She gasped; but she would have done it again, because if she hadn't, O'Riley might well have been up before the shooting board for firing on an unarmed citizen. A lousy career move. And dead or wounded citizens were not helpful to an investigation.
“Police?” the big guy was asking, dumbfounded.
Behind her, on the stoop, O'Riley stumbled backward, regained his balance, and stood there staring at Catherine as the big guy helped Annie Fortunato to her feet. The apparent man of the house led the shaken woman inside, helping her to take a seat on the sofa. Finally, O'Riley followed.
“Who are you, sir?” Catherine asked, as she quickly took in the living room, an ode to the brass-and-glass movement of the eighties. After picking his badge up, O'Riley relegated himself to the background. The big detective was trembling, and embarrassed, and Catherine was only too happy to carry the ball.
Catherine repeated: “Sir, who are you, please?”
The T-shirted brute's attention was on the weeping woman, but he said, “Gerry Hoskins. I'm Annie's . . . uh . . . friend.” Middle-aged, the powerfully built six-foot Hoskins wore his brown hair almost as short as O'Riley's; his oval face had a bulldog look, offset by deep blue eyes which Catherine supposed would look attractive when they weren't blazing with anger . . . as they were now.
“What did you do to her?” he demanded.
Fighting to regain control, Annie Fortunato handed Hoskins the evidence bag.
“They . . . they found Mal,” the woman managed between sobs.
He looked at the initial on the ring. Then he stared at his agonized lady friend, and, finally, Hoskins seemed to get it. “Oh, God. You finally found him? You wouldn't be here, he wasn't dead, right?”
Catherine ignored this; and O'Riley was just another outmoded hunk of furniture. Crouching on her haunches so she could look the woman in the eye, Catherine said, “We think your husband is dead, Mrs. Fortunato . . . but we need to make sure. I know it's been many years . . . do you remember, did Malachy have a dentist he visited regularly?”
Not missing a beat, the woman said, “Dr. Roy McNeal.”
“You're sure? It has been a long time—”
“He's still my dentist. And Mal was so busy, at work, I always made his appointments for him.”
“Good. Good.”
Clutching her boyfriend's hand, Mrs. Fortunato kept her eyes on Catherine. “You really think you've found Mal? I mean, after all these years?”
“A body discovered yesterday was wearing this ring—on the third finger of his right hand.”
Annie Fortunato drew in a breath; then she nodded. “Yes, that's where he wore it. Where did you find him?”
“A vacant lot toward the end of the Strip.”
Eyes tight, Mrs. Fortunato said, “I know that lot—the one with all the garbage?”
“Yes. A resort's going in. Romanov's.”
“I read about that in the paper,” Hoskins said, as he plucked a tissue from a box on an end table. He handed Mrs. Fortunato the tissue, and she managed a weak smile of thanks, dabbing at her eyes.
“A crew has started to clear the lot,” Catherine said. “They found the man we believe to be your husband under an old abandoned trailer.”
The woman seemed to have another question that she couldn't quite get out. Catherine leaned in, touched Mrs. Fortunato's arm. “Yes? What is it, Mrs. Fortunato?”
Shakily taking a cigarette from a pack on the glass end table next to her, the woman lit it, took a deep drag, let it out in a blue cloud, and finally turned her attention back to Catherine. “Was she with him?”
“She?”
“His whore,” she snarled. “Was she with him?”
Woah . . .
Catherine said, “He was alone. We searched the lot thoroughly—no other body was present.”
Patting Mrs. Fortunato's knee, Hoskins—his manner very different now—said to Catherine, “There was this dancer that some people thought Mal was sleeping with. You know—a stripper.”
“I know about strippers,” Catherine said.
“Slut disappeared the same night Annie's husband did. Annie had some trouble with some . . . uh . . . people Mal owed money, bad debts, you know. They told Annie that Mal had probably just run off with this woman, and they wanted her to give them the money Mal owed.”
Something like a growl escaped Mrs. Fortunato's throat. “Like I had a goddamn penny to my name, back then. It wasn't until we got Mal declared legally dead after seven years that I got any peace from anybody.”
