Suspicion of Murder

by G. K. Parks

  “It’d be worse if we weren’t.” Truer words had never been said.

  Flashing my credentials, I figured they were tired of me by now, but I didn’t have the authority to send them away. And the people who could wouldn’t consider it.

  Once inside with the security system reactivated, I opened a can of soup and left it on the stove to simmer while I began transforming the second floor into a usable workspace. By the time I was finished, my soup resembled gravy, but now there was a large whiteboard in the center of the living room, copies of all the files splayed in workable order on the coffee table, and a desktop computer and desk occupying the space where the couch had been. I wouldn’t win any awards for home decorating, but at least everything was together in one room.

  The only way I knew how to work an investigation was to gather information. And since we were having trouble pinpointing the perpetrator, it seemed analyzing the locations of the crimes was the next best thing. As I began digging, it became apparent many aspects of the club heists linked back to Vito, from the liquor supplier to Ernie’s silent partners.

  As I ate my dinner, I began my extensive search on Antonio ‘Vito’ Vincenzo. The last thing I wanted was to tango with one of the strongest crime families in the city, but Vito knew a lot more than he should. He knew of my involvement, and after his visit with Ernie, he had located me at the park. A shiver ran through my body as my paranoia pondered if he knew where I was now. Vito’s not your enemy, I reminded myself, but the corrupt cops are.

  Following the information where it led, I began analyzing the liquor supplier. Stoltz Bros. Liquor Emporium was originally founded by the Stoltz brothers in 1948. The name became synonymous with restaurateurs and bar owners for quality and low-cost. Even when the company switched hands in the sixties, then again in the eighties, and finally in the early twenty-first century, business still appeared to be booming. The company was in the black. The most recent owner was one of Vito’s lieutenants; although, from the tax records and public documentation, no obvious crime connection could be made.

  “Strike one,” I said to the screen. Next, I began running through the financial records and ownership documentation of the four burglarized clubs to see what other ties to Vito might exist. Each club, including Infinity, had some connection to Vito. It seemed financially unsound to have one enterprise provide a product or service to another, particularly when it appeared not all of the clubs were pulling their financial weight, but I was no corporate genius. My assumption was the clubs were still responsible for cleaning dirty money. With the number of cash-only patrons and cover charges, it’d be easy for the dirty money to filter in, get laundered, and be paid back out through purchases made to Stoltz. What the hell did I get myself into this time?

  Unfortunately, it was completely out of the question to go to the gangs unit at the precinct or the organized crime unit at the Bureau with any of this. Vito made it clear that I owed him. Furthermore, I felt certain I just stumbled upon the motive for the heists. A police detective could theoretically find justification for committing crimes if the victim was a criminal. Maybe stealing the money was rationalized as helping get drugs, guns, or prostitutes off the streets. Stop the funding, and the crime would stop. However, things were never this cut and dry.

  What to do? I was pacing the room. Eventually, I stopped in front of the whiteboard and diagrammed the connections, making Vito the sun in this solar system. He was a mob boss, and there must be dozens of police personnel with an axe to grind. But there was no way to determine who would be insane and corrupt enough to try to take down a kingpin, especially by staging robberies at a few clubs that barely traced back to him. Knowing I couldn’t stop now, I began running thorough searches of all the employees from each of the clubs, every single person who worked there and all of their known associates. Before I even finished reviewing the personnel files for the second club, dawn had broken.

  Brewing a strong pot of coffee, I continued running down names. Every club had at least two employees who either worked for Vito or were suspected of having connections to someone who worked for him. Having two inside men made it easy to keep an eye on things and make sure no one got greedy and tried to skim off the top. Did they even know about one another? Wondering this, I stared at the theory board I had constructed, but the notes and lines were running together. I needed sleep.

