Eight
CINDER-BLOCK WALLS PAINTED GRAY AND LINED WITH TALL metal shelves upon which sat hundreds of cardboard boxes filled with starter motors, alternators, carburetors, solenoids, all of them used parts that had been stripped from the vast collection of wrecks outside. A workbench with a variety of mechanic’s tools scattered upon it, tall Craftsman toolboxes at both ends, the overwhelming smell of old motor oil with just a hint of gasoline in air as dormant and cool as the air inside a cave. The dim morning light bleeding in was made even more so by windowpanes layered with a thick dust of grime and engine exhaust, years and years of it, Miller thought.
He was standing in the center of the work bay nearest to the small adjoining office. This bay was empty, but the two beyond it, to his left, housed an old pickup and a sedan, respectively. The sedan was nearly identical to the one that had brought him to this place. The hoods of both vehicles were raised, but the truck, in the bay farthest from Miller, was up on a hydraulic lift, suspended high enough for a man to stand beneath. Its front wheels were removed, and an unlit work light was hooked to its undercarriage.
Just as he had done outside, the younger of the two men stood behind Miller. He was Miller’s age, maybe a little younger. There was no doubt, though, that he was Scarcella’s son, just couldn’t be anything else, was easily a carbon copy of the man. He had the same powerful build—not the body of an athlete, like Bechet or Miller, but of a laborer, more a solid bone structure and bulk than symmetrical muscularity. He wore the same type of clothing, had, too, the same stony face—round, framed by a cannonball head. The only difference between Scarcella and his son was the fact that the son did not shave his head but wore it buzzed close like Bechet. Unlike Bechet, though, the younger Scarcella was obviously balding.
Still, rough-and-tumble men, the two of them, the very kind you’d expect to rule over a place such as this.
Miller knew little about the older Scarcella, had heard once or twice that he was “connected,” but had never crossed paths with him till now. Not only had Miller not crossed paths with Scarcella, he hadn’t even crossed paths with anyone who, to his knowledge, had crossed paths with Scarcella, that was how far off his radar the man was. Miller had always assumed that the rumor about Scarcella being “connected” had to do with the fact that Scarcella’s company had a contract with the town to service and repair all its vehicles, which included cop cars. A connection such as this might have allowed Scarcella certain access to police, but to what extent, Miller didn’t know or care.
Scarcella and Bechet had moved to the far end of the work bay, put a dozen feet between themselves and Miller. They faced each other, spoke together in whispers, then adjusted themselves so their backs were turned completely to Miller, spoke some more. After a moment Bechet slipped off his shoulder pack, removed something from inside and handed it to Scarcella. Miller couldn’t see what the item was, but it was important, whatever it was, that much was clear, because Scarcella nodded quickly and called to his son, who walked past Miller and joined his father and Bechet in their huddle at the other end of the bay. Scarcella said, “Lock this up,” not as softly as he should have, and handed to his son what Bechet had handed to him. Miller looked as the younger Scarcella carried the item into the adjoining office, saw that it was a half-gallon Ziploc bag. He couldn’t, though, make out its contents. Once in the other room, the younger Scarcella started to close the door, but before it shut Miller glimpsed beyond the threshold, saw a desk and filing cabinet, both of them old, made of cheap metal. Beside the filing cabinet, though, was something that by contrast stood out. A large antique safe, black with gold scrollwork and the name of some certainly now long-out-of-business company stenciled in ornate and bold letters across its door.
The office door closed, and Miller looked at Bechet and Scarcella. Neither, as far as he could tell, had noticed his glance toward the office. Looking at them again, Miller thought that Eddie had been right, that these men were two of a kind. Russian dolls maybe, all three of these men, each enough alike and just slightly larger than the other—Scarcella larger than Bechet, Bechet larger than Scarcella’s son.
Bechet said to his friend, “Give us a few minutes,” then waited till Scarcella had stepped into the office and closed the door before taking a few steps toward Miller. The stare-down that had occurred outside continued. For a moment all there was to hear was the rain on the metal roof above. Miller waited; this was Bechet’s world, the first words should be his.
“You’re Miller,” Bechet said.
“Yeah.”
“Tommy?”
Miller nodded.
“Eddie seems to think you and I have some things to talk about.” Bechet laid his shoulder pack at his feet, let both his arms hang loose at his sides. Miller noted that his hands were large, his knuckles like jagged stones pressing against thick, calloused skin.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Miller said. “I’m not sure how much Eddie told you over the phone.”
“Only that I should listen to what you have to say. And that I can trust you.” Bechet looked at Miller for a moment more, sizing him up—not as a boxer now, a man facing his opponent, but as something else, something more along the lines of one man attempting to understand another, getting the sense as quickly but as thoroughly as possible of who he was and where he stood, doing so only by what he sees.
