by Nick Dorsey
“Like brothers.”
“So you would know if he fought with his wife or not?”
“Everybody fights with their wife.”
“But you would know why.”
Sal poured himself a half a glass of wine. “Like what? Like money? Like they fight over sex? Maybe Ernesto was banging somebody else? Or something like that? Mr. Connelly, you got to make a dollar and I don't blame you. I said I liked Sofia and that's true. But I remember I also said she should get the fucking chair, and that's true, too. Ernesto's dead.” Sal’s cold eye met Tom’s. “I think that’s all I want to say about that right now. Hey, there’s our food.”
The guy with the stubble, Dominic, brought a plate of catfish amandine for Tom and a roast beef po’boy for Sal . Sal plucked a piece of meat from the plate and ate it, smacking his lips. “Ernesto took the roast beef off the dinner menu. He said it wasn’t classy enough. We got it on the lunch menu, though. And they still make it for dinner if I ask. Don't tell nobody. Late-night po’boy is my secret vice.”
Tom ate his fish, heavy on the garlic and butter. He thought it was pretty good. Not great, but pretty good. So there was a reason the place had been around forever. Tom would put the fare in the old-fashioned bordering on boring category rather than classic cuisine, but it was good just the same.
Sal wiped his hands and waved to a passing busboy. “Get me another napkin, okay?” He sucked his teeth. “Mr. Connelly, you know the po’boy story?”
Tom chewed his catfish and thought for a minute. “Is this going to be a dirty joke?”
“C’mon. No, I mean you know why a po’boy is a po’boy?”
“It's just a name for a sandwich. They have different names all over. Some places, it’s a sub or a hoagie or whatever.”
A young woman brought Sal a few more napkins and he thanked her, then turned back to Tom. “A hoagie? What they teach you in school? No. You don't know anything. I mean, sure, po’boy is local. But here, and I’m telling you something, now. So listen. Here, back in the thirties, maybe it was the twenties, even, they weren’t paying the streetcar conductors nothing . So all the conductors said screw this, and they went on strike. Now all the trains ain’t running and all these drivers are on the picket line. They were going hungry walking around with their signs protesting.” Sal ate and wiped gravy from his chin. “Then you got these guys, the Martin brothers. They own a little restaurant. And they used to be streetcar conductors, both brothers. So they are sympathetic to the cause, you know? And one day one of the Martin brothers looks out the window and sees them protesting and he feels for them, you know? Then they take some pieces of French bread, and the ends of the roast beef they got in the back and some gravy. Just the leftovers right? And he makes some sandwiches.” Sal grinned and waved his stub of sandwich at Tom. “And he says, hey, tell those po’boys to come in here and get some lunch. And the po’boy was born.”
Tom had heard something like this story before. A bit of New Orleans apocrypha that was floating around the city, a layer of mythology to go along with everything else. He thought maybe a dozen different people claimed they coined the term po’boy, but he decided to indulge Sal a bit. He said, “Is that right?”
“That’s right. And the streetcar don’t have a union no more . And Martin Brothers restaurant is up and gone. But we still eating this sandwich here. And people remember that favor, all these years later. Because this is New Orleans. It’s no place for the, what do you call it? The faint of heart. But if we don't take care of one another, who's gonna? And that’s how the city runs, I think. Me personally, I think you can keep all your contracts and city council resolutions and what-not. I trust a handshake. I trust lookin’ out for one another.” He paused a moment and looked at Tom. Waiting to see how he would react? Or if he would react at all. Then Sal nodded, maybe to himself. “That’s me, though. That’s just me.”
Tom didn’t say anything for a moment. They both knew that Sal wasn’t talking about sandwiches. He was talking favors. Lookin’ out for one another type of favors. Favors Tom could do for Sal, and favors Sal could return. He had been offered bribes a time or two back when he was a cop, but few of them came with a culinary history lesson.
Tom tossed his napkin onto his plate. The leather booth creaked as he leaned back. “It’s getting late.”
