“Think those two beauts were telling the truth—about not knowing either of the victims?” Lou asked as soon as we left the hardware store.
I shrugged. “I suppose it is possible.”
“Well, I wouldn’t make book on it.” And now Lou’s voice changed character to produce what was certainly one of his more acceptable attempts at mimicry. “ ‘Da Silva. He’s that gangster guy, isn’t he?’ ”
A moment later he chuckled. “Our noseless friend put on quite a performance. I swear, Shapiro, he could give Anthony Hopkins a run for his money.”
Chapter 39
On the drive home I started to laugh all over again at this ridiculous attempt by Davey No-nose and Iggy to convince us that da Silva was a stranger to them. Well, I decided, I’d made some headway today, anyway. It was obvious that if one of those two characters had killed Frank Vincent, he did it on his own. I mean, if Sheila was hooked up with either No-nose or the Halitosis Kid, yours truly was a prima ballerina.
The red light on the answering machine was flashing when I got in. Al, I thought.
My hand was shaking when I reached over to press Playback.
But it was Ellen, letting me know what a wonderful time they’d had Sunday night and apologizing for not phoning yesterday. Monday had been one of those days, and by the time she came home she was too pooped to even lift the receiver. I didn’t take in much else of what she had to say because I was so focused on the message that might be lying in wait for me.
I soon discovered, however, that I’d gotten a reprieve. Ellen’s was my only call.
I was still standing at the machine when I made up my mind to use one of the telephone numbers my client had given me on the day I’d accepted the case.
“Vito da Silva.” I was slightly taken aback when he answered the phone himself.
“It’s Desiree, Mr. da Silva.”
“You have news for me?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry to say that I don’t have the news you’ve been waiting to hear. Not yet, anyway.”
“What is it, then?”
I told him about the contents of Mickey Mouth’s conversation with Lou and the meeting that never came off and the subsequent discovery of Mickey’s body.
“And you believe what this man—this Mickey—was claiming? That I or one of my associates shot Frankie?”
“Certainly not you, Mr. da Silva, but I do feel that Mickey’s death makes it imperative that I have a good look at your associates. Maybe one of them was jealous of your relationship with Frankie, afraid that Frankie might be taking his place with you. Or it could be that this person had a grudge against Frank Vincent that you knew nothing about.”
“No. Except for Joe Maltese—and I would swear to his innocence on my mother’s grave—the men with whom I am closely affiliated had very little contact with Frankie. Some of them, in fact, were not acquainted with him at all.”
“Well, not that you’re aware of, anyway.”
“My eyes and ears, Desiree, are always open.”
“Uh, it may turn out that you’re right about this. The thing is, though, it does seem like a really big coincidence, Mickey’s being run over right before he was all set to divulge some information that supposedly implicated one of your . . . umm . . . people in Frankie’s murder.”
“But it is just as possible that there was no cause and effect here,” da Silva argued. “At least, not the one you have in mind. This is why somebody invented the word ‘coincidence.’ ”
I left that alone, plunging ahead now with the question I’d been gathering the courage to put to him from the beginning. “Umm, Mr. da Silva, I really hesitate to ask you this, but frankly, I could use your help. If there was . . . that is, if you did have to name someone in your circle who might have had it in for Frankie, who would that person be?”
“It would be nobody. Look, your Mickey was a police informant. A snitch. And I would seriously doubt that your partner had the exclusive rights to his services. Assuming that the man’s death was not accidental—which I do not believe you can altogether rule out—did it ever occur to you he may have uncovered something concerning a different matter entirely? And that the fact he possessed this knowledge could have reached the ears of the wrong party yesterday—or in the recent past, at any rate—and that this led to his murder?”
“It’s conceivable, but—”
“Also, there are other things to consider here. Somebody in Mickey’s . . . profession, let’s call it . . . is likely to acquire a fair share of enemies. It would not surprise me to learn that this fellow was a blackmailer as well as an informant—I understand that many of them are. What I am trying to make you appreciate is that you cannot be at all certain Mickey was killed by someone I have even the slightest connection with.” He sighed. “You are free, as I have told you before, to interrogate anyone you wish. But I urge you not to discount the widow yet. In my heart, you see, I feel that she is the one.”
The call ended with my assurance that I would continue to keep Sheila Vincent in mind.
I fixed myself what Ellen refers to as a refrigerator omelet, since it contains just about every edible scrap that’s in my refrigerator at the time of its creation. And although my appetite wasn’t yet back to normal, I was able to finish more of the omelet than I left on the plate. I even topped off my little repast with two Pepperidge Farm cookies (the Genevas—you know, they’re the ones with the dark chocolate topping and the nut sprinkles).
The phone rang as I was finishing my coffee. I was still debating whether or not to pick up when the answering machine took the decision out of my hands.
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to somebody named Craig, who was addressing somebody named “Irene, baby.” (Didn’t he pay any attention to the recorded message where I announced “This is Desiree” in plain English?) “Get back to me the instant you come in, babe,” Craig said. “I have news. Big, big news.” I was so eager to hear what his big, big news was that I was hoping he’d change his mind and let the machine relay it to Irene. But he clicked off.
