Secondhand Smoke

by Karen E. Olson

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. You heard voices, but you said only one person came out. There was a gunshot. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re the great private investigator.”

  He shot me a look that made me sorry I’d said it. But I didn’t apologize. I just started looking around a little more, too.

  I stepped tentatively a little farther to the right, past where the doors to the dining room would’ve been.

  I saw blood on the ashes. I took another step. The scream caught in my throat.

  Sal Amato lay among the rubble, his eyes staring lifelessly at nothing, a neat hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Chapter 15

  Vinny grabbed me from behind and pulled me back. He then stepped around me and took a closer look before leading me outside. I was hyperventilating again.

  Vinny stroked my hair and whispered, “You’ll be okay,” over and over until I could feel myself breathing almost normally again. I nestled my face against his shoulder, breathed in his scent, and it calmed me.

  “I guess you found Sal,” I said quietly. But after a second: “Well, I guess I found Sal.”

  “You’re in shock,” Vinny said matter-of-factly as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, but I could see his hand shaking as he punched in the numbers.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about what Sal looked like. It was just like in the movies, but this time it was Sal and not De Niro or Pacino. “What was that Pacino movie where they cut up the body?” I asked Vinny, who was calling 911.

  “Which one?” he asked as he stuck the phone back in his coat.

  The snow was falling gently as Vinny steered me back around to the front sidewalk. I could hear sirens approaching. That was fast. But the gunshot was so loud, someone in the neighborhood had probably called 911 before Vinny.

  I didn’t even notice Vinny had made another call until he was finished talking.

  “That was my father, wasn’t it,” I said in a moment of lucidity.

  He nodded. “You don’t look too good.”

  I didn’t feel too good. I didn’t give a shit about the snow or the slush or my jeans, and I sat down, putting my head between my legs. Vinny’s fingers massaged the back of my neck. It felt pretty damn good.

  The sirens were closer now, and when I looked up, the cruisers were pulling up in front of us. Tom stepped out of a Crown Vic and looked down at me.

  “I should’ve known you’d be around here somewhere,” he said accusingly.

  “I saw something over here. I didn’t think it would be anything like this,” I said.

  “She saw someone leaving with a gun,” Vinny added.

  Tom stared at me. “You saw whoever did this?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. I couldn’t see a face, or even a body, really. He was wearing a big puffy coat and a hood that came up over his face.” I thought a minute. “I don’t know who killed the chickens.”

  Tom’s face scrunched up with confusion. “Chickens?”

  “There are three dead chickens in the basement,” I said.

  Tom shook his head. “Dead chickens?” he said incredulously.

  “I think they were the tic-tac-toe chickens,” I said after a minute.

  Tom snorted. “I can’t believe this,” he said, and moved past us into the restaurant, where the crime scene guys were already at work.

  “He thinks we’re crazy,” I told Vinny.

  Vinny grinned. “No, he thinks you’re crazy.”

  That wasn’t news.

  Speaking of news, I wondered where Dick Whitfield was. I hadn’t seen him in two days, and usually I was tripping all over him. A thought dawned on me, one that would verify Tom’s suspicions about my mental health. Maybe it was Dick Whitfield. Maybe he was like a Jack the Ripper or a Boston Strangler. Maybe it was Dick in that puffy coat—the Michelin Man with a penchant for chicken blood.

  I had to get ahold of myself.

  “Do you think that guy killed the chickens, too?” I asked Vinny.

  Vinny shrugged. “Maybe.”

  I had another thought, one that made me shiver again. “Why didn’t he kill me when I saw him run out? He could’ve, he had that gun.” I thought about what Vinny had said about the Mob not killing honest journalists, but Vinny suggested something else.

  “Maybe he knew you wouldn’t be able to identify him with a big hood over his head.” He paused. “How tall was he?”

  “I dunno. Little taller than me, maybe six feet, six two.”

  “You’re not that tall.”

  “I can be, in heels,” I argued.

  “But you’re not wearing heels now.”

  We stared at my big snow boots.

  “I like a girl in boots,” Vinny whispered. He was smiling that sexy smile again.

  “Keep your eyes off my boots or I’ll slap a sexual harassment complaint against you.” Sparring with Vinny was keeping me from thinking about Sal, who should’ve been basking in the sun on some Caribbean island, hiding from the feds. “What was Sal doing here, anyway?”

  “He was waiting for something. Had to be. Or he would’ve been gone by now,” Vinny said.

  I saw a silver Town Car out of the corner of my eye. I thought about Dominic Gaudio, but his car was white. This one pulled up to the curb and parked behind one of the cruisers. My father stepped out into the street, spotted me and Vinny in the driveway, waved, and came over, ignoring all the cops and activity around us.

  “Are you okay, Annie?” His voice was soft, and he bent down close to me.

  I nodded.

  “What happened here?” He asked this of Vinny, who straightened up and shoved his hands in his pockets, probably to keep anyone else from noticing they were still shaking. I wasn’t the only one affected by this.

  Vinny told him about me finding Sal.

  “Shit,” Dad said quietly.

