Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  “That’s because there was no 10-103. I just wanted to know where he was when those thugs from the casino roughed Landau up out in the alley.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t know that, yet he assumed the disturbance was at Pete’s Place. I think he was there.”

  “I see your point.”

  Spinelli added, “I still don’t believe his story about his car troubles the morning of the robbery. He told you he messed around with his battery cables for only a couple of minutes before calling in his disabled unit, but I read the official report filed by the D.A.’s office. The time difference between him receiving the 211 and his call to dispatch advising them of his troubles was nine minutes, three times longer than it took the robbers to kill the armored car driver and get away with the money.”

  “You still think he was in on the robbery.”

  “Of course. Powell’s job that day was to make sure he was the closest unit to the crime scene when the robbery went down. I mean come on; he clocked in and got on the road fifteen minutes before shift change. It’s no coincidence the heist occurred just before seven o’clock when there were no other cops on the street.”

  “He’s right,” said Carlos. “When have you ever known Powell to show up for work early?”

  “Never.”

  “There you have it.”

  “So, Powell goes to the cabin a couple of days later and what happens?”

  Dominic said, “He went to the cabin to get his share of the loot, but he found the cabin on fire and the money gone. Naturally, he thinks Landau is trying to stiff him so he threatens to arrest him and take him downtown.”

  “Which he does,” said Carlos.

  I asked, “Why wouldn’t Landau rat Powell out as an accomplice?”

  “Who would believe him? Johnny Buck is dead. That leaves the word of a robber against a cop’s word. Besides, something fishy is still going on here. It cannot be coincidence that Powell’s girlfriend is also Landau’s fiancée.”

  “I agree. Something is not adding up. Listen Dominic, I still want to know who is paying Stiles’ bills.”

  “I am working on that.”

  “Good, and while you are at it, I want you to find out what happened to the money from the heist.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it?”

  “No, I don’t mean the actual cash; I mean the loss. The chief said that insurance covered the casino’s losses. Find out if that’s true, and if the armored car company had insurance, as well.”

  “Ah, I see where you are going. I’ll look into it.”

  “Oh, and before I forget, you have plans tonight.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Lilith wants to conduct another séance at that old house. We have to be there by eight o’clock. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I was going to—”

  “Ursula will be there.”

  “Oh, then sure, I’ll be there.”

  “I thought so.”

  Soon after our server arrived and took our orders, we heard a voice call out from across the diner. “Yo, Detective Marcella!” We all looked. It was Adam Landau. He came to our table and shook my hand. Acknowledging Carlos with a nod and ignored Dominic completely. “I thought that was you,” he said. “How are things going? Any leads yet in my father’s case?”

  “We are working on it,” I said.

  “Yeah? How `bout the money? Any clues to what happened to that?”

  “I thought you said it burned up in the fire.”

  “I didn’t say that. My father said that.”

  “You said you believed him.”

  “Did I?”

  I looked to Carlos. “You took notes on that, didn’t you, Carlos?”

  He looked up at Adam. “That’s what you said.”

  “Oh, well….” He shrugged it off. “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. I can tell you for sure it’s not up at the cabin.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I have looked for it—me and a million other treasure hunters. The mystery surrounding that loot is practically folk lore around here.”

  I started to ask him when the last time was that he had gone to the cabin, when Trish Rosado came up to our table in a skip. “There you are,” she said, folding Adam’s arm in hers and locking it to her side. “I’ve been waiting for you outside. You ready to roll?”

  He kissed her absentmindedly. “Sure, I was just chill`n with Detective Marcella and his posse, seeing if he had any news of Pop.”

  She smiled at the three of us, spending an unusually long time looking at Spinelli, as though recognizing him from somewhere. I thought she might even ask him about it, but she let it ride, turning back to Adam, saying, “We really have to go, baby. My mom is taking me to the bridal shop later this afternoon.”

  “Bridal shop?” I said.

  Adam blushed. “I asked her to marry me last night. She said yes.”

  “Yeah? Congratulations!” Carlos and Dominic echoed my sentiments. “Have you picked a date?”

  “A week from Saturday,” Trish answered.

  “So soon.”

  “Yeah,” said Adam. “I only wish Pop could have been around for it, but what can you do?”

  “Life goes on,” I said. “Best of luck to you both.”

  The two thanked me and said goodbye, passing our server on the way out as she brought our drinks to the table. Carlos wasted no time emptying half the sugar shaker into his glass of iced tea. I said something to him about liking it sweet and he replied, “Not as sweet as Trish was on Dominic.”

  “What?”

  He smiled slyly. “Didn’t you see how she looked at him?”

  “Dominic?”

  “Sure.” He said to Spinelli, “What was that about?”

  He said nothing, but I could tell from his flushing that it was something. “Dominic?” I said. “You two know each other?”

  “Yeah, I know her from high school.”

  “Yeah?” Carlos elbowed him in the side. “Come on then, spill it.”

  “What? There is nothing to spill. We dated briefly. That’s it.”

