by Tom Fowler
“Why should she be able to pay it off all of a sudden?” I said.
“Her husband died. He must have had life insurance.”
I hadn’t thought about whether Paul Fisher owned life insurance and if it paid any kind of reasonable sum upon his death. Maybe Alice could be free of Vinnie once and for all. Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Why did she turn pale when Sal talked to her? She had been through a lot, but if her husband’s life insurance paid for the funeral expenses, she should have made the association. “I’ll talk to her about it,” I said.
“I think you’ve done enough already,” Vinnie said. “Alice is burying her husband tomorrow. I’ll leave her alone. Afterward, though, she’s going to get a reminder she owes me money. Her husband isn’t making regular payments anymore.”
“I’m sure you’ll offer her a sweetheart deal.”
“I’m a businessman. Everything is negotiable.” Vinnie looked at me. “You want to be such a fucking white knight, why don’t you pay her tab?”
“She needs to learn people aren’t going to bail her out,” I said. “Her husband working overtime to help her is one thing. Me writing her a check to cover her problems doesn’t teach her anything.” I also didn’t have a spare thirty grand, but Vinnie didn’t need to know my finances, even though I knew he could deduce it.
“Yeah, you’ve always been about people learning for themselves. Your lessons all came the hard way.”
My sister’s death flashed into my mind. I thought about punching Vinnie in his very punchable face, but that wouldn’t help Alice. I took a breath and said, “I’ve learned a few. Besides, this isn’t about me. This is about Alice and what you plan on doing.”
“I plan on getting my money. So far, I’ve been nice and patient. I can’t keep being a nice guy forever. If she doesn’t want to pay up, other clients might get the idea they can skip their payments, too. I can’t allow it.”
“So your midget enforcer is going to pay her a visit after the funeral?” I said.
“Maybe I’ll send Sal again. Maybe I’ll bring in someone new. I’m going to get my money. You should stay out of it. I don’t want to hurt you, but my people can get . . . zealous when they’re making collections. Anyone in the way tends to get injured.”
“I’m not going to abandon Alice.”
Vinnie shrugged. “I can’t guarantee your safety, then,” he said.
“Thanks for the threat. At least I know to look under my table for midgets with guns.”
“Don’t take Sam so lightly.”
“The cops know your business, Vinnie. I came here to try and make sure it doesn’t get to be their business.”
Vinnie frowned. “You should keep the cops away from me,” he said.
“Why?” I said.
“My people have instructions to get the money from Alice and some other clients if I get arrested. Without me to keep them in check, things could get ugly. I don’t think it’s the way you want it to go.”
I shook my head and looked out at the lacrosse field. Grass always a vibrant green in season now lay mottled with brown where the dirt poked through. “We made a lot of plays on this field, you and me,” I said.
“We did.” Vinnie cracked a smile. “I was always the better player.”
“The hell you were.”
“I scored more goals, C.T. Here and in high school. You can look it up.”
“You’re ten months older. Didn’t you read Malcolm Gladwell and his theory about early birthdays?”
“They stopped being important by eighth grade.”
Vinnie could have his theory; I would stick with Gladwell. “I had more assists,” I said.
“Assists ain’t on the scoreboard,” said Vinnie.
“Not many goals come without assists.”
“And now your giving nature manifests itself again with your devotion to Alice.”
So much for the memories. “Yeah,” I said.
We lapsed into silence again. I had almost finished my coleslaw. Vinnie worked on the last bit of his sandwich. He looked at the lacrosse field again, then glanced sideways at me. “You know the difference between you and me?” he said.
“How much time you got?” I said.
He smirked. “You have to be the good guy. It’s why I never let you work for me in college.”
“You assume I would’ve wanted to.”
“Whatever. I didn’t want you to. No matter what you’re doing, you always have to throw something in to remind everyone you’re a nice guy after all.”
“It sure beats being a prick and menacing women,” I said.
“How’s it working out for you?” Vinnie said. “I’m guessing you burned through most of your money overseas or you wouldn’t be doing this job and bothering me now. Your parents were always nice. I know they used to want you to be involved in their charity shit. They put you up to this?”
I forgot how smart Vinnie was. “Doesn’t matter why I’m doing this,” I said. “I’m trying to do what’s best for Alice.” I put my coleslaw container in the empty food bag, downed the last of my water, and added the empty bottle to the bag. “I hoped we could come to an arrangement.”
“I make arrangements good for business.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re on trash detail. I don’t care if that arrangement is good for your business or not. See you around, Vinnie.”
“Vincent!”
“Yeah, well. Throw the fucking trash away when you’re finished, Vincent.” I got up and walked away.
Not long after I got back from my chat with Vinnie, Rich dropped by. I keep the front door locked and made a point to double-check it after Vinnie’s threat. When Rich knocked, I took my .45 to the door with me. “I take it your chat with Vinnie didn’t go well,” Rich said, eyeing the gun when he walked in.
“Not particularly, no,” I said. “He wants his money from Alice, and he’s going to get it. She’s safe until the funeral tomorrow, at least. Afterward, he’s going to try and collect.”
