by Dana Donovan
The next pocket I fished through was on his blazer. There I found a woman’s diamond ring, like an engagement ring. Carlos whipped out a small plastic evidence bag and collected it. Someone called out for him to hold it up. I saw a flash, heard a click and a polite thank you from a police field photographer standing behind me. He continued snapping pictures without introducing himself. Powell mumbled something about it taking long enough for him to get there. Carlos and I let it slide.
The other pocket on the blazer turned up nothing, but his wallet yielded plenty. Inside was forty two dollars in cash, a business card from a local lawyer downtown named Paul Kemper and a prison ID card. Now our vic had a name: René Landau.
“Well, Carlos, you were right about Walpole,” I said. “This guy just got out.”
He nodded lightly. “Bet he didn’t know that getting out was a death sentence.”
I shook my head. “No, I bet he didn’t.”
The rain had begun to let up, but the cold that had crept under my skin now worked its way down to my bones. I handed the wallet to Carlos, who dropped it into a second evidence bag. I said to Jack, “I’m ready for some coffee. Can I buy you a cup?”
“Thanks,” he said, waving off the offer, “but I have to get back and prep Mister Landau. Jeffery, my assistant, is away on his honeymoon.”
“Is he? How nice for Jeffery.”
“Yeah, but listen,” he gestured a wave over the body. “If I find any surprises I’ll let you know.”
“That’s fine.” I turned to Powell. “Sergeant, do you know what time the bar opens?”
“Why?” He smiled crudely. “You need a drink?”
“No, I want to interview the bar owner.”
“Oh, I don’t know, after one I guess.”
“All right, then. I trust you’ll let me know if you find anything interesting.”
He pitched me a look of total apathy. “Please, Marcella, this isn’t my first homicide.”
“Of course not.” I turned to Carlos. “You ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
“Jack?” We shook hands. “Always a pleasure.”
“Same here,” he said, and as we started away, he called back to me. “Tony!” I glanced over my shoulder. “Don’t forget, I want your father’s number.”
I waved and smiled at him. “I’ll get it to you.”
Carlos leaned in under my umbrella and elbowed me lightly. “How are you going to do that?”
“Forget it,” I said. “Give me the keys. I’ll drive.”
“Why?”
“I want you to get on your phone and call Dominic. See what he can dig up on René Landau. If he just got out of prison, he should have papers. Find out who his P.O. is, or was. Also, give him that phone number on the bar napkin. See who owns it.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and that business card?”
“The lawyer’s?”
“See what we can find out about him, too, and tell Dominic to hurry. I don’t want this case growing any colder than it already is.”
“I’m on it. So, where are you taking us, the office?”
“No, somewhere dry where I can find a decent cup of coffee. Now start dialing.”
TWO
I no sooner got back in the car from a 7-11 stop for coffee, than Carlos informed me Spinelli called with information about our vic, René Landau.
“You were right about the parole officer,” he said. “Landau got out of prison yesterday and missed his first appointment with him this morning.”
“He had a good excuse,” I said. “Did you get the P.O.’s name?”
“Frank Tarkowski. He’s got an office at the Justice center.”
“Frank? Sure, I know him. So do you. He’s the guy with the funny toupee. You always see him hanging around in the courtyard.”
“The smoker guy?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know he was a parole officer. I thought he was maintenance.”
“Maintenance? Carlos, the man carries a gun.”
“Yeah well, those maintenance people are tough. Have you ever tried leaving the courtyard without taking your cafeteria tray?”
“No.”
“Ha! Don’t. That’s all I can say about that.”
Unfortunately, that was not all Carlos could say about that. The entire ride out to the Justice Center, all he did was complain about the Gestapo tactics employed by the maintenance department to keep the courtyard, cafeteria and restrooms clean. He even went so far as to accuse them of installing security cameras in the john to make sure people didn’t drop paper towels on the floor after using them to open the restroom doors on their way out.
“Why would someone use paper towels to open the door?” I foolishly asked.
“Are you kidding?” He seemed to think I was. “I wouldn’t touch the door handle after washing my hands in there.”
“Why not?”
“Fecal matter, Tony! That’s why not. Why can’t they make those doors swing out, anyway?”
“Maybe you should suggest it to them.”
He looked at me as though I had just discovered cold fusion in a bottle. “Yes! I think I will. That is a great idea. See, we think alike, you and me. You know, nobody gets me like you—nobody.”
“As if anyone would want to,” I said.
He took that as a compliment.
We had just pulled out onto Jefferson from the 7-11, when I told Carlos I would get it. He looked at me as if I was crazy. Two seconds later, my cell phone rang. It was Lilith. I figured she probably thought of another reason why I was a selfish, thoughtless, pig-headed, chauvinist slob and she just wanted to call to let me know it. I asked Carols to hold my coffee so that I would not accidentally pitch it somewhere while I was driving.
“Hello, Lilith, did you forget something?”
Her voice came back surprisingly sweet. “No. I just wanted to call and tell you that Ursula and I are going out house hunting.”
