Body on Pine

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  “He’s a sweet guy. Attentive. And he worships you,” Anton said.

  “Yeah, well, he’ll get over it.”

  “No. He won’t. He looks up to you. Wants to be just like you. Really wants to get into private investigation.”

  “Uh huh,” I mumbled. Yeah, I was sure he wanted to be just like me. Would like to be in my shoes vis-à-vis Anton, too.

  “He appreciates you letting him work with you—”

  “Can we talk about something other than work?” I snapped and immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry.”

  Anton said nothing.

  “It’s the case. There are a lot of threads, and I’m having a tough time. The police are even further behind.”

  “You sure it isn’t Jean-Claude? I mean you never seem enthusiastic when I mention him.”

  “I’d rather talk about you. We haven’t talked much lately.”

  “Not my…” Anton started to say something then stopped. “I know. So let’s make up for it now.”

  We reached the diner and found a table way at the back where we could talk and not be disturbed.

  ***

  Dinner with Anton was like a tentative dance around the big topic we both wanted to avoid. Afterward, I’d walked him back to his place where we shared a long embrace at his front door. I could feel his tentativeness, though but I held onto him and nuzzled his neck trying to get him to laugh like he used to.

  Eventually, we pulled apart. Not that anything would’ve happened anyway. I always had to content myself with a kiss.

  All the way home and for the rest of the night, my thoughts were a jumbled mess. It wasn’t only the case scrambling my thinking. I looked forward to working at Bubbles. The noise and the crowd would drown out everything else for a while.

  Chapter 23

  The pounding headache I had when I woke up became sustained pressure over my eyes. I wanted to blame it on the weather, but it was more likely Brad’s case. Either way, it felt like my head was a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.

  I had little choice but to keep moving. Olga knew I wouldn’t be in until after I’d been to Wheeler’s firm. I hoped I’d get something solid but I wasn’t banking on much. This investigation led me into from one dead end to another. It was no wonder my head felt like it contained an off-key brass band gone wild. But I’d keep slogging.

  Speaking with Jarrette hadn’t been enlightening except for the part about a possible disagreement between Branko and Wheeler. I still hadn’t gotten an answer on why Wheeler had been struck from the witness list but if my impressions about Shim were correct, he’d call if he found anything.

  I headed out after my morning routine. Maybe Phil Caragan would make my headache disappear. Maybe I’d win the lottery.

  Wheeler’s offices were located in a four-story townhouse on Delancey Place near Eighteenth Street. The location spoke of wealth, influence, and status, the understated variety. The elite location was solid, stable, weighty. Which meant Wheeler was well aware of the power he wielded and what that power could do. He’d had no need to be ostentatious. The old and elegant townhouse showed its years but did it with style. Everything about it was clean and shiny but not new. If you came from old money you’d be comfortable here. If you were a brash, wealthy newcomer or a developer on the make you might be fooled into thinking Wheeler was wealthy but not up to the brave new world. I’d learned that more than a few people tried conning Wheeler into deals and schemes they’d dreamed up, only to find themselves on the short, dirty end of the stick.

  Wheeler had been no fool. Which made his involvement with Brad’s spa more interesting, even curious.

  Armed with information I’d gleaned through Olga, Xinhan, and other sources, maybe Phil Caragan wouldn’t be able to duck the truth. If he was as close to Wheeler as Xinhan suggested, Caragan should know a lot. Then maybe I’d be a step or two closer to a solution.

  The red sidewalk pavers echoed the red brick of the townhouse façade and gave the area an earthy, ancient feel. Somber black bunting draped the entrance. I climbed the white marble steps to the door and pressed the buzzer for Wheeler Enterprises. It didn’t take long for the responding buzz which let me in.

  The interior was subdued and filled with antiques, comfortable but expensive-looking furniture, and walls hung with paintings, some of which I recognized. In a reception area to the left stood a mahogany desk buffed to a high gloss. Propped on the desk, facing out, a black-framed picture of Smithson Wheeler.