“And she can’t pay.”
“Vinnie thinks she can. Paul should have had life insurance.”
“Even if he did, the payout isn’t instantaneous. The insurance company could do their own investigation if they think Paul’s death was suspicious. They might wait for the police investigation to end.”
“Vinnie doesn’t strike me as too patient right now.”
“What are you going to do, then?” Rich said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t watch Alice around the clock.”
“Do you think Vinnie is going to send someone after her?”
“Maybe not right away. I’m sure someone will contact her, but I don’t think he has breaking her leg on his list of goals for the week.”
“Have you said anything to Alice yet?” Rich said.
“No,” I said. “I need to talk to her but this is just such a bad time. She had two viewings yesterday and has a funeral tomorrow. I don’t want to burden her with things Vinnie might do.”
“She deserves to know.”
“So I’ll tell her . . . after the funeral.”
“What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Well, I’d love to read the ME’s report, but I can’t find it anywhere. It’s not in Paul Fisher’s case file.”
Rich frowned and shook his head. “You read his case file?”
“Rich, don’t insult me. Of course I read the case file. I also wanted to read the ME’s report. Where can I find it?”
“They’re kept on a separate network. You have to authenticate to it separately.”
I shrugged. “I’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be poking around on the police networks,” Rich said.
“Maybe you should share information with me,” I said.
“If I thought you were in this for the long haul, maybe I would.”
“You still think this is all about getting back into my parents’ money, don’t you?”
“Isn’t it?” Rich said, folding his arms across his chest.
“At first,” I admitted. “Now I’m invested in this case. I want to see it through. You know I don’t quit something when I start it.”
“Yeah. You’re still a hacker. Being in a Hong Kong prison didn’t teach you anything.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to talk to the ME. Show yourself out when you’ve finished feeling self-righteous.” I put my coat on and started toward the front door.
Rich grabbed my arm. “The ME isn’t going to help you.”
I looked at Rich’s hand, but he didn’t let go. “Why, because you talked to him and told him not to?”
“No, because his office is a resource for official business,” he said.
“I’m on official business. I have my license and everything. Want to see it?”
“I want to see you do the right thing for the right reasons.”
“Then let go of me and give me the chance,” I said.
“You’re not off to a good start so far.”
I grabbed Rich’s wrist, but he pulled back before I could do anything. He made a grab at my arm, which I avoided, and then I returned the favor. Then we both realized what we were doing. He put his hand up and so did I.
“I’m doing good work,” I said. “I don’t give a damn if you like my reasons or not. You’re not the morality police. I’m going to do my job. It’d be easier if I had your help, but if the last four years have turned you into an asshole, I’ll survive without it.”
Rich looked at me and sighed. “Fine. I’ll go along with you on this one. When the case is over, we’ll see where things stand.”
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
“What about Vinnie?” Rich said.
“He said his people have instructions in case he gets arrested, and he might not be able to rein in their zeal in pursuing debts while he’s behind bars.”
“Sounds like it could go badly for Alice.”
“Yeah. We need to lay off him for now,” I said.
“For now,” said Rich.
I took some time to look into a dojo where I could train, then headed to the ME’s office. Dr. Sellers had arrived by the time I got there, and he had a body on the table when I walked into the room. I stopped and waited inside the door. I had seen one corpse so far working on this case and didn’t wish to make a habit of it. Dr. Sellers looked up, saw me, and nodded. He worked on the deceased for another few minutes. I watched him make some careful incisions. Then he took his mask and gloves off and walked to me. “You were here a few nights ago,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “My name is C.T. Ferguson, and I’m a private investigator.” I showed him my ID while noticing I’d gotten used to saying my name and title. Great.
“I remember. What can I do for you?”
“Paul Fisher. I brought his wife in to ID his body. You mentioned you might have your full report done in a couple days.”
“Yes, I finished it. Have you read it?”
“No, I wasn’t able to. I came here to read it.”
“I have a hard copy. Let me dig it up.” He walked to the other side of the room and looked through a pile of file folders sitting atop an old metal desk. Dr. Sellers pulled one out from about the middle of the stack and carried it over to me. “Here it is. If you don’t want to read it in here, you can use my office. It’s out the other door, down the hall, and on the left.”
“Thanks, I think I will read it there.” I walked past the body on the table, out the other door, and along the corridor. Dr. Sellers’s office was the second on the left. I entered, turned the light on, and sat at the desk with Paul Fisher’s file. I didn’t know if it would tell me anything I didn’t already know (or suspect), but I had to see. Maybe I would find a smoking gun that pointed right at Vinnie and his crew.
The first thing I came across was the toxicology report. I read it until it got boring and then skimmed the rest. Paul Fisher had not been drunk or otherwise impaired when his car smashed into the tree. Some over-the-counter medication was in his system, but the report said common cold medicine in such quantities would not impair anyone. This information took driving while impaired off the table.
