by Joel Goldman
“What if he’s cool about the whole thing? Smiles, chats you up, or has the perfect poker face.”
“That’s what the polygraph is for. Hard to beat the machine even if the courts won’t let us tell the jury about it,” Grisnik said.
“I don’t know. I don’t trust faces. People have too many masks. That’s what bothers me about Rice. He had enough for everyone at a masquerade ball.”
“Hold him up against what you do know. Ask yourself: what did he say that you can prove was the truth or a lie? Only thing he really told us is that it was none of our business what his wife did with the house and the car. He didn’t admit or deny anything. All you did was scare him. I don’t think we learned a damn thing.”
“Rice isn’t a career criminal,” I said. “He screwed up big-time, that’s for sure. But he didn’t grow up to be a cocaine dealer.”
“But that’s what he became, so what’s your point?” Grisnik asked.
“Rice understands money. He’s going to get half the proceeds from the sale of a house worth close to a million bucks if his wife sells it for what it’s worth. He invests his share well and he’s set when he gets out. She’s about to take his future away from him. He ought to be a hell of a lot more scared and pissed about that than what he’s going to tell his cellmate about why we came to see him. On top of which, he’s a salesman. He’s in the bullshit business. He’ll come up with something to satisfy any suspicious inmates.”
“Bottom line?”
“Rice has no reason not to talk to me unless someone has already gotten to him.”
“You could check the visitor records. See who’s been to see him,” Grisnik said.
“I can’t, but you can. I don’t want Detective Funkhouser’s good name to be dragged into this mess any more than it already has been,” I said.
“I’m having a hard time thinking of a reason why I should. I’m the one who’s going to have to explain about Detective Funkhouser, not you. Only reason I agreed to bring you up here was you promised that Rice could help me with my case. I didn’t hear either one of you mention Oleta Phillips or her son.”
“I didn’t promise you anything. I said that Rice might know someone who knows something about Oleta. I’m not wrong yet. I know I’m working this case ass-backwards, but it’s the only way I can go at it right now.”
“How is that supposed to make me feel any better?” Grisnik asked.
“Try finding out who has been to see Rice since he’s been in prison and find out if he called anyone after we left. That might make both of us feel a hell of a lot better.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Grisnik took the Fifth Street exit off I-70, a street that runs through the heart of Strawberry Hill. At the south end of Fifth, just after we came off the highway, there was a low-slung bar wearing a faded coat of red paint. Narrow windows offered a peek into a dimly lit interior while a dyspeptic neon sign over the door irregularly blinked its gospel of FREE BEER TOMORROW. Cars were parked at the curb, probably belonging to faithful customers who were hoping that today was the day. A sign bolted to the roof said it was Pete’s Place.
Next to the bar was a restaurant, painted from the same can, a companion sign on its roof reading Pete’s Other Place, the neon promise over its door pledging Good Eats. A barrel barbeque cooker sat on the sidewalk, the tangy smell of smoked sausage mixing with rising smoke. Grisnik slowed and rolled his window down, breathing deep. I followed his lead, the enticing smell convincing me that this was one promise Pete kept.
“In the early days, the whole area was covered with strawberry fields. That’s where the name comes from. But I’ll take the sausage any day. It’s Pete’s secret recipe. Kind of a Croatian kielbasa.”
Post–World War II brick and stone houses with well-kept front porches; tidy, narrow yards; and single-car garages lined the steep hills that explained the other half of the name. Grisnik waved to a white-haired couple, the husband relaxing in a rocking chair on his porch, the wife tugging at weeds peeking through the concrete walk. They waved back, calling him by name.
“Petar and Maja Andrija, my godparents. They own the bar and the restaurant,” he explained. “Their daughter, Tanja, runs the bar and their son, Nick, makes the sausage and the povitica.”
“Sausage, I understand. What’s povitica?”
“Croatian cake bread. Lots of different ?avors, like chocolate, walnut—anything you can think of. Can’t have a holiday or a party around here without it.”
Farther north at the intersection of Fifth and Ann, a Catholic church framed in limestone stood on the corner, its steeple aimed at heaven, its painted-glass windows catching the fire of the early afternoon sun. A small herd of young children, dressed in parochial blue and white, chased a soccer ball across the fenced, paved playground affixed to the hip of the church.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Your alma mater?”
Grisnik laughed. “My neighborhood, my people.”
“What’s next? The drive-in theater where you lost your virginity?”
“Nope. That would be the back room of the bar.”
“The daughter?”
He grinned. “She had a way of looking at you that made you forget everything holy.”
“But you didn’t marry her.”
Grisnik shook his head, the grin receding. “Oh, I asked Tanja enough times, starting when I was fifteen. She kept saying no, said she was moving to New York as soon as we graduated high school. I heard she got married, after that, nothing. Eventually I got married too, had a couple of kids, and got divorced. A few years ago, she shows up out of the blue, divorced, too. Went back to her maiden name. We tried it again, but it was nothing but memories for her. I guess she outgrew me.”
“Sounds like you didn’t outgrow her.”
He didn’t answer, looked at his watch, then back down the hill. I checked mine. It was almost one o’clock.
