Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  “And you should make a police report.”

  “The people I call will probably tell the DC cops.”

  “There had better be one hell of a story at the end of this, or I swear, I’m gonna make this beating look like a day at the beach. By the way, who did it, anyway? Do you know?”

  “Jason and his boy Adam. At gunpoint, to start with.”

  She inhaled audibly. “I hope you’ve read my part of the file. I don’t think I can talk about it.” She seemed to like being tough, so that admission made me understand how bad it had been for her.

  I changed the subject. “You seem to be pretty handy at first aid and all of that.”

  “In the army, I was a field medic.”

  “Army, now TV news? Anything else you’d care to share?”

  “I usually save that for pillow talk, and you messed that up.”

  “Sandra—”

  “Before you try to be all kind and flattered, it would be better if we were friends. I have a feeling that once you get going, you’d be a little too intense for me. I’d be too flighty for you, but I think we could become good friends. It makes me wish you were gay.”

  I must have flinched.

  “Lots of women find gay men to be the best friends, no sexual tension, but the male vantage point. On the other hand, a good male friend with a little sexual tension would be nice. You could use a woman’s viewpoint now and again, I bet. Let’s get you checked in to the Emergency Room.”

  “Do I have time for a quick phone call?”

  “Quick, please.”

  I called DaSilva’s number, got his voice mail and left a message to call me at my motel with a time to reach him. I asked for four hours from the time of my call. When I staggered on the way to the elevator, a surprisingly strong, thin arm caught me around the waist. She stopped at the desk and told them lies about the bloodstain, and led me to her car. She drove a luxurious Japanese car and I asked her about blood on the seats. She laughed and locked the doors from her side. We whirred and purred, until she pulled up to the emergency room entrance. I walked in on my own.

  There was the ritual about the insurance card and co-pay, and all of the potentially horrifying side effects of their treatments, and interminable waits. One to get into a curtained area, then another until the doctor appeared. Finally, taped, wrapped and tied, they told me what to do about pain. I’d been in the johnny that covered my upper abdomen, but not much else, for the whole time.

  I would have signed anything for clothes and some dignity. Not too bad though, on the whole. No hernia, some swelling, “edema” they called it, two bruised ribs, three stitches and warnings about concussions and signs of worse. Then I was wheeled out to meet the cab to bring me back to my motel. The painkiller had kicked in.

  In my room, the message light on the phone was flashing. There were two calls; one from DaSilva and one from Dana. I kicked that around for a bit, and called DaSilva first.

  “Newport Police, Detective Bureau, Sergeant DaSilva.”

  “Hey, Sarge.”

  “Hello, there.”

  “Privacy?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Call me back in twenty, you still have the number?”

  “I have it. Make it an hour, though.”

  We hung up, and I dialed Dana’s number. She’d called in sick. I called her home number and got her machine. I left a message to call me and left the number. I turned the TV on, and saw that housekeeping had been here. The carpet looked clean and damp and the mess from the careless search had been picked up. There was a note to call the front desk. I ignored it and sat up on the left hand bed. I called Al’s friend about a gun.

  A little while later, he called from the lobby. He was on the low side of thirty, with a military bearing, but a strange ponytail that came from the crown of his head. “Al called,” was all he said. I wondered what the relationship was, but it was better to leave that alone. An investigator, Al would have lots of strange contacts. It wasn’t as if finding a gun in DC would have been hard, but this was a lot more convenient.

  Outside in the parking lot, we stood near the trunk of his car. I counted out his money and he handed me a Beretta, nine millimeter, fourteen round version, two spare magazines, a box of shells and a holster that could clip to either side of my belt. He had no pouches for the magazines, but that was okay. I could pick up a cleaning kit later on. No numbers on the gun. The action felt crisp and solid. I wondered if there was someplace to practice.

