Robert and Billie Kovacs lived to the immediate right of Frank and Sheila Vincent.
Retired and in their seventies, the Kovacses spent a good deal of time traveling and knew the Vincents only casually. Nevertheless, a kindly Billie pronounced them “fine, professional people” and “a lovely and devoted couple.”
Her less sweet-natured husband immediately disputed this. He would often hear them shouting at each other, he disclosed, particularly during the summer when he was working in the garden and the Vincents had their windows open. “I could see where they’d prefer the fresh air to freezing their parts off with the air-conditioning—Billie and I do, too. But with the language that guy used, they should have kept those windows shut tight.” And when Billie began to admonish him: “You’d know it’s true, dear, if you ever wore your hearing aid like you’re supposed to.”
We asked if they were aware of anyone who might have had a grudge against Frank. They weren’t. And if they had any idea if either of the Vincents might have been seeing someone else. They didn’t. Although Robert—with Billie turned away and unable to read his lips—couldn’t seem to resist adding, “But the way Frank Vincent treated his wife, I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had two or three guys on the side.”
Soon after this Robert Kovacs showed us to the door. Now, I hadn’t had time to get any cards printed, of course, but last night I’d unearthed a box of blank business cards in my bedroom closet (of all places). And I’d grabbed a bunch of them and jotted down my name and both my phone number at the Riverton Police Department and at home. I handed one to Robert Kovaks “in case you think of anything else.”
After a second unproductive assault on the Shippman doorbell, we settled for the Contis, who lived just to the left of the Vincents. Then following a somewhat lengthy stay there, we had brief visits with the Bergers, Mrs. Rafferty, and the Lees.
Nothing.
Aside from Robert Kovacs, all their neighbors agreed that Frank and Sheila were a delightful couple. No one could even imagine why someone would want to harm such a charming man. Nor was anyone able to enlighten us as to any mysterious lover that Sheila and/or Frank might have had.
When we left the Lees, Lou said, “I don’t know about you, but it’s after six, and I wouldn’t mind grabbing something to eat.”
“What about Doris Shippman?”
“Don’t worry,” he responded with a grin. “She’s not likely to be abducted by aliens if we put her on hold for a little while. Besides, she’s probably not even home yet.”
I didn’t argue. Mostly because it looked as if he was right. We were now directly across the street from the Shippman house, and there wasn’t a ray of light peeking out of a single window.
“Why don’t we take a break and have another go at this later?” Lou suggested. “We could get some dinner and after that come back to see a few more of the neighbors. Maybe the Shippman woman will be in by that time, too. If you’ve had enough for today, though, just say the word, and I’ll drive you back to the station house so you can pick up your car.”
“I’d rather have dinner and then take another shot at the neighbors,” I told him, immediately throwing in, “if that’s all right with you.”
“It’s fine with me. Now, about this meal of ours. There’s this really exceptional Italian place not far from here . . .”
Chapter 13
Danny’s was a small, unpretentious restaurant with white paper tablecloths, plain wood floors, and red leatherette booths that couldn’t hide the fact they’d endured years of maltreatment. We’d just given our food order and Lou’s beer mug was headed for his lips. I hurriedly touched it with my wine glass. “Here’s to a successful partnership.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he responded, deadpan.
Silence followed.
Funny, isn’t it? Even if you’re normally a nonstop talker—and I come close to qualifying—when you’re trying like crazy to think of something to say, you almost invariably draw a blank.
At last I blurted out what was actually on my mind. “Listen, Lou, it’s obvious that you resent this entire arrangement like hell—I mean, having me foisted on you like this. And you know something? I don’t doubt that if the situation were reversed, I’d react that way, too. But please remember that we both have the same goal.” I took a deep breath. “Look,” I proposed almost pleadingly, “is there any chance you could put your antagonism toward me on hold for a while—if for no other reason than that it could end up getting in the way of the investigation?” My eyes were moist now—and it wasn’t for effect, either. At least, not altogether.
Maybe this helped to soften Lou’s attitude a bit, because he even patted my hand when he said, “I owe you an apology, Desiree. You’re absolutely right. I have been resentful about having to work with you. And not too concerned about hiding it, either. But I hope you realize that it’s nothing personal.”
“I like to think it isn’t.”
“Well, it’s not. And you’re also right about the possibility of my attitude affecting the investigation. From here on, I’ll just have to keep reminding myself that you’re a person with a job to to do”—and he grinned—“not just something inflicted on me for past sins.”
“And for my part, I’ll try not to be too much of a pain in the ass.”
“Deal.” Then mercifully, Lou changed the subject.
“Hey, living in Manhattan, you probably go to the theater pretty often. Can you recommend something that might appeal to a sixteen-year-old girl? My niece is coming in from Phoenix next month, and I’d like to take her to a Broadway show.”
Well, I don’t get to the theater very much at all. I’m constantly promising myself I’ll pick up tickets to something or other, but then—I don’t know—I just don’t follow through. I was able to offer three or four suggestions, though, and Lou seemed satisfied. (I’m not totally certain, however, that he was really interested in my recommendations; he might merely have been attempting to ease the strain.) Anyhow, after this the conversation segued easily from Lou’s niece Dina to my niece Ellen and then on to Lou’s son Jake, who would be going off to college next year.
