It was, but so was the cop. He gave me the evil eye. It occurred to me Tony’s driver wouldn’t have an official ID. He was being accorded Driver-of-the-Mobster status. I wondered if I should make an issue of it.
I drove around the block again. Wondered if this happened to other PIs. Yeah, I lost the guy I was tailing. Cop made me move my car.
Third time’s the charm. The car was there, the cop was gone. I pulled up to the curb just as Tony Gallo came out of the building with a young business type. Bit of a flashy dresser. It seemed to me there was something a little sharp and sleazy about him, but it could have just been because he was with Tony Gallo. Anyway, the guy had a shit-eating grin on his face, and he was talking to Tony in an ingratiating, toadying manner. Which, I got the feeling, was the way most people talked to Tony Gallo.
Tony opened the back door and the man got in. Tony got in beside him, and the car took off. That was a stroke of luck. The cop had just come around the corner.
I pulled out, took off after them. We looped around a few blocks, went into the Lincoln Tunnel.
I wondered if we were heading for Ft. Lee. That would be nice. Tony Gallo obviously did business in Ft. Lee, and aside from whacking people in motel rooms, I had no idea what it was. Just like everything else in this damn case. Come on, Tony. Throw me a crumb.
Only Tony didn’t. On the other side of the Lincoln Tunnel he got off the highway. We were going in the opposite direction, so it took me a moment to realize it was the same exit as before. But passing the same used car lot removed any doubt.
I felt a hole in the pit of my stomach, like I’d swallowed an ice cube, and it was burning my insides. I know that sounds confused as hell, but at that moment, that’s what I was. Because I suddenly realized this guy was being taken for a ride!
That had to be it. Tony, ever cautious, scouted out the place, then picked up the guy for the hit. That’s why the guy was grinning like a zany and talking a blue streak. He was whistling in the dark. Trying to kid Tony out of it.
What the guy had done, I had no idea. But I had a pretty good idea where he was going.
My hands were clammy. It was hard to drive. What could I do? These guys were about to whack a guy. Right in front of me. I knew they were. And it was up to me to stop them. How could I do that? What was I supposed to do? Appeal to their better nature? Woodsman, spare that tree? Excuse me, sir, but have you considered the moral consequences of taking a person’s life? Drive circles around them honking my horn till they realize it would be inconvenient to commit a murder with a lunatic around?
No. Alone and unarmed, there was only one way I could save this guy.
I whipped out my cell phone, dialed 911.
I was breaking my no-driving-while-dialing pledge, but 911 was only three numbers, and I didn’t have to look. I punched them in, put the phone to my ear.
It rang three times.
Three times?
911 doesn’t just pick up?
A woman said, “911, what’s your emergency?”
“A man’s about to be killed. An abandoned quarry in New Jersey.”
“Slow down, sir. What was that again?”
“Two mobsters in a car, heading west, picked up a man in Manhattan and they’re taking him for a ride.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“We just came through the Lincoln Tunnel. The quarry’s about five minutes ahead. Get the cops started. I don’t know what road we’re on, I’ll give you the coordinates as soon as I can.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“That’s not important right now. A man’s about to be killed.”
“You’re phoning an anonymous tip?”
I sure as hell was. The repercussions of the name Stanley Hastings appearing in the police roster would dork me geometrically.
“Come on, lady. Is this 911 or Facebook? Stop gabbing and send the cops.”
It was a good retort, would have been better if I hadn’t got cut off by a tractor-trailer and had to slam on the brakes and swerve to the left.
My cell phone fell from my hands, slipped down into the crack between the gearshift and the seat.
I couldn’t tell if it was open or shut, whether it had disconnected 911, or still had them on the line. If so, they could hear me even though I couldn’t hear them.
I rocketed by the eighteen-wheeler and spotted Tony’s car up ahead. Thank God. I knew where they were going, I just wasn’t sure where the turn was.
“They’re still in sight,” I said, for the benefit of the presumed, but by no means certain, 911 operator.
“Looks like he’s slowing down. Think he’s going to make a turn. Yes, he is!” I caught a street sign, shouted directions for the phone. “It’s a couple of miles to the rock quarry, and I got no way to stop these guys, so you better hurry.”
We whizzed by the stinking refineries, out through the flats, and took the turn into the quarry. I was still a coward’s distance behind. Which wouldn’t do. The cops weren’t there. It was up to me to save the day.
How?
I slammed my car to a stop where I had before, bolted up the mound of dirt, just in time to see Tony and the driver walk the guy around the bend in the quarry out of sight. The guy walked ahead of them. Even from a distance he looked mighty damn reluctant.
There was nothing I could do. I was a witness, and that was it. I was drowning in self-loathing, inadequacy, and guilt. I watched, frozen, waited for the sound of the shot.
None came.
A silencer?
Tony and the driver came back out.
Trailing along behind was the guy. Alive. Just as Tony had done with his driver, they had gone in, looked, come out.
And were heading for their car.
Jesus Christ!
I had to get in mine!