  “Three miles up the road, to the right as you leave is a gravel pit. It has a chain, no guard, and nobody cares if you shoot there,” he said. “Lots of guys go there to shoot, and as long as it ain’t autogetem, nobody cares.”

  “Autogetem,” Ranger slang for full automatic, machine gun-style firing. He carried himself like a soldier and sounded like one. Strange what happens to some guys when they get out. Some of them tend bar, some sell guns. We shook hands, and he told me to feel free to call him anytime.

  I tucked my purchase into the brown grocery bag he had given me. No one suspects grocery bags. When I got back to my room, I sat on the bed and field stripped it. I remembered the smell of gun oil fondly. I loaded all three magazines and slapped them against my thigh to seat the rounds. I tried the holster and a couple of draws. I settled on my favorite, butt forward, on my right hand side because I could reach it left handed, and it provided the only way to draw a weapon seated at a table or in a car.

  Right on time, the phone rang. “DaSilva,” he said.

  “Hi. Free to talk?”

  “Yup, so tell me.”

  I went through it, leaving the gun but nothing else out, including jamming Adam to the floor. I wanted to read the rest of that file as soon as I took my medicine and got my head to stop hurting.

  “Sounds like you struck a nerve, Costa.”

  “I think so. There’s something nasty there, Larry. Oops. Can I call you ‘Larry’?”

  “Just did.”

  I told him more, about Lois, and Sandra’s file, and the Dead Man’s Switch. I left out names and he noticed. “I’ll want names at some point, you know.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “What kind of shape are you in? You described a good ass-kicking.”

  “I’m okay for what I still need to do.”

  “And you found yourself a piece?” This guy was frightening. He seemed to know whatever the hell he needed to. “Don’t answer that. About Petersen. He’s got some strange connections, and had lots of juice pushing him into the office, and we’re trying to pin that down. It isn’t a happy thing, but you helped out by putting us onto him. We’re trying to find out what’s up with that strip joint too.”

  “How about the Congressman’s autopsy results?”

  “Interestinger and interestinger,” he answered. “Even over a clean phone, I’m not happy discussing it. Bring me a copy of that file. Sterilize it if you want, but I need to see it. Write down a summary of what you got from the young woman and the bartender at the strip joint. We have it on tape, but your statement will help us.”

  I remembered the thousand and one exceptions to the “hearsay rule,” and knew that he was already thinking about a trial. I’d bet that the District Attorney loved the guy.

  “Get whatever you have to do, done, then get your ass back here. Between Mrs. Pina, and Agent Kilroy, I don’t know who’s going to drive me bughouse first.”

  “Agent Kilroy?”

  “Cut the shit, Paul, okay? We aren’t friends, but don’t jerk me off, okay? She’s a good cop, for a fed, but she can’t lie for shit, and she lights up whenever you’re mentioned. She asks about you before she asks for case specifics, and whatever you two have going on isn’t hurting anything. For the record, you’re clear.”

  “You’re a piss-poor cupid, Larry.”

  “You’re all grown up, Paul. You got yourself under suspicion for murder, fucked up a perfectly simple investigation. You’ve been around the block, you’re sitting in
Washington, fucking, DC, with the shit beaten out of you and a gun on your hip.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “Aren’t you kind of ashamed to need a cupid?”

  “Screw you.”

  “Not, now, I have a headache.”

  “Got it.”

  “And do something about Kilroy and Mrs. Pina.”

  “Got it.”

  We hung up. If the murder was a murder, and the murder wasn’t solved, at least the investigation wasn’t looking at me. If it hadn’t hurt so much, I would have heaved a sigh of relief. My daughter had a future. I dozed off, dreaming of dead men under toilets, and cells and handcuffs, and flighty women in elegant drawing rooms.

  It was hot and stuffy when I woke up, startled. It took a moment to realize that the phone had been ringing. I lit a cigarette and answered it.

  “Hello?” said an unfamiliar male voice, “This is Paul Costa?”

  “Who’s calling?” I said, putting the cigarette out as if I needed my hands free.

