Insatiable Appetites

by Stuart Woods

  “Good call,” Stone said.

  “So we have to wait until she gets mad at somebody else.”

  “Don’t point that thing at me!” Stone said. “You’re not using me as bait.”

  “Why, that never crossed my mind,” Dino said, smiling. “But since you bring it up, it’s not a bad idea.”

  “It’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Stone said. “You know, I have that house in Paris, now, and I’ll move into it if I have to.”

  “Come on, Stone, wouldn’t you like to screw her just one more time? With her head on a pillow, I’ll bet she’d spill everything.”

  “When my time comes, I want to die in bed, but not her bed.”

  “She’s living out there alone, now, working in an old stone barn on the property, not far from the creek.”

  “The farther from me, the better.”

  “Don’t you have any more work to do on the estate?”

  “The will has been probated. It’s out of my hands, thank God. How about this? Dolce did some renovation work on that barn. You find out who did the job and interview all the workmen. Maybe somebody saw something.”

  “That’s not the worst idea you ever had,” Dino said. “In fact, Mary Ann and I were out there for lunch a decade ago, and there was a painting crew working on the house. If I think about it long enough, I’ll remember the name on the truck. Eduardo was the kind of man who’d stick with the same people if he liked their work.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Stone said.

  “Scali.”

  “What?”

  “Scali—that was the name on the painters’ truck.”

  • • •

  When Stone got back to his office Joan came in to see him. “The police have finished with Evan Hills’s car,” she said. “What do you want to do with it?”

  “Get me Bruce Willard on the phone, will you?”

  She buzzed him a moment later. “Line one.”

  “Hello, Bruce?”

  “Hello, Stone. How are you?”

  “Very well. How did the funeral go?”

  “It was all very quick—just Elton Hills, me, the undertaker, and the bishop.”

  “What’s Hills like?”

  “Actually, we’re getting on very well. He asked me to stay for a few days and catalog his furniture, and the job has expanded to the silver and the art, as well. I’m photographing everything and using my laptop to research sale prices on comparable pieces. I should be here for at least a week. Since I only packed for overnight, his housekeeper is doing my laundry every day.”

  “Did Hills have anything to say about the Times piece?”

  “He was outraged, just as Evan was. It’s very secluded here, there’s only one TV, and it’s got to be twenty years old and receives through rabbit ears. What’s the reaction been in the outside world?”

  “A general uproar. The attendees at the meeting are running for the hills. Four of them denied being present at the meeting before the piece even came out. The Times has hired Strategic Services, a security company on whose board I serve, to compare the voices on the tape to news tape and interviews, and they might just make some of the attendees that way. Anyway, we have Evan’s list of who was there, and all four of the deniers are on the list.”

  “What has Katharine Lee had to say about it?”

  “She and her husband are declining to comment, since there were no laws broken. They’re letting the media carry the ball.”

  “I hope they make lots of touchdowns,” Bruce said.

  “Bruce, I called about Evan’s car. The police have released it. Would you like it sent to you in Washington? I can have it flat-bedded down there. A window needs replacing.”

  “Yes, please, send it to my garage.” Bruce gave him the address.

  “A lawyer in my firm’s Washington office is handling the will. He says everything is in order, but it may still take a little while. I gave him your number. He’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you. Listen, I’d better get back to work, there’s a lot to do.”

  “Take care, then.”

  Joan came back in. “Is Bruce coming to see us again?”

  “I don’t think so,” Stone said.

  Joan sighed and went back to her office.

  Dino called in Detective First Grade Carmine Corretti for a chat late in the day.

  “How you been, Carmine?” he asked, when he had settled Corretti into a chair and poured him a scotch.

  “Pretty good, Commish,” the detective said.

  “How much longer to retirement?”

  “Four months. We bought a condo in Boca.”

  “Sounds good. Think you’ve got one more good case in you?”

  “I just might be able to muster the strength.”

  “You spend much time in the neighborhood these days?”

  “I still live there.”

  “You know the old painter guy Scali?”

  “Sure. Haven’t seen him for a few years. My old man used to play boccie with him. ’Course, the old man is gone now, but he and Stefano Scali were tight.”

  “You know about the dead Irish priest?”

  “The one that turned up in Jamaica Bay in pieces?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I heard about it. Any leads?”

  “No leads, but a hunch, maybe.”

  “You still get hunches, Commish?”

  “Yeah, and I still got a few of my own teeth.”

  “What’s your hunch?”

  “I think the priest may have been killed in a building up a creek from Jamaica Bay.” Dino got a map of the area from his desk and spread it on the coffee table. “The building’s right here,” he said, pointing at a dot near the creek.