“You got time for the best sausage sandwich in the world?” Grisnik asked.
“I’ve got nothing but time.”
We parked in front of Pete’s Other Place. There were eight square wrought-iron tables with matching chairs, all of them empty, and a deli case filled with cold meats, salads, and loaves of povitica. A row of sausages hung above the counter like a curtain in front of a blackboard menu advertising stew, pasta, fish, salads, and sausage.
“Hey, Nicky,” Grisnik said to the man behind the counter.
Nick Andrija stepped out to greet us. He was a slab of hard muscle with a shaved head, bulging arms, and pile-driver legs. I pegged him at five-eight, an easy one-ninety, none of it wasted. He gave Grisnik an easy grin, sharing it with me. They shook hands, clapping each other on the shoulder.
“Marty! How goes it, baby? Who’s your friend?”
“Jack Davis, shake hands with Nicky Andrija, sausage master of Strawberry Hill.”
“Hey, Nick,” I said. “The sausage taste as good as it smells?”
“Better.”
“Give us a couple with everything,” Grisnik said.
“Two with peppers, onions, potatoes, and sauce coming at you,” he said, leaving the counter for the grill on the sidewalk.
A double-wide doorway connected the bar and the restaurant. We took a table that gave us a straight-shot view to the other side. The two buildings were twins on the outside and the inside. The bar was positioned identically to the deli counter, a row of bar stools the only difference.
Nick returned with our sandwiches, which lived up to Pete’s promise of good eats and Grisnik’s claim that they were the world’s greatest. We washed them down with cold soda.
Grisnik wiped his mouth and belched his satisfaction with our meal. “I gotta hit the head.”
I glanced at the counter. Nick had disappeared somewhere in the back. I scraped the crumbs from my plate and drained the last of my soda, watching the traffic at the bar.
There was only one customer, his back to me and his head down as he leaned in close to the bartender, a sh
apely blonde. Her fingers toyed with his, their laughter drifting my way. The guy moved in to kiss her and she spun away, both of them laughing again at a familiar game. The guy shrugged, swiveled around, and slipped off his chair, looking up and directly at me. It was Colby Hudson.
It was one of those frozen moments. We were both running a thousand computations through our heads. If he was on the job, he couldn’t acknowledge me without risking blowing his cover. I couldn’t recall any references to Tanja, Nick, or their restaurant and bar in any of Colby’s reports. It was possible, but unlikely, that a lead had developed in the last few days that brought him here, but his relationship with Tanja, whatever it was, was too intimate to be recent.
The situation was clear to me. Colby wasn’t worried that I’d blow his cover. He was worried that I would tell Wendy he was cheating on her.
Colby made the call, smiling broadly at me, turning to the bartender, signaling me to join him at the bar. Tanja stepped around the bar, standing close to Colby. She was as Grisnik had promised. Calling her good looking, saying that she had a good figure, missed the point. Her allure was in the way she walked, like a lioness casually stalking prey, and the way she looked at you with her crystal blue eyes made you want to be caught.
There was a picture of her behind the bar outside a restaurant, the sign reading Mancero’s. She was maybe ten years younger in the picture. The photograph wasn’t a close-up, the focus more on the restaurant. Now in her late thirties, maybe early forties, she was a woman who’d gotten better, not older. She would attract younger guys like Colby or older guys like me just by breathing.
“Tanja, say hello to a friend of mine, Jack Davis.”
I stood, taking the hand she offered me. It was warm and soft. She held my eyes with the politician’s gift of making me feel like I was the only person in the room.
“Your brother makes a helluva sausage.”
“It’s all in the skin,” she said, letting her hand slide reluctantly from mine. “That’s what holds all the ?avor together.”
Colby said, “You can’t beat their food.”
“Looks that way,” I said.
“A buddy of mine told me about this place,” Colby said to me. “How’d you find it? It’s not exactly in the Zagat guide.”
He was smooth, treating our encounter like the most natural thing, admitting that we knew each other without acknowledging how. His purposeful ambiguity suggested that Tanja didn’t know what he did for a living. That made sense. When you cheat, you keep a lot of secrets.
“Same as you—a friend of mine,” I said.
“Well, I’ve got to get going,” Colby said. “Catch you later.”
Now there were two people in the bar, Tanja and me. I pointed to the photograph.
“I don’t recognize the restaurant. Where is it?”
“New York. I used to be married to the owner.”
“So you divorced him but kept the picture.”
“Reminds me of the good times.”
“You have a picture of Colby for when you’re finished with him?”
Tanja laughed. “You’re not shy, are you?”
“Doesn’t pay. So, how long have you two been together?”
She shrugged, smiled again. “It’s not like that. He drops by once a week, sometimes more often, sometimes less. He’s a good guy. He makes me laugh.”
“And you make his balls turn blue.”
Her face hardened, her eyes grew ?inty. “I don’t think I like you.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
Grisnik returned from the bathroom before either of us could draw blood.
“Tanja, honey,” he said, one arm squeezing her around her waist. “I see you met Jack.”
“You’re the one who brought him in here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Don’t bring him back,” she said, turning her back on both of us and retreating to the bar.