  “I’m a friend of the lady you visited, yesterday. She called and suggested that we should speak. I confess I’m a bit nonplused by that. On the other hand, the fact that she made the suggestion impelled me to call. I’m really not comfortable speaking over the phone, but I have some time today. Can we meet?”

  His old-fashioned speech was contagious, I guess. “I think we ought.”

  He mentioned a hotel, not far from where I was, and gave me a room number. “Is there a more public forum at the hotel?” I asked.

  “I would be happy to meet you in the lounge, if you’d find that more comfortable.”

  We agreed to a half hour, and I took a few minutes to clean up a bit. I found the place, and walked into the lounge. There was one man, sitting at the bar alone, with a glass of wine in front of him. So help me, I swear it was port. That had to be him.

  I sat next to him, and ordered a muddled Old Fashioned. The bartender looked baffled, so I rattled off the recipe and turned to the man next to me. Navy blue pinstriped suit, tailored, single needle, wingtip shoes and a silver tie complemented a trim build and utterly distinguished looking man. His blonde hair was graying. He was old money aristocratic, and tough as nails. I’d met men like him. Camille Morley had chosen well. “I’m Paul Costa.”

  “Yes, I took the liberty of pulling your records. Quite impressive, although you tend to be a bit of a loose cannon. You seem to have provoked a bit of heavy-handedness.”

  He paused, as if waiting for a response before he spoke, “May I assume that Camille’s son was responsible?”

  “Him and their pet ape, Adam.”

  “May I also assume that it has something to do with Camille’s late husband? His murder and your role in that?”

  “I’m not sure. Neither one of them said anything, just got right down to business. There’s doubt that Congressman Morley was murdered.”

  “If you agreed, you’d be home with your daughter by now.” Suddenly the old world courtliness was gone. His tone had gone harder, and his blue eyes, under white brows were leveled at me. “You wouldn’t be carrying that gun at your right waist, and you wouldn’t have insisted on a public meeting.”

  “All true. By the way, what would you like me to call you?”

  “Please call me Rob. May I call you Paul?”

  “Certainly, Rob. Short for Robert?”

  “It’s Friedrich.”

  I decided not waste time on the question that his answer begged.

  “Camille is a lovely woman, and we’ve been friends for several years. Ever since my wife passed away,” he said.

  “She is lovely. She’s also tough, smart and resourceful.”

  “Yes. And fragile in some ways, and vulnerable in others. Her husband was trash, and her son is worse.”

  “How about the daughter?”

  “She’s a lovely young girl, under Jason’s thumb. Before that, she was under her father’s.”

  “Must be tough to watch.”

  “I’m sure that it’s tougher to live through.”

  I paused to consider. “I’m going to put a hypothetical situation to you. Please be patient with me, but be honest, as well.”

  “I lie for a living, Paul, that may be difficult.”

  “I’m a bartender; we lie too.”

  He smiled. “Of course you do. Put your hypothesis. I promise that if I can’t talk, that I’ll tell you so.”

  “Fair enough. A man in late middle age has to die. He has to die within a ten-minute window. Ideally, it should look like a heart attack. The man drinks heavily, and associates with women he doesn’t know well. He’s a guest at a hotel and drunk. Can it be accomplished?”

  He looked at me through those level blue eyes. “Easily.”

  “Would there be any traces?”

  “Only if one knew exactly what to look for.”

  “How difficult would it be for a layperson like me to obtain the services and materials needed?”

  “With sufficient funds, not hard at all.”

  “If I were the person doing the post-mortem, what would I be looking for and where would I expect to find it?”

  “Do you have an e-mail address? I don’t have that information, like a lot of technical matters. I can have someone e-mail you that information to pass along to the coroner. I can’t be seen to be involved and I can’t help officially.”