“You sure? We got a good tiramisu. We got cannoli too.” He leaned forward again, that conspiratorial tone. Like he was letting Tom in a big secret. “ They from Brocato’s on Carrollton Avenue. They good , but not fresh like in the store. I say the tiramisu.”
Later, when Tom left the Pan Dell’Orso, he saw Dominic standing by the bar. The young man nodded to Tom and raised a hand in a semblance of a wave. Tom nodded to him but noted where he was standing. The way he was holding himself.
There's a sixth sense that all humans have. A sense that tells you when you're being watched. Something like a heightened awareness. To be a good cop you have to tune into this sense and trust it completely. As he left the restaurant, Tom got a twitch from this sixth sense. He could have sworn Dominic had been watching them, and listening, the whole time.
He was driving home but at the last minute, he turned and stopped off at Winn-Dixie and walked around the grocery store thinking about po’boys and favors. What would a favor for Sal LaRocca look like? Tom thought it looked like half-assing the defense investigation of Sofia Adelfi. Yeah, that might be a good start. Sal hadn’t said anything specific but Tom knew a bribe when someone waved it in front of his face.
He grabbed a pound of coffee and continued walking. Up the aisles to the bakery and then back down the aisles to the dairy section. He had a hunch that Ernesto Adelfi’s death was more than some domestic dispute. The LaRocca family, and Sal’s talk of favors, and the way Dominic had looked at him as he left the Pan all added up to something bigger than he was hoping for.
Back on the job for less than twenty-four hours and already in deep. Calling in sick to his day job so he could ruffle grey feathers at a nearly empty mob hangout. And he could use the money from the casino job. What was he thinking? If he wanted to play detective he should have kept his office and kept his license hanging up inside. No. He decided to throw in the towel. Better to have the casino job. Play it straight. Get into security long-term. Embrace the job that had a clock. Clock in, clock out. That way, boundaries are nice and clear. That way no problems, or people, follow you home.
Why did he have to go to that damned restaurant? He knew the answer to that. He had a hunch, and it was a good one, and he was never good at resisting temptation. Still, he would have to tell Jean, probably.
Eventually, he found himself standing in front of a row of liquor. Vodka, rum, bourbon, scotch. Bottles gleaming in the overhead light. Tom reached out and flicked a whiskey bottle with his middle finger just to hear it ring. Now how did he get here?
Before he could come up with an answer his phone pinged. Dennis had made a move in their virtual chess game. Tom set his coffee down on a shelf next to a bottle of whiskey and gripped his phone with both hands, trying to decide whether he should move his rook or knight. The knight. He could hook it one way and take out the kid’s pawn. Hey, he was getting the hang of this game. He sent a message to Dennis. I think I’ve got you this time.
Dennis wrote, The game’s not over yet. Then his bishop, that sneaky bastard, swooped over and took Tom’s knight.
Tom grinned and typed another message as he left the store. Then he drove home. Three blocks later he remembered he had forgotten the coffee. It was still sitting there between the liquor bottles.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stubby fingers spread a series of 8x10 color photos across the desk. The first picture showed a man with a slight paunch and a receding hairline laying on his back across a king-size bed. He would never be mistaken for sleeping, for being at rest. Being at peace. His eyes open and lips were twisted. His head lay to one side just below two fluffy pillows, lips red with blood. A fine red mist had been
ejected from his mouth and splattered across the bedspread to the edge of the bed. His cream shirt was unbuttoned, the white shirt underneath was stained pink. The next photo showed a close-up of the pink undershirt and the three slits in the shirt that were just barely recognizable as bullet holes. The edges of the slits were frayed and burnt.
Another photo showed the body of Ernesto Adelfi in its entirety, his left leg tucked under his right, the right foot dangling off the bed. He was wearing socks but no shoes. Then there was a close up of the floor, a patterned rug in blue and gold just at the end of the bed. Centered in the frame was a small silver automatic pistol.
Jean didn't know guns, but she could read RUGER on the grip. She said, “Whose gun was this? I mean, who is it registered to?”
