“Special Agent Banner’s office,” said the officious and bored voice.
After jumping through more hoops I finally convinced the secretary I was who I was claiming to be and found a spot on the calendar of Agent Banner at 10:00 AM the next morning. No amount of cajoling could convince her for an appointment today, so I surrendered and told her I would be there at 10 o’clock sharp. She sounded as if it was about as important to her as the cause of the Spanish-American War.
As I hung up I realized tomorrow was probably best anyway. It was getting late in the day and it was an hour drive to the capital. I poured myself a drink and lit a cigarette. I leaned back in my chair, put my feet on the desk, and looked out over the city. My office building was kind of crummy, but my office had a great view of the bustling old city. I had another drink and watched as the minute hand rode around the clock. The city lights winked on one by one until the city was aflame. The old girl was a living creature.
I locked the office up and went home, and pounded my pillow until I got sleepy. I counted the different angles of the case like sheep until I fell asleep. I don’t think I dreamed.
Chapter Five
In the morning, I took the old state route, instead of the turnpike. The turnpike was a toll road and besides, since it was constructed the old state route to the capital was nearly deserted. That was because the turnpike shaved nearly twenty miles off the trip. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel like fighting traffic, and the extra time on the road always gave me a chance to think.
I found the Missing Persons Bureau easily. I had made this same trip several times when I was on the force. I slid into a space on the street right around the corner of the building, rode the elevator up, and found Banner’s office. The secretary looked just as bored as had she sounded on the phone, but after examining my PI license, she called Banner on the intercom and got the go ahead to send me in.
The secretary opened the door and I found myself in the Spartan office of Special Agent Banner. The walls were lined with bookshelves and photos and the smell of cigarette smoke was heavy in the air. The secretary closed the door behind me, and I walked to the desk. The man behind the desk looked fifty or so, with a receding hairline and a bulging middle age spread. His jacket was hanging from the back of his chair and he was reading from a manila folder in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up to his elbows. The man did not look up at me, but waved me into the seat in front of the desk. He continued to read and I lit a smoke. I was blowing rings in the air, when he finally looked up at me and took off his glasses.
“So you’re Randall, eh?” he said grimly.
I admitted it.
“I’ve heard of you, Randall, and I think you should know I don’t care for private dicks. I especially don’t like private dicks with rich keepers. I had a talk with Mrs. Peterson yesterday, but that’s not why I am talking to you. I’m not the kind of guy who lets people nose into an investigation just because their boss happens to be rich and well connected.”
Banner looked hard at me as if he desperately wanted me to believe that he hadn’t been bullied into this meeting. It had the opposite effect on me. All I saw was a harried bureaucrat who didn’t want to make enemies.
I shrugged my shoulders and he went on.
“The reason I am meeting with you is because Mrs. Peterson is a citizen who deserves the same treatment I would give anyone citizen. So, what can I tell you?’
I stubbed my cigarette out and leaned onto his desk.
“The whole magilla, Agent,” I said plainly.
“That’s Special Agent to you, Randall, but lets smooth that over,” he shuffled some papers in the folder. “Well, the man Mrs. Peterson knew as Tony Peterson was, in fact, not Tony Peterson. It was an alias he had assumed.”
“I know that much, Special Agent. What I don’t get is why everyone seems so jumpy about it. I thought at first he must be someone from the witness protection program, but they don’t steal identities, they create them. And if he’s a simple con man, why the stonewall?”
Banner looked me up and down and seemed to make a decision. He walked over to a table and turned on the radio with the volume past halfway. He came back to the desk and sat on a corner of it.
“I don’t want any other ears hearing this, Randall,” he said nervously. “Peterson is a witness that has gone to ground, but he’s not in any program. He’s a freelancer, who made a deal way above my head.”
“Then who was he that everyone is so tight lipped?”
“Tony Peterson is actually Anthony Vitale. He was a button man for the mob, most recently working for the Ravello outfit.”
I had a sick feeling start to grow in my stomach. The mob meant trouble, and if Peterson/Vitale was a hit man, that opened some doors I would just as soon leave closed.
“Does that scare you a little?” asked Banner.
I couldn’t help but think he had observed my reaction to the news.
“I’ve got a job to do and I’ll do it no matter who the man is or was,” I said, and I thought that I meant it.
“This all happened about five years ago. The feds were hot to get something on the Ravello mob, and they thought they could use Vitale as a lever.”
“If Vitale was a hit man, he must have been a made man,” I said. “Why would a guy like that be open to the feds?’
Banner rubbed his chin.
“Well, you see, Randall, Vitale had troubles of his own. Supposedly, he and some of the police officers of your fine city were in cahoots in a gambling establishment together. He provided the capital and players, and they provided the protection. At some point there was a falling out, as there usually is in that sort of game, and two police officers ended up in the river dead.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, interrupting Banner. “I remember that. It was an accident on a wet road and the guys had been drinking, as I recall. It was no murder.”