Dr. Sellers made a comprehensive list of Paul’s injuries. I winced reading some of them. He suffered a laundry list of broken bones, plus a lot of bruises and cuts. His face had been torn up by the glass as he went through the windshield. Dr. Sellers concluded Paul’s wounds were consistent with someone having been traveling at a good speed, stopping, and being battered about on impact.
I leafed through the rest of the report. Nothing jumped out at me. Dr. Sellers concluded the crash had been an accident based on the toxicology results. Anything else would be a matter for the police—and extremely intelligent private investigators—to puzzle out. I looked at the photos and saw nothing new.
Nothing in the report suggested Paul Fisher’s car accident had been anything else. He seemed a devoted husband who wanted to help his wife in her hour of need. Guys like him don’t drive their cars into trees. I supposed he could have fallen asleep at the wheel, but his file didn’t indicate any medical conditions to cause that, and he hadn’t been taking any strong medicines.
“I’ll figure out how you did this, Vinnie,” I said as I reassembled the file. I took it back to the prep room and left it on the table, giving Dr. Sellers a wave as I departed.
Chapter 15
I put on a black Armani suit, black shirt, and a black and silver striped tie. The suit would have been appropriate for a funeral or an Oakland Raiders fundraiser. I added silver cufflinks and a pair of highly-polished black shoes. To combat the November chill in the air, I wore my Calvin Klein coat. I had amassed a very impressive dry cleaning bill after getting back to the States. Even though I would be going to a funeral, I took my nine millimeter. Vinnie or one of his boys might make an appearance and I wanted to be ready for them if they did.
Paul Fisher’s funeral was at a church I never heard of. It would be my first Lutheran funeral. The church itself looked small on the outside, but the modest exterior belied a spacious interior. It featured the fine stained glass, woodworking, and art of Catholic churches without the opulence. The marble altar was the most obvious indication the congregation had some spare coin to toss around.
I took a seat toward the back of the church on the left. From there, I could see people enter and leave and keep an eye on the gathering. I considered asking Rich to come along, but I didn’t know how we stood after last night. Despite the near-seven-year age gap between us, we were pretty close when I grew up. In some ways, Rich acted like the older brother I never had. Since my teenage years, however, Rich and I drifted to a distant sort of close, and my working as a detective only made the distance greater. Rich served in the Army, saw combat in the Middle East, got medically discharged, and started his career with the BPD. By comparison, I was the rich loafer who blew most of his money learning shady things overseas and now wanted to be a detective. I could see his trepidation; I had given him plenty of chances to believe the worst about me.
The service started a few minutes late. I rose and sat on cue but didn’t take part in any of the singing. Lutheranism definitely wasn’t my faith, and I didn’t have one to call my own, anyway. Years ago, I had decided didn’t much care about the whole God thing. I would be respectful at the funeral but would participate as little as possible.
One of the songs struck me like it always did. I think I heard “Be Not Afraid” at almost every funeral I ever attended, including my sister’s. It was among her favorites, and we played it at the funeral. Today, it lacked the same punch, but the song haunted me like a specter at my window, and a chill crawled up my spine when the first chorus started.
When the funeral mass ended, I accompanied many of the mourners to the cemetery. Paul Fisher’s eternal resting place lay in front of a plain gray headstone stating he was a beloved husband and son. Alice and Paul’s family stood nearest the casket as it got
lowered into the ground. Everyone stayed while the priest said a final blessing.
I followed Alice and the family back to the Fishers’ home. She asked me to show up in case Vinnie or one of his people decided to make an appearance at the wake. At some point, I would have to ask her about the life insurance issue. If she already received the check, writing one to Vinnie would provide the neatest solution. If she hadn’t, we had to hope we could buy her some time. If Paul didn’t have life insurance for some reason, then Alice was really up a creek.
At the house with my overcoat off, I wished I had opted for a smaller gun. The nine millimeter created a bulge under my suit jacket. I didn’t know if anyone noticed, but I felt awkward wearing the gun at my side at a wake. If Vinnie or a goon didn’t make an appearance, I would feel doubly silly.
Everyone at the gathering had been to one of the viewings. I didn’t know most of the names, but I recognized the faces. Paul’s family kept to themselves, Alice’s did the same, and she flitted between them like she didn’t know where she belonged. Neither group seemed interested in talking to me. For my part, I didn’t try to strike up any conversations.
Alice hired a caterer to handle the food. I tried some of the salad, chicken tenders, and meatballs. None of it would make me dash upstairs and write home, but it was adequate food. Wakes were about togetherness and swapping stories, anyway, not food. They were also about alcohol. I didn’t see a lot of it; while I hadn’t planned on drinking, a houseful of people had varying reasons to drown their sorrows in the bottoms of adult beverage bottles. I found the dry nature of the party odd. Maybe a key family member battled alcoholism. Hell, maybe it had been Alice. She already suffered one addiction she struggled to control.
As the crowd filtered out, I saw Alice in the kitchen. She munched on some food and looked around like she saw her sink and appliances for the first time. This would be my best chance to ask about the life insurance. I walked in. Alice saw me and smiled. “Thanks for coming,” she said. She still had trouble meeting my gaze. Some things would never change.