  Prim and proper, a middle-aged woman sat at the desk, her attention focused on me as I approached. Faded blonde hair, no make-up, and a sweet, sad smile gave her a comforting, motherly appearance. “May I help you?” Her voice was raspy.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Caragan,” I said.

  “I’m afraid he’s quite busy. Shall I make an appointment for you?”

  “Couldn’t you squeeze me in?” I gave her my sincerest forlorn puppy look. Who can resist a puppy?

  “We’ve suffered a terrible loss and Mr. Caragan is… well, with Mr. Wheeler gone… He’s awfully busy.” She folded her hands over her daybook and stared at me pleasantly, if her watchdog gaze could be called pleasant. Obviously puppies meant nothing to her.

  “This isn’t something that can wait.”

  “Oh?” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look I could interpret easily.

  “I’m sorry. I should have identified myself.” I stuck out my hand. “Marco Fontana, private investigator. I’m looking into the deaths of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Lopes. And—”

  “The police were already here.” She obviously thought that should settle things.

  “I’m not the police,” I said.

  “My point exactly.” Her comforting, motherly appearance froze into a hard defensive shell.

  “If it helps any, I’m working with the police. Mr. Caragan might be interested in cooperating.”

  “He’s not available,” she said, bulldog stubborn.

  “Why don’t you let him tell me he’s too busy to help solve Wheeler’s murder? While you’re asking Mr. Caragan about his availability, tell him the police are a bit curious about his alibi for Friday night.” Okay, so I told another lie. If it opens a door and solves a case, what’s one little lie? Most it’d cost Caragan was a few white hairs.

  “The police…? They never said anything like that.” She eyed me as if she suspected I was lying but didn’t trust her own senses.

  “Listen, lady, the police aren’t gonna tell you exactly what they know or what they suspect. They don’t like it when people are uncooperative. They have the crazy idea that being uncooperative isn’t the way innocent people act.” Of course, that wasn’t entirely true either, but most people believe it.

  Comforting and Motherly picked up her phone and buzzed someone. She turned around to whisper into the phone, then turned back to glare at me.

  “You can go in.” She looked decidedly unhappy. “The oak door at the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  The hall was short, painted a restful green, and lined with gilt framed landscapes. The oak door was ajar. I knocked and waited.

  “Enter,” came a reedy voice.

  Sitting behind an expansive oak desk was Phil Caragan, combination nerd and businessman. Limp brown hair and goggle-sized glasses contrasted with his fashionable dark silk suit and high-design tie. He removed his glasses and stood to greet me.

  “Mr. Fontana is it?” He extended a hand.

  “Right.” We shook and he waved me to a seat. Neither of the barrelback chairs looked comfortable. I took the one allowing me to look directly at Caragan.

  “What can I do for you? Maggie said you mentioned Smithson and the murder case? I’ve already talked to the police.” He took a pencil from the desk and fiddled with it in what he must’ve considered a casual gesture.

  “The police are tied up with a number of other cases. I’m helping investigate the murder of Brad Lopes. I understand he and Mr. Wheeler were good friends
. Maybe…” I wanted to test the waters and see what he’d admit to.

  Caragan again tried looking nonchalant, but it just wasn’t in him. He picked up his glasses, placed them back on his face, took them off again and held them down on the desk as if they’d try escaping. Nerdy as he was, Caragan had a quirky but attractive face. Small turned up nose, sensuous mouth, strong chin. He was thin as a wafer, and that undercut his looks.

  “T-they were friends, yes. Mr. Wheeler also had a financial interest in the spa Mr. Lopes was renovating. Apart from that…”

  “Nothing else went on between them?”

  “Of course not. Mr. Wheeler was above reproach.”

  “Sources tell me Wheeler was upset about something lately. I’m told Brad was the cause.”

  “Mr. Wheeler wasn’t the kind of man you could apply the word ‘upset’ to very easily. He was calm and reasoned in everything he did.”

  “Yet, he’s found dead in the midst of a very sordid scene.”

