delicately jazzing out to Ninth Life, I filled the two-and-one-half quart pot with cold tap water, added a couple teaspoons of salt, and set it on the stove, turning the gas burner flame to the high
setting. Then I got the cutting board out and sliced up two fresh vine tomatoes, some onion, and a little basil. In a frying pan, I added a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, some crushed garlic, and a half teaspoon of butter. When it began to simmer, I added the tomatoes, basil, and onions. In the cabinet above the stove, I found a can of tomato sauce, opened it, and added that to the mix. Covering it, I let it simmer while the water came to a boil. When it did, I added a pound of linguini and lowered the flame to medium high.

  I was opening a bottle of Hobnob pinot noir when I saw the face staring in at me from the window above the kitchen sink. My immediate reaction was to go for my gun. But it was hanging on my bedpost in my bedroom. Slowly gripping the paring knife that was sitting out on the cutting board, I saw that the young woman who was standing on my fire escape had a coiled snake tattooed on her neck and that, judging by her eyes, which were wet, puffy, and red, she’d been crying. I asked her to come inside by pointing to the back fire door, which was located off the dining room. Setting the knife back down, I inhaled a calming breath, made my way into the living room, and opened the door for her.

  “I’m so sorry to intrude like this,” Daphne said in between sniffles. “But I really need to speak with you.”

  I looked over her shoulder to see if she’d been followed. I couldn’t see anyone in the immediate vicinity, of course, that didn’t mean Junior or one of David’s goons didn’t have their eyes peeled on us at that very moment.

  “Come in,” I said.

  She stepped inside. I closed the door behind her and locked it.

  Then I went for my gun.

  “How long you been standing out there?” I said, having re-strapped my holster and the .45 it housed to my shoulder. “And did anyone follow you?”

  “I’m not sure how long,” she said, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I got here maybe a half hour ago. I saw that you weren’t home so I waited down in the back parking lot until I saw your kitchen light come on.”

  She reached into her leather jacket and pulled out a pack of smokes.

  “You mind?” she said.

  I got up, brought her over one of mine and Fran’s old ashtrays, a ceramic clam she picked up at an antique store one bright Saturday a year or so before she died. I also brought over the wine and two glasses. I poured the wine and asked her if she’d eaten.

  “I work in a restaurant,” she said. “I’m always eating.” Then, smiling sadly. “That’s why I smoke.”

  “If you change your mind, I hate to eat alone,” I said, but she responded to my offer with silence. That’s when it dawned on me that the Miles Davis album was no longer spinning.

  “So why are you here?” I said, from back at the stove where I turned off the water and drained the pasta, letting it sit inside a big pasta bowl. Turning off the sauce, I came back into the dining room, pushed aside some of my papers, notepads, and newspaper clippings, and sat down with her.

  “I feel as though you should know something,” she said, nervously dragging on the cigarette.

  “You okay?” I said, taking a sip of wine. “You look upset. Or more upset than you were when you tossed me out of Manny’s.”

  She stared at the blue smoke rising up past her face.

  “Sure, I’m fine,” she lied. But then she exhaled and said, “No, I’m not fine.”

  “He hit you?”

  She shook her head. But I knew in my gut that that was a lie too.

  “After what happened this afternoon at the bar,” she went on, “I had a talk with Robert. I suggested something to him. Something that made him angry.”

  “Such as.”

  “I told him he should tell you the truth.”

  “The truth about what happened to Sarah?”

  She smoked, nodding.

  “That’s right,” she said. “He should tell you everything that happened instead of trying to lie or to deceive everyone. Including the police.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because eventually Sarah is going to recall what happened and when she does, it will all blow up for Robert.”

  She was crying again. Smoking and crying.

  I said, “What happened on the night of February 18th?”

  She wiped more tears and lit another cigarette off the one she had going. She was so tense, the snake on her neck pulsated.

  “If I tell you,” she said, “can you promise to Holy God above that Robert will never know that I told you anything? He can never know that I came here. Is that understood?”

  “I understand completely,” I said, drinking down my wine and pouring another.

  Daphne sat in silence while she smoked half of her new cigarette. And then she began telling me her version of the truth about what happened on an early, dark and cold morning in February.