I scrambled down the hill. Even as I reached my car, I heard the sound of theirs starting up. I’d taken too long. It was impossible to get out of the way before they appeared. They were going to find me, and kill me.
What the hell could I do?
I backed up, plowed the car into the bushes beside the road. Prayed there was no embankment, that there was solid ground underneath.
There was. I didn’t go plunging into a river or smack into a tree. I went fully into the bushes until the first few snapped back into place, hiding the car. I killed the motor, hoped I’d been in time.
I had.
Tony’s car rocketed by.
I waited a few moments, then pulled out of the brush.
Tony had a head start. It was going to be tough to catch him. I figured they were taking the guy back to New York.
But that was the least of my worries. If the 911 operator believed me at all, every cop in eastern New Jersey was about to descend on this quarry to prevent a murder. They would not be happy if I was the only one there. I had to leave, and fast.
The only thing was, I had to know: What was so all-fired important they had dragged this guy from Manhattan out here to see?
Cops or no cops, I had to risk it.
I started my car, pulled out, drove into the quarry. I stopped the car, got out, hurried around the bend.
I stopped short.
Looked at what the guy from Manhattan had seen.
It was a freshly dug grave.
56
MY CELL PHONE RANG ON the way back to New York. I fished it out from under the seat. It had fallen shut, severing my connection with the powers that be, but when I pulled over to answer, they were back.
“You called in an emergency?”
“Cancel the call. The incident is over, no one was killed.”
“There was no emergency?”
“There appeared to be an emergency. Luckily, it was a false alarm.”
“You turned in a false alarm?”
“No. I reported an emergency which gave every indication of being real. Luckily, it was only a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Instead of hitting the guy the
y showed him a freshly dug grave, gave him every indication he was about to wind up in it. I would imagine it was very effective.”
“So, you’re saying there was no emergency?”
I hung up the phone. It rang again, almost immediately. I knew it would. I didn’t answer.
I went through the Lincoln Tunnel, drove straight to the office building. Tony’s car wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. It took time to pick him up, but it took no time at all to drop him off. They probably didn’t even slow down.
I sat there, weighed my options. None looked good.
I drove to Westport. It’s about an hour drive, but I needed time to calm down. I hunted up the post office, asked if they had a package for me. Damned if they didn’t. I proved I was Stanley Hastings, and they handed it over.
I drove back to Manhattan, checked in with Richard. He wasn’t pleased to see me. Of course, no one was these days.
“What the hell did you do now?” Richard said.
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“I just got a phone call. From the New Jersey police. Asking me to surrender you on a charge of filing a false report.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes.”
“Apparently the cops are pretty hot about it. I got a call from your wife, saying the same thing. According to her, you’re not answering your cell phone. The cops can’t reach you and your wife can’t either and neither one’s particularly happy.”
“Richard—”
“Why, in the name of heaven, would you have filed a false police report?”
I told him. I can’t say he was very sympathetic.
“You thought Tony Gallo was going to whack someone, so you called the police?”
“I couldn’t just let him do it, could I?”
“I don’t see why not. I mean, he was going to do it anyway, wasn’t he? In your wildest dreams, was there some supercop who would magically appear and smite the gun from his hand?”
“Richard—”
“So, you called the cops, not to save this guy’s life, but just so you wouldn’t feel so guilty that you didn’t.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a bad person.”
I set the package from the post office on his desk.
Richard eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”
“Murder weapon. Weren’t we asked to produce it?”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Now you’ve got me concealing evidence.”
“You’re not concealing it. You’re bringing it into court. In response to a subpoena duces tecum. What could be more legal?”
Richard opened his mouth, closed it again. “Actually, you’re right. Well, that’s something. A negligence lawyer with a murder weapon. I wonder if there’s a precedent.”
“So, that takes care of that,” I said. “What about filing the false report?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I can beat that easily.”
“Because I didn’t actually do it?’
“No, because you actually did. It’s much easier to defend you from your actions. It’s the stupid shit you blunder into that’s a mess. What the hell were you doing following Tony Gallo?”
I told him my theory about Tony Gallo having a girlfriend, and MacAullif’s theory about how I going about it wrong.
“I see,” Richard said. “You thought that since it was MacAullif’s theory and not yours, it wasn’t necessarily bad.”
“Yeah, but it is. What the hell difference does it make who the hell Tony Gallo’s girlfriend is if it isn’t one of the principles?”
“Yeah, suppose you follow him around for two days and find out he’s seeing Susie Creamcheese from Wilton, Delaware?”
“Wilton Delaware?”
“It’s not going to prove a damn thing. Because it doesn’t have a thing to do with the murder. Either murder. Because your ideas are going so far afield. Tony Gallo was at the motel. A dead guy was at the motel.”
“You don’t think following Tony Gallo is a good idea?”
“I think following Tony Gallo is probably not conducive to your health.”
“So what should I do?”
“What should you do? Go to the movies. Take a walk in the park. Read a book. None of those things will screw up your life. Though, actually, you get a lot of bad ideas from books and movies. But do not, under any circumstances, tail any mafia dons.”
