A minute later Fallon was back on the same couch being handed an expensive scotch by Vivian Donahue. She took a small sip of hers, looked down at Fallon and said, “I like him. He has a certain street predator look about him. I think he’ll get the job done.”
“So do I,” Fallon replied. “And I made it clear that if he does a good job, we will use him in the future as well.”
TWELVE
When Vivian Corwin was a young woman, twenty-one years old and a junior in college, Vivian and three of her sorority sisters decided they wanted to visit New York. Vivian had been there several times of course but always with at least one parent, usually her mother on a shopping trip.
This trip would be different. This would be an un-chaperoned summer vacation in between the girl’s junior and senior years. They were adults now, she insisted to her parents and she could do as she pleased.
It was the mid-sixties and to say the Corwin’s were not enamored with the free love, flower-power generation was putting it mildly. Her father believed, like most of his generation, that the Beatles alone were going to bring about the end of civilization. Vivian, like most of her generation, was determined to “do her own thing” as the popular saying went. Plus, when she reached her twenty-first birthday, a trust fund in her name became available which made her financially independent, as did similar occurrences for her three friends. Despite much yelling, demands and threats, Vivian showed her father a glimpse of the strength he would come to admire in her so off she went.
The four of them planned a two-week stay and had the time of their young lives. Of course, four young, attractive, single women alone in New York were bound to attract young, attractive, single young men. In fact, they were drawn like iron filings to a magnet.
The girls were very flattered and flirtatious, including the headstrong Miss Corwin. Most of the young men were decent enough and more or less polite and respectful. Especially when it became clear their efforts were in vain.
A few days before their trip was to come to an end, they decided to have supper in a genuine New York Italian restaurant. The girls talked to their hotel concierge who provided them with the name of a good restaurant close to the hotel in a part of the city that would be safe for them to visit. The doorman put the four of them in a cab, gave the driver instructions, and off they went.
Half-way through what was, in fact, an outstanding meal, Vivian excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. On her way, she passed through a portion of the bar and on her way back, standing at the end of the bar was a young dark haired man speaking to another young man. As she approached him, the black-haired, very tan, clearly Italian Adonis looked her up and down and flashed a smile at her showing the most perfect set of polished white teeth she had ever seen.
She looked in his eyes that, in the bar’s dim light, appeared to be black and for the first time in her young life, learned what it was like to be truly smitten and totally entranced. What she would convince herself was love, was really infatuation and simple lust. But good girls from the Midwest did not ever admit to such feelings. At least until they were older.
During the final few days of her vacation, she saw very little of her friends. She and her Adonis, Paul Renaldi, were inseparable right up to the moment she walked through the gate at the airport to get on the flight home. Of course, before she left, she pledged undying love and would figure out a way to get back to him.
When she arrived home within a half-hour of greeting her parents, they asked to talk to her to give her some news. Vivian’s father, clearly upset, showed her a report from the FBI that identified her lover not as Paul Renaldi, but as Dante Ferraro, the son of a capo in the DiMartino crime family, one of the five Mafia families of New York. The FBI report also alleged young Dante was following in his father’s footsteps.
Instead of becoming angry at her lover for his deception, like most children she lashed out at her father.
“How did you get this report? Were you following me!? What right do you have!?”
“Of course I kept and eye on you. Did you think your mother and I would simply let you go to New York with three other young girls and we wouldn’t care? We wanted to try to protect you. You must never, ever see this young man again. Is that clear?”
For several days, of course, she hated them both. Gradually, she began to realize they were right and had done what they did with the best of intentions. A week of not speaking to either of her parents went by then she quietly knocked on the door of her father’s den and without waiting for a response, went in to find him going over some business documents. The FBI file on Paul/Dante was on the desk and she picked it up, sat in one of the chairs and slowly read through it.
When she finished, she put it back on the desk and said, “I’m sorry I got so mad at you, Daddy. I know you meant well.”
He came around the desk and held her for ten minutes while she cried and let it all out. Two months later, Vivian and her mother boarded a plane for, what people were told, was a luxury spa in Switzerland. Two days after their arrival, Vivian obtained a legal, medically safe, abortion.
When Steve Fallon left, Vivian sat down at the big desk in the library and using a throw away cell phone, dialed a number with a New York area code. A man answered and without preamble or introduction, he said, “Hello my love. How are you and what can I do for you?”
“I’m fine, personally, Dante. But I think I need your help with something.”
Two days later, both of them, having traveled alone and incognito, met in a suite in the Harrah’s Resort in Atlantic City, a place they had met once or twice a year since they fell in love when they were both barely out of childhood. Now, unfortunately, thanks to age and prostate cancer surgery, a sexual relationship was no longer involved. She explained what had happened to her nephew, who had ordered it and who had carried it out. Vivian further explained what she intended to do and asked her former lover, a semi-retired capo in the DiMartino Family, for his help to accomplish her plan. Of course he could not refuse.
