by J. L. Abramo
I had enough time for a cat-nap, a shower and a quick bite to eat before the meeting with Fingers.
I was finishing the last of my order of Southern fried chicken at Sam’s Rialto Grill in Pleasantville when my cell rang.
I was curious.
“Mr. Ventura, this is Detective Lawrence of the Atlantic City PD. You may remember me. We spoke the other night after the shooting at the casino. You said we could call you if we had more questions. Do you have time to talk?”
I remembered the two dicks who grilled me at the police station, but had no idea whether Lawrence was the tall one with the really bad complexion or the short fat one.
“What about, Detective?”
“Do you know Vincent Corelli?”
“I know a Vincent Corelli. I’m guessing there are more than a few out there.”
“Lafayette High School. Class of ninety-one. Varsity baseball. Chess Club.”
“Sure.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Corelli?”
Something in his voice told me it was not a good time to crack wise but I occasionally lack self-control. And if Lawrence knew Vincent Corelli was dead, then he was fucking with me.
“It’s been a while. We were never close, I preferred checkers. From what I’ve heard he was run out of Brooklyn by the cops, the crooks, or both. That’s really all I can tell you, Detective, and I’m running late for an appointment.”
“I do have a few more questions, Mr. Ventura. I would hate to have to inconvenience you by bringing you all the way down here from Brooklyn to finish this up.”
“No problem. How about I come down to the station tomorrow morning and we can talk. How does ten sound?”
“Ten would be fine.”
“Great. See you then.”
“Have a safe trip,” he said, and ended the call.
I had the uneasy feeling Detective Lawrence somehow knew I was already down from Brooklyn, but I shook it off. I had a rendezvous with Freddy Fingers to think about.
If you want someone to know where you’re staying, meet him in the bar at your hotel.
If you want someone to think they know where you’re staying, invite him to meet you at the bar in a different hotel.
14
I was sitting at the bar in the cocktail lounge of the Howard Johnson’s in Pleasantville nursing a scotch when Freddy pulled up a stool beside me.
“Nice tie. What do you call that color?”
“Mauve,” I said.
“What brings you back to Purgatory so soon, and why the cloak and dagger?”
“ACPD wants to speak with me about Vincent Corelli.”
“Corelli? Why?”
“Don’t know. Any theories?”
“None.”
“Has Detective Lawrence invited you in for a sit-down?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think they’re looking at Charlie Mungo?”
“I suppose someone else in the room may have made him, but I hear a lot of things and that’s not one of them. I did hear they couldn’t positively ID the shooter from the surveillance camera tapes. His head was down, they have no clear view.”
“But you’re sure it was Mungo?”
“Absolutely.”
“Any chance he made you making him?”
“That’s not a pleasant thought.”
“When was the last time you saw Corelli down here?”
“Long time, I heard he picked up a gig in Connecticut after the divorce.”
“So you said. Any idea where he might dig up twenty grand?”
“None. But if you find out let me know, I’ll bring the shovel.”
“I need to talk with Katherine Lincoln. Know where I can find her?”
“I can tell you where she lives. Huge house at the end of South Iroquois in Margate, north side. Hard to miss.”
“And if Lawrence calls you in?”
“I didn’t see the shooter’s face, I haven’t seen Corelli in half a year, I never spoke with you.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted a number on a cocktail napkin. “My cell, if you can’t track me down at the casino. Can I reach you here?”
“I’ll call you. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks, but I need to be somewhere,” he said, getting up to leave. “Stay focused with Detective Lawrence. He’s smarter than he looks.”
With that he headed out the door. I walked over to a window looking out to the parking area. Freddy had been fairly generous with information. I suppose I should have been appreciative, but it bothered me that he was all answers and no questions. Fingers stopped at the driver’s window of a red Mustang convertible and exchanged a few words with the occupant before climbing into the Cadillac parked beside it and pulling out of the parking lot.
I walked back to the bar and ordered another scotch.
An hour later. Back at my hotel. Another bar. Another scotch. Call it a nightcap because I was ready to call it a night.
A deep, silky voice at my right ear.
“Excuse me.”
“Okay,” I said.
Tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive complexion. Unquestionably the fruit of a Mediterranean family tree. Straight off the top of Nick Ventura’s favorite types list.
“Are you staying at this hotel?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“That must have seemed forward. I’m looking for a place to rest for the night. I noticed this hotel and thought I would check it out. I was fishing for an endorsement.”
“It’s okay, but if you’re looking for Atlantic City you pulled up fifteen miles short.”
“I’m headed for a business lunch in Philadelphia tomorrow. I took the Garden State to avoid the Jersey Turnpike. Can I buy you a drink?”
“That sounds forward.”
“It was a long drive, I’m thirsty and I don’t favor drinking alone.”