“Act your age, Randall. You’ve been around the block a few times. The department knew enough not to investigate any further. No one wants that kind of mud in their file, so they let it drop, but believe me they knew it was Vitale and he was in some danger. That’s when the feds swooped in. Vitale needed their juice to straighten his tie with the cops and he was willing to sell out some of the lower capos to do it. Nothing that touched Ravello you understand, but the mob doesn’t like to let informers live. It sets a bad precedent. Anyway, it was over my head and I don’t know any further details. Vitale never testified in open court, but mobsters went to prison, and he skated on any possible cop killing charges.”
I let the information sink in. There were a lot of dangerous characters on the edges of this thing, and I felt like I knew less than most of the other players. Banner was staring at me intently. He looked less like the bored bureaucrat than he had when I came in the office.
“All right, Special Agent, so Peterson and Vitale are one and the same, but it sure seems he was taking some long chances hanging out so close to his old stomping grounds.”
“Well, that cuts both ways, Randall. This state is also where he had the most friends. Besides, I get the feeling that Vitale was the kind of a guy who planned this way ahead of time and had the angles worked out pretty well. Anyway, when he went to ground he managed to have some pretty extensive plastic surgery done. Without finger print evidence gathered from the home he shared with Mrs. Peterson we might never have been certain it was Vitale. Here’s a mug shot of Vitale.”
Banner handed me a photo of a man in his thirties. He had jet-black hair, with dark beetle brows, and a cleft chin. The photo looked nothing like Peterson, except for around the eyes. If it was the same man it was a remarkable job of surgery. I had always heard that the mob had doctors on the payroll for just such emergencies. A man like Vitale was certain to have access to one of them.
“Can I keep this, agent?” I asked, waving the photo.
“Sure, Randall. Like I said, you have my full cooperation. Maybe you can run him down. I’d love to see Vitale in
prison stripes.”
I chewed on that for a minute. I started to get up, when Banner waved me back down.
“There’s one other thing you should know, Randall. Like I said before, Vitale didn’t go into the Witness Protection Program. From what I heard, he thought it was too restrictive, but that was just scuttlebutt. He created his own identity and neither the bureau nor the feds had any idea what it was, until his disappearance caused everyone to look a little deeper, but there’s a reason Mrs. Peterson got the stiff arm when she first reported it. You see, Tony Peterson is the identity of a deep cover agent. He hasn’t been seen for years, some say he’s retired, but that name knocked down most inquiries before they started. It was damn clever of Vitale.”
It was more than clever, I thought. It was inspired. Any routine official investigation that discovered the alias would run into roadblocks afraid to blow a cover. But there was a problem.
“Okay, Vitale, chose a name that was associated with an undercover officer, but who told him about the name in the first place, and if the name was out there wasn’t the cover already blown?” I asked.
“The first part is easy,” explained Banner. “Vitale learned of the name through his police connections. Remember, he was in business with the force. Secondly, Tony Peterson wasn’t the actual name the undercover agent used, it was simply his designation. Vitale using it as his cover name, just complicated anyone looking for him in another layer of lies.”
“Maybe Vitale killed Peterson,” I said. “Maybe that’s why he felt comfortable using it.”
“I suppose that’s possible, Randall,” said Banner with a sigh. “After all I’m just an old beat cop who follows orders.”
At that moment he looked like an old beaten down cop stuck at a desk shuffling paper. Then something new occurred to me.
“What if there’s one more angle to this, Banner?” I asked. “What if Vitale really is Peterson?”
“What?” exclaimed Banner.
For the first time since I had entered the office he seemed to be at full attention.
“Hear me out,” I said. “Maybe Peterson infiltrated the Ravello mob and has been undercover all this time. It fits with his MO as you described it. He went in deep cover and stayed.”
“But Vitale was a button man, Randall,” Banner said. “No undercover man could go that deep.”
“We just think he was. It is all rumors,” I said. “I have heard nothing concrete that he killed anyone. Maybe, at times, the feds helped him `disappear’ someone, to make it appear he was a hit man.”
“I think we are getting into the field of pure speculation, Randall, and wild speculation at that. What about the two dead cops? No one, fed or not, could get away with that.”
Yeah, but if we believe that story Vitale did get away with it. What if it is just what it appeared to be? What if it was a simple car accident caused by driving while intoxicated?”
“It still seems far fetched,” grumbled Banner.
“It explains a lot, agent. It explains why he got away with the cop murders. There was nothing to get away with, and it explains why he made his great deal with the feds, and why he never testified in court.”
Banner seemed to mull it over.
“No. There are a dozen holes in it, Randall. Vitale was a known person. He was too big to have been an undercover man. Moles are the kind of people that don’t stand out. They are faceless men in gray. No way that description fits Vitale.”
“It was just a suggestion,” I said. “You might want to run it by some of the boys upstairs. Maybe you’ll get a gold star in your file.”
“I’ll give it all the attention it deserves, Randall.”
For a second, I thought I saw the hint of a smile and then the bored bureaucrat was back and there didn’t seem to be anything else to say. I rose and Banner walked me to the door and opened it.