  Corretti gazed at the map, then there was a tiny flinch. “I know this location,” he said.

  “Do you, Carmine?”

  “Sure, that’s the Bianchi place.” He pointed. “The big house is right about here.”

  “Right. Eduardo died, you know.”

  “Everybody knows. Who lives in this building you’re talking about?”

  “Nobody. It’s used as an art studio, and it had some recent renovations.”

  “And Scali painted it?”

  “You’re way ahead of me, Carmine.”

  “You think the priest was chopped up there?”

  “No, Pietro would have been more careful than that.”

  “Pietro? That’s one sinister guy, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Why would Pietro want the priest dead?”

  “Pietro didn’t even know about the priest until he was already dead. I think he might have died in that old stone barn, and if he did, he could have done some bleeding before the body got moved.”

  “So, you want me to get a warrant and have a look around?”

  “No warrant. I just want you to talk to Stefano Scali and see if he noticed anything out of order in the barn. Then get back to me, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “Sure, Commish.”

  “And don’t take your partner.”

  “This gonna be just between us, Commish?”

  “Just between us.”

  Carmine Corretti got home around six and kissed his wife, Gina. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” she replied. “You up for a scotch?” They had one together every evening.

  “Yeah, but first I gotta run an errand.”

  “What kind of errand?”

  “I gotta talk to a guy a couple of blocks over, on Mulberry.”

  “What guy?”

  “It’s about a case. I can’t talk about it.”

  Gina kissed him on the neck. “You can always talk to me.”

  “Not this time, babe. I’m doing th
is for the commissioner, and he wants no talk.”

  “Secret stuff, huh?”

  “Just confidential stuff—you know how it is. I’ll be home in half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll keep the ice cubes warm.”

  Carmine left his house and walked over to where Stefano Scali had his business. The garage door in front was open and Scali and two of his men were sweeping and mopping the floors.

  “Carmine!” Scali said, dropping his broom and pumping the detective’s hand. “Long, long time. How you doin’?”

  “I’m doin’ good, Stef. You?”

  “Never better.”

  “Business good?”

  “Can’t complain. People always need a coat of paint on things. You want a Strega?”

  “Thanks, but Gina’s expecting me home. I just wanted to ask you something.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Did you do some work out at Eduardo Bianchi’s place recently?”

  “Me and my old man before me been doing Eduardo’s painting for forty years.”

  “Recently?”

  “Yeah, the girl turned the old stone barn into an art studio.”

  “And you painted it?”

  “Sure, I did. She’s a looker, that girl—bella, bella!”

  “While you were there, you notice anything out of order?”

  “You mean like the toilet, or something?”

  “Nah, I mean, like was there a mess or anything?”

  “The place was neat as a pin while I was working, and we didn’t spill a drop.”

  “Anybody else spill anything?”

  “You mean like food?”

  “You see any stains on the floors or walls?”

  Stefano thought about it. “Our last day there, we got to work at eight, and there was some stains on the floor. I cleaned ’em up.”

  “How’d you clean them?”

  “I wiped them up, then I used some spray I got to get in the crevices. It’s a stone floor.”

  “You got a blank piece of paper?”

  Stefano went to his desk and came back with a clean sheet of paper.

  Carmine drew a rectangle. “If this is the barn floor, where were the stains? Draw an X.”

  Stefano looked at the rectangle. “There was doors here and here. This wall was the last thing we painted, and the stains were about here.” He drew an X. “Just off our drop cloths.”

  “You said you wiped them first. Was it paint?”

  “It was red and sticky, but it wasn’t paint. I know paint.”

  “What did you wipe them up with?”

  “A clean rag, I think.”

  “Have you still got the rag?”

  “Nah, I threw it away.”

  “Where?”

  “In the trash can. We’re cleaning up this morning—we do it once a week, whether it needs it or not—and we put all the trash in the dumpster out back. We share it with the hardware and the undertaker.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Carmine said.

  Stefano led him out back and raised the lid on the dumpster. “Them three bags we put there,” he said, pointing.

  “Can we take ’em inside and have a look?”

  “Okay.” The two men carried the three trash bags into the shop, and Stefano opened them all. “This one,” he said, upending the bag and dumping a lot of rags on the floor.

  Carmine took a pen from his coat pocket and moved the rags around. “You said it was a clean one?”

  “Yeah. Here, let me do it.” Stefano went through the rags and came up with a clean one. Except for two stains, now turned brown.

  “Can I have this?” Carmine asked.

  “It’s trash. You want a clean rag?”

  “Nah, this one will do.” Carmine produced a plastic evidence bag and stuffed the rag inside.

  “What’s this about, Carmine?” Stefano asked. “Why are you wanting my rag?”