“He’s a great kid,” Lou told me. “Likeable, smart—better than a B average—considerate . . . His mother would have been so proud of him. Naturally, I’ll miss him a lot when he’s away at school, but I can’t keep him home with me forever.” As soon as the words were out, Lou appeared to be embarrassed at having talked the boy up. Or maybe it was more about revealing his feelings like this. “Don’t get me wrong, though,” he said, smiling. “Jake’s no saint. There were plenty of times, especially when he was younger, when I was tempted to toss him out on his butt.”
Suddenly I felt a pang. The man must be lonely—or, at any rate, he would be, once Jake was out of the house. I wondered if he dated much—Lou, I mean. Hey, maybe I knew someone for him. I was a pretty good fixer-upper. Hadn’t I been responsible for getting Ellen and Mike together? (Never mind the long list of disasters that could also be laid on my doorstep.) I began to concentrate in earnest. Let me see . . . my neighbor Barbara Gleason? Nah, too—
Lou broke into my thoughts, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Listen, I can’t help it. I’m curious. Who hired you for this Vincent thing, anyway?”
“I wish I could tell you,” I responded apologetically, “but my client wants to be kept completely out of it.”
“I bet myself ten bucks you’d say something like that. Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we play ‘Twenty Questions’? That would be the sporting thing to do. Question number one: Was it a man?”
“Forget it,” I told him. “I’ve never been much of a sport.”
“Whoever it is must have been very fond of Frank Vincent to spend all that money on a PI. I assume you are being paid a whole lot of money.”
“Millions.”
Lou laughed. “Good for you.”
Moments later we went on to another topic. And then to another. By the time I’d polished
off my eggplant parmigiana (it was really primo, too), I realized that I was feeling truly comfortable with this man. He was, I decided, a genuinely decent person—as I’d suspected almost from the start. Could be he was beginning to discover that I wasn’t so bad, either. Maybe he hadn’t totally buried his hostility toward me, but at least he was able to suspend it for a while.
Neither of us spoke about the case—aside from Lou’s aborted attempt at uncovering my employer, that is—until we’d wound down to the coffee and cheesecake. And then it received only the briefest of mentions.
“Our talks with the neighbors haven’t produced much in the way of results so far, have they?” Lou observed.
“You can say that again.”
“Well, maybe we’ll do better later on this evening.” But there wasn’t gong to be any “later on.”
Because the truth is, I can’t drink worth spit.
I never even finished that one lousy glass of Chianti, and still my head was starting to feel like it was full of cobwebs. I wasn’t drunk, you understand. I wasn’t even tipsy. But I recognized that I wasn’t exactly in top mental form, either. So it just didn’t make any sense to resume questioning the people on Oakview Road. I mean, I wouldn’t have picked up on a clue if someone dropped it right on my pinkie toe.
“Do you mind if we postpone Doris Shippman and the other neighbors until tomorrow?” I asked Lou.
“No, but why? You feeling all right?”
I explained about me and wine.
Lou immediately signaled to the waitress to refill my coffee mug. And only a few minutes later, to refill it again. But in spite of my having so much caffeine in me to combat so little wine, I had to assure him twice that I was okay to drive.
“Be careful going home,” he instructed when he let me off at my car some time afterward.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You’re not lucky enough to get rid of me that easily,” I joked. “Tomorrow I’ll be back on Oakview Road with you, pestering everyone who’ll open their door.”
“Speaking of that, tell me something. What makes you so convinced that one of the Vincents—and I know your money’s on the widow—must have had a lover?”
“Oh, I’m not convinced at all.”
“So why—”
“Because for right now, anyhow, if we didn’t have that to pursue, what would we have?”
Chapter 14
On the trip back to the city, I thought about Al a lot. I suddenly wanted very much to talk to him, to hear his voice. I wondered if he’d phoned yet this evening and I’d missed his call.
It was after ten when I walked into my apartment. The first thing I did was check for messages. There weren’t any. But just as I turned away from the machine, the telephone rang.
It was Al.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” he said. “When did you come in?”
“Oh, about three seconds ago.”
“How’s everything going?”
“Slowly, thank you.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get there. I have faith,” he pronounced solemnly.
“And how are things in Las Vegas?”
“A little hectic. But they were great last night. My buddy and I ended up with last-minute tickets to Siegfried and Roy, and it was really incredible. I found myself wishing I were there with you, though. I know this sounds silly—I’ve only been out here a couple of days, and it’s not as if we see each other all the time—but being so far away, well, I really miss you, Dez.”
“I miss you, too,” I told him.
We spoke for maybe five minutes longer, and when we hung up I felt all warm and safe and cared for. That’s the effect Al always had on me. This alone should make things work for us, I told myself.
And then from some other, less sunny place a small, spiteful voice piped up, Yeah? Sez who?