Grisnik stared at me. “What the hell was that about?”
“I’m not her type.”
Grisnik’s cell phone rang, ending the discussion. His expression turned cold as he listened and then asked the cop’s automatic questions of who, what, when, where, and how. He hung up and snapped the phone into the cradle on his belt.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Javy Ordonez is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“I’m betting against natural causes.”
“Preliminary indications are that he died of brain in?ammation,” Grisnik said.
“Brain in?ammation? What causes that?”
“Lot of things can do it: high fever, brain tumor, meningitis. But, in Javy’s case, it was a bullet.”
“Any chance he put it there?”
“Not unless he was a hell of a shot. The entry wound was in the back of his skull.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Don’t know yet. Garbageman found him when he was emptying a Dumpster.”
“Makes sense. Garbage in, garbage out. Where did he find the body?”
“Down in Argentine. On the northern edge of the rail yard. There are some storage buildings that back up to a stretch of woods. The Dumpster was out back behind one of the buildings. Javy’s car was parked next to it.”
“Argentine is his neighborhood,” I said.
“That’s where he grew up, but it’s not the only place he does business. Mexican Americans have lived in Argentine ever since the 1920s when a lot of them came here to work for the railroad. In those days it was the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe. Burlington Northern bought them out in 1995.”
“You’re a railroad expert too?”
“I’m a cop and this is my town. It’s my business to know. The federal government moved the Shawnee Indians here in the early 1800s. Toward the end of the century, a silver smelter was built on the reservation. Don’t ask me what happened to the Indians. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.”
“It usually wasn’t.”
“Anyway, the smelter kept growing and hiring people and the next thing you know, they had the town of Argentine. Lots of mining, too. Then the railroad saw a good thing and built a terminal here. The smelter went bust around 1900 and, not long after, Argentine became part of Kansas City, Kansas. The mines lasted a little longer, and then steel fabrication kept everyone employed who didn’t work for the railroad like my old man did. If I hadn’t become a cop, that’s where I’d have ended up.”
“Well, at least Javy died in his own backyard.”
“Doesn’t sound like it was his idea.”
“You think his death is connected to Marcellus, Oleta, and the rest?” I asked.
“Shit happens. Sometimes it’s the same shit. Some time’s it’s just a coincidence.”
“If there is a connection, it could mean that someone is consolidating market share. We started the week with Marcellus Pearson butting heads with Javy Ordonez and Bodie Grant. Two out of those three are dead and it isn’t Friday yet.”
“Bodie could be trying to become the next Head Fred or avoiding becoming the next victim,” Grisnik said.
“More likely the next victim. How far is a white boy from Raytown going to get moving in on black and Hispanic gangs in Kansas City, Kansas?”
“Not very damn far. Seems more likely that someone is getting even.”
“Or cleaning house,” I said. “Like your mother beating her dirty rugs.”
“Only we’re the ones get to clean up the mess. I can drop you at your car or you can go along for the ride. Your call.”
“Whose case is it?”
“Mine, at least so far. None of your people have showed up yet. Could be they’re too busy buying cars and houses or they might just have their police scanner tuned to sports talk. You want to tag along, that’s fine with me. Troy Clark shows up, he’s likely to take a dim view of your secret identity as Detective Funkhouser.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t suppose you could deputize me?”
“We quit doi
ng that right after Wyatt Earp cleaned up Dodge City.”
The smart choice was to let Grisnik drop me off and tell me what happened later. Troy would be on the scene before the body was removed, claiming that it was the Bureau’s case, that it was related to their ongoing investigation of Marcellus Pearson’s murder. It was the same argument I would have made.
He wouldn’t be happy to see me there. It wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t breaking any laws. It was possible I wouldn’t even be breaking any Bureau regulations. Grisnik had invited me and I had accepted his invitation. It was simple. Troy wouldn’t see it that way. Neither would Ben Yates when Troy told him. Both Troy and Yates would see it as one more reason I shouldn’t come back any time soon, if ever.
If I stayed away, the crime scene would be picked over, rolled over, and swept up by the time I got there on my own. I wouldn’t learn anything from the one source I trusted more than any other.
I liked unified theories of crimes, ones that captured a single perpetrator responsible for multiple crimes. But crime was rarely that neat. More often crimes and criminals overlapped, an investigation of one unintentionally leading to the resolution of another.
Javy’s death could be part of a turf war that included the five drug house murders, the shooting of Tony Phillips, and the disappearance of his mother, Oleta, all the victims linked by drugs. Colby Hudson had said that Javy ordered the hit on Tony Phillips, making it tempting to tie Javy to the drug house, with Oleta somehow caught in the crossfire.
But the victims in Marcellus’s house, Oleta Phillips, and Javy Ordonez had a different link—Latrell Kelly. He lived behind where the drug house victims died and where Oleta’s money was found and he worked at the Argentine rail yard where Javy’s body was found. Tony Phillips could have been a one-off, unrelated to the rest.
“I’ll go along for the ride,” I told Grisnik. “Troy Clark has a problem with that, I’ll tell him you kidnapped me.”
Grisnik laughed. “Kidnapping is a federal offense.”