“These people,” Catherine said, “were they organized crime?”
“Yeah,” Hoskins said. He shook his head. “It was different, back then. Mal worked for one of the old-school casinos, Chicago or Cleveland guys owned it . . . they claimed he was skimming. Anyway, some characters who make me look like a fashion model come around a few times, right after Mal . . .”
Struck by how vivid this recapitulation was, Catherine interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr. Hoskins, were you here, then?”
He shook his head. “No—but I heard Annie talk about it so much, it's like—”
“Then I need to hear this from Mrs. Fortunato, okay?”
The big guy looked sheepish. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
Mrs. Fortunato picked up right where he had left off. “They came around right after Mal . . . disappeared. They made a lot of noise, made me show them my damn bank book. Tax statements, too, they made me show 'em. Wanted to know what safe deposit boxes I had, God. Finally they saw I didn't have the money, and left me alone.”
Catherine nodded. “They wanted to make sure you weren't in with your husband on the embezzlement.”
Defensively, the woman said, “It was never proven that Mal stole their money.”
“Mrs. Fortunato, your husband's death is a murder, and it looks like a mob assassination.” Catherine let it go at that; she preferred not to share any details with the woman, not this early in the investigation, anyway.
Mrs. Fortunato took this in blankly, eyes not teary anymore—red, glazed, but not teary.
Catherine said, “If you're up to it, I'd like to ask you a few more questions.”
“I suppose we should get this over with,” Mrs. Fortunato said, and sighed. “What do you think, Gerry?”
“Yeah. I'll make us some coffee, okay?”
A tired smile crossed the woman's face. “Thanks.”
Awkwardly, Hoskins looked from Catherine to the totem pole that was O'Riley. “Would you people like anything? Coffee? I got diet root beer.”
Catherine said, “No thank you,” and O'Riley shook his bucket head.
Hoskins swallowed, stood, and went over to O'Riley in his corner. He extended his hand. “Sorry, man. I shouldn'ta swung on you. It's just that it looked like . . .”
“Forget about it,” O'Riley said, taking the guy's hand.
“Am I gonna get charged with anything? Swinging on a cop like that?”
O'Riley waved it off. “Simple misunderstanding.”
“Sure you don't want any coffee?”
“I could use some,” O'Riley admitted.
Wanting to keep Hoskins busy, Catherine said, “Me, too. Thanks.”
Hoskins went into the kitchen and O'Riley melted back into the corner.
“Gerry's been good to me,” Mrs. Fortunato said, her eyes following Hoskins into the kitchen. “These last years, he helped me survive.”
Catherine pressed forward. “Mrs. Fortunato, tell me about the day Malachy disappeared.”
Again, not missing a beat, the woman knew: “January twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-five.”
“Yes. What do you remember?”
“Everything,” Mrs. Fortunato said, stubbing out one cigarette in the ashtray on the end table and immediately lighting up another. “Mal had been nervous—trouble at work, I figured. He never really told me much about things like that. He always got up early, around five-thirty, and by six-thirty, he was on his way to work. He was dedicated to his job, despite what t
hose people said. Anyway, on that morning, I didn't hear him get up.”
“Go on.”
“I worked late nights, in those days. I was a cashier over on Fremont Street. Mal worked at the Sandmound, in the office, accounting.”
“Excuse me—wasn't your husband a gambler?”
“Oh yes.”
“I thought the casinos didn't hire gamblers for jobs of that nature.”
“No one knew he was gambling . . . except me. He was doing it from phone booths. Calling bookies out east. By the time anyone found out what was going on, him and that dancer had disappeared.” She drew on the cigarette; her eyes glittered. “I hope the bastards killed her too. She was the one turned him from a guy who liked a friendly bet into a gambler.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it's obvious. If he hadn't tried to keep us both happy, he wouldn't have stolen that money. He wouldn't have been betting on games trying to make enough money to support two women.”
Catherine frowned. “So, he really was embezzling? Whether it was proven or not?”
