Not much cash for Silky Pete to be carrying on a Saturday night, McGuire mused. But why was he out of his car, alone, on an abandoned street at midnight? He flipped ahead to the medical examiner’s report.
AUTOPSY REPORT—HOMICIDE
REPORT#: 818–633–A
MEDICAL EXAMINER: M. Doitch
DATE: 3/6/89
VICTIM: Peter Michael Genovese
DETAILS & DESCRIPTION: Victim is male Caucasian between 40 and 45 years of age, 5 feet 10 inches in height, weight 190 pounds, in apparent good health prior to incident in question. Distinguishing marks include scar approximately 8 inches long on anterior of upper left arm.
Victim has been dead approximately 34 hours (it is now 10:04 a.m. March 6). Massive contusions and fractures to left anterior of thorax, especially infrascapular and axillary areas, resulting in ruptures to major organs. Similar injuries to general skull area including severe shattering of maxilla and right temporal regions resulting in extensive fractures and substantial loss of brain tissue.
CAUSE OF DEATH: Massive trauma
PRELIMINARY FINDINGS: Victim suffered thorax injuries in collision with automobile; skull injuries were suffered through impact with heavy fixed metal object 10 to 12 inches in diameter, i.e. power line pole.
RECOMMENDATIONS: None.
McGuire tossed the report aside and reached for his coffee mug, draining the contents in one long swallow before leaning back in his chair and pondering everything he had learned.
Silky Pete Genovese had been set up and run down by a Buick. Probably ducking as he ran for his car. Gets hit on the right side. So why wasn’t his arm injured? His arm would take the first impact. McGuire flipped back through the autopsy report again. No mention of an arm injury. Mel Doitch would have noted a detail like that.
He sat back in the chair again. Silky Pete’s arm wasn’t injured because it was raised, probably. With what? A gun? He’s running, crouching, arm raised. He had to have a gun.
McGuire scanned all the investigation reports in the Genovese grey file but found no evidence of a thorough search of the area. He pictured Atlantic Avenue near Beach at midnight: desolate, with vacant lots between the warehouses. Genovese gets thrown forty feet through the air, hits a light post. A weapon in his hand could have been flung a hundred feet.
SUPPLEMENTARY WITNESS REPORT
To be completed only when supplementary information on existing matters arrives from unanticipated third party source(s). All primary information MUST be entered on PRIMARY WITNESS REPORT, BPD Form #36–880B
CASE#: 884–239A
OTHER RELEVANT FILES: Autopsy Report 818–633–A
INVESTIGATING DETECTIVES: E. Vance, T. Fox
CIRCUMSTANCES: H&R resulting in death
WITNESS NAME: Unknown
REPORT (PLEASE BE CONCISE): Call received 2:56 p.m., March 5 on 911 line (tape #3–3–05–89) from pay phone location, Washington & Winter Streets. Male voice indicated he had witnessed incident from opposite side of Atlantic Avenue. No other information or circumstances provided. Witness reported victim had been shining flashlight in parked cars when a vehicle one block south pulled away from curb and approached victim at high speed with its lights turned off. Witness claims vehicle in question was dark in colour, no further details. No licence identification. Victim cursed loudly and began running across Atlantic Avenue but was unable to avoid speeding vehicle. Following impact, subject vehicle proceeded north on Atlantic and east on Summer Street. Witness ended report abruptly; trace and investigation of telephone booth were unproductive.
McGuire turned the form over to study the gruesome death-scene photographs for the first time. They showed several angles of a man’s body crumpled against a metal pole. Silky Pete had been Boston’s best-dressed loan shark, partial to alligator shoes and silk clothing. In the pictures on McGuire’s lap, portions of the silk shirt and suit not stained by blood glistened in the harsh light of the photographer’s flash.