  Shutting down the computer and taking the radio and my nine millimeter with me, I settled into the guestroom. After sleeping for a few hours, my nightmares returned. The trip upstairs had brought back bad memories, along with demons from my past. Thankfully, despite the rain, it was still daylight, and I was relieved not to be alone in the dark. I drank the remainder of the now cold coffee while reassessing my work with fresh eyes.

  Everything was sound. Vito was the center of this particular universe by using his liquor front to provide goods to the clubs where someone in his organization held a position as primary investor. To ensure everything ran smoothly, he had eyes inside. Holy shit, if he had a security cam in Infinity, he might have others in the four other clubs. He might already possess all the evidence needed to stop this. Wait, my thought process came to a crashing halt. If he did, he would have taken care of the problem already.

  The footage may still exist, but there might not be anything useful on it. Tabling this thought for later consideration, I rummaged around for Infinity’s personnel information. After hours of searching, it was apparent Gretchen and Mary were in Vito’s back pocket. Picking up the phone, I was halfway through dialing Mark’s number when I noticed the time. It was after one a.m. And I thought staying in the conference room was a time suck. At least I made obvious, clear connections in a little over twenty-four hours. Putting the phone back in its cradle, I headed for bed, but ghosts from my past haunted me.

  Getting up, I took the radio and my handgun and methodically began clearing the house. Darkness was my enemy, and to kill the spirits who might lurk in the shadows, I flipped on light after light as I went from floor to floor. On the third level, the radio chirped, and the doorway to the laundry room almost took a bullet. Luckily, I restrained myself as I answered the call. All the activity and lights had thrown up warning bells for the protection detail outside.

  “Sorry, I was just looking for something,” I radioed back. They asked for the all clear verification phrase, and once it was provided, they resumed radio silence. Finishing my check of the third floor, I went up another flight and looked warily down the hallway. This was a dumb idea, I chastised. Chasing ghosts to the place where I had slain a mercenary was not the way to free my mind from past demons.

  Somehow, my search concluded in Martin’s bedroom. Nights like this I wished he was here. Actually, I wished I wasn’t. Snorting at the absurdity, I stared out the French doors and watched the rain cascade in sheets onto the stucco balcony. Time stood still as the raindrops fell. Eventually, I found some much needed solace, and instead of going down two flights of stairs, I crawled into Martin’s bed. His scent, a mixture of cologne, shampoo, and his natural musk, lingered on the pillow, and I let oblivion replace the hours of work and worry.

  My nonsensical dream was interrupted by static. Opening my eyes, I forgot where I was until the radio chirped again. After listening to the message, I picked it up, replied with a clipped “copy”, and hurried down the steps.

  Mark was on his way inside, and I didn’t need him examining the only lead I wasn’t sure I wanted to divulge. In my converted office space which used to be the living room, I flipped the whiteboard over and shoved it against the wall just as he opened the door, and I detoured to the kitchen.

  “What the hell?” He looked around the room in amazement with a healthy level of concern mixed in. “Marty needs to hire a better decorator.”

  “Coffee?” I turned on the machine and wanted nothing more than to take a shower and change my clothes. I’d been working for hours, and my break to sleep didn’t involve bothering to get undressed.

 
“Sounds good.” He examined my face. “I thought you wanted a break from the incessant work.”

  “I wanted a break from the monotonous work. This,” I gestured to the living room, “not so monotonous.” Casting a winning smile his way, I nicely asked, “How about you make breakfast while I get cleaned up?” He rolled his eyes and went to the fridge as I scurried down the hallway to take the world’s shortest shower and dress faster than Clark Kent in a phone booth.

  Ten minutes later, Mark was sipping his coffee while trying to flip some eggs in the pan. Giving up, he stirred the mostly cooked eggs with the spatula. “It’s not pretty, but it works.”

  “I’m sure you say that to all the ladies,” I joked. He looked annoyed, but he dismissed my jibe without comment. As we sat across from one another, he kept glancing back into my workspace.

