Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks. I’m a professional. I’m not used to the time crunch, though. The store clerk thought I was nuts when I came out of the dressing room with all this on. I told them I had an emergency job interview.”

  “I want you to keep some clothes with you. For different situations.”

  “Like you do in the trunk.”

  “Yes. You never know when you have—”

  “—to blend in.”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  I filled her in on how we would approach Elena but it was a flimsy scheme at best. My hope was to get her talking. Anything that would give us another path to work.

  The doorman at the Ocean Palms had our names and he asked for our IDs. He took them to a small office off the lobby and made copies. He came back and directed us to the elevator and said she’s in number 1200. The elevator opened into a small foyer and we faced a door marked 1200. We both realized she had the one and only apartment on the twelfth floor. We knocked; the housekeeper answered and let us into the condo.

  The style was a classic modern design with nautical themes that reflected the ocean front location. A wall of windows overlooked the beach and opened to a large balcony. Inside, the furniture sleek and minimal, dark browns and tans with light-blue and green accents—nothing garish or overstated. A single painting hung on each wall—they looked like originals to me—all with a beach motif.

  We were ushered into the great room and took seats on a brown leather sofa with a coffee table in front of us. The housekeeper asked whether we wanted a drink and we both said yes to water. Moments later Elena Garver came into the room and we stood as she greeted us. We got through a few pleasantries, including complimenting her condo and the furniture, and then sat back down. She wore blue slacks with a white top, a blue beaded necklace with matching earrings. Slender. In her mid to late sixties. Her smartly styled brown hair—the work of a high-end salon, along with her smooth skin—a little nip and tuck?—shaved off a few years. She had minimal makeup and was truly an attractive woman.

  I thanked her for seeing us and introduced Katie as my writing partner.

  “Are you published, dear?” she asked Katie.

  “No ma’am. I just graduated from college a few months ago.”

  “What school?”

  “Florida State.”

  “Oh, a state school?”

  I thought I needed to intercept this before Katie figured out she got insulted. “She’s a very talented writer. Graduated with honors.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Katie shifted in her seat. She opened her notebook and took a pen out of her purse.

  “Mrs. Garver, I’m concentrating on the impact of organized crime in Port City. We’re going back some years—things are different now—but organized crime had a definite influence on the city, especially the shipping industry in the harbor.”

  “I’m not sure what I can add there.”

  “Well, again, we’re going back many years, but I wondered if you could talk about your father. It was public knowledge that he was involved in organized crime.”

  “Mr. Delarosa, my father was a successful businessman in this town. And nothing more.”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, but I spent many years in law enforcement. I’m not judging, but what happened, happened. This is not meant to disparage your father in—”

  “He was a respected businessman who gave freely to his community.”

  “Yes, and I don’t mean any—”

  “He practically paid for the altar in St. Anthony’s on Twenty Fourth Street. You can put that in your article. He also gave over two hundred thousand dollars to the initial funding of the children’s hospital to start the construction. That was a lot of money back then. Equivalent to millions today. You can put that in your article.”

  “Nobody is disputing that, Mrs. Garver.”

  “Good. I guess we are done.” She stood.

  “Mrs. Garver, please. Can I ask you about some other names we’ve run across from that time? I promise, another minute?”

  She sat back down. “One minute. I’m packing for our trip.”

  “Thank you. Your sister, Jackie.”

  “Jacqueline.”

  “Yes, Jacqueline. We heard a story of how she met with some tragedy.”

  “She did. It was a shame. Beautiful girl, a talented dancer. She gave up a promising career for some thug.”

  “Didn’t he work for your father?”

  “I don’t know who worked for my father. I was out on my own by then. Jacqueline was always enamored by that type of man. I would talk to her about it. I wanted her to move with me to New York. Start a life there.”

  “Was she married to Donny Dixon at the time?”

  “Yes, Dixon. Good old Donny. She loved him, for some unknown reason. What did it get her? A life in a wheelchair.”

  “What happened? Is it true there was missing money?”

  “I have no idea. I can’t imagine anyone taking money from my father. Is there anything else? I don’t feel comfortable with this conversation.”

  “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I just want the truth.”

  “Well, in that regard, I wish you success. The world of my father and my sister was a long time ago. My housekeeper will show you out.” She got up and walked out of the room.

  The housekeeper came within seconds and showed us to the door. Neither of us said a word until we got to the car.

  “She was annoyed, to say the least,” Katie said.

  “The last thing she wanted to talk about was the past. Probably reminded her of a time she’s ashamed of. I’m sure many in her current social circle don’t know who she really is. She is an Italian girl from the Twenty Fourth Street crime family who happened to marry big.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “You know what to do.”

  “Find out everything I can about Elena Aletto Garver?”

  “Exactly. But again, you only have a state school education. It might be tough for you.”

  She punched me on the arm.

  Chapter

  25

  It was time to visit my new favorite stake-out location: the Harbor Court Motel. Katie was eager to ride along. She couldn’t get enough of the work—and working with her, having to explain procedures and techniques, sharpened my mind like nothing else. I used to have to pace my apartment late at night to get my brain moving on a case. No more: Katie asked questions I would never have thought of, and she answered mine in ways I never could have imagined. We were becoming a good team—and that scared the hell out of me.