I had one last sip of coffee, then began heaping angst on myself. It just wasn’t fair not to let Al know my feelings. He was much too fine a person to be left hanging like this. And how would I like it if he wasn’t honest with me?
Now, this certainly wasn’t the first time I’d heard this lecture. But I’d managed to avoid acting on it before. At this point, however, I simply gave in; I couldn’t keep putting things off indefinitely.
Plus, to be completely truthful, by then there was also a bit of vanity prodding me along. Just thinking about the chore that lay ahead had turned me into such a nervous wreck that a couple of hours ago I’d even begun tugging at my glorious hennaed hair. It wasn’t too big a stretch to imagine that if I didn’t put an end to my procrastinating, I could wind up with a bald spot.
But I hate to think this was much of a motivator in my finally making the call.
I had mixed emotions dialing the number. In a way, I was hoping Al would be in so I could get this over with. But then, my normal cravenness rising to the occasion, I was hoping he wouldn’t.
He answered on the first ring, and he was so pleased to hear from me that my eyes started to mist.
“I couldn’t get back to you yesterday,” I told him, “because I was tied up at work until way past one in the morning.”
“I figured as much. But when do you have a chance to sleep, anyway?”
I responded with a derisive little titter. “I don’t.”
“How’s the case going?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What’s wrong? You seem kind of down.”
“Uh, nothing. I’m all right.”
“Is it the investigation?”
“Look, Al, I have to talk to you.”
“Sure,” he said evenly, “go ahead.”
“Not on the phone. I know you teach a class tomorrow night, but could we meet for a drink afterward?”
“There’s no sch
ool tomorrow night. It’s Thanksgiving Eve, remember? But you have me worried now. This sounds serious.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Then I’m coming over.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No, now.”
“But it’s after nine, and I—”
“I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
The line went dead before I could make an all-out effort to dissuade him.
Very slowly I put down the receiver. And then, being kin to Ellen—insofar as certain emotional responses, if not by blood—I strode purposefully into the bathroom and threw up.
Chapter 40
He filled the doorway, calling to mind, as he always did, a big, lovable teddy bear. But tonight the usual smile was missing. He hesitated for a moment before bending to brush my lips with his.
Rejecting my offer of a drink he sat down heavily on the sofa. I joined him there, about a foot away, perching precariously on the very edge of the cushion.
“So what’s wrong, Dez?”
I swiveled around to look him full in the face. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” I began.
“Just say it,” he instructed kindly. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”
I winced. But that’s just it, I was shouting inside, there is no “we”—not anymore! To Al I murmured, “This is one of the most painful conversations I’ve ever had to initiate.”
“That sounds ominous. But, please, tell me what’s bothering you.”
Well, I’d had this little speech all worked out. I’m not saying it was the best way to phrase things, but I thought maybe it softened the message a bit. Now, however, the words that a mere five minutes before had been firmly lodged in my brain seemed to have gone on sabbatical. “I’ve met someone else,” I blurted out.
Whatever Al was expecting to hear, it apparently wasn’t this. (Of course, it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear, either.) And for a good few seconds he appeared to be completely stunned, disbelieving even. Then he asked quietly, “When did this come about?”
“It’s the man I work with—my partner.”
“Lou. You’ve been seeing Lou.”
“Not in the way you mean. Only when we’re on the job. Actually, I’m sure he doesn’t have the slightest inkling of my feelings for him.”
“But you do have the impression he’s interested in you, too.”
“I wouldn’t say that. He certainly hasn’t given me reason to assume that he is. In fact, there’s a very good chance that nothing will ever develop between Lou and me. Still, I had to tell you how things are. I know that if the situation were reversed, I’d want you to be straight with me.”
“I appreciate your honesty. Not that I’m happy about how this turned out, of course.” He smiled crookedly. “The truth is, your news has me pretty bummed. I care for you, Desiree—I’m sure I’ve made that fairly evident—and I certainly wish things could have been different. But, hey, I’ll get over you. So do me a favor, and stop looking so stricken.” He smiled his crooked smile again.
“I care for you too, Al. A lot. Only not in the way I should. Not in the way you deserve. I believed that I did for a time, but I realize now . . .” There was no need to complete the thought. “Listen,” I offered tentatively, “maybe we could still see each other once in a while. As friends, I mean.”
Al got to his feet. “I don’t think so. I hope things work out for you though, Dez, I really do.”
“For you, too,” I responded hoarsely, an unshed tear lodged in the corner of my eye.
He was at the door, buttoning the last button on his coat when he said, “It might not be a bad idea if you let him know how you feel.”
And then Al Bonaventure turned and left.
Chapter 41
I guess you could say that my principal emotion on Wednesday morning was one of relief. Oh, sure, there was a healthy dose of depression and more than a little guilt in the mix. But overriding everything else was the realization that the dreaded heart-to-heart with Al was now behind me.
The minute I sat down at my desk I dialed Jackie. It had been five or six days since I’d last spoken to her, and you know how she gets.
As soon as she acknowledged me, her tone (and past experience) tipped me to the fact that she was poised to strike. But I aborted the reprimand by telling her I’d been all set to leave my office when I remembered that—my God!—I hadn’t wished Jackie a happy Thanksgiving.