THIRTEEN
By the time Carvelli left the Corwin estate, the rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to grow lighter as the storm continued its eastward journey to Wisconsin. He cruised down the east-west freeway leading into the city from the western suburbs while thinking over his latest case. Finding out what happened to her wayward nephew was not the issue. Tony was certain he would come up with the answer. What kept rattling around in his mind was the question why. Why would someone of the stature of Vivian Donahue go to these lengths? Plus, she had plenty of private security to call on to do the job. Carvelli had checked out Steven Fallon and found a very capable, very professional, ex-FBI who could do the job. Why did she want to know and what would she do when she found out?
Tony Carvelli had retired from the Minneapolis PD as a detective almost eight years ago. The last three years, because he was a gifted street-savvy cop, had been spent in the department’s intelligence unit. As a result of his time in intelligence, Carvelli knew just about everything and everyone there was to know in the seedy underside of the entire metro area. When he retired from the police, despite several lucrative corporate security job offers, he decided to go into business for himself. The thought of wearing a suit and tie every day and playing ass-kissing office politics in the corporate world had no appeal whatsoever.
Carvelli wheeled the sleek Camaro into a restricted parking spot on Third Avenue in downtown Minneapolis alongside the main police department office in the Old City Hall building. He parked the car and as he was walking toward the entrance he spotted two uniform officers approaching him.
“Hey, Carvelli, that’s a spot for cops only,” the older, heavyset one said.
“Here’s a buck,” Carvelli said, peeling a dollar bill from the wad he kept in his pocket. “Keep an eye on it for me, will ya Hanson? Do something useful for a change. You know, Protect and serve and all that bullshit,” he continued as he reached toward Hanson holding the bill out for him.
“Kiss my ass,” the cop said while heartily laughing. “How are ya, Tony?”
“Good, Tom. And you? How’re Betty and the kids?”
“They’re good.”
“Hey, A. J.,” Carvelli said while slapping hands with the younger cop.
“What’s with the suit, Carvelli?” Hanson asked. “Is today your funeral?”
“What’re you, a fashion cop? Can’t I wear a suit once in a while?”
“You do look a little odd without a leather jacket on,” A.J. said.
“Don’t get used to it. Listen, I have to run and don’t be messing around with my ride. I’ll see you guys.”
Five minutes later he was at the counter of the police file storage room, the one where recent case files are kept until appeals are exhausted. The clerk, a woman several years older than Carvelli treading water until retirement, brought him the police file for the Corwin murder and finally handed it to him after a minute of good-natured flirting between them.
Carvelli spent the next several minutes skimming through the various reports, witness statements and documents pertaining to physical evidence. At one point he saw the names of the two defense lawyers, smiled slightly and softly said out loud to himself, “Well isn’t that interesting?” when he read the name of Butch Koll’s lawyer.
When he finished going over all of the documents, he walked back to the counter and softly called for the attending clerk. When she arrived he placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter and said, “I need a copy of everything in this file, please, beautiful?”
“Are you trying to bribe me Carvelli? If you are you’ll have to do better than that!”
“No, I’m not trying to bribe you. That would be illegal,” he replied as innocently as possible. “It’s to pay for the copies.”
“Gimme that,” she said as she rolled her eyes and snatched the file from his hand. “You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown, Carvelli.”
As she turned to go he said, “Awww, c’mon, Mary. Be a little sensitive. I have feelings, ya’ know.”
She turned back to him and said, “On second thought, I’ll take this too,” she continued as she grabbed the twenty. “That’s for putting up with you and your bullshit.”
Ten minutes later he was back in his car and headed home. Tony changed his clothes then headed out to his first stop, the scene of the crime itself. He went in the front door of the Hermitage and took the first barstool at the end of the bar, the same one Butch Koll had sat on the night Bob Corwin was killed.
The bar was crowded with both Happy Hour customers and diners waiting to be seated. Tony patiently waited for the bartender while occasionally glancing at the local news showing on the TV above the bar. Because of the noise coming from the crowded room, he couldn’t hear what the on-scene reporter was saying. At that moment, the bartender arrived and said, “Hey, Tony, how’ve you been, haven’t seen you around much lately?”
“Goddamn she’s gorgeous,” Carvelli replied without taking his eyes off the TV screen. “Gabriella Shriqui,” he said reading the woman’s name on the screen.
“Yeah, she’s sizzling hot. I think she’s kind of new in town. Seen her on Channel 8 news a few times.”
“I need to talk to you, Jerry, about that Corwin deal,” Carvelli said. “Get me a shot of Cuervo and a water.”
“Listen,” the bartender said when he returned with Tony’s order. “I told the cops everything I know. Everything I saw. I don’t know what you’re up to but don’t be dragging me into any bullshit, Carvelli, especially Leo Balkus bullshit,” he added leaning over the bar to whisper in Carvelli’s ear.
While the bartender was telling him this, Tony tossed down the shot of tequila, licked the salt from the back of his thumb and sucked on the wedge of lemon brought with his drink. When he finished he said, “Relax, Jerry. I ain’t the cops and I don’t work for Leo and I won’t drag you into anything.”
“I’ll be right back,” Jerry said as he walked off to serve other customers.