Patton said, “It's registered to Sofia. Ernesto had a weapon, too. A Smith and Wesson…um.” He flipped through a worn notebook. “Pro Series. Whatever that means.”
“It’s a target pistol,” Tom said.
“So it’s her gun.” Jean didn’t like that. “But she says she didn't use it. Or have much to do with it. He would go to the range, not her. At least that's what she says. It mostly stayed in her dresser drawer.”
“At least that's what she said.” Tom hunched over the photos, giving each a careful look. What he was looking for? Jean didn't know. That was good. That's why she needed him.
Jean managed to secure the conference room for the afternoon, so Tom and Patton didn’t have to cram into her office again. It wasn’t the large one where she had hosted the Robinsons, but the small, intimate room right next to the supply closet. Tom was wearing a suit now and looking comfortable in it. Patton was there in a green corduroy jacket. Odd couple style. She liked that.
The man with the stubby fingers pushing the photos to one side of the table was a forensics expert. A professorial type in a sweater vest with round John Lennon glasses. He probably had long hair back when he still had hair. Now he slid a piece of paper from a manila folder onto the table. He said, “Whoever owned the gun, I don't know. But it's the gun that was used. The ballistics match.” He gestured to more pictures of the rug. It was dotted with a number of tiny yellow sandwich boards. Evidence markers. “The spent casings match. The shooter was about six feet tall, standing near the edge of the bed.”
“Mrs. Adelfi is five-eleven,” Jean said.
“Partial matches on the gun. But it was her gun. And the GSR was inconclusive.” He meant the gunshot residue analysis, which tested for gunpowder and other particles left behind when a firearm was discharged. “Some trace amounts on her hand. Should have been more for a shooter, but she could have washed her hand with some cleaner.” The man held up his stubby fingers, mimicking aiming a pistol downward. “The victim was probably lying down when he, or she, approached. He starts to get up, five rounds are fired. Three hit Mr. Adelfi. Another was dug out of the wall, high and right. Another out of the headboard.”
Jean didn’t like that, either. If Adelfi was standing, maybe there was a confrontation. He could have been the aggressor. There could have been some altercation that led to deadly escalation of force. But it appeared the shooter surprised him while he was taking a nap. Jean was already facing an uphill battle, now she was going uphill both ways in the snow. Under Louisiana, juries could convict with a non-unanimous jury. Ten out of twelve jurors could decide Sofia Adelfi’s fate. Jean thought the evidence they had so far would be enough for the district attorney to convince a great many people that Sofia surprised and murdered her husband.
And with evidence like this, a plea deal might not even be in the cards. The DA was playing with a stacked deck.
Patton was leaning over the photos. His face became ashen and Jean was reminded of how young he was. How little experience he had. Were these his first crime scene photos? She didn't know. Now he was pointing to the bloodstains on the bed. “His mouth is bleeding here. Was he, you know, beaten up first? I didn’t read about any of that.”
“No, he wasn’t beaten.” The forensics expert took his glasses off and cleaned them with a hanky. “That was expelled from the mouth after the bullet wounds. The foreign objects, and here when I say foreign objects? That’s the bullet and the pieces of shirt, they pierced the lung tissue. The lungs filled with blood. He coughed, most likely. A few times.”
“Jesus.” Patton sat back down and looked anywhere but the photos.
“Yeah. Not a pretty way to go.”
Jean tried to spin the evidence in any direction other than the one it was currently pointing. She couldn’t find another angle. “Mr. Connelly, any other questions?”
Tom shrugged. Then he pointed to an evidence marker. “This is where Mrs. Adelfi was lying when the police found her?”
“Yes.”
“Right here? She was just a few feet away from the foot of the bed?”
“Correct.”
“So here’s the DA’s scenario: She surprises her husband. Shoots him. Drops the gun, right? And then, what? Takes a nap?”
“The DA will maintain she was drunk and passed out at the scene,” Jean said. Not sure where Tom was going, but thankful to be on the ride with him.
“How drunk do you have to be to pass out seconds after firing a gun? What was her BAC?”