  “Theories? Guesses? Suspects?” He had expected a call yesterday, and when he didn’t hear anything, he had grown impatient and wanted an update.

  “You mean those ace investigators haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “Parker,” his voice was a warning, “do you have anything or not?”

  “I need to talk to Gretchen and Mary again. Also,” I hedged, “I’m working on something, but right now, you don’t need to know.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. You’ve gotten yourself into enough of a mess.”

  “I know.” Remaining silent, I finished eating and poured us each another cup of coffee. “I’m just trying to avoid getting into another predicament. Do you trust me?”

  “Goddammit, Alex.” He was frustrated. “I’m giving you some slack here, but just don’t hang yourself with it.”

  Eighteen

  Mark accompanied me to Mary Johannson’s house. Mary had been waitressing at Infinity for the past four months while working on her thesis in applied physics. From what I gathered, she was the niece of Vito’s right-hand man, but when her mother got divorced, she and Mary changed their names. It explained how I missed the obvious crime family connection. Perhaps Uncle Carmine had gotten her the job to help pay off her six figure student loans.

  “Mary,” I knocked, “it’s Alexis.” No answer. “Mary.” I tried again. Dropping the friendly tone and pretense, I rapped loudly against the door. “Federal agents, open up.”

  Mark tossed a furtive glance my way. “Admit it, you’ve missed saying those four words.”

  “Shut the fuck up. You mean those four words?” I growled. Mary wasn’t home, so we’d have to come back later. Mark chuckled, and after giving the door a quick once over for signs of foul play, we headed for Gretchen’s workplace.

  It was early on a Saturday, so she’d be fulfilling her child-rearing role. Gretchen’s nanny job was for none other than the Nunzios. Constantine Nunzio worked for Vito in an official capacity as his personal assistant. Realistically, he made problems go away permanently. Leaving out all the details I deemed nonessential, I gave Mark a heads-up about Gretchen’s employer. He looked apprehensive. There was no reason for him to ask; I already knew what he was thinking. It was the same question I had been repeating as a mantra since the shootout at the club – what have I gotten myself into?

  Gretchen was at the park again. When she saw me approach, she reached for her phone to dial either the police or her boss. Mark hung back to keep an eye on things, probably hoping to avoid a reenactment from Goodfellas.

  I unclipped my badge and held it up. “Gretchen, I’m a federal agent. The man sitting on the bench is my partner.” She looked at Mark, who was probably displaying his credentials as well. “We need to have a chat.”

  “Ja? Here?”

  “Here works.” Lowering my voice, I continued, “I know who you work for. More importantly, I have my suspicions concerning the real reason you’re a waitress at Infinity.” I wondered if she had been one of Vito’s working girls at some point but decided I didn’t want to know. “What can you tell me about the night of the shooting? You said you saw a police cruiser outside the club.”

  “Mr. Nunzio asked if I wanted to make extra cash. It was to help his boss. All I had to do was make sure no one was skimming profits. In Germany, I went to university to be an accountant, but once I arrived in this country, there were no jobs. So every week, I’d sneak into the office and check the books.” Her German accent sounded like something from a Mel Brooks movie since she pronounced the w’s as strong v’s, and I considered the veracity of her immigrant status.

  “Did the accounts change? Did anything change?”

  “The money remained, but you showed up. Mr. Nunzio’s boss wasn’t happy there was a new girl working, and he encouraged Mr. Papadakis to fire you.”

  “But I’m so lovable,” I mocked protest. She looked confused, so I got back to the topic at hand. “Can you tell me what you saw Saturday night when you left the club?”

  “A police car parked near the back. All the lights were off, and it looked abandoned.”

  “Did you get a number? Or a license plate? Anything that would make it identifiable?”

  “There was a dent on the passenger’s door, but I didn’t see any numbers.” She paused, recollecting. “Nein, that’s not true. There were black numbers written on the side and back. Nine-one-one.”

