Strangers to Stella filed down the church steps this morning, though she did recognize a few of the older, Polish-speaking people. Then she spotted the person she’d come here to find—her dad’s cousin who never missed the Polish-language service.
“Hey, Frank!” she yelled, waving him over.
In the middle of a conversation with a young kid with gangbanger written all over him—from his combat boots to his leather stadium jacket, from the green bandanna around his forehead to cropped hair shaved with a lightning-bolt design—Frank Jacobek signaled her to wait a moment. If the downward curve of his mouth and his thick eyebrows furrowing together were any indication, he was angry.
Stella couldn’t help wondering why Frank might be giving a gang member a piece of his mind. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and she couldn’t help worrying that he might be sticking his nose into trouble he didn’t need.
That was Frank Jacobek, though—old-school and as tough as they came.
Finished with his conversation, Frank turned his back on the kid, who glared after him before stomping off. Connecting with her, Frank’s expression lightened and his lips turned up in a smile.
Swooping down the steps, he gave her a big bear hug and sloppily smooched her cheek. “You haven’t been by to see me in months. Where you been keeping yourself, Star?”
Frank had been the one to give her the nickname after explaining that Stella meant star.
“Working. I got promoted, remember.” She ignored the guilt that surfaced at the reminder of her neglect.
“And here I thought maybe you finally had yourself a serious boyfriend.”
“Not yet.”
Stella blinked away the instant vision of Dermot’s handsome features and sexy smile from her mind’s eye. She wished. The heat of embarrassment—or was it desire flashing through her?—made her cross her arms protectively in front of her.
She couldn’t believe Frank was still asking about boyfriends as if she were a kid.
“I don’t know about young men these days, passing up a smart, beautiful girl like you.”
“Maybe they’re afraid if they get out of line, I’ll arrest ’em.”
They laughed together as they used to, as if they hadn’t seen less and less of each other over the years, and Stella regretted she hadn’t found time for Frank. After all, they were family and both alone—his third wife having left him a few years before. He couldn’t stay married and he’d never had kids, maybe the reason he’d taken such interest in her and her sister, Anna. Frank was the only family Stella had left in the city. Her widowed mom had remarried and moved to the suburbs, and her sister’s job had taken her out of state.
“So what’s up, Star?”
“Can we go someplace private to talk? It’s important.”
Frank’s expression grew serious once more. “You still like pancakes with pecans and peaches?”
“Haven’t outgrown them yet,” she admitted.
“Then we go to my place where I’ll make ’em for you.”
Stella couldn’t resist. “What are we waiting for?”
Frank had walked to church, so Stella drove.
Though in his late fifties now, his brown hair threaded with gray, his face sagging a little more than it used to, Frank Jacobek was still a powerful-looking man with impressive shoulders that stretched the made-to-order gray suit. He was looking good. As a kid, she’d simply thought of him as being big enough to fill a doorway, but maybe that’s because he’d intimidated her.
After her dad had died when she was a kid, his cousin Frank had been the self-proclaimed patriarch of the family, helping her mom financially when needed and becoming sort of a father figure to Stella and her sister. He’d even taken them all on summer vacations to his cabin in Wisconsin, where he’d given them a taste of living with nature. Great times. On the other hand, true to his appearance, he’d been a strict disciplinarian, a trait she hadn’t much appreciated as a kid. But with some years on her, Stella had no doubt Frank had helped mold her into the strong, ethical person she was today.
Only a few blocks from the church, Frank’s place sat over his car-parts store and flanked the repair shop. Being Sunday, both businesses were closed.
They entered the frame two-story from the side entrance and climbed to the second floor. The old wood stairs creaked and groaned every bit as much as they had twenty years ago. A fanciful kid, she used to think they would collapse on her one day. Even now she wasn’t so sure they wouldn’t.
“Home, sweet home,” Frank said, his gravelly voice sounding happy about being there. “Take a load off. Put on a CD. I have a home stereo system, you know. And cable. All the premium channels.”
But Stella followed him down the hall, pausing to look at the framed photographs lining the long wall. There was one of her and her mom and Anna in front of Frank’s cabin. Other pictures of Wisconsin brought back old memories, including one of a large house on a bluff overlooking Lake Geneva—the one they’d all picked out together as their favorite.
Smiling at the memories, Stella sauntered into the kitchen, saying, “I don’t need to be entertained, not when I can watch you cook.”
“Suit yourself.”
Stella equated what Frank had done with the ancient apartment to his driving those old Beamers or Jags he salvaged and repaired. Some years back, the entire living space had been renovated in a modest manner, except for the kitchen, which he’d expanded by knocking out some walls. Only the best would do for a man who loved to cook as much as he loved to eat. His granite counters, island workspace and top-of-the-line appliances would do any chef proud.
“I’ll make coffee,” she volunteered as he removed his suit jacket and hung it on a wall peg.
“All right. Then you’ll sit.” He swung open the refrigerator door and pulled a carton of eggs from the interior. “Bacon or chicken sausage?”
“Bacon, please.”
Within minutes, the aroma of fresh French roast coffee mixed with frying bacon filled the kitchen. Stella perched on a stool and watched Frank finish mixing the pancake batter.