So who did we check out? McGuire stroked his scar and searched for interview reports. It seemed every underworld figure in Boston had been visited by one of the detectives, although many were identified only by code words: “Herbie Two,” “Violet Kid,” “Little Sam.” All were street finks, contacts supported and jealously guarded by detectives the way diplomats run spies in hostile countries. Each claimed to know nothing about the death of Silky Pete Genovese. And no one expressed concern that his skull had been broken in a gutter, scattering his brains as though someone had spilled porridge from a cereal bowl.
So you go to the car, McGuire told himself. Where’s the trace report on 1988 Buicks, Embassy Blue?
The state vehicle registry listed eighty-six Buicks of that year, model and colour on the road as of March 5. All owners were traced and interviewed between March 7 and April 3. Owners’ names and addresses were listed on a separate sheet. McGuire counted them. He counted them again. They still totalled only eighty-three.
What the hell was this? He reached for the phone, dialed Berkeley Street and asked for Timmy Fox, who answered on the first ring. Fox, a tall wiry black who wore a constant grin without seeming to find anything amusing about life, was surprised at McGuire’s interest in the Genovese case.
“The hell you wasting your time on that piece of crap for?” he asked.
“Just reviewing things before they go back downstairs, that’s all,” McGuire replied.
“Best news of the year was Silky Pete making like a wounded duck, nesting in a streetlamp pole.”
“Yeah, I know. Look, Tim, the only thing that doesn’t fit is the car description you checked against all the registry files.”
“I didn’t check them. Whistles did.”
“Okay, but we got eighty-six from the registry and I count only eighty-three checked. What happened?”
“Accidents happened. Two of them, anyway. Let me think. I remember at least a couple had been totalled before somebody tried to turn Silky into a hood ornament. And seems to me one moved out of state.”
“To where?”
“Hell, I don’t know. He left before it happened, I think. Look, we didn’t have a plate on the car. It could have been from Florida for all we knew. We had to start and end somewhere so we made it state cars only. It wasn’t exactly the governor who was used as a manhole cover, right? So how far were we supposed to go?”
McGuire grunted into the receiver. “You remember anything about the two cars that were totalled?”
“Like I said, both of them happened before Silky got hit. Whistles checked them. I think they were down state somewhere.”
“Who verified the dates?”
“Investigating officers, I guess. You know the routine, Joe. Cops go in, say ‘You got a car, matches this description?’ Guy says ‘Yeah’ and the whistles look at it. Guy says ‘No, I smashed it up’ or ‘My kid totalled it,’ cops get the date.”
“And verify it with what?”
“Anybody. Registry, neighbours . . .”
“Accident reports?”
Fox paused. “Yeah, I guess. That’s another way.”
“Thanks, Timmy. How you getting on with Fat Eddie?”
“I’d like to get on him with a ball-peen hammer.”
After hanging up, McGuire tossed the Genovese file aside, counted another ten grey files to review, and went into his small kitchen for a coffee. Working alone wasn’t so bad, he decided. And he thought he knew a way to make it even better.
Chapter Six
“Sloppy work, Ollie. Nothing like the way it was when you were there.” McGuire shook his head in wonder. “Half the files shouldn’t be grey, they should be C and C.” He finished the slice of Ronnie’s lemon cake and set the plate aside.
Solved cases were stamped “C&C” before the files were transferred to a warehouse. It meant “Convicted and Closed.” Law and order prevail. Take a bow. Have a drink. Get some sleep. Tomorrow there’ll be an
other corpse to view.
Ollie Schantz watched McGuire through half-lowered lids. The bed had been raised to sitting level and the limbs of his body, their corners sharpened from the weight loss he had endured, poked against the covers. Beyond the window the coast light winked through the November dusk, flashing off and on, monotonous, precise, comforting.
“Nothing new about sloppy work,” Ollie said.
McGuire nodded. “But coming at the cases fresh, you see all the mistakes hanging out there like rooming house laundry.” He sat back and studied the blinking light shining across the water. “You know, there could be a real need for a guy like me to do nothing but review grey files.”
“Second-guessing your old buddies.” Ollie moved his head in a pale imitation of a laugh. “You do that, Joseph, and you’ll be as popular as a nudist at a Baptist meeting.”
