“But I read your commendations. I think you’re downplaying what you did. You didn’t get the medal for just standing around. You did some pretty brave things. Incredible, really.”
“It’s a little embarrassing when I try to explain what happened. I wasn’t thinking about any of the stuff the commendations talk about when we were under fire,” I said. “It was almost involuntary. Actually, I saw my friends getting hurt and it scared the shit out of me. Then it really pissed me off, so I lost my mind—I lost my fear, anyway. Then, I just did what I had to do. Nothing special. If you live, later on maybe they call you a hero. But it wasn’t something I was after. It was an involuntary response to a nasty situation. Like when someone swings at you, you swing back.”
She thought about that for a second, then said, “Maybe by celebrating our heroes—the ones who fought and made it home—it helps us to deal with the loss of those who didn’t make it. Maybe celebrating our heroes is important and necessary.”
“Maybe. But I didn’t sign up for that, and I’m not comfortable with it.” I glanced over at her. “By the way, who made you psychologist of the week?”
Toni smiled. “Just trying to put the pieces together, boss.”
Chapter 3
LOGAN PI’S OFFICE is located on Westlake Avenue, directly on Lake Union across from Chandler’s Cove, on the south end of the second floor of a fifty-year-old, two-story building. The building has wood siding that used to be a faded hue of drab green until they repainted earlier this summer with a new, bright, shiny version of drab green.
This is okay by me because I didn’t select the place for its color. My office is located in the back of our building, which means it’s on the water. This is what I was after. Even better, the rear of the building is built on piers, so I have a balcony outside my office that actually sits out over the water. If you fall over the rail, you’re swimming in Lake Union. I tried it once—dove in on purpose: one and a half, pike position. Nailed it. Toni was impressed.
The conference room is next to my office, also on the water. Through its large glass doors, it has access to the same balcony. When we moved in, the conference room, like the rest of the office, had fifteen-year-old commercial carpet in a color that they used to call “Harvest Gold” in the day when people would actually buy harvest gold anything. The walls were dingy beige, and the ceiling was stained a dusty, dirty gray. In a desperate frenzy of design inspiration, we ripped out all of the carpets and replaced the flooring with walnut hardwood and area rugs. We painted the walls bright white—even added wainscoting and crown molding. We yanked down the old curtains and replaced all the ceiling tiles. Bingo! Instant renovation. What was once a dark, dank space was transformed into a light, airy place with fantastic views from most offices.
The new, traditionally styled decor even made our second-hand furniture actually look good—promoted it automatically from junk to antique, just like that. My old, beat-up conference table suddenly wasn’t old and beat-up anymore—it was “distressed.” What used to be pits, scratches, and gouges became a design feature that I’d probably have had to pay extra for if it were new. The rickety chairs that surrounded the table that I’d bought second-hand from a real estate broker suddenly looked like part of an expensive “shabby chic” interior design master plan. All in all, the transformation was remarkable, both for the small amount of money it took to achieve and for the dramatic change when it was complete. We were happy here.
By the time Toni and I had worked our way through downtown traffic, parked, and then made our way upstairs, we were ten minutes late and most of the other members of my team were already waiting for us in the conference room.
Kenny Hale was doing what Kenny usually does—banging away on a laptop computer, oblivious to everything around him. Kenny is about five eight and skinny—maybe 140 pounds—with an unruly mop of dark hair. I think he’s the model on which all computer geeks are created. He’s on my payroll as IT Director but he also moonlights for half a dozen tech companies around here. We joke that when Microsoft runs into a real stumper, they call Kenny. Kenny doesn’t have a college degree, most likely because there’s no one at U-Dub who knows more than he does about computers, and he’s not shy about reminding them of that. Sometimes he seems to have trouble remembering that other people have feelings, too. He has a sharp wit and is truly the smartest guy in the room. Just ask him. He looked up when we entered and said, “There you guys are. I was about ready to hack your cell phones and track you down so we could make sure you were okay.”
“Very funny,” I said, walking past him and setting some files down on the conference room table. “Can he actually do that?” I whispered to Toni. She nodded. Great.
“Sorry we’re late,” I said. “We got behind looking for parking at SPD this morning and we never caught up.”
“It happens,” said Richard Taylor, who was sitting in the conference room chair, back to the table, watching a floatplane take off from Lake Union. He spun back toward us and smiled. “You know, they actually built those civic center buildings downtown with no parking,” he said.
I nodded. Technically speaking, Richard is not on Logan PI’s payroll. I bought the company from Richard in February 2008. He’d owned Taylor Private Investigations for nearly twenty years. I’ve had Richard paid off for the purchase of his business for more than a year, but he still likes to sit in on case conferences. I welcome his input—Richard’s seen almost everything in a law enforcement career that’s spanned almost fifty years—thirty as a detective with SPD, followed by twenty doing PI work. Richard is a tall, lanky, seventy-something-year-old with bright blue eyes and a head full of pure white hair. He’s as sharp as he ever was, which is to say, very sharp indeed.
“I’m eager to hear about this case. Toni told me just enough to tantalize me,” he said. “A new case makes my fingers tingle.”