Still, overt aggression gone, for now at least, Bechet’s caution—what little Miller knew about the man said cautious—remained. “I don’t really have a lot of time,” Bechet said.
There was no reason then for Miller to do anything other than what he wanted to do, which was to just jump in. He didn’t care about where it might take him, what dangers doing it would create for him. He’d come too far to play coy, to dance around, particularly with a man like this.
“I’m looking for someone,” Miller said. “She used to work for you.”
Bechet paused before responding. “Who?”
“Abby Shepard.”
Though Miller couldn’t tell exactly what it meant, Bechet nodded slightly, as if thinking about that. Finally, he said, “What do you need to find her for?”
“There was a double murder at the canal last night. She’s connected to it.”
“How?”
“One of the victims was her boyfriend.”
“How do you know this?”
Miller shrugged. “It’s what I’ve heard.”
“You haven’t been in touch with her?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A few years ago.”
Bechet nodded again, thought about that. “Not sure how I can help you,” he said.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She installed a surveillance camera outside her apartment door two weeks ago. The camera belonged to you.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It was sold to you four years ago. We traced it from its point of sale.”
Bechet took in a breath, let it out. He looked away for a moment, toward the bays to his right, then looked back at Miller. “You found the camera?”
“Yeah.”
“Who has it now?”
“I do.”
“Do the cops know about it?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Miller thought about Spadaro. He knew, but there was no reason to mention that, no reason at this point to involve him.
“Yeah,” Miller said. “This has nothing to do with them. I’m just trying to help out an old friend.”
“You and Abby used to live together, didn’t you?” Bechet said.
“For a while, yeah.”
“She used to talk about you. Back when she worked for me. Not much to do when you’re up on ladders except talk.”
Miller resisted asking what it was she had said. It took, for a second, everything he had. Instead, he said, “I’m curious, how did
she end up with a camera that belonged to you as recently as two weeks ago?”
“I keep most of my things in storage. She must have let herself in.”
“You told her where your things were stored?”
“No. But I don’t have a hard time imagining her following me. Most likely back when she worked for me.”
“Why don’t you have a hard time imagining that?”
“She was . . . obsessed.”
“With you?”
“No. With what I could teach her. All she wanted from any man, as far as I could see, was what he could teach her.”
Miller considered that. “Have you been to your storage unit in the past two weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“Any sign of a break-in?”
“No. But there wouldn’t be, would there?”
“Why not?”
“Abby knew how to pick locks. According to her, she learned how from you.”
Miller remembered having done that, the afternoons they had spent together, him teaching her things, her asking to be taught. They used to make love afterward, as the sun went down. At times he used to think it was her way of delaying his leaving for work.
“You said she was obsessed with learning things from men,” Miller said. “So what did you teach her?”
“If you’ve been looking for me, then you know I’m not so easy to find.”
“You taught her how to do that.”
“Among other things, yeah.”
“Did you know her boyfriend at all? Michaels. Or his buddy Romano?”
“No. Abby and I had fallen out of touch.”
“From what I understand Michaels had a police record.”
“What does that mean, ‘from what I understand’?”
“I’ve been told, haven’t actually seen it.”
“What was he arrested for?”
“Grand theft auto.”
“I guess Abby wanted to learn how to steal a car.”
“Maybe she was just in love with him.”
Bechet shrugged. “Maybe both.”
“Did you know that Michaels and Romano were working for Castello?”
Bechet didn’t answer. He and Miller stared at each other for a moment.
Miller didn’t back down, said, “From what I hear, you used to work for him, too.”
Bechet remained silent.
“Any idea what they might have done for Castello?”
“How would I know that?” Bechet said flatly. “Like I said, I’ve never met either of them.”
Miller decided to let that go for now. “One of the recordings Abby made with your camera shows Michaels coming to her door with a knapsack. When he left again, he was empty-handed. Later on, Abby received a call on her landline, after which she bolted from her apartment with a suitcase.”
“You’ve been to her place?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you find it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not, but I’d still like to know.”
“Romano had a girlfriend. We went to her cottage—”
“We?”
“A friend of mine is helping me.”
“Who?”
“Just a friend.”
“You trust him?”
“Yeah.” Miller didn’t see the point in properly identifying his friend’s gender.
Bechet nodded. “So you went to this cottage . . .”
“We found evidence there that Romano’s girlfriend and Abby knew each other. The last call from the landline was to an apartment in East Hampton. We got the address and went there, found the camera.”
“Any sign of Abby?”
“No. Not a piece of mail or a bill, nothing at all to indicate who was living there. Not even photos.”
“What was the evidence you found at the cottage?”
“Photographs of Abby and the girlfriend. And Romano, too.”
“What else did you find?”
“Not much. The place had been trashed.”
“Searched?”
“Yeah.”