Almost immediately after arriving at the Riverton police station at nine the next morning—which meant getting up at an ungodly six-thirty a.m.—I went next door to Lou’s office.
“Drugs,” he informed me.
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘Drugs.’ ”
“Yes, I know that’s what you said. It’s what you’re getting at that’s throwing me.”
“Listen, the last thing you told me yesterday was that if we didn’t have this supposed affair to look into, we’d have nothing. And that got me to thinking. We have a shooter here who hung around for hours to take a pop at Vincent. And I kept trying to come up with something else that could have merited a stakeout like that.
“There wasn’t anything special in Vincent’s effects. True, he was wearing some decent jewelry and there was over two hundred in cash, which isn’t a bad haul. But how would the perp have known that? Besides, it was no more than he—or maybe she—could have gotten off plenty of other people in that area. Then it struck me: Suppose the killer was expecting the victim to have something a lot more valuable on him that night.”
“Drugs, huh?” I said quietly, attempting to absorb the concept.
“Right. And it’s conceivable the perpetrator was able to rip them off before Lottie Schmidt started screaming. Either that, or Vincent wasn’t carrying on Wednesday, and the shooter had to leave empty handed.”
“Drugs,” I repeated. “I suppose it is possible. Maybe . . .”
Just then a big, blond, Nordic-looking individual of forty-something materialized in the doorway.
“I’ll see you later,” the man told Lou. “I’m interrupting something.”
“As a matter of fact, you are. But come in for a minute anyway, and say hello to Desiree Shapiro. Desiree, this is Walter Peterson—Pete.”
The officer I’d replaced on the Frank Vincent homicide walked over to where I was sitting and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure. Especially seeing that you’re the one responsible for my getting sprung from the Vincent case.”
“Pete’s not crazy about high-profile investigations,” Lou commented dryly.
“Hey, who needs to work under a microscope like that?” Peterson retorted. He winked at me. “Except maybe Lieutenant Lou here. But I don’t have his ambition.”
“You don’t have anyone’s ambition,” Lou volleyed back, shaking his head while a fond smile played on his lips.
Peterson shrugged. “You could be right. Well, I’d better let you two hot-shots earn your money. Nice meeting you, Desiree.”
“Same here.”
Exit Peterson.
“I think we should have another talk with the grieving widow, don’t you?” I put to Lou now.
“Yep.” And opening the file in front of him, he quickly laid hands on Sheila Vincent’s phone number. I hung around while he made the call.
After a brief exchange punctuated by a nod or two, Lou replaced the receiver, a satisfied expression on his face. “She has a dentist’s appointment this morning, but she expects to be back in an hour.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’m going to give cousin Marilyn a ring.”
“Oh?”
“I want to ask her where we can get in touch with a few people: Sheila’s former fiancé, her publisher, her sister . . . Umm, I figure it might also pay to hear what she has to say about Frank’s dealing drugs.” The truth was, I’d begun to have second thoughts about this theory of Lou’s almost at once, and I had the idea it might be worthwhile to get some feedback from this relative who’d grown up with Frank Vincent. “Care to join me in my office while I talk to her?” I invited.
“No, you go on. You can fill me in when you’re through.”
Marilyn Vincent was wary the instant I announced myself.
With what sounded almost like relief, she supplied me with the name of Ron Whitfield’s firm, Morgan Sklaar’s publishing house, and the town Marsha Whitfield—the widow’s sister—was living in. Following which there was a hurried, “If that’s all, Detective Shapiro—”
“Not quite. I won’t keep you much longer, Ms. Vincent, but there’s something I’d like to ask you about your cous
in Frank.”
“Sure, no problem.” But the wariness had returned to her voice.
“What if I told you there’s been a suggestion that he might have been dealing?”
Marilyn was incredulous. “Drugs? Frankie? I’d say you were nuts. Stark, raving bonkers.”
“Why? Isn’t it possible?”
“Not a chance. Frankie wouldn’t have taken that kind of risk. Believe me, all he ever wanted since I-don’t-know-when was to be a big shot, someone important. Apparently being a chiropractor didn’t do it for him. But now it looked like he was finally getting the opportunity to go into politics. In fact, he already had his foot in the door. Even though he lost the race for the assembly last year, the party was so impressed with his showing that they were grooming him for bigger and better things. At least, that’s what he told me. And I’m certain it was true, too. Listen, Frankie would never have gotten involved in anything that could mess up his future. Of that, I’m positive.”
“It makes sense,” I declared to Lou a few minutes later. “When you really think about it, drugs don’t fit in with what we know about the victim, either. I hate to say this, Lou, but if you ask me, we’re back where we started.”
“Not so fast. Having the same grandparents doesn’t exactly make cousin Marilyn an expert on Vincent. Maybe he was desperate for the bucks—running for office can be pretty damned expensive, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Well, of course there was no way I could tell Lou that this was one aspiring politician who didn’t have to be concerned about funding. “Vincent wouldn’t have risked it,” I said stubbornly.
“Maybe not. But before I reach any conclusion about that, I’m going to keep our appointment with Sheila Vincent. Don’t forget, she was related to the man, too.”
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 8
