We weren’t.
The widow drove three miles north and turned into a motel.
58
SO. THINGS HAD COME FULL circle. Here I was, once again, staking out a motel. True, it wasn’t the same motel, but you can’t have everything.
The Double Pines Motel was fancier than the Route 4 Motel, but then anything would be. For one thing, it had more units. A lot more units. It was two stories high, and rather than having the office by the road with a dozen rooms stretching back in an L, it had a circular drive up to a central lobby, from which wings of units spread out in both directions parallel to the road.
The widow pulled into the circular drive, got out, and went into the lobby. She was back in minutes, hopped in her car, drove around, and parked in front of a unit.
I hoped hers was on the first floor. I don’t know why I hoped that. It wasn’t like I’d be looking in the window, or popping in the front door with a camera shouting, “Surprise!” Still, having her on the second story would, at least in my head, make the job harder. Of course, in my head, having her in a motel room made the job harder.
She took a unit on the first floor, cementing my opinion that it couldn’t matter less if she did. I was also firmly convinced that, since I’d lucked out on the ground floor unit, something else would go wrong.
Nothing did. At least, not right away. The widow unlocked the door and went in, closing it behind her.
And there I was, once again, a private eye caught in a shaggy dog story, staking out a motel room, waiting to see who showed up. Only the first time, I had no idea a murder was involved. And the first time I had a client. And the first time I was getting paid.
There was one other difference.
The first time I had a Gatorade bottle.
I prayed it wouldn’t matter. There was no reason why it should. No one checks into a motel room three hours ahead of their lover. If a lover was three hours late, the relationship wasn’t going to last long. That was not the type of white-hot romance that would lead to the elimination of a spouse. No, the way I saw it, she called Tony Gallo the minute she hung up on me. And even if she called him at home, which wasn’t likely, that would be a no-no considering the fangs on his wife, but even if she did, that would be an hour drive at best. No one drives slowly to a motel room assignation. One could expect a foot on the gas.
Except for rush-hour traffic. Good God, what if Tony got caught in rush-hour traffic? He could call the motel, ring her room, say he’d be late. And there he’d be, stuck in traffic, while I peed in my pants. Well, that would kind of put a damper on my denouement.
Stop it, I told myself. It’s a long shot he’s home in the first place. In all probability he’s out scaring some poor son of a bitch to death with his freshly dug grave. He’d be along to get his rocks off and reassure the widow that no one was going to get them for murder if she just kept her head. Yeah, he’d be right there.
Only, if he were terrorizing another Manhattan businessman, he wouldn’t bring him along. He’d have to take him back to New York.
No, he wouldn’t. He’d have his chauffeur drop him at the motel and drive the guy back. And then go hang out in a nearby shopping mall waiting for the phone call to come pick him up.
Yeah, that’s how it would work. And that’s how it must have worked with Vinnie Carbone. Which would have been just fine, because Tony Gallo wasn’t boffing Vinnie Carbone’s girlfriend, he was boffing the widow.
I took a breath. At long last, things were beginning to make sense.
Except how does the gun wind up with Jersey Girl?
Tony Gallo kills his chauffeur—bummer, now he has to drive himself, wonder if he ever learned—and now he’s stuck with a murder weapon. So he lays it on Jersey Girl, who he must be boffing too, because otherwise how would he get so close? And why would his wife be freaking out? Though she could easily have made the same mistake as I, figuring Jersey Girl for the role that was rightfully the widow’s.
It didn’t matter. As far as I was concerned, I’d figured the motel murder out, in terms of who and why. At any moment, Tony Gallo’s black sedan would drive up to the motel and everything would suddenly be clear.
Only it didn’t. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.
Jesus Christ. How was this possible? No one checks into a New Jersey motel to be alone. But the widow did, and here I was, déjà vu, it was my first stakeout all over again.
Did the unit have a connecting door?
Was the widow dead?
No. There were no cars in front of the adjoining units.
But had there been when I drove in?
No. I was watching the unit, I would have noticed any comings and goings.
Or would I? I’d have noticed anybody arriving. But would I have noticed anybody leaving? From another unit, why would I? A car driving up could be pay dirt. A car driving away wouldn’t mean anything. Would I have seen it?
Or what if Tony’s driver dropped him off!
What if he was in there right now!
Was that possible?
No, it wasn’t. I’d called the widow, stirred her up. She’d have called Tony. It would have taken him longer to get there than her.
Unless he was in the neighborhood. I knew he did business in the neighborhood, so if he was tooling around with his driver he could have had the guy drop him off.
No, not likely. For something like this he’d probably drive himself.
I glanced around the parking lot. At the far end of the lot, parked away from the motel, was a black sedan. Was it Tony’s car? I strained my eyes, checked the license. It was a Jersey plate, but I didn’t recognize the number. I’d never checked the number when I was tailing Tony, because I’d already ID’d him. I’d seen it, but hadn’t paid attention. Was it the same one? I didn’t think so. But that didn’t mean anything. That was the chauffeur’s car. He probably had another car he drove himself.
I scribbled down the number. I could have MacAullif run it to see if it was Tony, but I’d kind of used up my favor quota for the moment.