Another shrug—a fatalistic one. “Why would they lie to me about it? What could they get out of me? They weren't so bad, anyway, for a bunch of goddamn mobsters. I worked in casinos for years, myself.”
Catherine hit from another side. “Could it have been the bookies he bet with out east that put out a contract on him? Not his bosses at the casino?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Mrs. Fortunato snuffed out her latest cigarette. “You know, in my head, I always hoped he ran off. Then at least, he'd be alive. But in my heart? I knew he was dead.”
Steering her back, Catherine asked, “About that day?”
The woman stared into the past. “I got up about ten that morning. Got the paper off the stoop. It didn't always come before Mal left for work. If it did, he brought it in. But that morning it was on the stoop. I picked it up, looked toward the carport, and Mal's car was gone, just like it ought to be. So, I went about my business. I read the paper, had some breakfast, called my mom—she was still alive back then—you know, stuff and things.”
Catherine nodded.
“About four-thirty, I decided to go to the grocery store, get something nice for dinner. I hadn't talked to Mal all day, but I expected him home around six or so. It was my day off and he usually came right home on my day off, so we could spend the evening together.” A wistful smile flickered; her eyes grew moist again.
Catherine knew what it was like, loving a louse. “You must have loved him a great deal.”
Tears overflowing again, she nodded.
Catherine moved up onto the couch and let the woman cry on her shoulder.
After several long moments, Mrs. Fortunato shuddered, then pulled away, mumbling her thanks. Then she spoke quickly: “I decided to go to the grocery, and went out the back door. We used the back door almost exclusively. I went out and saw this dark red blotch on the gravel of the carport. This was before we paved the driveway. Goddamn asphalt. It's for shit in this heat. But the contractor said it was cheap and I didn't know any better.”
Catherine tried not to rush the woman, but she could see O'Riley getting antsy in the corner.
Hoskins returned, carrying a tray with four cups and sugar and cream.
The woman said to him, “I was just telling them about the asphalt.”
“Contractor was a goddamn crook,” he said and went back into the kitchen for the coffee.
“You saw the dark red blotch,” Catherine prompted.
“Yeah, yeah, and I just knew. I looked at it close and I just knew it was drying blood. I came right back in the house and called the police.”
Hoskins brought in the coffee. They each took a cup and he poured. Mrs. Fortunato used lots of sugar and some cream, Hoskins only the cream, while O'Riley and Catherine drank theirs black. Much better than the break-room swill.
Catherine thanked Hoskins, as did O'Riley—she noticed a tiny tremor in the cop's big hand. She turned back to Mrs. Fortunato. “So, you called the police.”
“Yes. They came, took a sample of the blood, and were never able to tell me anything. They never even found Mal's car.”
“The report said that the police returned your husband's personal effects.”
The woman nodded.
“There was no inventory in the report—I was curious what they had of his.”
“Gerry, could you get the box? You know where it is.”
Hoskins left the room again.
“When the cops brought back the box,” the woman said, “I barely opened it. Mostly it was junk from Mal's desk at work.” An edge was creeping into her voice. “One of the things they found, though, was a letter to him from his whore. That's what made them think he ran away with her.”
Hoskins came back in carrying a plain brown cardboard box and handed it to Catherine.
“May I take this with me?” she asked.
The woman scowled. “Be my guest. And do me a favor—this time, don't bring it back. There's nothing in that box I ever want to see again. That was the property of a different man—not my Mal.”
Accepting the box, Catherine asked, “By the way, did Malachy smoke?”
“No, not ever. He thought it was a filthy habit.” She glanced at the cigarette in her hand. “Ironic, huh? I'd quit smoking 'cause of him . . . then when he disappeared, started in again. Nerves.”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Fortunato, but I have to ask you one more question.”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me the name of the dancer your husband was involved with?”
Mrs. Fortunato's jaw set, her lips whitened. She stabbed out the cigarette, repeatedly jabbing it into the ashtray, sending up a small shower of sparks.
Hoskins said, “Joy Starr.”
“Why do you need her name?” Mrs. Fortunato asked.