  Staring at her blankly, I wondered if my jaw dropped open in awe at her idiocy. Every time I felt certain the rock bottom of stupidity had been reached, the floor would fall through to another subbasement. Was it possible she was making a joke? Waiting a few beats, she didn’t crack a smile or hint in any way she was teasing. If I stayed near her any longer, my brain cells would die out of sympathy.

  “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.” Striding back to Mark, the coast was still clear as we exited the park.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Dent on the passenger’s side of the cruiser.”

  “We can run work orders and check the cars. Maybe we’ll see who signed it out that night. Did she see the car number?”

  “Nine-one-one.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He was as flabbergasted as I was.

  “God, I hope so.”

  * * *

  Dropping by the Bureau offices, Mark sent in his request on the service records for all police cruisers from the precinct. While we waited for the records department to get back to us, I went upstairs to the OIO to see if Director Kendall might be putting in some overtime weekend hours. He was gone for the day, probably fishing or relaxing, but his assistant was at her desk, catching up on paperwork. When I asked if my request to see Sam Harrigan had been approved, she shuffled through some papers, said the U.S. Marshal Service was still considering it, and Kendall would notify me when he heard something. Before going back downstairs to see if Mark had gotten word yet, I dialed O’Connell’s cell phone from Mark’s office.

  “O’Connell,” he answered on the second ring.

  “I heard about what happened. How’s Jen? Is everything okay?”

  “It’ll be fine.” He was more monosyllabic than usual. “But I need you to pull some of that crazy theorizing out of your ass and have this thing end sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Be careful,” he said quietly, “I work with some insane motherfuckers. You already got shot once. Try not to have a replay.”

  His admonition put me on edge. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I forced the apprehension away as I went to consult with Mark. The dented cruiser hadn’t been registered to anyone the night in question. There was no usual driver for the vehicle since the precinct assigned cars randomly every tour, and there was no point in sending an FBI forensics team to look at it. We had hit another dead end.

  “Calling it a day?” Mark asked as I sat on top of the conference table, kicking my heel into the table leg in frustration.

  “Where is everyone?” There should have been at least four FBI agents working.

  “Running leads. They didn’t want me to play since my vest has different letters wr
itten across the front.”

  “Interagency cooperation at its finest,” I muttered, hopping off the table. “When can I move back into my apartment or at least get some of my belongings out of evidence?”

  “Try back Monday,” he said in an automated consumer hotline voice. “In the meantime, shall I drop you at Marty’s?”

  “Guess so.”

  Our ride back to Martin’s compound was brief and silent. I was mulling over my theories and considering paying Vito a visit. There was a small tavern on Thirty-Second he owned. From chatter and various notations, I assumed if I showed up, I would either find him or he’d find me. But the prospect made my feet drag. I didn’t want to go down a road when I had no way of knowing where it would lead.

  “You’re home,” he announced, parking in front of the garage, but in my thought-induced comatose state, I wasn’t aware of how we got here. “Maybe you should take a nap or something.” He scrutinized my appearance. “You look tired. How’s the side?”

  “It’s still attached.” I shrugged. “A little sore but healing. I’m just really starting to hate this case. Correction, I’ve hated this case for the last couple of weeks, before I even knew what was going on. What are Cooper and his team doing?”

  Mark gave his patented ‘you’re not going to like it’ look. “He sent Sullivan and Darli to talk to the marshals guarding Harrigan. He and Webster are conducting another interview with Papadakis, and then they’re going to the precinct to work some things out with Moretti.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?” I huffed.

  “We add class to the operation.” Leaning back in the seat, I shut my eyes and decided he ought to know about the organized crime connection, but before I could start speaking, he filled the silence. “Alex, I’ve been meaning to ask, when you were resisting arrest, where’d you go?”

  I laughed. “You really want to know?”

  “Maybe it’ll provide some insight into fugitive recovery,” he deadpanned.