  I stood up. It would be futile to try to brush off the slush. I looked back at the restaurant but didn’t see Tom. I was going to have to change my clothes or I’d freeze to death out here.

  “I’ll go find Tom and tell him you’ll be right back,” Vinny offered, and I watched him until he disappeared around the building.

  My father took my arm and led me across the square.

  “I don’t get why Sal was still here,” I said, stopping and looking at my father. His eyes were tired, and his mouth hung slack. “Why didn’t you help him?”

  His eyes grew a little harder. “How could I do that?”

  “You must have known where he was.”

  He didn’t say anything. I knew I couldn’t push it much further. If he didn’t want to tell me anything, he wasn’t going to. There was nothing I could say or do that would change his mind.

  “Did Mac know that Sal was here? Was he at the house?”

  “Why don’t you let it go for now?” There was something in his voice that told me to stop.

  At the bottom of my steps, I turned to him. “You can go back over there, talk to Vinny or something,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I could send Vinny over,” he suggested, trying to make things lighter between us.

  “No. I’ll be right back,” I said, and went up the stairs and through the heavy door.

  Amber’s door cracked open as I came up the stairs.

  “What’s going on over there?” she asked. I could see only half her face.

  I shook my head, not wanting to get into it.

  “Did you get the recipe?” I heard her ask as I started up the stairs.

  I turned back and stared at her. “Listen, Amber, I like meat. I hate tofu. Sorry, but you’re wasting your time.”

  The door creaked open a little farther, and I saw a bit more of her face, a lot of hair. “You should stop the suffering,” she started, but I just snorted and turned my back on her, going up the stairs and into my apartment.

  The phone rang just as I pulled off my pants. I was cons
idering a quick hot shower when I picked up the receiver.

  “If you keep poking around, you’ll be next.” The voice was muffled, as if he were talking through a pillow.

  “Who is this?” I asked, my own voice trembling.

  The dial tone echoed through my ear, and my hand started to shake. Whoever had been in that restaurant knew who I was.

  Of course he knew me. Jesus, everyone in the neighborhood knew who I was. And this had to be someone from the neighborhood. Someone who knew about the chickens and their Mob connection.

  I sat on the bed, wrapping the comforter around my middle to warm myself up. I still wore my wool sweater and turtleneck, and my hair was wet with melted snow. I don’t know how long I sat there, my head swimming, until I heard the door buzzer. I pulled the comforter off the bed, clutching it around me as I went to the window. Vinny was laying on the buzzer like there was no fucking tomorrow. I buzzed him in, and I could hear his heavy boots pounding against the wooden stairs in the hall.

  He stared at the comforter around my waist, my bare feet on the floor.

  The smile told me he’d guessed correctly that I was wearing nothing but my birthday suit under there.

  “I was going to take a shower,” I tried lamely.

  “You shouldn’t do that to a man, Annie. You’re making me crazy.”

  But he didn’t come any closer. I might have let him. I might have let him do a lot of things right then and there, but he didn’t move.

  Damn.

  I went back into the bedroom, found a dry pair of underpants and an old pair of khakis in the drawer, and locked myself in the bathroom to put them on. When I came back out, he was pouring a snifter of brandy.

  “Drink this. It’ll relax you,” he said, handing me the glass. “Tom said he’d come by here in about ten minutes.”

  I took the glass and drank. I felt the warm liquid down to my toes. He was right. I started to relax, and I knew it would brace me for facing Tom again with Vinny by my side.

  I took another swallow, then handed the glass back to Vinny. “I shouldn’t have more, that was enough. Thanks.” I sat on the couch, staring at my Japanese print of Mount Fuji across the room.

  Vinny put the snifter on the counter, then plopped down on the couch next to me. Our legs were touching, and neither of us pulled away. “Why didn’t my father get Sal out of town?”

  “Maybe he really didn’t know he was still here.”

  “Maybe.”

  But we didn’t believe that. We couldn’t prove it, but we didn’t believe it.

  “I got a threatening call.” I paused.

  Vinny sat straight up and stared at me. “From who?”

  I shrugged.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Told me to stop poking around or I’d end up dead like Sal.” As I said it, it sank in and the trembling started again.

  Vinny pulled me close, and I rested my head on his chest. I could hear his heartbeat underneath his chamois shirt. I felt his hand stroking my hair, just as he’d done outside, and it had the same effect.

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “You have to talk to Tom. Try to remember everything. I told him everything I saw. We have to find out who did this.”

  “So he doesn’t come after me,” I said quietly.

  “Want to hire me to protect you?” Vinny teased.

  “Are you cheap?”

  “No, just easy.” And he lifted my face with his hand and guided my lips to his. I forgot about Sal and the Mob and the chickens and the phone call. For about two seconds, until the buzzer interrupted us.

  “That’ll be Tom,” I said, pulling away reluctantly. I wanted to forget everything that had happened this morning, and here it was again, knocking on my door like an annoying Jehovah’s Witness.

  Tom didn’t like it that Vinny was there. But he pulled out his notebook and didn’t say anything, just started writing down everything I told him about going over there and finding the chickens and then the figure rushing past me with a gun.