  “You ever get any?”

  “Carlos!” I reached across the table and hit him. “That’s none of our business.”

  I could see that the conversation was making Dominic uncomfortable. I had always thought that maybe he had never crossed that final threshold into manhood, and that made me think of him and Ursula. Someone as fragile as she could do well with a man not so versed in modern women. We know that his feelings for her are no secret, and I suppose inside I am rooting for the two of them to hook up. Cultural differences aside, with her death and his near-death experience, both shared something that no one else we knew could. I think also that a small part of me wanted someone else to know what it is like to love a witch. They say misery loves company. Not that mean to insinuate that my relationship with Lilith is miserable, but for the company I do yearn, as Carlos has no idea what pains I go through to make my relationship work. I consider Dominic a cool cat, and although he and I could hardly be more different, there are enough similarities in our nature to compare notes. He is analytical; I am analytical. He is rational and levelheaded; I am likewise even-keeled. Having a friend with whom I can relate unique experiences appeals to me. I believe we might learn from one another in ways that only he and I might understand. More than simply a sounding board, Dominic can be my canary in a coalmine. What blows up in his face with Ursula could save me from a similar fate with Lilith. That is until he catches on to my game. Until then, I say to him with a smile, here kitty, kitty.

  FOURTEEN

  After dropping Dominic off at the Justice Center, Carlos and I drove back out to Pete’s Place. We had new photos to show him and a few new questions to ask. Mostly, we were in confirmation mode. We felt confident we knew who met with René Landau in the last hours of his life. With positive photo I.D.s from Pete, we could be sure.

  The bar had onl
y just opened; stools and chairs were still upside down on the tables and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes had not yet filtered out through the ventilation system. We caught up with Pete in the back room, loading beer cases onto a dolly.

  “Pete,” I said, “can we give you a hand with that?”

  He turned around, surprised, if not startled to see us. “Oh, hey Detectives.” He pitched the dolly back and started wheeling it forward. We parted, allowing a path between us. “No, I got it,” he said. “If you want to help, you can start pulling down barstool and chairs.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Carlos. “You show him the pictures. Pete, does it matter which ones I do first?”

  “Yeah, start with the stools. The chairs can wait. Table drinkers don’t show up until after the first matinée lets out.”

  “Got it.”

  I shadowed Pete over to the beer cooler, removing photos from a manila envelope as I walked. “Pete, I wonder if I might show you these; see if you recognize anyone.”

  “Sure.” He parked the dolly beside the cooler and began filling it. “Don’t mind if I work while you show me, do you?”

  “Not at all.” I started with the surveillance photos of Chief Running Bear. “Ever see this man?”

  He stopped loading bottles long enough to steal a glimpse. “Yeah, that’s the big Hispanic fellow who came in with the two bouncer dudes the other night.”

  Carlos pulled his phone out and queued up the two pictures of the Indian bouncers he took at the casino. “You mean these guys?”

  “That’s them.”

  “They are Wampanoag Indians.”

  “Yeah, well they’re the musclemen who escorted your boy outside for a little powwow; only he came back looking like they tried to scalp him.”

  I showed him a mug shot of Stephanie Stiles. “This is the woman we asked you about yesterday. It is a more recent picture. Does it ring any bells?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “How about this man. His name is Paul Kemper. Ever see him in here before?”

  Again, Pete shook his head, this time with less assurance. “I don’t know. He looks familiar, but he could be any of the stuffed shirts that come in here for drinks after work before going home to their Betty Crocker wives. We get all kinds here, you know.”

  “Of course.” I cycled through a few more photos until I got to Superintendent DeAngelo. “What about him? Just another stuffed shirt?”

  He took a longer look at that one. “No, him I remember. That’s old crew cut. He’s the Joe that strolled in here after midnight and took up residence at your boy’s table. They only talked a few minutes, with crew cut doing most of it. I remember him clearly because I thought I was going to have to break up a fight.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Let’s just say that as a bartender, you have a keen sense about these things. Besides, you expect something will happen when a guy slams his fist down on the table hard enough to spill drinks and then shouts, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’”

  “That was crew cut saying that?”

  Pete tapped his finger on the photo of DeAngelo. “That was crew cut.”

  I looked to Carlos. He knew what I was thinking. In our interview, DeAngelo said he had never been to Pete’s Place. He also told us he had not seen Landau since he walked through the prison gates the morning before. “What happened after that?” I asked. “Did DeAngelo make any threats?”

  “No, after that he got up and went out the back door. I felt bad for your boy. I was even going to send him over a free drink, until his luck changed.”

  “How so?”

  “`Bout ten minutes after his run-in with crew cut, Miss Hot Tamale strolls in and sits right down at his table.”

  “Miss Hot Tamale?”

  “I told you about her yesterday.”

  “The blond,” said Carlos.

  “That’s right, young, blond and beautiful.”

  “Did it seem like they knew each other?”

  Pete shook his head and continued loading bottles into the cooler. “No, like I told you, he got her phone number. If they were acquaintances, I think they would have hugged or something when they met.”