  The night was warm; the boulevard pulsed with heavy traffic. Street creatures slithered along the sidewalks looking for business or a bite. Pinky worked her corner, wearing a long, white, skin-tight dress that went to the ground. It had a split on the left side that came up to her hip, revealing her entire leg, and a plunging V-shaped neckline down the front that revealed everything else.

  The McDonald’s lot was packed. I parked near my usual spot, not an ideal vantage point, but I had a view of Claire’s room and the motel office. But we were in my Z4, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb. I glanced at Katie: her eyes kept going from Pinky to the fun in the lot. She checked the door to make sure it was locked.

  “I take it you don’t visit this part of town very much,” I said.

  “Uh. No. Not very much.”

  “Interesting, huh?”

  “That hooker’s been picked up three times since we’ve been here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The black guy from my botched surveillance night manned the front office desk. I pointed him out to Katie. “There’s another guy who works the day shift,” I told her. “Some dude with a gray ponytail—I saw him going into Claire’s room the first day
I staked this place out. I need his name.”

  I got out my camera while Katie kept an eye on the office. “Why can’t you go in as a private detective and just ask for his name?”

  “He’d get suspicious. Plus, he might blab—to the guy with the ponytail, or to Claire herself.”

  “So we need another plan, huh?”

  “And there’s the security guy who chased me the other night. Yes, we need another plan.”

  She used the zoom lens on the camera to scan the front of the motel. “No sign of the guard. So you think the day guy knows Claire?”

  “He knows something. He spent twenty minutes in her room.”

  “Hmmm…interesting,” she said. “Maybe he’s the one who did the paint job on your car? Or threw the fire-bomb? Sounds like a job for Investigator Pitts.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll get his name.”

  “How?”

  “The same way I got into every bar in Florida before I was twenty-one. Open the trunk.”

  I popped it, and she got out and rummaged around and got back in the car with one of my old dress shirts. She began unbuttoning her blouse.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My job,” she said. I sort of turned my head, but it was hard to not peek. She stripped off her slacks and blouse and put on my shirt, leaving most of it unbuttoned. She slipped into her heels and took the belt from her slacks and fastened it around her waist. “What do you think?”

  “What I think is—Jesus, Katie. I’m not letting you out of the car like that.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She got out before I could say anything else and headed across the street in my shirt and three-inch heels. The shirt tail barely covered her butt; two cars slowed down to gawk as she crossed.

  Pinky also took notice. “White ho? Why you on my corner?”

  I picked up the camera and focused on the desk clerk as she got to the office. She pressed the button to get buzzed in. The clerk’s eyes got wide as she sashayed in. I knew what he saw, and what he was thinking. Her mouth moved; I saw him nod and smile, his eyes glazing.

  A few minutes went by before a car pulled into the motel lot. The security guard—the guy who chased me—got out, carrying a pizza. He went to the office door and had to knock twice before the clerk took his eyes off Katie and buzzed him in. He went behind the counter with the pizza box and took a position next to the clerk. They motioned to the pizza; she shook her head. The clerk wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  She waved to them as she left and trotted across the street, teetering a few times on the heels. Pinky was ready for her this time.

  “Yo, whore. You lost? This is my corner, hear me?”

  Katie ignored her and kept coming to my car. Pinky didn’t let up. “That’s right, bitch. Keep your lily-white ass moving.”

  I reached across and had the door open for her. She plopped in. “There you go. One Karl Boyd.”

  “You got it?”

  “Yep. Nice set of tits works every time.”

  Truer words were never spoken. “What did you say to him?”

  “That I was there earlier in the day and the guy working said I could rent a room for the week for one-fifty. Maurice, the guy there now, said, Karl told you that? I said, yep. We went back and forth. I pretended I was a bit drunk. He said they couldn’t rent a room for that cheap for the week. I told him he had a cute smile, and then finally I got Karl’s last name out of him. We left it that he could work a deal much better than Karl’s. Men are pigs.”

  “Well, you were half-naked.”

  “Your point?”

  “Never mind. Good job on getting the name, but you’ve got to stop jumping the gun like that. We need to think these things through.” I paused when she took off my shirt so she could put her clothes back on.

  “It’s okay, you’ve seen me before.”

  “That was different. Anyhow—I had no way to contact you. What if I had to pull you out of there? Huh?”

  “I understand. We talk it through.”

  “Nothing left to chance. Got it?” She nodded as she pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “Anyhow, Claire’s car never moved. I guess we can pack it in.”

  My phone rang.

  “Hey, Tony,” I answered. Nothing but screams. “Tony, slow, down. What’s going on?”

  “He’s dead. This is your fault. He’s dead!”

  Chapter

  26

  Katie and I got out to City Salvage in record time, and emergency vehicles were already everywhere. I got as close as I could and then got out of the car and walked. I told Katie to stay in the car, but she got out and followed me.