It didn’t matter. It was the only thing that made sense. It was his car, and he was in there.
All at once, the widow renting the downstairs unit was a great big plus. I hopped out of my car, hotfooted it up the driveway, and tiptoed across the parking lot, trying not to look like a private eye with a camera hoping to photograph a pair of illicit lovers in a motel room. Because that’s exactly what I was. I had my trusty Canon hanging around my neck, over my shoulder, and down my side under my suit jacket, the way I smuggle it into the hospital to take injury photos of accident victims in bed. If they tried to leave before the cops got there, I was going to whip it out and start shooting.
I crept up to the unit, tried to peer through the window. No luck. The blinds had been carefully drawn. Well, that’s an assumption on my part, but even if they’d been carelessly drawn they were doing their job.
I listened at the door.
Heard nothing.
Then a voice! A woman’s voice! Talking to someone!
Unless she’d snapped. Unless it was all too much for her, and she was talking to herself. Because I, in my bumbling investigation, had driven her over the edge.
And then, like sonic manna from heaven, a low murmur came rumbling through the motel unit door.
A man’s voice!
59
“YOU KNOW AN HONEST NEW Jersey cop?”
MacAullif snorted into the phone. “Is this a game?”
“Yeah, MacAullif. It’s called Pin the Crime on the Perp.”
“Is this the type of game where I wind up handing in my shield and my gun?”
“Only if you lose.”
“What do I get if I win?”
“The charge of impersonating an officer goes away.”
“I am an officer.”
“See, it’s working.”
“I got a new case. You wanna stop screwing around and give me the gist?”
I did.
MacA
ullif listened, said, “Where are you?”
“Sitting on the motel.”
“Promise you won’t go in and find a corpse?”
“I won’t go in. I doubt if he’s gonna kill her. It would be nice to catch ’em together, so it wouldn’t be my word against his.”
“Oh, was I dragging my feet? Sorry about that,” MacAullif said, and hung up the phone.
I assumed he’d be sending cops. At least, I hoped that was why he’d hung up the phone. There were a number of other possibilities. In fact, hanging up on me was practically in his job description. Even so, I think he believed me. And if he believed me, he’d act. Whether it was quick enough to do me any good was another matter. But at least it wasn’t a matter of stopping a murder. After my experience with the 911 operator, I’d had enough of life-or-death situations. Thank God this was simply sex.
Of course, the minute I thought that I started having doubts. It was only sex, but if this guy killed her husband, then she was the witness who could put him away. And this guy did not deal gently with witnesses. Look what happened to the chauffeur. All he’d done was rent the room. Not usually a capital crime, and yet he’d been put to death. In all probability, the guy didn’t know anything except that the room had been rented. He might not have even known about the murder, known that there was any connection whatsoever. He might have been an unwitting accomplice. And still he bit the dust. So, was the widow really safe, when she knew everything that could put the guy away?
Sure she was. What, the guy kills her husband so he can have her, then he kills her? That didn’t make sense. Well, maybe it didn’t have to, if he was a full-fledged psychopath running on delusions of grandeur, as powerful men often are.
No, I was not considering walking up and banging on the door. I was standing unobtrusively beneath a tree growing on the narrow strip of grass between the parking lot and the road. I had a good angle on the door, and if the happy couple came out I was going to fire away. From a discreet distance. Not that I was afraid Tony Gallo would beat me up or kill me or both, but because I was afraid he would take my camera. While it occurred to me I might be able to outrun him, it also occurred to me I couldn’t outrun a bullet.
Such negative thoughts were cascading with increasing intensity and frequency the longer the cops didn’t show up. Where the hell were they?
I no sooner thought that but I was roused from my sordid musing by the arrival of the cops. At least it looked like the arrival of the cops, but it was only one car. That didn’t seem right, somehow. I guess I was thinking of the movies, expecting SWAT teams to move in. This was just one car, and it wasn’t necessarily going to the motel.
It was. It pulled in, drove right up to the unit.
The car door opened and the cop got out, and my heart sank.
It was Morgan.
Of all the cops in all of New Jersey, MacAullif has to get the one with the personal vendetta against me. Granted, a lot of New Jersey cops had reason to hate me lately, but, Jesus Christ, one of my arresting officers? Morgan, the guy who’d tricked me into a line-up when I thought I was going home.
Bad Cop’s partner.
He wasn’t going to make an arrest. He was probably sent here to look for me.
Morgan walked up and knocked on the door of the unit. Waited, and knocked again.
The door opened a crack. Then wider, and Morgan went in.
My head was coming off. What was going on here? Why was Morgan at the motel? There was only one thing I could think of: MacAullif had tried to get the Jersey Cops. Morgan heard about it. He raced out to the motel. Not to arrest the killer. To warn him. Because the cops had been in bed with Tony Gallo from the start. Which was the only thing that made sense. Which meant that I was utterly fucked, because now they’d just dig a big hole and climb into it and cover it up and I’d never get ’em. I’d be lucky not to take the fall myself.
Please, I begged. Don’t let it happen. Let the other cops get there first.