The door opened behind McGuire and he turned to see Ronnie standing there in a woollen winter coat, a kerchief tied over her head. “I’m leaving now,” she said to Ollie. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“Don’t plan on going anywhere,” he replied, staring out the window, avoiding her eyes.
“You really want me to get them?” she asked. She turned to McGuire. “Tennis balls. He wants me to buy him a can of tennis balls.” She shook her head and left, closing the door gently behind her.
“What the hell do you want with tennis balls?” McGuire asked.
Ollie turned his head from the window and studied McGuire coolly. “Tell me about the files.”
“Which ones?”
“The good ones.”
“Maybe two are worth working on. The rest are drunks run over in alleyways, dead-end John Does, stuff that was never meant to be solved. But there’s Silky Pete Genovese. Remember him? Hit and run down on Atlantic near Beach one Saturday night? Lot of people assumed it was a professional hit.”
“Running down a guy in the street, that’s Hollywood stunt man stuff.”
McGuire nodded assent. “And if it wasn’t pros, it was some poor sucker being shook down by Silky at a hundred percent interest a month. Which means it was somebody local, because Silky wouldn’t deal out of state and risk a federal charge.”
“We check his records?”
“Found a whole book of them back at Silky’s apartment but nobody could break the code. It’s all initials and nicknames only Silky knew. Besides, he kept most of his business in his head.”
“Who worked the case?”
“Fat Eddie Vance and Timmy Fox.”
“That explains it. Eddie needs a road map to find his own pecker and Timmy can’t see anything when that fat toothbrush Vance keeps getting in his way.”
“There’s no record of body work on Buicks like the one that hit him, and the state bureau can account for all but three of them registered this year. One’s in California, the other two were wrecked before Silky died.”
“So what’s your problem?”
McGuire began pacing as he talked. “No confirmation is my problem. Sloppy work. It all needs checking out. Maybe we should subpoena financial records, see if any owners had money trouble that might link them with Silky.”
He looked down to see the other man’s eyes closed, his breathing slow and shallow. McGuire spoke Ollie’s name softly once, twice.
“I hear you,” Ollie answered. When his eyes opened they were shiny. “Want to watch the Celtics?” His right hand flopped in short hops to pounce on the remote control. The ceiling-mounted television set flashed to life; slim bodies raced across its face, silhouetted against a golden floor. “There’s beer in the fridge,” Ollie said without shifting his eyes from the screen. “I’d get you one myself but . . .” His oversized mouth widened into a grin without warmth or humour.
“I’m okay,” McGuire answered, and he sat beside his friend for the next hour, both of them motionless, one by chance and one by choice, as they watched tall young men running, leaping, soaring across the floor of a distant arena.
With two minutes remaining and the Celtics leading by a slim three points, the front door opened and Ronnie Schantz walked lightly down the hall to Ollie’s room. Before the door opened, Ollie’s hand tripped the remote control and the images on the television set faded.
“Hi, guys.” Ronnie Schantz entered, her kerchief wet with rain. “Terrible night out there.” She reached into a plastic bag and withdrew a can of tennis balls. “Found them for you,” she said to her husband, who had turned his face to the window. “Hard to get this time of year, that’s what everybody told me. Unless you go downtown. But a place on Winthrop had them.”
McGuire said goodbye to Ronnie, brushing her cheek with his lips, then turned and began shrugging into his topcoat. “You going to tell me what you want with tennis balls?” he asked the figure on the bed.
“Sure,” Ollie said to the light across the bay. “Plan to play a set with McEnroe. What else you do with tennis balls?”
By morning the rain had been swept out to sea and the drab autumn landscape lay bare beneath a brilliant sun.