They all turned to the forensics expert. “Her blood alcohol content?” He held up his hands, helpless. “I don’t have that information.”
Patton grunted and began flipping through his notebook. “I’ve got it. U Point oh-nine the next morning when she consented to a blood test. High for the morning after.”
“Still over the legal limit,” Jean said. Patton nodded along with her. “But no other drugs in her system?”
“I just have the BAC. No toxicology. But I see where you're going, who shoots their husband and then takes a nap in the same room?”
“That's what I'm trying to work out,” Tom said. “Let me play devil's advocate for a minute. Regardless of how much she has to drink, she fires the weapon. And then she's satisfied. She had reason to do what she did, let’s say that. She's relieved. All that tension just leaves her body. When I was a police officer we’d leave suspects in the box for hours. It's not a hard-and-fast rule, but the guilty ones? They go to sleep. The innocent ones look like shit, they’re going over all sorts of things in their minds. How did they wind up here? Why did they get arrested? Their adrenaline is jacked up and it stays that way. But the guilty ones sleep. It's like they know it's over, they don't have to hide anymore. They can relax.”
Jean clenched her jaw. “So now you're saying she did do it?”
Tom shook his head. “No. I'm saying that the DA has a believable story here. She fires a weapon, then she falls to the ground? Is she crying? I don't know, maybe. Either way, above all else, maybe she's relieved. Because maybe she’s been thinking about this for months, or years, and now? Bang. She finally did it. And she can sleep.”
A little while later the forensic expert left and Jean was stuck there trying to figure out a strategy. Self-defense? She realized that Tom and Patton were waiting for the okay to leave.
“Why don’t you go back to her friends,” she said. “The yoga class. And see if they remember anything else.” Patton nodded, flipping through his notebook. Jean assumed he was looking for the information on Jean’s friends from the yoga studio. She cleared her throat. “And we better check out restaurant staff. See if Ernesto was seeing anybody on the side.”
“Okay,” Tom said. In a tone she couldn’t quite place. Jean didn’t like it, sending Tom to the restaurant. He was a little too prone to conspiracy theories. So she said, “Tom, why don't you take the yoga crowd. Patton has already been over there. Patton, can you take the restaurant?”
Patton nodded but Tom said, “You don't want us on this together?”
“No. Cover separate ground and compare notes.”
Tom hesitated, but he followed Patton out the door. Jean watched them stop in the hallway and talk. They were getting along. That was good. None of th
e peacocking, alpha male bullshit that she expected. She overheard Tom say something like, “You seen any crime scene photos before?”
Patton shrugged and said something back.
Tom said, “It's worse at first. I didn't work Homicide, I was Property Crimes. Still. You see some things. After a while, you'll be able to see the case. Not just the people.”
Jean expected them to walk to the elevators together but instead of leaving, they shook hands. Patton walked off alone. Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to come back into the conference room. He stopped at the table but didn’t sit.
Jean said, “I know you’d probably like to get inside the house to take a look, but there’s some red tape there. It should be cleared up after we enter a plea.”
Nothing from Tom. He was still standing there. That didn’t sit right with Jean. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Something was wrong.
“I went to the Pan Dell’Orso last night.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The words came out before Jean could catch herself. She had told him specifically to stay away from that place. She said, “Why would you do that?”
Tom reached a hand across the desk in something like an apologetic gesture. Jean pulled back, sitting up straight, arms crossed. Tom said, “Listen, I just wanted to talk to the LaRocca guy.”
“You wanted to harass an old man. Great. Your bullshit has consequences here, do you understand that?” Her jaw set, she said, “I hired you to put together a timeline. To give me something to work with. I’m interested in Sofia. End of story.”
“I can see you're angry.”
“Is that your great private detective insight at work? I'm not running down rabbit holes with you, Mr. Connelly. I need facts. I need a timeline. Unless you found a busboy who can testify that he saw Ernesto Adelfi beat his wife on a daily basis, or you found a maid or something that saw Sofia shoot her enraged husband in self-defense, then this conversation is over.”