  I hadn’t touched my drink, nor had he, since I’d sat down. We seemed to think of it at the same time and each paused to sip them. Mine was awful. I set the glass down. “Mixing drinks properly is becoming a lost art,” said Rob.

  I nodded.

  We rose to leave. “Paul, be a bit circumspect, and you may find things go more easily for you.”

  “Good advice.”

  “It was well meant.”

  I thanked him, trying to sound sincere, shook his hand and left.

  I still needed to speak to young Ms. Morley. Most of the family’s sickness could be pointed directly at the Congressman, but his wife and children had tolerated it, and in the case of the son, taken an active part. People trying to raise happy, healthy adults had produced mass murderers. Morley’s games had been dangerous. He’d been playing with fire.

  I made a note on my legal pad to ask Dana about that, and about what could turn the father and son against each other, or what would happen to the son’s mental state when the father died. I thought about that, and Jason Morley’s assertive control of the household, before I made the phone call to the Morley townhouse.

  “Morley residence,” said Adam’s voice.

  “Miss Charlene Morley, please,” I said.

  “Miss Charlene will be with you in a moment, whom should I say is calling?”

  “How’s your eye?”

  “About the same as yours, dickhead.”

  “Miss Charlene, boy. Chop-Chop, you go run get Missy Charlene, make quick fast. I need speak her on magic box. You go run her, tell her, same-same. You number one good boy.” I heard voices in the background.

  “Why are you calling?” she asked, without a greeting.

  “We need to meet,” I said, being careful to say, “we,” “I know things you need to know, and you may know things that I need too.”

  “Suppose I said that I know what I need to, Mr. Costa?”

  “I’d say that perhaps you could still see your way clear to helping me.”

  “Mr. Costa, you may well be my father’s murderer, you assaulted our houseboy, and my brother—”

  “Miss Morley.”

  “Charlene.”

  “Charlene, I didn’t assault Adam, I protected myself from him, and stopped when he stopped trying to hurt me. Your brother appeared at my motel and he and Adam beat me at gunpoint. I can’t understand why, unless they just enjoy it. I didn’t kill your father, and I believe that we need to meet, and sooner rather than later.” I left out the part about wanting to go home.

  There was a long silence before she gave me an address in Arlington.
We agreed to meet there in three quarters of an hour and hung up. I was partly afraid, and partly hoping that her brother and houseboy would come with her.

  I eased my way to the elevator and car, favoring my ribs and head, and aiming my crotch away from any potential threats.

  Chapter 11

  My map got me to the health club right on time. There were brightly polished chrome dumbbells, free weights and racks to hold them, on the far side of a tall glass wall. Lots of people, men and women, were on stair climbers and treadmills and stationary bikes and complicated weight machines. All of them were dressed in workout outfits that probably cost more than my best suit.

  I was seated at a juice bar, waiting over a peach smoothie when she walked in. Like the “bartender” at the juice bar, she was wearing white shorts and a golf shirt, looking as though she was going to teach an aerobics class. She turned some heads when she sat next to me.

  She seemed withdrawn and shy but I sensed a lot of anger from her. She didn’t show it, but if she’d come into my bar, I’d have been watching her intake carefully. I’d have checked her I.D. as well, even though from my research, I knew she was twenty-two.

  “Mr. Costa,” she said, “Why am I here?”

  “I’m trying to be tactful, Charlene, and it’s going to be hard to do that and to be factual, too.”

  “Hard to be tactful about my father, so let me help you. He was a pig in his private life. He made sure that Jason grew up to be just like him. He mistreated my mother, he abused any woman he could and kept it secret.” The hatred was physical in its affect on her; her color and face changed.

  “Including you?” It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to me that the Congressman abusing his daughter would fit the pattern. She understood. In today’s world, it was discussed openly.

  “You’re wrong. You think he was sexually abusing me, and he didn’t. He had other ways to degrade a person.” She was emphatic, but not convincing.

  “You don’t have to tell me, Charlene,” as gently as I could manage it.