“House hunting?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, it’s sort of sudden, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I just wanted to let you know that if you come home for lunch and we’re not here, there are some cold cuts in the fridge.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and plenty for Carlos and Dominic, too, if they’re hungry.”
“Carlos hungry? Do you hear yourself?”
“Yeah I know, what am I thinking? Anyway, I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling.”
I flipped the phone shut, wondering who the hell I was just talking to. Carlos saw the expression on my face and snapped his fingers in front of me to make sure I was watching the road.
“Y`all right?” He asked.
I smiled, as if just getting it that someone had played the most awesome practical joke on me. “That was Lilith.”
“Yes?”
“She and Ursula are going house hunting.”
“Oh?”
“Weird, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. Does that mean you get to keep the apartment?”
My smile evaporated. I swear Carlos can be such a buzz kill sometimes. I took the events of the last two minutes and stowed them in a corner of my mind so dark and deep that I might never think of them ever—or at least until Carlos brings it up again.
Frank Tarkowski saw us in right away. He seemed genuinely surprised and saddened when I told him about Landau. I watched him settle into the chair behind his desk with a blank stare, his mouth opened just enough to see the top row of his cigarette stained teeth.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I just talked to him.”
Carlos and I took our seats across from him. “When was that?” I asked.
“Yesterday, not twenty-four hours ago, as they readied him for release from prison.”
“Did he say anything to you about being worried or frightened about anything?”
“On the
contrary, he was excited. He was in prison for over seventeen years, you know. That’s an awfully long time.”
“I’m sure it is. Can you tell us what sent him there?”
“Armed robbery, resulting in a death.”
“Whose death?”
“The armored truck driver’s. René and another man robbed the truck of a small fortune in casino gambling money.”
“How small?”
“Six million dollars.”
“That’s not small,” said Carlos. “That’s large.”
Tarkowski agreed “Still, not worth a man’s life.”
I asked him, “Did Landau kill the guy?”
“No, René was the get-a-way driver. His partner pulled the trigger; used a shotgun—nearly blew the man’s head clean off. What a shame.”
“That is a shame.”
“No, I mean about René. He was going to get married, you know.”
“Oh? I did not know that. Who was the lucky girl?”
“Her name is Stephanie Stiles. I never met her, but René talked about her all the time.”
I cast a glance at Carlos and caught him writing down the woman’s name in his notepad. I said to Tarkowski, “Guess that explains the diamond ring we found on Landau this morning.”
“You found the ring? Ooh, that’s not good.”
“How so?”
“He had already given her that ring. If he had it on him, then it must mean the wedding was off. Something must have happened between then and now.”
“I’ll say something happen,” said Carlos. “The man died!”
I turned to Carlos and gave him the gathered brow look. It is not as effective as it was when I was sixty and my brows were bushier, but he got the message. “Mister Tarkowski, let me get this straight. As late—”
“Call me Frank,” he said, stopping me flat.
“Excuse me?”
“Detective, we’re practically partners. I know you two work in this building. I see you all the time out in the courtyard, especially you, Detective.” That last mention for Carlos. “We don’t need to be so formal.”
What could I say? “All right, Frank. So, you say that as late as yesterday morning the wedding was still on?”
“As far as I know.”
“Can you think of anyone else Landau might have had contact with since he got out?”
“His son, maybe.”
“Son?”
“Yes, he is the only living kin René had left in the world.”
“Does he live around here?”
“I believe so. He made it to the prison for regular visits often, especially toward the end.” He stood and headed for a file cabinet across the room. “Want me to see if I can round up his address here?”
I held my hand up. “Thanks, I think we can get it.”
“Okay then.” He reclaimed his seat. “Anything else?”
“Yes, just one more thing. Do you know of any enemies Landau might have had on the outside?”
Tarkowski shook his head, and it was funny how his toupee did not shake with it. “Detective, any enemies René had on the outside were old enemies he had when he went in, and I suspect they were few. He was a likeable guy.”
“Any names come to mind?”
Again, he shook his head. I think I even heard Carlos force back the urge to laugh aloud. “No. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” I said, “me too. Well, I guess we have what we need, then. Carlos?” We stood, and I reached my hand across the desk. “Thank you for your time.”
Tarkowski stood and shook my hand, and then Carlos’. “You’re welcome, gentlemen, anytime. I mean it.”
We left Tarkowski’s office on the first floor and rode the elevator up to the fourth, back to Carlos’ workstations and mine, which are virtually side-by-side. Spinelli’s desk is up there, too, somewhere. You would not know it, though, as he is always hanging around, sitting at or standing on some form of office furniture belonging to Carlos and me. But that’s okay, he pulls his weight, and then some. Lately I have been trying not to be so judgmental of him. I have already admitted to myself that a small part of me (or maybe not so small) is jealous of his intellect, intuition and ingenuity. He has everything a good detective needs, except experience, and he is picking that up quickly enough. To make matters worse, he can now add hero to his list of attributes. Not long ago, Spinelli saved Lilith and Ursula’s lives. He even took a bullet to the chest for them, got a medal and everything from the Massachusetts Department of Law Enforcement. The governor even sent him a letter of commendation and promised his first-born daughter’s hand in matrimony. Okay, not that last part, but you get the idea.