“Could also be because your Viagra didn’t wear off yet,” Kenny said.
“Only your mother knows that for sure, runt,” Richard fired back. He takes no shit from Kenny.
“Where’s Doc?” I asked as Toni and I joined the others at the conference table.
“Right here,” said Joaquin Kiahtel as he entered the room. “I had a call.”
Joaquin “Doc” Kiahtel is 100 percent, purebred Chiricahua Apache Indian. He claims to be a direct descendant of Cochise, and I’ve no reason to argue with him. Besides, my mother didn’t raise a fool—Doc’s not a guy you want to get in an argument with. He’s a highly decorated former U.S. Army Ranger. A quiet man, particularly when it comes to his experiences with the Rangers, he speaks about four or five words per month on the subject. Still, after several years of this, I’ve been able to piece together that he spent most of his eight years in the army hiding behind enemy lines on one covert mission or another, either chasing or being chased by bad guys. He talks about his wartime experience even less than I do. His inner demons remain bottled up. Doc is six feet four and probably weighs around 230 pounds. All muscle. He’s pure warrior—absolutely fierce, and an expert in all forms of combat—hand-to-hand, firearm, or his favorite: blades. Makes me cringe just to say it. I’m damn glad he’s on my side.
I met Doc when I was stationed at Fort Lewis. Doc had put four local punks in the hospital in a fight outside a Tacoma bar. The local DA wanted to hammer him with felonious assault charges because of his special army combat training, which, as a dedicated soldier, I was simultaneously amused and pissed off by. I investigated and found that the four idiots had actually instigated the fight—they each had records of strong-arm robbery and general thuggery. They’d seen Doc, alone at the bar, and their pea brains had singled him out as their next victim. In so doing, they made a near-fatal miscalculation in victim identification. The outcome of the fight in the alley outside the bar was never in doubt; trust me. The only question was would Doc kill them or spare them. He spared them. I ended up working with him on his defense, and all charges against him were eventually dropped. We’d
developed a friendship and, when Doc discharged about eighteen months ago, I had a place waiting for him at the agency. He took a seat at the conference table, and I got started.
“First off, thanks for allowing me to push this meeting back to 10:00 a.m.” I said. “Yesterday, Toni and I met with a guy I know from high school named Roberto Fiore. His sister, Gina, has not been seen since last Thursday—you’ve probably seen the news. The Fiores want to hire our firm to find her. This morning, Toni and I met with Detective Dwayne Brown at SPD’s Special Investigations unit. Essentially, they’re inviting us in, subject to a few coordination and confidentiality rules.”
“I didn’t even know they had a Special Investigations unit,” Richard said. “Must be new.”
“It is,” I said. “I think SPD formed it to coordinate their efforts with outside groups on high-profile cases.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Is he proposing their standard coordination and confidentiality rules?” he asked.
“Yeah, easy stuff—nothing we can’t live with,” Toni said.
“They’ve agreed to provide us a copy of their initial responders’ report and Brown’s notes from the interview with the family, as well as the CSI report of the investigation done at her condo.”
“They had CSI out already?” Richard asked. “I’m impressed.” He pondered this information for a couple of seconds, then said, “That means Dwayne’s covering his ass and checking off boxes in the event the case turns out bad.”
“Sounds like,” I said. “One of the benefits, I suppose, of putting the case into Special Investigations. They’d have never been able to get CSI out this quickly if the case were still at the precinct level, given there’s no evidence yet of a crime.”
“The Fiores want to hire us? I assume they’ll pay well,” Richard said. He’s a pragmatist, who was in business too long not to recognize the necessity of actually getting paid in order to survive. He was as good a mentor on the business side of things as he was on the ins and outs of investigation.
“I imagine,” I answered. “If we decide that the case makes sense for us, Toni and I will interview the family this afternoon. We’ll talk business then.”
“The Fiore family is a well-known Seattle Italian-American family,” Richard said, leaning back in his chair. “As I recall, Angelo Fiore came to Seattle in the late 1960s as a young man. He opened a liquor distribution business—Pacific Wine and Spirits. It’s in the SoDo district, over by the Mariners’ stadium. He built it up from a start-up to a point at which, now, I think they’ve got exclusive rights to supply nearly all of the best beer and wine brands to restaurants and grocery stores in the Northwest. They also sell hard liquors to bars and hotels.”
“This is our type of case; pretty much right up our alley,” Doc said. “Assuming it pays, is there any reason why we shouldn’t take it, now that SPD has basically signed off?”
“There’s a couple of things we should consider before we decide,” Toni said.
I looked at her, wondering what she was referring to.
“Angelo Fiore,” she continued, “is a first cousin of John and Peter Calabria.”
I knew this but considered it common knowledge. I hadn’t thought about the possibility that the others might not be aware of it. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention that,” I said. “You’re right. The Fiores are related to the Chicago crime family John and Peter Calabria. But Angelo Fiore is not part of that.”
“You certain about that?” Toni asked. “Where’d he get his money to start his business? And did you know that the Calabria family is distantly related all the way back to Al Capone?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the six degrees of separation?” I asked. “Hell, we’re all probably distantly related to Al Capone.”