  “I want to see what’s on it.”

  “I’m not getting anybody in trouble, am I? I like the girl. I wouldn’t want to cause her any problems.”

  “How do you feel about Pietro?” Carmine asked.

  Stefano made a face and a noise. “He’s a snake.”

  “Did somebody ask you to clean up the stains?”

  “No, there was nobody there when we got set up. I saw ’em and cleaned ’em up. The girl didn’t get in until later.”

  “Did she ask about the stains?”

  “No, I told her I found them and cleaned ’em up. She had a look at the place on the floor, and said it looked fine. Thanked me, like the lady she is.”

  “Thanks, Stefano,” Carmine said. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Don’t make it so long next time?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing you.”

  Carmine went home and had his scotch with Gina, then they had the dinner she had made. The rag could wait until tomorrow.

  Stone got a call from Carla Fontana. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Have you been made executive editor yet?”

  “Not yet, but the word ‘Pulitzer’ is being whispered in the hallways around here.”

  “Have you heard from Strategic Services yet about the voice identifications?”

  “They’ve nailed about half of those on the list, including the four who denied it before the story was published. When the techs have finished, we’ll be doing a follow-up piece on the voice comparisons.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Listen, I called because I haven’t been able to find Bruce Willard. Have you heard anything from him?”

  “Yes, he’s in Philadelphia, visiting Evan Hills’s father.”

  “Elton Hills? The recluse?”

  “Bruce went there for the funeral, and he apparently hit it off with the old man. He’s spending a few days at his house, cataloging the contents, several generations’ worth. Have you left him any messages?”

  “No, I just called a couple of times and got voice mail.”

  “Well, either leave him a message or wait until next week when he’s back home.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, I was just concerned, after what happened to Evan.”

  “He’s fine, don’t worry. Now that your story is out, it’s too late for them to need to keep him quiet.”

  “Yeah, you said that before, but I was worried anyway. I’m coming to the city this weekend to see my mother—it’s been too long. You want to have dinner?”

  “Sure. Where does your mother live?”

  “In Brooklyn Heights.”

  “You want to ask her to dinner with us?”

  “Actually, I had a different kind of dinner in mind. Anyway, she’s always working.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a translator, from French and Italian to English and vice versa.”

  Stone had a thought. “Is she any good at it?”

  “She’s highly sought after among publishers, but she’ll only work on stuff she finds interesting.”

  “I might have something interesting for her.”

  “I’ll give you her number. Got a pencil?”

  “Shoot.” Stone wrote down the number. “What’s her name?”

  “Anna de Carlo Fontana is her working name. Tell her I sent you.”

  “Was she born in Italy?”

  “Sicily. Her parents brought her to America when she was fourteen. In fact, she was the reason they emigrated. She was very bright, and they wanted her to have a good education and more opportunity. What do you need translated?”

  “Just some old documents. It’s a legal matter, and I can’t discuss it.”

  “Okay, I’ll be in Friday morning. I’ve got some meet
ings at the Times that could take all day.”

  “Can we make a weekend of it?”

  “I like the way you think. Bye-bye.” She hung up.

  Stone dialed the Brooklyn number.

  The phone was answered immediately. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Fontana?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Stone Barrington. I’m an attorney in the city.”

  “How do you do?”

  “Very well, thank you. Your daughter, Carla, suggested I call you about doing some translation.”

  “Very nice of her to send work to her mother. What do you need translated?”

  “It’s an old journal, written in what I’m told is a Sicilian dialect.”

  “Whose journal?”

  “A friend of mine who passed away recently.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Was he very old?”

  “He died at ninety-four.”

  “Eduardo Bianchi?”

  “That was a very good guess.”

  “Not really. I knew him when I was younger. I saw his obituary in the Times.”

  “Would you like to come to my office and have a look at the journal?”

  “Yes, I would. Coming from Eduardo, I expect it must be very interesting.”

  “I expect it will be. I would be grateful if you would keep this conversation in the strictest confidence.”

  “If you like. When?”

  “As soon as you like.”

  “This afternoon? I’m delivering a manuscript to a publisher in the city.”

  “That would be fine.” He gave her the address.

  “Around three o’clock?”

  “Very good. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  “Same here.” She hung up.

  Carmine showed up for his appointment with the commissioner the following afternoon.

  “How’d you do?” Dino asked.

  “I did perfect.”

  “How perfect?”

  “Stefano said he found some red stains on the floor of the old stone barn, and he cleaned them up on his own, without being asked. The girl was pleased.”

  “We need more than that.”

  “He used a clean rag for the cleaning,” Carmine said, holding up the evidence bag.

  “Great. Now run the DNA against Frank Donovan.”