“In that case,” I said, “allow me.”
She said her name was Angela. Angela was as easy to talk with as she was to look at. Over the course of nearly two hours we covered everything from the less than amazing Mets to the New York Giants to the novels of John le Carré to the films of Russell Crowe to the music of Counting Crows—with no mention of the weather or what we did for a living.
“I suppose I should see if I can get a room,” she finally said. “Thanks for the drinks and the pleasant conversation.”
“Any time.”
“I like you,” Angela said, before leaving the hotel lounge.
I liked her too. A lot. In spite of the fact I had spotted her climbing out of the red Mustang convertible that followed me from the Howard Johnson.
15
A wake-up call from the front desk at eight the next morning had me up, showered and dressed for my appointment downtown.
I was thinking about Freddy Fingers. How he had seemed very interested in knowing where I was holed up, but showed little interest in why I was asking about Vincent Corelli’s fundraising abilities or why I needed to see the widow Lincoln.
I had enough time for coffee and a bite to take the edge off. Before I made it out of the room there was a knock on the door.
Angela.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I lied to you last night,” she said.
“Can we talk about it over coffee?”
“Sure.”
I escorted her down to the hotel restaurant.
“He asked me to find out where you were staying, and try to find out what brought you down here,” Angela said once the coffee arrived.
“Did he say why?”
“No. And I didn’t ask.”
“But he did ask you to get friendly.”
“Yes. But I was thirsty anyway and wanted a drink and I couldn’t resist the mauve tie.”
“And it was—what? A personal favor?”
“There’s nothing personal between me and Freddy Pugno. It was strictly business.”
“He hired you?”
“Yes.
”
“Private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told Freddy I’m staying here?”
“I’ll tell him I lost you.”
“Why?”
“Professional courtesy,” Angela said. “And as I may have casually mentioned last night, I like you.”
“No reason to give up your fee on my account. You can tell Freddy you followed me here. I can always move over to the Howard Johnson’s if I feel compromised.”
“You’re funny.”
“Looks aren’t everything,” I said. “I need to get downtown for a meeting with a Detective Lawrence of the Atlantic City PD. Would you be interested in joining me for dinner this evening?”
“Very,” she said. She handed me a business card.
“I’ll call,” I said, standing and reaching for my wallet.
“I got this,” she said.
“Thanks. And thanks for coming clean.”
“You’re welcome and, Ventura...”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know what’s up with you and Freddy Pugno or with you and the ACPD—and I don’t need to know. Unless you decide I need to know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And watch your step with Lawrence. He’s not as dumb as he looks.”
16
The Atlantic City Police Department was housed in the Public Safety Building on Atlantic Avenue across from the Tropicana. I was directed to Detective Lawrence’s desk and he asked me to take a seat. Turned out he was the tall one with the bad complexion.
“Thanks for coming in.”
“Sure.”
“We were informed by the NYPD that Vincent Corelli was found murdered in Brooklyn yesterday.”
That settled that. Now the question became was he going to bring up the discovery of my business card on Vinnie Corelli’s body or take namedropping to the next level and mention Charlie Mungo. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say so I said nothing.
“The NYPD reached out because Corelli was carrying a New Jersey state driver’s license with an Atlantic City address.”
“Are you almost to the point where you ask a question, Detective?”
A little cheeky, but Lawrence had billed it as a Q&A. And if I didn’t try to move it along, I would be sitting there all day hearing about what I already knew.
“Do you know Katherine Lincoln?”
It worked.
“I know who she is, but I don’t know her.”
“Surveillance camera footage shows her talking to you immediately after the shooting.”
“She asked if I saw the shooter’s face. I told her what I told you, I didn’t. I would guess she eventually asked everyone at the table.”
“That would be an inaccurate guess. Are you aware that before she was Mrs. Theodore Lincoln she was Mrs. Vincent Corelli?”
“No.”
“A husband and an ex-husband both murdered in less than forty-eight hours. Don’t you find it quite a coincidence?”
“I’m one of those few who believe in coincidence, and I have little interest in the personal lives of total strangers unless I’m paid to be interested.”
“I see.”
I had no idea what he saw, or what he knew. But it was Atlantic City, so I gambled.
“You specifically asked me to keep my nose out of it, Detective. I had nearly forgotten about it until you called me last evening. I don’t know how else I can help you.”
“A man was gunned down beside you. I would think it would be difficult to forget.”
“When I’m in the mood to think about unpleasant events, I have more horrible memories that take precedent. Is there anything else?”
“Thanks for coming in.”
“Sure.”
We had come full circle. Lawrence had been fishing, I had avoided the hook. I couldn’t decide whether he was smarter than he looked or not as dumb as he looked, but one way or the other I was not anxious to find out. As I walked out of the building I thought it would be a perfect time to drop the whole thing and get out of his pond. But I’m not always as smart I look.