So, is it any wonder I am jealous of him? I am not proud of that fact, but I am proud that I can admit it. If I were still an old man and on the way out, like Carlos, maybe I could deal with it more easily. There is no threat of overlooking an old man for the up and coming superstar, when an old man has not a chance in hell to begin with. Lilith says I am paranoid. She says that is normal when you go through the witch’s rite of passage. You regain your youthful strengths but lose some of your wisdom-born confidence. It is a trade-off, something along the lines of what does not kill you makes you stronger. Oh, and have I mentioned how Carlos wants me to call Spinelli by his first name? It is killing me. That is all I can say. It is simply killing me.
We found Spinelli, I mean Dominic, at Carlos’ desk. I must say, the lad had turned up a boatload of papers, documents and photos of everything we asked for. He sat us down and started right in with information about our vic, René Landau; and trust me, he had done his homework.
“His full name is René Laffer La Fayette Landau,” he said, “first generation French.” There is something about Spinelli’s presentations. They are always laid out so methodically and precise. Like writing a book, he never turns the page until he has punctuated his last paragraph with the proper emphasis.
“Landau turned forty-eight on August 6th,” Spinelli continued. “At the time of his incarceration, he had a ten-year-old son, Adam, who had since moved from foster home to foster home until emancipated at age eighteen. He is now twenty-seven.”
“What about his mother,” I asked. “When did she fall out of the picture?”
“Twenty-two years ago. She died of AIDS.”
“Ooh, tough break.”
“Yes, but Adam did okay. He finished school and got himself a job as a carpenter’s helper until he learned the trade well enough to go out on his own.”
“Does he live around here?”
Spinelli gestured out the west window. “Yeah, just off Lexington by the Stop & Shop. I’ll give you his address as soon as we finish up here.”
“Nice work. Continue.”
“The crime that earned Landau three hots and a cot for the last seventeen years was an armored truck robbery.”
“That we know,” I said. “We talked to his P.O.”
“Did he tell you that a man was killed during the robbery?”
“He did. Told us the driver of the armored truck got his head blown off.”
“That’s right, by Landau’s accomplice, a fellow named Johnny Allis, nicknamed Johnny Buck, because of his bucked teeth. He and Landau were best friends from high school.”
“Yeah, well like I said, Landau’s parole officer mentioned something about that.”
“Did he mention that René Landau killed Johnny Buck a few days later?”
“What!”
“All right, that part is speculation, but in most circles it is a given fact. You see, René Landau and Johnny Buck were hiding out at a lakefront cabin in the hills when something very wrong went down between them. No one knows what really happened, but most believe that the two got into an argument over something, probably the money, and then Landau killed his old pal, Johnny. Then, to make it look like an accident, he torched the cabin with Johnny Buck’s body inside.”
“Incredible,” I said.
“Not yet. Incredible happened when Landau tri
ed to make his escape from the cabin. He hopped into his car and drove barely a mile down a narrow dirt road when one of New Castle’s finest stopped him and arrested him.”
Carlos gave a passive shrug. “That’s not so incredible.”
Spinelli smiled coyly. “Yeah, well just what do you think that cop found in his trunk?”
“The money,” I guessed.
“Wrong!”
“No?”
“The money was not in the trunk. It wasn’t in the back seat, the front seat; it wasn’t anywhere.”
“What happened to it?”
“That is a debatable question. Landau swore the money went up in flames with the cabin.”
“Did it?”
Spinelli splayed his palms up empty. “Again, debatable. Do you trust the word of a robber?”
“No,” said Carlos.
“Well then, you are in good company, because neither did the F.B.I., the I.R.S., the U.S. Attorneys’ office, the U.S. Marshalls, Secret Service or the Bureau of Indian Affairs. All had a hand in investigating the money. One thing is for sure, though, they found no trace of scorched money alongside Johnny Buck’s charred remains.”
“So where does this leave us?” I asked.
Carlos guessed, “The money must still be up at the cabin somewhere, buried.”
“Sure,” said Spinelli, “that is the layman’s consensus, except….”
“Except what?”
“Except that those agencies, along with every Tom Sawyer wannabe with a pick and shovel, all took turns digging around up there. Nobody has ever found it.”
“With no evidence, what exactly did René Landau get sent away for, murder?”
Spinelli shook his head. “No, he went up for the robbery. The D.A. produced a surprise witness who testified she saw Landau driving the getaway car.”
“Who was that?”
“Don’t know. The courts blacked out the records on that. But her testimony was enough to convict him on the robbery with accessory to murder for killing the armored car driver.”
I stood up and clapped for Spinelli. “Bravo, I love a mystery,” I said. “Nicely done.”
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled modestly.