  “Mr. Fontana.” Caragan stood abruptly. So thin he was lost in his clothes. “I’ve told the police everything I know. Surely they—”

  “Did you happen to tell them why Wheeler was scheduled as a witness at the Branko trial and was struck from the witness list at the last moment?”

  “I… The police never asked… not about the trial. Why is that even relevant?”

  “I understand that Wheeler was not merely upset at Brad but outraged. Tell that to the police?”

  “As far as B-Brad… Mr. Lopes is concerned, Smithso… Mr. Wheeler was not outraged. Not in the least.” Caragan sat down again, dejected.

  There was something in his voice when he spoke Brad’s name, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it meant. Longing, disappointment?

  “Did you know Brad?”

  “I… I’d met him. You couldn’t exactly say I knew Brad… uh… Mr. Lopes.” There it was again, his voice signaling something. This time it sounded more like sadness. A missed opportunity? Unrequited feelings?

  “How’d you and Brad meet?”

  “Mr. Wheeler was one of Brad’s backers, as I said. Mr. Lopes came to the office to sign some papers,” Caragan peered down at the vast desk in front of him as if remembering Brad and the papers and that day. “I handled those things all the time. I met many clients but never got to know any of them.”

  I decided to try a softer aproach. “You were Mr. Wheeler’s right hand man, from what I understand.”

  “Yes. Yes, I was. Still am, really. There’s no one else. No family, no business partners…” Suddenly he looked lost, as if he’d just arrived at the realization he’d have to handle every detail until things got sorted out.

  “Mr. Wheeler must have trusted you a great deal.”

  “I was the only one who knew everything. Everyone here knows something but no one knows how everything works together.” He paused. “Except… except me, of course.”

  “So, then you’d know all about his dealings with Branko?”

  Caragan squinted at me as if he hoped I was some kind of illusion. He fiddled with his glasses still on his desk. A painful expression crossed his face and he appeared caught between annoyed, frightened, and distracted. “What?”

  “Konstantin Branko, big time mobster. Small time developer. Sound familiar?”

  “Mr. Wheeler had no dealings with Branko.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I told you Mr. Wheeler had me handle everything, told me everything.”

  “Sounds to me like Wheeler had something to do with the Branko case considering he was set to testify at the trial. He must’ve encountered Branko. But you’re tellin’ me he didn’t know the mobster?”

  “He had nothing to do with the man. That much I know.” He paused. “You said it yourself, Mr. Wheeler was struck from the witness list. That should tell you he didn’t know Branko.”

  Okay, maybe the nerd was telling a shaded variety of the truth but he wasn’t about to tell me much more. Not here anyway. Wheeler had some connection to Branko. Whatever it was, Caragan knew enough to tell me a half truth and make it sound close to the real thing. Except, I don’t trust a word most people say and I can spot a liar. Caragan skated around the truth. Not lying but not being honest. “That’s too bad.”

  “How’s that? How is the fact that Mr. Wheeler never had anything to do with some criminal a bad thing?”

  “Newspapers, bloggers, and websites are gonna shout all about it tomorrow. They’ll say Wheeler must have had something to hide. His office won’t talk about his connections to Branko in light of the trial.” I said. “That’s just for starters. Then there’s Branko’s defense team. They’re gonna implicate Wheeler somehow when they appeal the conviction. They seem to know about some altercation between Branko and Wheeler a while back. Maybe they’ll run with that to get Branko out of jail. Y’know, Wheeler is on again, off again as a witness, maybe the prosecution found some nasty connection to Branko that made Wheeler useless to them.”

  Caragan stared at me, a growing look of horror creeping across his soft features.

  “Have I got it right, you think? You deal with the press all the time. You know how they’ll play this, am I right?”

  “They… they can’t…” He stared in my direction but I was sure he wasn’t seeing me. His expression changed from horror to sorrow, his eyes turned glassy.

  “They can and they will. As long as you don’t get out in front of this, the press will spin it whatever way gets them the most readers. They don’t give a damn whether something is true or half true or even a lie. If it sells, they print it.”