“He might be,” Doc said, pointing to Kenny. “I’m an Apache.”
“Doc is excepted,” I said.
“I believe the six degrees refers to friendships, not relations,” Richard said. “In any case, I prefer to think I’m from a different genealogical branch as well. That said, Toni’s is a valid question. Fortunately, it’s already been asked and answered many times before. The Calabrias were once a major force in Chicago crime—drugs, prostitution, loans, the like. I say were because I believe that the Calabrias themselves are essentially retired—no longer involved with operations. Although the name of the organization remains the ‘Calabria family,’ the actual day-to-day operations are run by younger generations now. Peter and John are out of it.” He paused and sipped from a water bottle before continuing. “Actually, what happened is that Peter and John Calabria were both rung up on federal RICO charges in the nineties. They both spent several years in a federal prison. They got out and that was that—they were done. In any case, the Fiore branch of the family here in Seattle has always been clean. When I was at SPD, we knew Angelo Fiore was related to the Calabrias, and we watched him pretty closely. The Feds would also drop in from time to time and have a look. As far as I know, no one has ever been able to even accuse Angelo of any mob dealings, never mind convict him of anything. From anything I’ve ever seen or heard, he’s an upstanding member of the community—active in politics, patron of the Seattle Symphony. He’s squeaky clean. But excellent due diligence, my dear,” he said, nodding to Toni.
“Thank you,” Toni said with a smile. “Since you are both so well informed, I suppose you’re aware of Angelo’s current troubles with the federal government?” This time, Richard and I both stared at her.
“What?” Richard asked.
“Turns out that Angelo has a very serious IRS problem.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said. “In fact, two years ago he was indicted in federal court for income tax evasion. His trial is scheduled for later this year.”
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“I’m a detective,” she said. “I detect.”
“Yeah, right,” I answered. “Give it up. Where’d you get it?”
“Same place I got the info on the Calabrias. I had Kenny dig it up on the Internet.”
I looked at Kenny, and he was grinning. “True,” he said. “I pulled the federal records, and Angelo Fiore was indicted over two years ago. It’s taken this long to get to court, but his trial is set for December.”
The room was silent for a second. Then Toni said, “The question is, do either of these two little tidbits a) have anything at all to do with Gina Fiore’s disappearance, or b) have any impact on whether we accept the case?”
“What would the Chicago mob have to do with Gina’s disappearance?” Richard asked. “It’s hard to know what goes on inside a closed organization like that, but it seems unlikely that they have anything to do with this. After all, Angelo’s been running clean and untouched for forty years.”
I didn’t relish the thought of getting tangled up with organized crime, but I had to agree with Richard. I couldn’t see any reason why the Calabrias would have had anything to do with this. “I tend to agree,” I said. “The bigger issue might be if the Calabrias try to send muscle from outside to help the family out. We’ll have to watch out for that. As to the tax problem, I don’t care about that except to make sure we get paid. I’ll talk to Robbie about an advance retainer.”
Toni and Richard nodded.
“We’ve got the manpower, and we’ve got an opening,” Doc said.
“And we’ve got the experience in missing persons,” Kenny added.
“Anyone see a reason why Toni and I shouldn’t make a deal with the Fiores?” I asked. There were no objections.
“Alright. We’ll go tell them we’re in. Toni and I already have a meeting set up with the family this afternoon.”
“Cool,” Kenny said. “Does this mean we get to keep getting paid?”
“Cross your fingers,” I said. “We’ll need you to start working on our standard missing person protocol—bank activity, credit card activity, cell phone use, the works. Keep in mind that, at least in theory, t
he police may be doing the same thing. Be careful not to trip over them.”
“Please,” Kenny said with a disgusted look.
“Amends,” I said. “Doc, why don’t you pull the Sex Offender Registery. We’ll start working that angle just in case. Let’s see if someone stands out.”
“I’m on it,” he answered.
~~~~
The Queen Anne neighborhood, where the Fiores live, is not far from our office. Since it was a beautiful summer day, we took the Jeep with the soft top pushed back. I popped in “Times Like These” by the Foo Fighters—the acoustic version—and we listened as I drove. I rested one arm on the windowsill while Toni took in the sights.
The Queen Anne area is always in high demand. While neither the size of the lots nor the size of the homes on them could be considered extreme, the central location, the historical architecture, and the urban panache of the area make the price of entry here such that only the very well-heeled can afford to buy in. Once-beautiful houses that have started to show their age are typically purchased by wealthy techies who are not afraid to spend incredible sums of money to restore the homes to their former beauty—or even beyond. It’s an area that hasn’t been hit too hard by the nationwide real estate recession.
Ten minutes later, halfway up the Queen Anne Hill, we pulled up to the Fiore residence. The large yellow home featured Victorian architecture and was set back from the street by a large lawn and a veritable sea of roses and rhododendrons. Ornate, white wrought-iron fencing that was partially covered by a Photinia hedge protected the home. Large maple trees served as a backdrop.
“Damn,” Toni said, looking in awe as we drove past. “I’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd.”
Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) Page 5