“One more thing, Randall,” he said. “I’m not asking for any confidential information about your investigation, but when it’s over give me a call.”
“I’ll do that, Agent Banner,” I said.
“That’s Special Agent Banner,” he replied, and shut the door.
Chapter Six
I passed through the outer office, and exchanged a nod with the bored secretary. A quick ride down the elevator and I was on the street again. The sun had come out since I had entered the building and it lifted my spirits a bit. I went around the corner, got in my car, and began the drive back home.
I took the old state route again, and the traffic was just as sparse going back as it had been coming in. The hour drive seemed longer this time and the miles were slow in passing. I fiddled with the radio, but couldn’t find anything good. I finally switched it off and concentrated on the road.
The revelations Banner had given me were quite an eye opener. I had hoped that this was a simple May-December romance that had gone sour. If that had been the case, I could have earned my retainer by tracking down the errant husband in any of the usual spots. Sometimes Vegas, sometimes Mexico, but it was always somewhere warm. The new information meant trouble with people with hard edges. I had a bad feeling.
Fifteen miles out of the city, I spotted a car with the hood up off to the side of the road. It was heading the same direction as I was, at least it had been. I didn’t slow down, but in the rear view I saw a lady in a green dress leaning over the engine peering in. I had business so I didn’t stop. After several more miles, my conscious began to get the best of me. I hadn’t seen another car for a long while. There were certainly no phone booths out on this old road, so she might be stuck for a while. I slowed down, did a wide u-turn, and headed back.
In a few minutes I ground to a halt across from the stranded vehicle. The girl was still staring at the engine as if she could will it back to operating condition. I crossed the road and walked up to her.
She looked up as I approached and gave a weary smile.
“I don’t suppose you’re the AAA man? She said.
She was a leggy five foot nine with long red hair and a dazzling smile. She flashed her blue eyes at me and swept her hair out of her face, as attractive women do when they want to impress a man. She was gorgeous.
“Sorry,” I said. “Not the AAA man, but maybe I can help, anyway. What seems to be the problem?”
“I was just driving when it sputtered and quit,” she said breathlessly. “I have plenty of gas. I think it is just temperamental.”
“Well, sometimes cars take on the personalities of their owners,” I said with a grin. “I know my car is hard to start in the mornings, just like me.”
I was standing there; with what I was certain was a goofy grin on my face. What is it about red heads?
“Anyway, my name is, Frank Randall, neighborhood Good Samaritan,” I said sticking out my paw.
She took my hand with both of hers.
“I’m Kimberly Downs, Mr. Randall. It is a pleasure to have such a handsome rescuer.”
As she stood next to me I could smell her perfume. It was an exotic fragrance that I was unfamiliar with. She was as exotic as her fragrance, and yet she seemed familiar.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere, Miss Downs?” I asked
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls you rescue on the roadside, Mr. Randall,” she said.
“No really. I feel that I have seen you, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”
“Why, Mr. Randall, I believe you are flirting with me.”
“Just a little,” I confessed. “But let’s see if we can get you back on the road.”
I asked her to get back in the car and turn the engine over. She did, and while the battery was strong the engine sounded as if it was not getting a spark to the plugs. After a few minutes of this I told her to stop, and she got back out of the car.
“I’m afraid it is really dead this time. I have been having a problem with it. Sometimes lately, it just stalls for no reason. What should I do, Mr. Randall?”
“The first thing y
ou can do is to call me, Frank,” I said.
“Very well, but I insist that you call me Kimberly,” she said, with a smile and another hair toss.
“Okay Kimberly how about I give you a ride into town?” I asked.
She considered it for a moment and then nodded.
“That would be fine, Frank, if you would let me buy you dinner in return for your kindness. That is unless you are busy or have plans.”
I knew that I should follow up on the information that Banner had given me, but I had to eat anyway and this was an invitation no red-blooded man could pass up. As I was thinking a semi truck sped by and the wind from its passing swept her into my arms.
“It seems like you are always in the right spot when I need help, Frank,” she said with a gasp.
“Just lucky, I guess.”
I let her go and she smoothed her dress down with her hands. The dress was clinging to her breasts and hips in a provocative manner.
“Well, how about dinner? Are you free?”
“I can always make time, Kimberly. I set my own hours.”
“Really? Are you an eccentric millionaire, Frank?”
“No,” I said with a chuckle. “I am a private investigator.”
“A private eye?” she squealed. “You mean like Toma?”
“Toma is a police detective, not a private investigator,” I replied.
“Oh,” she said and sounded disappointed. “But do you get to wear disguises, and go on stake outs, and all that exciting stuff?”
“Most of it is pretty routine, I’m afraid. There is surveillance work, of course, but usually nothing as exciting as you see on television.”
“But still, you must have had some exciting cases. I want to hear all about them tonight over dinner. You simply must promise to tell me about your work.”
As we were talking I noticed a wrecker drive by and turn around. In just a minute it was backing into position to tow Kimberly’s car.
The Visible Suspect (A Frank Randall Mystery) Page 3