Using one of the department’s portable computers to gain access to law enforcement data banks in California and Massachusetts, McGuire confirmed that one 1988 Buick Le Sabre had been destroyed in a highway accident on New Year’s Eve, the driver charged with D.W.I. A second Buick matching the description of the car that killed Silky Pete had been registered in La Jolla, California since February fourth. Its owner, a retired newspaper publisher, still resided there. He was seventy-three years old and had sold his weekly paper for a substantial sum before trading the Massachusetts winter for California sun.
The third Buick had been involved in a fatal accident on an interstate highway near Mansfield in the early morning of . . .
McGuire blinked. March 5th. The lone driver, killed in the accident, had been a thirty-eight-year-old resident of Taunton. He had owned a chain of three restaurants in the Taunton-Brockton area.
McGuire made two telephone calls before driving south to Taunton, cursing the sloppy police work he had exposed.
Five hours later he was sitting in Kavander’s office on Berkeley Street.
“He was doing at least ninety when he hit the bridge abutment,” McGuire said. Silky Pete’s grey file lay between them on Kavander’s desk. “State cop I talked to said they literally peeled him off the concrete.”
“Go on.” Kavander looked bored, restless. He removed the toothpick from his mouth, examined the tip, and replaced it between his teeth.
“Dumb whistles talk to the wife and she tells them it happened on Saturday night. The cops check their calendars, say Gee, that’s March 4th. Too bad. We’re looking for a car involved in an accident on March 5th. Sorry to bother you, have a nice day, la-di-da, let’s go have a coffee. See, it happened within an hour of Silky being hit. All the cops are given is a date. One o’clock in the morning, the wife still considers it Saturday night. No witnesses, but a truck driver said he saw the car come up behind him maybe a mile ahead of the bridge. He said the Buick passed him at close to a hundred. Guess how he remembered the car.”
Kavander shrugged.
“It had one headlight. Only the left one was working. The right headlight was out. This guy in the Buick, his name was Skerrett and he was in trouble at the beginning of the year. Bad money trouble. The bank was ready to call its loan, he’s behind on payments to his suppliers, he’s working with nothing but a skeleton staff at his restaurants. Then, end of January, he pays a big chunk on the bank loan. He gets the suppliers off his back, hires enough staff to get customers back, and he’s golden. Nobody knows where he gets the money. And he’s not talking.”
Kavander studied his fingernails.
“You seeing a pattern here?” McGuire asked.
“You got more?”
“Lots more. I visit Skerrett’s widow. Big house on a hill in Taunton. She’s got two kids
and some young guy has moved in with her. She sold the restaurants, even though she didn’t have to. Skerrett’s insurance company paid off on a half-million dollar accidental death policy with a lot of reluctance. I just finished talking to the investigator with the company and he’s convinced Skerrett didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He figures the guy aimed the goddamned Buick at the wall because his business was going under.”
“It’s happened before.”
“But it wasn’t going under, Jack. He’d turned it around with about two hundred grand in cash. So where did he get it?”
Kavander inspected his toothpick again and began breaking it into tiny pieces. “How the hell do I know?”
“You know where he got it. He touched Silky for it and when he couldn’t make the vigorish, or didn’t want to, he arranged a meet. Silky figures the guy’s a cream puff, he’s standing around Atlantic Avenue looking for Skerrett’s car and here comes the Buick. Silky’s caught like a rabbit on the road. Bang, Silky’s dead, and on the way home either Skerrett figures it’s all over, because he knows we’ll trace him and collar him, or maybe he planned to do it from the beginning. Anyway, there’s a bull’s-eye on a concrete wall ahead . . .” McGuire halted his gesturing. “You listening to me?”
“Yeah, and I’m hearing nothing.” Kavander tossed the toothpick splinters into his wastebasket. “Nothing we can ever take to the D.A.’s office anyway.”
“What is this, Helen Keller day? All of a sudden you can’t hear, you can’t see—”
“Hey!” Kavander pointed his finger at McGuire like a loaded weapon. It shook as he spoke. “You don’t come in here accusing fellow officers of shoddy police work just because some guy turned himself into wallpaper paste against a highway bridge.”
And Leave Her Lay Dying Page 5
