by David Stever
“We’re looking into everything we can about Mr. Bocci. I agree, his actions are key to the investigation. If your mother was right, we’ll find it. Or find out what happened.”
“I hope.”
“Something will break; it always does. Cases like this, we’ll find an answer. Not always what the client is expecting, but… I’ll do my best.”
“You’re in good hands here,” Mike said wandering over.
She smiled.
I checked the time: 4:30. I wanted to be at Club Cuba well ahead of Brindisi. “I have an appointment. You’re welcome to sit here all night if you want.”
“No, I should go.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Her mood seemed to lighten. “Tomorrow.”
I went up to the condo. I told Katie to pack it in for the night, and she objected.
“I’m on to something, boss!”
“You’ve been at it all day. Let’s meet first thing in the morning.” I wrote Albert Brindisi’s name on a paper. “Priority tomorrow. Go home.” She closed the computer and neatly stacked the files. She left, and I went into the bedroom and changed. What I was wearing was not appropriate for where I had to go.
Chapter
30
I opened my phone and called Leah Love—and, yes, that was her real name. She was five-four, with smooth caramel skin, sparkling black eyes, long, silky black hair, and hips that could knock a man off-balance.
Ten years ago, I arrested her for running a high-class call-girl escort service in the city. She was also the smartest person I have ever met. I booked her on the prostitution charge, and she was out on bond in less than a day. Two days after her release I knocked on her apartment door and didn’t leave for three days—except for food and wine. I finally understood what it meant when people talked about love at first site. The problem was, Leah was a restless soul—and I was still married to Kelly. After a three-month torrid affair, we both knew it was time to get back to reality.
She had a healthy savings account and used it to open a nightclub, the Cuban Connection. She ran a tight ship: the club prospered and became the place to be and to be seen, but after two years, she made a rare mistake. She let Tony and Sammy buy half the business and with them came a new clientele that changed up the scene some. The hip, cool, thirty-somethings drifted to the newest hot spot and Tony’s gang of beer-swilling, gambling, sports-loving good old boys moved in.
Business dropped off seventy-five percent in less than a year. Leah kicked herself for bringing in a partner, but regrouped, sold her half for pennies on the dollar to Tony, and reinvented the original club at a new location.
The birth of Club Cuba. Leah applied her magic: live Afro-Cuban jazz bands replaced reggae, she brought a chef in from New York City to create a trendy small-plate menu, and a world-class bar ran the length of the interior. The restaurant and the chef received four star reviews in the Herald, and the millennials came in droves.
Leah saw me come in, we embraced. She was stunning in a tight, dark-green satin dress that had a teasing neckline and hugged her in all the right places. She led me to her back office and closed the door.
“Brindisi. Yeah, he comes in here every so often and sits at the bar. Nobody pays him much attention. Julio the bartender says he likes to talk. Always rambling about some new job.”
“Right down to business, huh?”
“Sounded urgent on the phone,” she said.
“It was, but your eyes distracted me.”
“They always did.”
Being beside her brought back a flood of perfect memories. “How are you, Leah?”
She sat in her office chair and crossed her legs. “I’m well. The club is hot, keeps me busy while I wait for you.”
“It will happen.” I let her spirit warm me for a minute. “I need to come around more, it’s been too long.”
“Yes it has.”
Her phone buzzed. “Julio—says your guy is here. At the bar.” She got up and we hugged, and then she kissed me quick on the lips. “I miss you.” She turned me and pushed me toward the door. “Be careful.”
“I’ll be back.”
I went out to the bar and sat down beside Brindisi.
“Oh, hey there,” he said. “I guess we’re both a little early.”
“That’s right, and I want information. Any compensation will depend on the quality of the information, and I have a great ear for bullshit. Start talking.”
“Damn, brother, I’m helping you out.”
“First of all, I’m not your brother.”
The bartender swung by. I ordered a bourbon with an ice cube and offered Brindisi another drink. He accepted. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth a pale yellow, and his hand trembled. He was a junkie all right; I’ve arrested plenty over the years.
“Okay, okay.” He scratched at his filthy, scaly neck and leaned in. “I runs into Jimmy Rosso a few weeks back. I ain’t seen him in years. Like I said before, we were buddies back in the day.”
“You don’t have to whisper. Where?”
“Where, what?”
“Where did you run into him?”
“Umm…don’t recall. A bar somewhere. Anyhow, we start talking, and he says he has some work for me. I’m always looking for cash.”
The bartender put the drinks in front of us, and he took a big swallow of what I hoped was truth serum.
“I thought he split Port City years ago?”
“Me too,” said Brindisi. “You can imagine my surprise.”
“Uh huh.”
“He starts talking about the Scarazzini brothers and Donny Dixon and what happened way back when. He tells me he hears Donny’s daughter is in town sniffing around about the money that went missing long ago. Hired a private eye.”
“I’m listening.” My phone buzzed and a text from Leah popped on the screen. My guys say he came in alone. Nobody following. He downed his drink and I signaled for another.