  “What about Smithson’s reputation? His friends, the communities he helped…”

  “Yeah, I understand,” I said with exaggerated concern. “Those people who knew him well will know the truth. Won’t matter what the press says, right? His reputation…”

  “Will be destroyed. All the good work he’s done…”

  “Not much you can do, I guess…” I made as if to stand.

  “Wait. Don’t go yet…” He stood as if to stop me.

  “Listen, you don’t wanna talk, that’s cool with me. I’ve got to run down some other leads.” I slipped one of my cards from my pocket and handed it to Caragan. “You think of anything else you wanna tell me, call. That’s my cell number. You can always reach me there.”

  “Wait. Please…” Caragan crumpled back into his too-large chair. “I can’t let that happen. I can’t let them do that to him.”

  “Then…?”

  “Can we talk somewhere else?” Caragan stood. He seemed nervous now, no longer defensive.

  “Sure. Got somewhere in mind?”

  “There’s a café not far from here. La Poule. You know it?”

  “Been there a time or two,” I said. Been there and hadn’t felt comfortable. Pretentious was the word of the day at La Poule. Poseurs of every stripe occupied tables nursing micro-sized cups of coffee while they sullenly read a book, or drearily tapped away at a laptop, or engaged in a heated conversation. A faux anger hung in the air at the café, like stale cigarette smoke, souring everything.

  Caragan walked around his desk, his skinny body ethereal and light. He waved me ahead, closed the door behind him, and walked the short hall with me.

  “I’ll be back, Maggie,” he said to the secretary who looked none too happy.

  “The… accountants… the lawyers… how am I… when… when…?” she sputtered.

  “Everything will wait, Maggie. I’ve got things under control. No one is due until late in the day,” he said with a soothing, kindness in his voice.

  Out on the sidewalk, he looked around at the dazzling sunny day and took a deep breath. He blossomed in the fresh air. No longer confined by the dour office, Caragan looked less the nerd now.

  “Shall we?” He gestured me forward and we walked together toward Twentieth Street.

  Caragan almost had a spring in his step. Was he just feeling let loose from the confinement of the office, or was he abo
ut to unburden himself of things he couldn’t stand keeping secret? I was betting on the latter. He obviously carried the weight of having to protect Wheeler’s reputation.

  “How long have you worked for Wheeler?”

  “Since I graduated from college. That’s longer ago than you might imagine. Smithson took me in as a favor to my uncle, his associate.”

  “Seems to have paid off…”

  “I considered it a stepping stone. A way-station on the road to something better. Something exciting.”

  “Like? A career in what?”

  “That was the problem. I didn’t know. Lots of kids seem to know exactly what they want, where they want to go, and just how to get there. Not me.”

  “You’ve got that wrong. Most kids don’t know much about what they want. They go to college then just float into something or luck into something and whammo a career is born.”

  “Some of the people I went to school with had definite ideas about where they wanted to be. I was one of those that lucked into something, like you said.”

  “Paid off. You’re running the business now.”

  “That isn’t what I want. I was satisfied behind the scenes. Didn’t have a lot of responsibility… I had responsibilities, but I wasn’t running the show. You know what I mean?”

  “Now…?”

  “Even if I wanted to run the business, Smithson had other ideas. He outlined his plans for me and spelled everything out in his will. There won’t be a Wheeler Enterprises anymore.” He resumed walking again.

  “What happens to you?”

  He stopped to scrutinize me. “Is that what this is all about? You want to know if I had something to do with Smithson’s murder?”

  “The thought had occurred but—”

  “Did it ever occur to you that his death might put me out on the streets?”

  “Does it? You going to be destitute now?”

  “Smithson always said he’d take care of me. He told me he’d already provided for me in his long range plans, even in the event he sold the business.”

  “And now…?”

  “I assume the same conditions apply but I don’t know details yet. There wasn’t a grand rush to find his will. So, it’s not like I killed him for money.”