  He closed his notebook when I was done and started for the door.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  He stopped and looked at me, his blue eyes almost violet in the light from the window. “That’s it.” And he walked out.

  “Boy, that was cold,” Vinny said quietly.

  I didn’t want to think about it. I had to keep my mind occupied with something else. I needed to call Marty. I picked up the phone, ignoring Vinny’s raised eyebrows.

  “Hey, Marty,” I said when he answered.

  “What’s going on over there? I tried to call your cell phone, but all I got was your voice mail.”

  My cell was in my purse, turned off.

  Marty was still talking. “Dick Whitfield called. He’s over at Prego. Says Sal Amato was found dead. And you found the body.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

  “You’ll need to talk to him.”

  “Who?”

  “Dick. For the story. Eyewitness and all.”

  “You want Dick to interview me?”

  Marty sighed. “Listen, Annie, obviously you can’t write this yourself. You’re part of the story.”

  “Jesus, Marty. He’ll get the quotes wrong, and then who do I complain to?”

  “You can read the story before we print it, okay? Will that ease your mind?”

  “Yeah, I guess that would be okay.” It was a lost cause. I’d lost my story because I was stupid enough to go into that shell of a building.

  I looked out the window at the crime scene. The cops all looked like ants, and there was Dick Whitfield—I could pick out his skinny fucking frame anywhere.

  “I’ll go talk to him now,” I volunteered. I hung up. “Maybe I should have some more brandy. Getting interviewed drunk by Dick Whitfield might be the best way.”

  Vinny smiled. “I could take advantage of you instead.”

  I could see the merits in that. I wouldn’t have to be interviewed and misquoted by a moron, the killer wouldn’t be able to get to me right away, and it would satisfy the itch that I’d had for Vinny for two months now.

  I wondered what Vinny would do if I said yes. Would he shout “Yippee!” and carry me into the bedroom, or would he get that “deer in the headlights” look a guy gets when a girl tells him she loves him and he’s just not quite ready for it?

  “I didn’t think you’d have to think about it so long,” Vinny teased, although I could see some relief in his face that I wasn’t completely enthusiastic.

  “It’s not really a good time,” I said. “Finding a dead body and getting threatened isn’t good foreplay.”

  “I know. I just thought I’d get your mind off those things for a few minutes.”

  I tried a smile. “Thanks. I gotta get back out there.”

  He nodded and picked up my coat. I frowned. “What’re you doing?” I asked as he came around behind me.

  “Haven’t you ever had a man help you on with your coat before?” he asked as he did just that.

  As I slid my arm into my coat, another thought crept into my brain.

  “Vinny, the guy called me on my phone.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah?”

  “My number’s unlisted.”

  Chapter 16

  Vinny grilled me about who might have my home phone number. I always gave out my cell phone number.

  “My parents and Tom have my home number. So do you, as a matter of fact.” I thought a second. “Oh, and Marty, but he doesn’t give it out to anyone, he knows better than that. Priscilla in New York has it, too, and Paula.” I paused for a minute, thinking about Paula. But the FBI wouldn’t have cause to threaten me. They might want to question me, but certainly not threaten me.

  “So you’re fairly sure no one but those few people would have your number?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone would give my number out.” But then I wasn’t so sure. My number was in the phone list at work, and even though it was flagge
d as being unlisted, that didn’t really mean much if an editor or reporter was on deadline and someone was bugging them to get in touch with me.

  “Well, if no one spilled the beans, and that’s a big ‘if,’ you just named your closest family and friends as suspects. Me included,” Vinny said.

  “But you were here.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Vinny paused. “You remember our conversation last night?”

  I nodded.

  “Normally the Mob doesn’t physically threaten people like you. But threatening phone calls are another matter.”

  “So what are you trying to tell me?” I asked. “The guy last night might not be a mobster, but the phone call was?”

  He shrugged. “Possibility.”

  Way too much shit going on right now. And the worst was yet to come. “We’d better get going. I have to talk to Dick.” I cringed as I said it, but something had to go in the paper, and I wanted everything to be right.

  The sky had a pinkish hue. I felt the flakes melting on my face, the cold biting into my cheeks.

  “How are you doing?” My father approached us as we crossed the street and stepped onto the sidewalk. He put his arm around me.

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  I pulled away, and for a second thought I was going to slip, but I steadied myself. “I have to go talk to Dick,” I said, and I left my father with Vinny and made my way over to Dick, who was unfortunately talking to Tom.

  “Did you forget something?” Tom asked, his eyes darting over to Vinny and back to me.

  I sighed. “I have to talk to Dick.” I felt like a goddamn broken record. But I’m dating myself. Did CDs repeat themselves when they wore out? I think they just skipped. My thoughts were swirling around, making no sense, sort of how Dick’s story would end up.

  Tom turned and walked away without another word. I was like fucking Typhoid Mary, bringing death and destruction to all I met.

  Except Dick, whose eyes were bright with the fact that I was actually seeking him out. I should’ve stayed home, I shouldn’t lead him on like this. Marty needed to know better than to give Dick the illusion that I actually thought he was competent, because that’s what was going on in his head. I could see it, as clear as a goddamn bell.