“You got a better idea?”
“I gave you a better idea. I told you to follow the widow.”
“I followed the widow.”
“And you stopped at the police station, so you still don’t know where she went. Which I pointed out to you, but did you listen? No. You decided to follow a mobster. And then blow the whistle on him for not whacking someone.”
“You want me to follow the widow?”
Richard rolled his eyes. “I have a multi-million-dollar law practice that is not dependent on pro bono criminal work. I’d like to keep you out of jail, but there are limits to what I can do. Go and sin no more.”
57
THE WIDOW SOUNDED HASSLED. “HELLO?”
“Hello, Mrs. Marston. It’s Stanley Hastings.”
“Who?”
Well, that was something. At least I wasn’t uppermost in her thoughts.
“The private eye. You hired me. To follow your husband. Then you thought I killed him. Then you thought I didn’t. I don’t know what you think now.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Yeah, you do. I was getting close to finding out what your husband was up to. Don’t you want to know?”
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“No, but you can listen.”
Apparently, she couldn’t. She hung up the phone.
Okay, best I could do without actually seeing her in person. And it was unlikely I’d get past the doorman this time. So the phone call was my best bet. It either worked or it didn’t. I’d spend the day watching her apartment and absolutely nothing would happen and that would be that.
The most likely thing was that the widow would report me to the police. That’s what she’d done the first time, that’s what she’d do now. Only this time the odds were greatly increased that she’d phone. I could almost hear the cops saying to her last time, ‘Oh, you didn’t have to come all the way,’ pressing business cards into her hands, telling her to call if that man annoyed her again. So, in all likelihood, she wasn’t going to move.
I was so convinced of it I almost missed her when she did.
Her car came out of the garage, headed toward Madison Avenue, as it had to, it being a one-way street.
I fell all over myself sprinting inconspicuously for my car. If you’ve never sprinted inconspicuously, it’s a knack. I reached Madison Avenue before she did, which of course meant that she had a wonderful opportunity to look through the windshield and see a crazy man running down the street. I hoped she wouldn’t do that. I hoped she had other things on her mind. Of course, I’d just called her. I was the one prodding her. If she had any sense at all, she’d be looking out for me. Then again, as Richard, Alice, MacAullif, and nine out of ten doctors were sure to point out, she had to be nuts to hire me in the first place.
She went up Madison Avenue, through the park, and onto the West Side Highway.
If we were going back to the police station, it was going to freak me out. Although it would allow me to vindicate myself with Richard and do what I’d failed to do the first time: stake out the police station and see where she went when she left. And, sure enough, there she was, getting onto the George Washington Bridge.
I was a few cars back. I had to be a few cars back. Otherwise, I might as well have had my car painted shocking pink with the words DETECTIVE ON DUTY in orange, Day-Glo letters on the side.
From what I could see, the widow was taking no notice of her surroundings. She was, like last time, driving with a sense of purpose, full-speed ahead, within the limits of rush-hour traffic, but as far as I could tell, without a glance in the rea
r-view mirror. No, this woman knew where she was going and was determined to get there.
Why? What the hell was she doing? Didn’t the cops give their cards? They couldn’t be happy to see her again. This was getting to be a bad habit. She was becoming the widow who cried wolf. The cops would be getting less and less likely to listen. True, that one time her husband was dead, but she hadn’t reported it.
At least as far as I knew she hadn’t reported it. That started an interesting train of thought. She gets me out there with her dead husband and reports it.
Only that didn’t happen. The motel manager reported it. Well, he claimed he didn’t, but he was probably lying. Just like he was lying about the victim letting me in.
The motel manager. Another of the witnesses against me. They were adding up, the witnesses against me. There was Jersey Girl, who could attest to my impersonating an officer and appropriating a murder weapon.
I shuddered. That was the problem with thinking about this case. Every train of thought led to the fact that I was dorked.
Okay, lady. Enough idle speculation. Let’s go to the police station.
We didn’t. She breezed right on by the Ft. Lee exit.
My pulse quickened. We were heading for the New Jersey Turnpike. The widow was going to see Tony Gallo.
Wrong again. Instead of staying on Route 95, she took the exit for Route 4.
My mouth fell open.
The motel?
Could she be going to the motel?
That made no sense at all. Meeting her lover at the crime scene? I mean, Tony Gallo had to have brass balls, meeting the widow at the very motel where he killed her husband. Was it possible? A guy like that, maybe it gave him an added kick. But even so. The mind boggled.
She wasn’t going to the motel. Disappointing, on the one hand, but bringing some semblance of sanity to the venture on the other.
So where was she going? Ikea? Yes, it’s a shame Phil’s dead, but now I can rid of that atrocious oak desk and get a nice breakfront. What a depressing thought. Tailing the widow on a shopping spree.
We didn’t go to Ikea. The widow turned north on Route 17, offering other shopping opportunities too numerous to mention. I was quite familiar with the road. When Tommie was young, I used to take him to Sportsworld, let him play video games. Somehow I doubted if that was where we were heading.
Stakeout (2013) Page 19