  “Did the woman leave with anyone?”

  “Nope. She left alone after only a few drinks with him. An hour or so later I looked up and he was gone. That’s the last I saw of him.”

  “You didn’t hear anything strange after that?”

  “Like what?”

  “A gunshot, maybe.”

  “No. You have to figure it’s loud in here sometimes, what with the jukebox and people talking above one another. A freight train could pass by outside and I doubt anyone would hear it.”

  I removed the last photo from the envelope. “Do you know this man?”

  Pete smiled as though I was trying to trick him. “Sure, that’s Sergeant Powell. He’s in here all the time.”

  “Did he come in the night before last?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. He strolled in right around closing. He does that often, you know. He will come in, cruise up one end of the bar and down the other.”

  “Why does he do that?”

  “A show of presence, I guess. You see a cop in uniform at last call, you start evaluating your state of sobriety, maybe think about turning your keys over to someone less drunk before you leave. He does that at several bars along Jefferson. I think it’s a valuable service to the community.”

  “A regular Johnny do-gooder,” said Carlos.

  I asked, “Was that before or after Landau slipped out the back door?”

  Pete thought for only a moment before answering, “Before, definitely before.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I remember something kind of strange he did.”

  “What was that?”

  “Well, he came in, like I said, walked up along the bar here, turned around at the end and started back. That’s when he spotted your boy sitting over there in the corner. He walked passed his table, pointed at him with his index finger out and his thumb up and he did this.” Pete gestured, as if pointing a gun at Carlos and pulling the trigger, his hand jerking back in recoil.

  “He did that to Landau?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you not think that was significant enough to mention to us earlier?”

  “What, you think Sergeant Powell shot your boy?”

  I did not answer him, but Carlos said, “Of course not. I’m sure it means nothing.”

  “Yeah,” I said, less convincingly. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Thanks, Pete. You have been a big help. We’ll keep in touch.”

  We stepped outside. Carlos asked, “What do you make of that?”

  “About Powell?”

  “Yeah,”

  “I think Powell lied to us. He said he didn’t know Landau was out of prison. Clearly he did.”

  “What now?”

  “Let’s head back to the office; see if Dominic has anything new for us.”

  “Can we stop at McDonalds on the way?”

  “For what? You just ate.”

  “I know. I want to get one of them iced mocha café lattes. Have you had one? They are really good.”

  I agreed with some reluctance and a commitment from Carlos that he would buy me one. I was glad he did, not because they are tasty, which they are, but because while there we spotted Frank Tarkowski, René Landau’s parole officer. We came up in the line behind him, and I had to slap Carlos’ hand as he reached over my shoulder. He was about to pull on the back of Frank’s toupee to straighten it out for him. Frank turned around at the sound of my voice and recognized us immediately.

  “Tony! Carlos!” Okay, so yeah, I guess we were on a first name basis now. “How are you guys, getting some lunch, are you?”

  “Hi Frank,” I said. That seemed to please him. “No. we were just popping in for a mocha latté. Carlos says they’re good.”

  He leaned around me to gather Carlos’ full at
tention. “They are good, aren’t they?”

  Carlos smiled wide with vindication. “See, Tony, I told you.”

  “Yeah, great, hey listen, Frank, I meant to ask you. You said René Landau and Stephanie Stiles were engaged to be married.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you know how long they…dated?”

  “Are you asking if they knew each other before he went to prison?”

  “Did they?”

  “No. It’s funny, though, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “There is a phenomenon out there known as prison pets. That is where a woman finds herself a single man sentenced to prison for a long time, preferable for life, and then makes him her boyfriend, or if she can, her husband. The thought among psychiatric professionals is that the woman is probably a victim of repeated spousal or domestic abuse. She needs the acceptance and affirmation of an Alfa male, only she is tired of the beatings and the mistreatment she receives from these bad boys. By hooking up with a prison pet, she maintains an arm’s length relationship with him while satisfying her subservient tendencies. It’s a win-win scenario if you ask me. She gets a man that can’t ever hurt her, and he gets a little female attention once or twice a month, something you don’t typically get in prison. I believe it was his engagement to Stephanie that finally pushed the parole board to grant him his wish for parole.”

  “I see.” I looked to Carlos. He had scooted around us and placed his order for two iced mocha lattés. “You know, I met Stephanie Stiles. She does not seem like the battered spouse type to me.” I tapped Carlos on the back. “What do you think, Carlos?”

  He turned around with his hand out. “I think I need six bucks. Do you have it?”

  “For what?”

  “The lattés.”

  “Six dollars for coffee? Jesus, Carlos.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out a ten. “I want change back.” He smiled, as though he thought I was joking. I thanked Frank for the info, and for letting us cut in line. He said no problem and called me ‘Tone’, one syllable, as if Tony is not already short enough.

  Back out in the car, I filled Carlos in on what Frank told me about women that liked to marry prison pets. “Do you see Stiles as the submissive enabler type?”