  38

  BY THE TIME SHE left, it was full dark out and we were both pretty spent. I never took even a single sip from my second glass of wine. I was too enthralled and more than a little disturbed by Daphne’s story for that. Trying to take it all in . . . trying to digest it in one bite, detail for detail, was like trying to chew on razor blades. Daphne couldn’t stress enough that, while she had been at Junior’s house earlier that evening, she wasn’t there to see what Junior did to Sarah outside on the frozen steps. She knew only what he admitted to her one night not long ago over a serious Molly and alcohol-induced high.

  I couldn’t blame Sarah Levy for trying to run away from Robert David Jr. on the night of February 18th. Not with what I now knew to be true about him. About what he always wanted her to do for him, about how he got his rocks off along with a handful of other deviants who’d obviously read some overly popular novel about getting it on inside a basement dungeon playroom. Daphne included. About his love of blood, pain, and all that is unholy.

  The food on the stove was getting cold. But I no longer had much of an appetite for anything.

  It had been a few days since I took in some exercise, and I could feel the old bones and muscles begging me for some love, blood, and oxygen. After hearing Daphne’s version of the Junior/Sarah story, I felt as though I needed a new skin. Instead of eating, I went into the bedroom, changed into my running shorts, sneakers, and a navy T-shirt that had the words, New York State Department of Corrections stenciled on the back in white block letters and a simple NYSDOC on the front over a small breast pocket. Grabbing hold of the extra warehouse key I kept on a nylon strap that wrapped around my neck, I exited the apartment by way of the front door and made my way down the short flight of steps to the sidewalk. Glancing over my right shoulder, I looked for Blood.

  Blood wasn’t there.

  The night was still, dark, and humid so that almost as soon as I began the slow jog, I could feel the moist sweat beginning to build up on my skin. I found my pace after a couple of minutes, my breathing controlled, my heart beating steady and good. I made a right onto Lark Street and ran along the sidewalk past the many bars, eateries, and brownstones—their staircases occupied with people sitting outside on the hot night, some of them drinking booze out of bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.

  I made a point of running past Manny’s, gazing in at the bar as I went past, spotting Daphne and her snake-tattooed neck as she set a cold beer in front of a suited patron. Her face looked pale and her eyes bore the look of a woman who was physically present and accounted for, but whose mind was a million miles away. I looked for Junior, but either he wasn’t there or I was moving too fast to notice him. Soon, I arrived at the corner of Lark and Madison where I hooked a right and ran on past The Lark Tavern. Three or four college age kids were smoking outside its big black wood door.

  “Better you than me, dude!” one of them barked. “Exercise sucks.”

  I heard their laughter as I passed by them, knowing that one day in the not too distant future, that same kid would be a middle-aged adult, and he would have no choice but to give up the cigarettes. No choice but to exercise. Or he would be looking at an
early grave. Funny how youth springs so eternal. But at the same time, life can be so fleeting.

  I entered Washington Square Park less than a minute later. The park was dark with only the inverted arks of sodium lamplight to illuminate the narrow roads that wound through the mostly flat landscape of expansive tree-lined greens. I took a road that ran diagonally through the very center of the park, since it was the only road that offered a trace of an incline. It also ended at a one-hundred-year-old wood and metal pedestrian bridge that spanned the width of the park’s long, man-made lake. I could run over the bridge and catch the park’s perimeter road on the opposite bank, then catch the State Street exit, and from there, head back to Lark Street and finally, Sherman Street.

  I was maybe half way across the diagonal road and close to the top of the incline when I began to feel the short, fine hairs on the back of my neck rise up. There was nothing specific to cause me alarm. Nothing within my line of sight or my periphery. I was alone and it was dark and quiet, and it was just a feeling I had. Something that was causing the alarm to go off inside my gut. The funny thing is, I almost had to laugh. If only it were possible to jog with my .45 still strapped to my chest. But carrying that two and a half pound load while it slapped against my left ribcage was impossible.

  Maybe I was still more than a little disturbed by what Daphne told me about Junior. About what he needed from Sarah. About what he demanded of her, but what she refused to give him in the end. About what caused her head injuries, and how even Daphne can’t sleep nights knowing what she knows about the man she sleeps with.

  Does pure evil exist in the world?

  Just take a walk through the cage in any maximum security prison and the answer will reveal itself in the form of “human beings” who are more at peace with rape, torture, and murder than they are living a life of goodness. These people have rights, and we pay for them and their wellness with our tax dollars.