She softened instantly. She and Derwin, she volunteered, would be spending the holiday at Derwin’s cousin’s. What were my plans?
Well, not wanting to be the cause of any undue empathy over what had, after all, been my own choice, I opted not to admit that I’d be having a sandwich (very possibly turkey) alone in my kitchen. Instead, I said I was going out to dinner with an old college friend who was vacationing in New York this week. Jackie had just gotten out the words “Which friend?”—a question I probably should have anticipated—when, fortunately, she had to take another call. But not until—and this left me open mouthed—she’d thanked me for phoning.
Now, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to mention anything about Al, which was maybe not too wise. I mean, Jackie isn’t that big on a person’s right to privacy—mine, at any rate. What’s more, since the woman had been responsible for our getting together to begin with—Al being Derwin’s dentist and golfing buddy—she’d taken a very proprietary interest in the relationship. I shuddered to think of her reaction when I finally owned up to the split and she realized I’d been withholding this little piece of information from her. Or if, worse yet, she heard about it from Derwin first. But then, recalling some of the hundreds of other instances where I’d survived Jackie’s displeasure, I decided I could get through this, too.
Anyhow, right after that phone call, I managed to knock everything out of my head, and I settled down to study my notes. I’d gone through them quickly on Tuesday, prior to leaving the office to meet with Iggy and Davey No-nose—and I’d concluded exactly nothing. But today I would really concentrate.
Lou stopped in before I’d made much headway. “I’ve just been in with the chief, filling him in on Mickey.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He feels it’s a break in a sense, that this gives the investigation some direction. But, of course, he can look at it like that; he didn’t know Mickey personally. By the way, after you left for home yesterday, I went back to my office for a few minutes to check out a couple of things. There was a message from the ME. He estimates that Mickey died sometime between eight and ten p.m.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ It doesn’t do much for me, either. Listen, I’ve been weighing whether to talk to da Silva himself at this point or whether it would make more sense to continue to interrogate his lackeys before we tackle him. The thing is, while I still haven’t been able to come up with any kind of a motive for da Silva to off Vincent, it’s conceivable he may have an idea of who did it. And considering his involvement with Frankie boy, he might even be willing to give up one of his own people.”
I countered this in a flash. “If da Silva did know anything, he’d probably have dealt with the perp personally.”
“But if he’s only suspicious, he’s most likely holding off until he’s certain. And it’s possible we can persuade him that he’d be wise to let us handle this, that we’re in a better position to get at the truth.”
“I still think we should meet with the others first. Maybe we’ll find out a few things that will help us put the right questions to da Silva.”
Lou shrugged. “Okay. Why don’t I make some phone calls this afternoon. After all, you’re the boss.”
I couldn’t be positive, but there didn’t seem to be even a trace of hostility in his tone when he said that.
I’d just returned from the ladies’ room when I saw the envelope on my desk. Ripping it open, I found an eight-by-ten of Morgan Sklaar’s gorgeous kisser. I was a little sad at the thought that it was highly
unlikely I’d be putting this photograph collection of mine to use.
How wrong I was.
It was only fifteen minutes later, right after I’d gotten back to my notes, that I heard from a man who would turn this case topsy-turvy yet again.
“Detective Shapiro?” he inquired.
“Speaking.”
“You gave me your card, remember?”
Almost automatically I was about to retort that I gave my card to a lot of people, and who the hell was I talking to, anyhow? But I thought it might be best just to answer yes. So I did.
“My name’s Raphael. Eric Raphael. I live on Oakview Road. You came over one night to ask my wife and me about the Vincents.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I responded, although I still couldn’t put a face to the caller. “Have you thought of something you forgot to tell us that evening?” Suddenly my mouth was dry and my heart threatened to burst out of my chest.
“Yeah, I did. What I mean is, not exactly. I didn’t forget. I was just afraid to say anything.”
“Afraid?”
“Look, I didn’t want to admit what I knew because I didn’t want my wife to find out how I knew it.” He laughed self-consciously. “She’s much bigger’n me.”
And here I finally got a mental picture of the owner of this voice. Eric Raphael, I recalled, was a slight, pale man maybe fifty years old, with a few long hairs combed strategically—and ludicrously—over what was on the verge of becoming a totally bald pate. His wife was a large-boned blonde about fifteen years younger and at least seventy-five pounds heavier. “But you’ve decided to come forward anyway?” I prodded.
Raphael sounded totally miserable. “It doesn’t matter no more. Miriam—she’s the wife—got the news this weekend that I been . . . well, cheatin’ on her. What happened was, Chloe and I had this argument—Chloe’s the lady I been goin’ out with—and before you can say boo, she’s on the horn with Miriam, spilling her guts out. Can you beat that? She even complained to the wife that I hit her, when all I did was grab her wrists to keep her from swingin’ at me. Anyways, the very next day—the day before yesterday, it was—the wife just packed up and left me. Took the kids with her, too. So you see,” he summed up with a sort of half-sob, “there’s no reason to keep it a secret anymore—what I saw.”
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 21