Carvelli patiently waited for Jerry to return and when he did, Carvelli said, “Do I have to remind you of…”
“No you don’t. Listen, I’ll take a quick smoke break outside and we’ll talk,” the bartender replied.
The two men went out the front door and as Jerry was lighting a cigarette, Tony said, “Okay, tell me everything you saw and heard from the beginning.”
For the next ten minutes, while Tony listened and Jerry smoked, he told the private investigator everything he told the police. When he finished, Carvelli said, “I got that from reading your statement. Now tell me what you didn’t tell the cops.”
“Okay,” he said lighting another cigarette. “I didn’t tell them that I knew Ike and Butch. I’ve known ‘em for years. No way Butch does that to Corwin. He ain’t the type and he wouldn’t have to. Corwin was scared shitless. It was Ike who tuned him up ‘cause Ike is a damn psycho. You know that. You know him better than I do.”
“Yeah, I do. I get the feeling you’re still holding something back. What is it?”
For the next two minutes, while Carvelli patiently waited, the bartender paced back and forth several steps along the sidewalk and looked around clearly not wanting to be overheard. Finally, while lighting his third cigarette, he turned to Carvelli and said, “You gotta swear you’ll keep my name out of this. You swear?”
“I told you I would, asshole. Now spit it out,” Carvelli angrily replied.
Jerry looked around a few more times then said, “I saw Ike do it. Yeah, once they left, I went in the back to the storeroom. I figured they were parked in the alley, so I took a little peek through a window back there. I saw Ike pounding the shit out of him and Butch just keeping watch. I watched for about a minute or so then saw Corwin slumped down and Ike stopped. Then Ike grabs him by the hair and jerks him off the ground and says something to him, I don’t know what. The window was closed.
“Then, they started to leave and crazy Ike gives him another shot and drills him in the throat. Next thing I know Butch is kneeling over him, ya’ know, checking him out. Then he stands up and the two of ‘em get in Ike’s SUV and they get out of there fast.”
“And you didn’t call 911?”
“No way. I’m not getting involved with any bullshit with Ike Pitts and Leo. No chance.”
“You’re quite the concerned citizen.”
“I’m quite the survivor. Besides, I thought he was already dead. At first he was floppin’ around and all but by the time Ike left, he was just lyin’ there. Not movin’ at all.”
“So Butch didn’t lay a hand on him?”
“No, it was all Ike.”
“Okay Mr. Model Citizen,” Tony said as he stuffed a fifty in Jerry’s shirt pocket. “I’ll let you go.”
FOURTEEN
The next day Carvelli placed a call to Vivian Donahue to bring her up to date. She politely asked him to drive out to the house and meet her in person. A half-hour later he arrived at the mansion and was again greeted by Steve Fallon. Fallon again escorted him into the library for the meeting and took his place on the couch with Tony. Vivian, ever the gracious host no matter what the occasion, personally poured coffee for them in what was obviously very expensive and beautifully inlaid with gold china.
Since he had been given an eyewitness account of exactly how her nephew had been killed and by whom, he was uncertain if she would want him to investigate any further. Vivian listened patiently to what he had to say, the description of the scene in the alley and how her nephew had been left to die. When Tony described this she had a momentary loss of composure and her cheeks flushed red as the blood rush to her face. No one, not even a black sheep member of the family, deserved to be left to die alone in a filth-strewn alley. Tony apologized for the graphic nature of his description, an apology she brushed off with a light wave of her hand.
“What is the name of this bar and bartender you obtained this information from, the one who witnessed my nephew’s murder and did nothing ab
out it?” she asked with obvious anger.
“His name is Jerry Hughes, ma’am. Now that you know what happened, do you want me to continue?”
“Yes by all means,” she said as she wrote down the bartender’s name on a pad of paper. “I want to find out all of it. Why this happened. On whose authority was this done, which I’m sure we know, but I want it verified. Also why isn’t this man, this Ike Pitts person in prison? From what Mr. Fallon has told me, the evidence to convict him was sufficient, though not overwhelming.
“I want to know why this accomplice is the one who took the worst of this. There’s something else I believe,” she said as she leaned forward to pour more coffee for Tony. “This judge, Gordon Prentiss, he has a role in this and I want to know everything you can find out about Leo Balkus and his sordid business, if you will.”
“We understand that Balkus is not someone to take lightly,” Fallon interjected.
“I’ll be okay with Leo,” Tony answered. “He’s a thug and a murderer but only when it comes to business. He knows better than to go after law enforcement, even ex-cops.”
“Will you continue?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” he answered. “In fact, I know Butch Koll’s defense lawyer. I’ll see what I can find out from him. In fact, I was going to try to meet him today.”
On the way back into the city, Carvelli placed a call on his cell from his car. He took a few minutes to chat with the secretary then he was put through and Marc Kadella answered immediately.
“What’s up, you guinea reprobate?” Marc asked.
“I think it’s my turn to buy you lunch.”
“You’re going to buy me lunch? Is this a late April fool’s joke? What day is this? I’ll have to mark my calendar. If you’re buying, we’re going to the most expensive place in the Cities.”
[Marc Kadella 02.0] Desperate Justice Page 6