I decided I still wanted to see Katherine Lincoln before I bowed out.
17
It was a straight shot down Atlantic Avenue from the Public Safety Building to the large house on the beach in Margate City. Four miles. Sixteen minutes. Door to door.
I pressed the doorbell. It played two bars of a classical piece I couldn’t place. It took Kitty three minutes to respond. She was wearing a plush white terry cloth robe opened to reveal a two-piece bathing suit. I wasn’t sure if the color was fuchsia or magenta, but it didn’t really matter. I wasn’t sure if she was glad to see me, but she didn’t appear very surprised.
“I was out at the pool.”
“I see,” I said.
She closed the robe and tied it with the matching cloth belt.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“Sure. Come in.”
I stepped inside, shut the door, and followed her back to the kitchen.
“Would you like a drink? Scotch?”
“It’s a little early for scotch.”
“Coffee?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
“What brings you here?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the white lace-trimmed handkerchief.
“This,” I said, placing it on the marble-topped kitchen island. “I believe it belongs to you.”
She looked at it and then back at me with those big green eyes.
“I must have dropped it in your office. Surely you didn’t come all the way down here from Coney Island to return a handkerchief.”
“Actually you must have dropped it on the stairs of an apartment building on Avenue J in Midwood.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then I was mistaken, I guess it doesn’t belong to you,” I said, picking up the handkerchief and returning it to my pocket. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
I turned to leave.
“Wait.”
I did an about-face.
“He was already dead when I got there.”
“I will have that scotch,” I said, and I took a seat at the kitchen table.
Kitty placed two glasses with ice and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Green on the table and sat. I poured.
“I knew Charlie Mungo. Not well, but well enough to recognize him when he shot Theodore. Mungo was a friend of my first husband, Vinnie Corelli.”
“You made Mungo and thought Corelli had something to do with it.”
“No, I didn’t believe that, but I needed to be certain.”
“And if Vinnie was involved?”
“I decided early on I wouldn’t drop a dime on Vinnie or Mungo. But if it was someone else who sent Mungo, I wanted to know. I actually cared for Theodore, and having to witness his execution offended me.”
“What made you think Mungo would talk to you if you found him?”
“He would or he wouldn’t. I felt it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“You didn’t consider it dangerous to confront a killer who you could identify?”
“I’m sure Charlie knew I hadn’t named him when I had the chance. And he wouldn’t have hurt me, out of respect for Vinnie. In any case, that was my motivation for wanting you to help me find Mungo. Then Vincent called me when I was at your office yesterday and everything quickly changed.”
“Go on.”
“I hadn’t seen or heard from Vinnie since he moved up to Connecticut. He said he needed to see me, that it was very important, told me where he was, I went there and he was already dead.”
“Do you have any idea where Vinnie would get his hands on twenty thousand dollars?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Indulge me.”
“He may have had that kind of money. Theodore was a jealous man. I always suspected he paid Vincent off to leave Atlantic City after the divorce.”
“I bumped into Charlie Mungo.”
“And?”
“He said Vinnie offered him twenty grand to snuff Lincoln.”
“And you believed him?”
“I don’t see any reason for him to lie.”
“Did he say why Vinnie wanted Theodore killed?”
“Mungo guessed it was about Lincoln getting the girl. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any idea who might have wanted Vinnie dead?”
“No.”
“Mungo sounded very determined to find out who killed his friend,” I said.
“I hope he does. I always liked Vinnie.”
“But he could never have put you into a place like this.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It sounds pragmatic. They found one of my business cards on Vinnie’s body. Any thoughts about that?”
“None.”
“I guess you won’t be needing my services after all.”
“I guess not. But if you speak to Charlie Mungo, I would appreciate it if you explained to him I had nothing to do with Vinnie’s death.”
“I hope I never run into Mungo again.”
“Another drink?”
“No. I need to get going. But I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know who I was? When you approached me at the poker table immediately after your husband was shot. How did you know I was a private investigator?”
“That’s the irony. About a year ago Vinnie pointed you out to me at the Showboat. He said you played ball together in high school.”
Ironic indeed. Particularly since, at this point, I had no clue who was playing ball with who.
“Sorry for your losses,” I said. “I’ll see myself out.”
“I’d like to compensate you for your time.”
“No need. You never hired me. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket and placed it on the table before I left.
18
As I slid behind the wheel of the Monte Carlo I let out a sigh of relief. I was done with Kitty Corelli Lincoln—fantasies and all. I believed I had successfully shaken Detective Lawrence off my back. I had no more reason to bond with Freddy Fingers. And I had a dinner date with the first woman I’d met in a long time who I found attractive in more ways than the obvious.