“Anyhow, he says if there’s money, he’s entitled to some ‘cause he was part of that crew. But he’s not sure. He asks me if I want to help shake things up a bit. Stir the pot, he says, and the money will magically float to the top. So I agree, give him my number, and he never calls.”
“Until?”
“Well, a few nights ago, but before that, I hear about the accountant guy and remember him from years back. I used to drop money to him.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, he worked for Aletto. I killed a lot of brain cells over the years, but I ain’t stupid. I starts to figure there might be something to what Rosso is saying. First the accountant, then Sammy gets run down.”
“Could be coincidence.”
“I’m not buying that. Not with Rosso back here,” he said.
“How did you find out about me?”
“Rosso told me. Said you were investigating.”
“Who told him?”
He shrugged. “But, I’m thinking I can make a little scratch. I can slide you information. For a fee.”
“You’re working an angle?”
“I’m a businessman.”
“What if Rosso finds out you’re talking to me?”
“I’d rather not dwell on that.”
“Tell you what. Let’s be smart about this. Why work against Rosso and put yourself at risk?”
He had every brain cell—the ones remaining—working overtime.
“You mean work together?”
“Why not? Rosso might have information I need. Everyone ends up happy. Tell him you and I go way back and you might be able to set a meeting.”
He finished his drink. “I’m not sure—”
“Let me ask you a question. You think there’s money?”
“I knew those guys. If Donny got whacked, there was money.”
“Wh
ere do you think it is?”
“Isn’t that the two-million-dollar question?” He laughed; his lips peeled back to reveal blackish gums and yellow teeth. The laugh turned into a violent smoker’s cough and it took him two minutes to get the cough under control. He grabbed a napkin from the bar and held it over his mouth with grimy, stained fingers. The bartender brought over a glass of water and gave us a sideways look, along with everyone else in the place. He sipped the water and the cough slowed.
“Years of cigarettes, huh?”
“Yeah. Don’t smoke.”
“So why wouldn’t anyone dig for the money before now?”
“They all thought Donny hid it, and when he wouldn’t talk…” He slashed a hand across his throat. “Then they thought his old lady had it and tried to beat it out of her. That didn’t work. No place else to look. Rosso sure as hell didn’t have it.”
“So then here we are, thirty years later.”
“Yep. Donny either hid it and nobody knows where it is, or someone else grabbed it.”
“And Rosso wants his share?”
“Hell, yeah. Me too.”
“Donny’s daughter?”
He shrugged. “Why else would she be here?”
“So what about the meeting? Me, you, and Rosso.”
“I got to think about that.”
I handed him my card. “Call me—tomorrow at the latest.” I threw a couple of twenties on the bar. “Have a few more.”
He scooped up the money. “Yeah, thanks, Johnny. Don’t worry, I’ll call.”
I gripped one of his bony shoulders. “Don’t be stupid. We could all come out winners on this.”
I didn’t believe a word Brindisi said. My guess was, he and Rosso were working together and Rosso sent him to find out what he could.
If Rosso was back in town, then Claire’s hunch about the money was correct.
Or did Rosso ever leave?
Chapter
31
It was 8:30 a.m. and I had poured my second cup of coffee when a knock came on my door. My nerves were shot—I picked up my Beretta and went to the door. No peep-hole; I had been meaning to install one. Gun in my right hand, I opened the door an inch with my left. A bag from a bagel shop was in my face. I pulled the door wide. “Why didn’t you use your key?”
“It’s polite to knock. Wouldn’t want to catch you naked or something.”
“And that would be a bad thing?”
“Now you’re being creepy. Although Mandy would like it.”
“Maybe I’ll invite Mandy over sometime.”
“Gross. You’re going to be happy with me. But I need coffee first.”
We each fixed a bagel and I poured her a cup of coffee. I read through her research on Elena Garver while we ate. If she was hiding behind Garver Holdings, she wasn’t doing a good job. Katie had no trouble digging through state records for the corporate information that itemized subsidiary companies, board members, and various IRS and state financial filings.
Listed as a subsidiary was Garver Hotel Properties, LLC, and one of the properties was the Harbor Court Motel. Claire staying at the Harbor Court was no random choice. She booked into the Marriott because that’s where anyone would expect her to stay; she booked into Aunt Elena’s hotel so she could be close to…what? Her organization impressed me. She had a separate folder for each person we’d come across and another folder with a timeline for the case. “This is great research. Excellent job.”
She put another folder in front of me but kept her hand on it.
“Did you know we can search marriage records online?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, of course you do. Anyhow, this is what I found last night.” She opened the folder and removed a copy of a marriage license between Elena Aletto Richards and Francis Rosso. Frank Rosso.
“She married Frank Rosso? Which means Jimmy Rosso is her son?
“Step son. Jimmy was sixteen years old at the time she married Frank. And
Elena was only twenty-two. The reason I couldn’t find anything on Rosso before is because Jimmy Rosso is Martin James Rosso.”
“Well, how about that.”
“Listen to this. When I do a criminal background check on Martin James Rosso, six pages of records came up. He was one bad dude.”