“We'd like to talk to her,” Catherine said. “But first we'll have to find out what became of her.”
Hoskins offered, “Annie never knew if that was her real name, or just a stage name. . . . But she worked at a place called Swingers. It's still there—way down south on Paradise Road.”
Catherine knew the place. “Okay, Mr. Hoskins—thanks.” She turned to the woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Fortunato, for your time and patience. I know this has been difficult. We'll be looking into your husband's murder, now, so we may have more questions later.”
Catherine held out her hand and the woman grasped it, warmth in her grip. The stoniness in Mrs. Fortunato's face seemed to melt away.
“Somehow,” the woman said, “I feel . . . better. Thank you.”
When the cop and the criminalist got outside into the July heat, O'Riley stopped Catherine, near her car.
“Thanks for doin' my job in there. And, uh . . . well, just thanks.”
She gave him a look.
The crew-cut head shook, and he blew out wind. “I was ready to draw down on the S.O.B.”
“Forget it, Sarge. Could have happened to anyone.”
Catherine noticed a slight shudder in O'Riley's hands as the detective got into his car. After placing the box of Malachy Fortunato's effects in the backseat, she climbed into the Tahoe and phoned Nick.
“Nicky, Malachy's our mummy. Get the address of a dentist named Roy McNeal and get back to me. I want to pick up Fortunato's dental records before I come back to the office.”
“Cool,” Nick said. “Get right back to you.”
She sat in the SUV and studied the house as she waited for Nick's call. So Malachy didn't smoke, and at the time of his disappearance, his wife wasn't a smoker, either. A cigarette butt in the backyard could mean somebody waited for Malachy Fortunato to leave the house, that morning fifteen years ago. . . .
He lit the cigarette, clicked the Zippo closed, and leaned against the house as he took a long drag. Dew still clung to the new sod. Grass probably wouldn't last long here, but they always seemed to make the effort when they put up one of these new homes. The house he stood behi
nd had been built within the last six months and only inhabited for the last two. The mark inside, some guy named Fortunato, had pissed off the wrong people.
Houses on either side held families that still slept peacefully. Behind the house, where he now stood puffing away on his Marlboro, the backyard butted up against one from the next block. Those homes, however, had not been completed, and the construction crews hadn't yet arrived to begin the day's work. So he had the neighborhood to himself. . . .
Fortunato's schedule seemed etched in stone. For the week the hitter had been watching him, the mark had left the house within a two-minute window, every morning. The hitter loved a clockwork guy. Same time, same path, everyday, an invitation for someone to cap a poor, sad son of a bitch.
He took another drag, let the smoke settle in his lungs, then slowly blew it out through his nose. Glancing at his watch, he smiled. Plenty of time to enjoy this cigarette, no reason to rush. Finish the smoke, put on his gloves, then go to work.
Taking one last drag, the hitter held it in for a long time before blowing the smoke out and stubbing the butt into the yard with his foot. He pulled the gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Rotating his head, he felt the bones in his neck crack as he loosened up; then he checked his watch one last time.
Time to punch the clock.
He withdrew his automatic from its holster, checked the clip, then screwed on the silencer. He shifted slightly so he could see around the corner. No target yet. Ducking back, he slowed his breathing, waited. . . .
The mark walked out of the door, closed it, then the screen, and turned to his car. The hitter came up behind Fortunato, squeezed the trigger and felt the small pistol buck in his hand. A tiny flower of red blossomed from the back of the mark's head. Didn't even have time to yell, simply folded in on himself and dropped.
Going down with him, the killer put another shot one inch above the first—an insurance policy and a signature. Then the killer pulled the car keys from the dead man's hand, peered over the fender of the car to make sure no one had seen the action. Satisfied the neighbors still slept, he jumped up, opened the trunk, picked up the body and dumped it in, slammed the lid, then got in the front, behind the wheel, and turned the key.
The engine turned over, rumbling to life and, not rushing, the hitter backed the car out of the driveway and eased down the street, just another middle-class joe on his way to work.
Double Dealer Page 7