“Any sign of violence? Blood, anything like that?”
“Not the first time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went back a few hours later.”
“What for?”
“To see if there was a camera there that we had missed. I found Romano’s girlfriend in the bathtub. Her wrists had been slashed.”
“I take it you don’t believe it was suicide?”
“She wasn’t there the first time, but was there the second. Somehow I doubt between the time I was there and came back she had walked in, drew a bath, undressed, and opened her wrists.”
“Was Abby’s place trashed, too?”
“No. In fact, it was in perfect order.”
“You said Abby had a landline.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you check the incoming and outgoing calls?”
“There were only the two calls from the cottage—when I had hit redial, and the call before it. With what the camera recorded it looks like Abby got the call from the cottage not long after Michaels and Romano were swung off the bridge.”
“And the camera shows her bolting with a suitcase.”
Miller nodded. “We found the knapsack Michaels had entered with. It was empty.”
“And that was the last recording made?”
“Except for me and my friend entering and finding the camera, yeah.” Miller waited a moment, then said, “It looks like Michaels and Romano were caught with their hands in the jar. Which means they were probably couriers. And the way they were murdered has a South American ring to it, don’t you think?”
Bechet said nothing.
“Frankly, I don’t care who killed who and why,” Miller said. “But it’s pretty obvious to me that Abby is in some kind of trouble. I would like to help her.”
Still thinking, still nodding, Bechet continued to study Miller. He had been listening like a man who hadn’t expected to hear what he was hearing. Listening, too, like a man who wanted to believe what he was being told. If only he could.
“You really think someone like Castello would string up two of his employees so close to a building everyone in town knows he owns?” Bechet said finally.
“If he wanted to send a message, yeah, maybe.”
“There’s sending a message and there’s broadcasting your involvement in a double murder.”
“Triple.”
“What do you mean?”
“The owner of the restaurant across the canal was found strangled a few hours later. Everyone seems to think that the two men who had killed Michaels and Romano killed the restaurant owner as well.”
“You seem to know a lot about what’s going on.”
Miller shrugged. “I hear things.”
“What have you heard about me?”
“That you used to be a boxer, fought under the name of Pay Day Bechet. After you quit, you worked for Castello for a while. After that you painted houses. Now you’re partners with Eddie.”
“And that’s it.”
“Yeah. That and you’re friends with Bobby Falcetti, who was friends with Dennis Adamson.”
“The guy who owned the restaurant by the canal.”
“Yeah.” Miller paused, then said, “So you think the fact that the bodies were found where they were means Castello had nothing to do with the murders.”
“If I wanted people to believe he was behind a murder, I’d probably do something like that.”
“It’s a long way to go to set someone up.”
“So maybe it’s about more than just setting him up. Maybe it’s also about what was taken. What Michaels gave to Abby, and what Abby stashed in her suitcase before leaving her apartment.”
“Any ideas what that could be?” Miller said.
“Castello has his hands in a lot of different things. It could be anything.”
“Something worth murdering four people for?”
“F
or some people it wouldn’t necessarily take a whole lot for them to kill four people. What else did the camera show?”
“Abby coming and going, bringing home groceries—not long before she took off, actually. So I don’t think she was expecting to have to bolt.”
“Anything else?”
“At one point someone came to her door and knocked, then left.”
“Who?”
Miller waited, then said, “Roffman.”
“The chief of police.”
“Yeah.”
“When was this?”
“Two nights before the murder.”
“Is it possible he and Abby were . . . involved?”
Miller shrugged. “I don’t know. Hard to imagine.”
“He’s someone she could learn things from,” Bechet said.
“He’s married, though.”
“That doesn’t seem to stop him, from what I hear.”
“I’d like to think it would stop her.”
“People sometimes do things they wouldn’t normally do. Particularly if they think it will make themselves safe.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Miller wondered then exactly what Bechet knew about him, his past, the things he had done.
“What do you know about Roffman?” Bechet said finally.
“Enough.”
“What do you know about him and Castello?”
“There’s supposed to be some kind of deal between them.”
Bechet nodded. “It’s more than a deal. Castello has Roffman in his pocket.”
“How do you know this?”
“When Roffman took over as chief, Castello didn’t waste much time making certain Roffman needed his help.”
“They set him up?”
“Everyone has a weakness. I assume you know what Roffman’s is. He got involved with a woman who turned out to want to make trouble for him. Castello waited till Roffman was up to his neck in shit, then offered to help make the problem go away. Roffman went for it in a heartbeat, didn’t even know the woman had been working for Castello the whole time.”
“You know this for certain?”
“Yeah.”
For some reason Miller took that to mean that Bechet had actually been there, was working for Castello at the time.
“You think maybe Roffman is trying to get out of Castello’s pocket,” Miller said.
The Water's Edge Page 27