“So what’s up, Star?” he asked again.
Stella wanted to say she’d simply missed him and had decided to correct the situation, but she couldn’t lie. “I need information, and I thought I would come to the man who has his fingers on the pulse of the neighborhood.”
That car repair shop of his was as busy and filled with as much gossip as any hair salon.
“I’m not in the loop like I used to be.” He ladled batter onto the island’s built-in griddle and then started turning bacon strips. “What do you need to know?”
“You heard about Tony Vargas being murdered, right?”
“I did, but what does that have to do with you? This isn’t your territory anymore.”
“The main suspect is an old friend of mine.”
“O’Rourke?” Frank frowned at her. “You’ve kept up with Dermot O’Rourke since he turned in his collar? That’s gotta be what? Ten years?”
“Twelve.”
Stella tried not to bristle at Frank’s tone. Apparently, he didn’t approve. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore, and he couldn’t tell her who she could or couldn’t see.
Not that she was seeing Dermot in that way.
“I haven’t exactly kept up with Dermot, no,” she said. “But I knew him pretty well back then. Well enough to know he wouldn’t murder anyone.”
Mulling that over for a moment as he flipped the first set of pancakes, Frank said, “You’d be surprised what a man will do when cornered.”
Though the edge in his tone triggered Stella’s curiosity about what he might mean, she kept on track. “Dermot’s not that kind of man.”
“What kind of man do you think he is?”
“One who is honest, among other things.”
Frank barked a laugh. “How about one who can’t carry through with his promises. Or maybe he got himself in trouble as a priest and made it out while the going was good. Tony
was his altar boy, you know, and with his nose for trouble, he would’ve known the real scoop.”
So the word was out on the street and, despite his protests that he was out of the loop, Frank had tapped right into it. Since there hadn’t been an arrest, Dermot’s name hadn’t yet landed in the tabloids, so the only way Frank could know that the authorities considered Dermot a suspect was via word of mouth. And that had to be via a leak at Area 4.
“Playing the altar boy card isn’t fair, Frank,” Stella informed him. “There was never any whisper of scandal in that direction.”
“Or maybe you just didn’t want to hear it.” Frank’s brow furrowed for a moment, then softened as he caved. “And maybe you got O’Rourke pinned. Don’t mind me. What does an old man know anyhow?”
“You got a coupla good years left in you.”
The joke came automatically, but the fact that Frank couldn’t dismiss such blatant gossip didn’t sit well with Stella. She took a couple of mugs from a shelf and filled them with coffee.
“So, can you get me the word on the street about Tony? I need to know what he was up to.”
“Nothing good, I’m sure.”
“Just what I’m looking for.” She handed Frank his coffee, black, just the way he liked it. “That and some names. Who Tony dealt with since getting out of the joint…who he ticked off lately…”
“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
After swallowing a slug of French roast, she said, “Johnny Rincon and Alderman Marta Ortiz.”
Frank started. “You mention the two of them in the same breath?”
“Yeah, I do when Tony Vargas is the common denominator.”
Wondering if she should tell him about the black mail aspect of the case, Stella decided not. That information wasn’t yet public knowledge, so his having it might put Frank in jeopardy, which was the last thing she wanted.
“Johnny is always up to something,” he said, flipping pancakes onto a plate. “Never held down an honest job in his life. I wouldn’t put murder past him. But Ortiz is different. The alderman is well respected. High profile.”
“And she’s a big supporter of Heartland House, so she’s involved there. And Tony was her cousin. She had a hand in his parole, but Tony wasn’t crazy about her.”
“Really?”
Stella was surprised that Frank didn’t know. Not that he could be aware of absolutely everything that went on.
“I doubt Marta Ortiz goes around advertising the fact,” Stella said. “It wouldn’t do her career good to claim a criminal as part of her family, and Tony was bent…well, ever since I can remember. He was Johnny’s gofer back in high school.” Though Tony probably had been initiated into the gang at an even younger age.
“No good,” Frank groused, “the lot of ’em.”
“Hey, about that punk on the church steps this morning? What’d he want with you?”
Frank tensed as he piled peaches and pecans on the pancakes. “A job. I need someone to sweep up, run errands, but not anyone that wears colors. I told Falco to clean up and then come see me.” He set a plate in front of her. “Here you go, Star, your favorite, just like old times.”
Taking a bite, Stella made an enthusiastic sound of appreciation. Frank grinned at her, and she leaned over and kissed his weathered cheek.
“Just like old times,” she murmured before stuffing her mouth full.
Stella was glad she’d thought to visit Frank for a variety of reasons.
Now, if only she had some clue as to what he had against Dermot.
DERMOT HAD JUST FINISHED quizzing the night security guard at Heartland about the evening of the murder when the front door slammed and footsteps thundered along the hallway. A disappointed Dermot—he’d gotten no information of value from the man—stepped out of the kitchen to see a large ex-con with wild hair and a full beard heading for the stairs.
His calling out “Bingo Wollensky, freeze!” stopped the guy in his tracks.
One foot on the stairs, Bingo turned, his puffy face pulled into a smile that belied the panic in his eyes. “Hey, Doc, how long you been on the outside?”