“They’re all bad dudes.”
“The charges date right up to the time Donny got whacked then stop. Must be when he split town.”
I picked up the folder and leafed through Rosso’s rap sheet. “This is great work.”
“It means that Claire and Rosso are cousins. Sort of. Can you be a cousin with your aunt’s stepson?”
“Close enough, I suppose. It also means it was easy for Claire to find him when she put all this in motion. Marco and Tony both said Rosso left town and never came back. But I have a suspicion—”
“Karl Boyd is Rosso.”
“You’re getting the hang of this.”
She beamed. She got up from her chair and paced around the kitchen. All she needed was a trench coat and a fedora. “So Claire contacts Rosso, he confirms the money, and makes him her accomplice. Then he’s the one running around with the spray paint!” She slammed her hand down on the table. “Or he ran over Sammy.”
“Or paid off a flunky to do the job.”
“Right—why do it yourself when you can blame somebody else?” She sat back down.
“Get them to take the fall,” I said. “Here’s the goal for today. Albert Brindisi. They call him Little Al. He’s the flunky who came to the bar yesterday. Says he’s working for Rosso, which confirms Rosso is back in town. He wanted to put himself in the middle and try to work both sides, but I’m sure he’s working another angle.” I wrote his name on a pad. “Find out what you can about him. I’m sure you’ll need a ream of paper for his rap sheet.”
“Okay.” She made a note in her book. “What about you? Where are you going?”
“To the Harbor Court for starters.” I went into the bedroom and changed. When I came back to the kitchen, she had her laptop set up and had another bagel in front of her.
Oh, to be young and to not worry about calories.
“Keep an eye on her car. Call me if she moves.”
“What happened when she came to the bar yesterday?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m not sure. She asked about Sammy, remorseful, like it’s all her fault.”
“It is all her fault.”
“True. Keep going on Bocci. He’s our unknown.”
“Our X factor?”
“Yep.” I put my gun into my bag and headed for the door. “Hey, good job again. You’re a natural at this.”
“Thanks.”
I stopped and turned to her. “Use your key anytime.”
“Whatever you say.”
“And lock this door behind me.”
“Yes sir.” She saluted and smiled.
I smirked and closed the door behind me. I waited in the hallway until I heard the click of the lock and then I left. Smiling.
Chapter
32
I grabbed a coffee and took up my usual spot. I had a perfect view of the motel office and could see Jimmy Rosso—aka Karl Boyd—working the front desk. Claire’s Audi was not in the parking lot. I sent Katie a message to update me on the location of her car and reminded her to do a background on Karl Boyd. If Rosso was Boyd, that explained why he spent twenty minutes in her room the first time I set up camp here, and also explained why she got enough Chinese food delivered for three or four people on the second night I observed. And who dropped Claire off on the night of my fumbled surveillance run? Rosso or Brindisi?
If Rosso split town when Donny got whacked, as all sources kept telling me, and mob guys didn’t bother to search for him, that means he was protected. If the mob wants you, they find you. If t
he feds put a squealer in witness protection, the new identity only works as long as no one talks. The mob had a funny way of finding guys who were supposed to stay hidden. A little cash payment to a mob-friendly Fed and suddenly the guy in protection disappears from his shiny new suburban life.
Martin James Rosso was Joseph Aletto’s step-grandson and Elena’s stepson, so out of respect for Aletto, they left him alone. Didn’t try to find him, or they all figured he was too stupid to pull off taking the money and were happy he split town. Tony and his boys had no problem using baseball bats on Jackie; they would have done worse to Rosso if they suspected he had the cash. My guess was the cops turned up the heat for beating up Jackie and he took off to avoid being caught. Now he’s back in Port City because ten years ago the Garver group buys the motel and she puts him to work with a new name? Did Elena create her own witness protection for him? Why? A favor to husband number two, Jimmy’s father? All that mattered now was his involvement with Claire and what he’s doing with Brindisi.
Little Al’s visit to me was nothing more than a message from Rosso that he was here running the show. Why? Why would Claire need to use Rosso? Gain access to what? She hired me to dig for the money, wasn’t that enough? Rosso’s involvement didn’t seem necessary, unless Claire wanted to keep her hands clean.
An old, beat-up black-and-grey Lincoln Mercury squealed into the motel lot. Brindisi got out and went into the office. I picked up my camera and zoomed in. He and Boyd-Rosso were having an animated conversation. Rosso’s arms were flailing while he shouted at Brindisi. Then Rosso went out of the picture and Brindisi plopped down in a lobby chair. That lasted for only a few seconds when Rosso reappeared behind the counter and got back into his tirade again. Brindisi cowered in the chair. What did he screw up?
My phoned buzzed—a text from Katie: The car is at the Marriott.
Rosso stormed out of the office with Brindisi following. They went to room 112 and knocked. The door opened and they went in. Was Claire in the room? If so, then why wasn’t her car here? And why didn’t I know her car moved to the Marriott? I kicked myself for not knowing. When did they move it?