They did. En masse. Just like in my fantasy. Local cops, state cops, and detectives in unmarked cars came screeching up, some with their lights on, some with sirens, some with both, skidding into the parking lot and squealing to a stop, forming a haphazard semicircle around the front of the unit. Cops pouring from their cars, streaming up to the door, forcing their way in. In less time than it takes to tell it, every cop in the state of New Jersey was in that motel room.
It was a good five minutes before they began filtering out. Some of the local cops first, uniformed cops, chatting with each other, leaning against their cars. No one was taking off. Now the arrest had been made, they were all hanging out to see the perp walk.
I understood the sentiment. I wanted to see it myself.
Some of the state cops came out, along with a couple in plain clothes. The parking lot was filled with them.
Still no sign of Tony Gallo and the widow.
There was only one reason I could think of.
She was dead.
Any minute now, the EMS unit would come roaring up, medics would go in, realize there was nothing they could do, and call for the medical examiner.
The door opened again.
Bad Cop and Morgan came out with the widow. She was in handcuffs, but they seemed almost apologetic about it. Her hands were handcuffed in front of her, instead of behind her back. And they weren’t yanking her by them. They were guiding her by the shoulders.
Bad Cop looked pissed. In the confusion, I hadn’t even noticed he was there, but it was him all right, I could tell just from his expression, like he wanted to kill a PI.
The other cops gave way as they led the widow out.
And no one was paying any more attention to the motel unit.
I couldn’t believe it.
Tony Gallo wasn’t there!
My mouth fell open. I stepped out from underneath the tree, gawking.
Big mistake.
The widow’s head snapped up. “It’s him!” Being handcuffed, she had to raise both hands to point. “There he is!”
Bad Cop saw me. He face was murderous. For a moment I thought he might go for his gun. “Arrest that man!” he thundered.
I stood, frozen, while cops descended on me with handcuffs.
It occurred to me things couldn’t get any worse.
Wrong again.
At that moment, Sergeant MacAullif came driving up to witness the arrest of Tony Gallo.
60
IT WAS A ZOO.
Everybody and his brother was in that courtroom—at least, everybody involved in the case.
To begin with, the judge was there, and an unhappier man it would be hard to find in the whole kingdom of New Jersey. As far as he was concerned, a simple murder case had escalated out of all proportion. Aside from having a massive mess to deal with, the poor man had to make sense of it all and render a decision that would not be reversed on the one hand, or make him look like a total fool on the other.
It was not the time to appear foolish, because the assembled multitude included several members of the media, not only newspaper reporters, but TV reporters as well. Cameras were allowed in the courtroom, a move the judge was probably reconsidering. I certainly hoped he would. My ignominy was going to look bad enough in print.
I, of course, was the main participant. I was there with my attorney, Richard Rosenberg, to answer the charge of filing a false police report for the second time in two days. Being a habitual false police report filer was not going to look good on my record. Nor was the fact that in each instance I had falsely accused reputed mob boss Tony Gallo, a man unlikely to take kindly to such persecution.
Tony Gallo was in court with his attorney, primed to defend him in the event that I persisted in these charges, as well as to proceed against me if I did so. At least I certainly hoped he intended his attorney to proceed against me, rather than take matters into his own hands.
Also in court was the widow Marston and her attorney, not to answer the charges for which she had been ar
rested, which had been dropped, but to look out for her interests, much in the manner in which Tony Gallo’s attorney was looking out for his.
Also in court was Jersey Girl herself, the other presumed mistress, and her attorney, an eager-looking young man, probably appearing pro bono, or at least on a contingency basis, in the event that a damage suit could be whipped up against yours truly, but more than likely seduced into appearing by the fantasies inspired by that amazing bod.
Also in court was Mrs. Tony Gallo, though whether to stand by her man or to substantiate yet another charge of impersonating a police officer was anybody’s guess. She sat on one side of Tony Gallo, glaring daggers at Jersey Girl, who was not sitting on the other.
Also in court was Tony Gallo’s driver, probably because he drove him there, but the way things were stacking up against me, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was there to testify that he had seen me spying on Tony Gallo’s house.
Also in court was the motel manager, brought in no doubt to testify against me should the need arise. So far he had not noticed the presence of Sergeant MacAullif, who was doing his best to keep his face averted, and who was also there to answer a charge of filing a false police report. MacAullif had gone out on a limb calling the New Jersey cops for me, and it had come back to bite him in the ass.
MacAullif didn’t have a lawyer, Richard having graciously volunteered to represent his interests, for which I was grateful. If the Truth be known, I was also grateful for the presence of the motel manager. Not wanting to be seen by him was probably the only thing keeping MacAullif from pushing Richard out of the way and tearing my head off.
Also in the courtroom were the prosecutor, two assistant prosecutors, the court reporter, the bailiff, and two court officers in addition to the ones guarding me.
Also in the courtroom was every cop in the state of New Jersey.
The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Your Honor, before we begin, I would like to point out that the defendant was served with a subpoena duces tecum, ordering him to bring into court the gun that he obtained from the witness, Angela Russo, by impersonating a police officer. May I ask if he’s done so?”
Stakeout (2013) Page 20