“I wasn’t arrested. Though maybe you wish I had been.”
“Me? No!”
Dermot came closer—and tapping into his past—made his voice low and dangerous, the only thing some of these ex-cons understood. “You pretty much pointed me out to the cops.” Fear was a great motivator.
Bingo was visibly starting to sweat. Droplets gathered on his forehead along his prematurely receding hairline.
“Hey, come on, Doc, all I did was pass on what Tony told me.”
“What did Tony tell you?”
Bingo went wide-eyed. “Nothin’ specific! I swear on all that’s holy I don’t know nothin’!”
Another resident, one Dermot didn’t know, entered and grunted as he passed them.
“Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk,” Dermot said. “Maybe we need someplace more…private.”
Bingo began to sweat for real now, droplets running into his eyebrows. “Yeah, yeah, sure, Doc.”
But his voice rose nearly to a scared squeak and his eyes looked a little wild—undoubtedly he was contemplating the consequences of being alone with a possible murderer. While Bingo ran numbers and small-time confidence games, he’d never been into violence any more than Tony had.
“Come into my office.”
For an office, he’d been assigned the smaller parlor with eight-foot pocket doors, stained-glass-trimmed bay windows and a ceramic-tiled fireplace. In stark contrast, the furniture was secondhand and utilitarian.
“Sit,” he told Bingo, who nervously perched on the edge of the threadbare couch. “I wasn’t the one who hung Tony from the chandelier like some carnival prize. But someone did. Someone who had easy access to the place.”
“I…I just found him is all.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Dermot leaned back against the edge of his desk and gave the ex-con what he hoped was a deadly stare. “So, you told the cops you were downstairs when Tony was killed—”
“Watching TV.”
“And you didn’t hear anything?”
“TV was on loud. I already told the cops,” Bingo said. “Twice. I didn’t hear nothin’ and I didn’t see nothin’. I didn’t even know you were still here. Cops got that from the guard.”
“Let’s talk about Tony. You say you passed on what Tony told you to the police, then you say he didn’t tell you anything.” Dermot gave Bingo an expression of disbelief. “Which of these is true?”
“You tryin’ to confuse me?”
“I’m trying to get to the truth!” Dermot raised his voice in hopes of pushing Bingo even more. “Either Tony told you something or he didn’t.”
“Tony always h-had s-secrets,” Bingo said. “Sometimes he’d just bait you to get you interested, then he’d back off and not really tell you d-details you could get a h-handle on.”
In Dermot’s experience, the dead man had liked to talk, whether it was to brag or to confess—or maybe that was just with someone who couldn’t pass on information that could get him in trouble. Though Tony hadn’t come through with anything substantive about the blackmail in their sessions, Dermot thought he might have eventually.
If he hadn’t been murdered first.
“So Tony baited you about me?” he asked Bingo. “He said we shared some kind of secret?”
“Yeah, from way back when he knew you before. Don’t worry, though.” Fear oozed off Bingo again. His whole face was damp with sweat. “I couldn’t squeal nothin’ to the cops, ’cause I don’t know nothin’. See?”
Dermot wanted to grab him by the front of his shirt and demand to know why Bingo couldn’t simply keep his own counsel. He sucked in a deep breath and reminded himself that he was not into violence.
As for Bingo, like Tony, the big man suffered from low self-esteem. Having something to tell the cops probably had made him feel important at the moment. Normally Dermot wouldn’t cate
gorize Bingo as a squealer, though, so maybe he’d volunteered that information from some long-buried morality, because he really believed Dermot had reason to shut Tony up permanently.
“Tell me more about the secrets.” Maybe he could get something there.
“A lot of goofy stuff. But he said he had somethin’ on you that you wouldn’t want anyone to know. And he was supposed to come into money sometime soon. Big money. Said he just had to play his cards right.”
Something Tony never learned to do. No doubt the big money was the blackmail Tony had bragged about in their sessions—probably the very thing that had gotten him killed. Dermot could see how the police had put the two together and come up with him as a potential suspect. But being very familiar with the supposed “secret” he and Tony shared—Tony’s last confession to him when he’d been a priest—he knew the authorities weren’t going to come up with anything to use against him. At least not anything a prosecutor could use.
Dermot tried again. “So what kind of goofy stuff did Tony brag about?”
“Revenge plots mostly.”
“Against?”
“People who screwed him in the past. Like when he was a kid, this old lady who used to yell at him for running across her lawn…he peed on her grass every night. The yellow spots all over drove her crazy.”
Having heard this story himself, Dermot said, “Disgusting but harmless.”
“And this chick who wouldn’t date him…for weeks he wrote her phone number on the walls in every public bathroom he used.”
“Definitely goofy,” Dermot agreed, though he’d heard that one before, as well. “Anything a little more serious?”
“Tony talked about pulling one over on someone who’d had some kind of power over him.”
“Power?” Dermot sat up and took notice. “What kind of power?”
“That’s one of them times when Tony backed off,” Bingo said. “All I know is it’d been going on for years, and Tony meant to stop it because he didn’t want to be someone’s girlfriend in stir again.”
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