  “Go back to the car.” I turned and walked her back.

  “I want to see—”

  “We don’t know what happened. If they tie me to this, I don’t want anyone knowing your name, let alone seeing you. Stay in the car.” She got back in, and I continued toward the salvage yard. I got about a hundred feet away before a uniformed cop stopped me.

  “What happened?”

  “Accident. You need to stay back.”

  I pulled out my PI license and my old cop ID and handed it to him. “I’m working with these guys. I got a call from Tony. One of the owners.”

  “You know them?”

  “Yes, Scarazzini. The two brothers.”

  He gave me back my ID. “Bad news. Looks like a hit-and-run. Or just a hit, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Guy got run down right in front of the place. Deliberate—but that’s my opinion. You didn’t hear nothing from me.”

  “Can I get closer?”

  “Yeah. But stay out of the way.”

  I edged along an ambulance and another police car and got within thirty feet of the scene. Two white tarps were spread on the ground—covering two bodies. Three officers surrounded Tony in front of the building. He was inconsolable—screaming, cursing a long blue streak, swearing revenge on the bastard who did this. I didn’t have to ask; I knew it was Sammy.

  But who was the other body?

  I spotted a lieutenant—Franklin, I knew him some years back—and called him over.

  “Delarosa. What are you doing here?”

  “Tony called me. Screaming.”

  “Why would he call you?”

  “We’ve been working on something. I saw him earlier today.”

  “Can you add anything to this?”

  “I don’t know. What happened?”

  “Sammy comes out, and, best we can figure, somebody runs him over.”

  “Who’s the other person?”

  Franklin looked at me. “Sammy. Both are Sammy.”

  “Jesus.” The bile came up in my throat. “Anything on the vehicle?”

  “Nothing yet.” He pointed toward the convenience store. “They have some cameras, so we’ll see if they picked up anything. Whoever did this hit him hard. No skid marks, didn’t even try to stop.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “You’re working with Tony? On what?”

  “Something with his club.”

  “These guys didn’t have any family, did they?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s been just them for years. Tony always took care of Sammy. I don’t know what he’ll do now. But I know this—he’ll be out for revenge.”

  “Yep, I’m sure he will.” He gave me a slap on the back. “Don’t leave town.”

  It sounded as if he was kidding, but he wasn’t. He’d want to talk again. I wanted to go to Tony and help, but I feared he’d launch in on me. He said on the phone it was my fault, and I prayed he would keep his mouth shut. He would be crazy mad, but I was confident he wouldn’t give the police anything. He’d take this personally. He’d give his brother a proper Catholic funeral and burial, a
nd then, out of respect to his brother and his own grieving process, he’d wait until the right moment.

  After that, he would come with all guns blazing.

  Chapter

  27

  We got back to McNally’s at one-thirty in the morning. I walked Katie to her car and thanked her for a job well done and told her to get a solid night’s sleep and not come in until noon. She didn’t say anything on the ride back to the bar.

  I got up to my condo, stripped, showered, wrapped a towel around me and opened a bottle of cabernet. I wasn’t in the mood for music, so I took the wine to the balcony and sat there, thinking about Sammy. Who deserved to go like that? My heart broke for Tony—he took care of his brother, protected him his entire life. Tony was the smart one, the enforcer, the protector; he devised the schemes, hustled the streets, with Sammy, two years younger, always in tow. The teachers in school considered Sammy slow. These days, they’d call it a learning disability, but back then the teachers told their mother he was destined for a life of menial labor and to “not expect too much.”

  Sammy was in fourth grade—two years older than the other kids in the class—when a classmate, Dominick Ponzelli, made a fateful decision that changed life forever for Sammy and Tony. Ponzelli called Sammy an “overgrown stupid retard” and pushed him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs a couple of times while they were on the playground. Tony heard of the incident and beat Ponzelli to within an inch of his life. The Sisters of Mercy, the teachers at St. Anthony’s Parochial School, got Dominick patched up and pulled both boys into the principal’s office. It was Tony’s word against Dominick’s; when the sisters questioned other boys in the class, they all sided with Tony. They were glad the bully Ponzelli got what he deserved. From that day forward, Tony realized he’d be Sammy’s guardian, protector, brother, and friend for life. The beating of Ponzelli sent a message: do not fuck with Sammy Scarazzini.

  And nobody ever did. Until now.

  I finished two glasses of wine thinking of Tony and Sammy. The night breeze blew away the humidity, and the cool air put me to sleep.

  Claire came out onto the balcony. She was wearing my shirt, the one Katie wore earlier into the Harbor Court, unbuttoned to reveal the swell of her breasts, and she knelt beside my lounge chair and removed my towel. She pulled her auburn hair around her and let it fall onto my chest; slowly and carefully, she dragged it up and down my body as if she were painting me with her hair. She kept saying, “You know you like me” while brushing and tickling the hair over my body. “You know you like me.” I tried to put my arms around her, but I couldn’t move them, as if they were tied to the chair. The hair teased my body. “You know you like me.” Her dazzling smile.