Lovely, Dark, and Deep

by Frank Zafiro

  I dressed slowly, pulling on the pants and a pair of dress shoes. I had two white shirts, but one had some kind of blotching on the collar, so I wore the other. When I brushed off the jacket and slipped it on, I stepped in front of the mirror and checked myself out.

  Yeah, I could almost look the part. Especially to a drunk.

  I took off the jacket, went into the bathroom and shaved off two days’ worth of beard, put some water in my hair and combed in the most conservative style I could think of. Then I put the jacket on again, checked the mirror and decided that except for the redness around my left eye, I definitely looked the part.

  The drive was only ten minutes long. I rang the doorbell to the huge house and got myself into character.

  Paula Tate answered the door. She wasn’t as disheveled as the last time I saw her, but she still had a drink in her hand. Her eyes were much more focused than before, too, and they narrowed when she recognized me.

  “You were here before,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “One of the insurance guys?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I lied, without missing a beat.

  “I knew it. Why’d you lie about it before?”

  “I’m sorry about that, ma’am. Can I come in to speak with you? It’s about your settlement.”

  She sized me up and down, then shrugged and opened the door, allowing me to enter.

  We sat down in a living room. She offered me a drink and I politely declined.

  “Of course,” she muttered in a mildly sarcastic tone. “Who drinks this early in the day?”

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was after five. She obviously wasn’t keep track of time. That could be a good thing for me.

  When she’d freshened her own drink and sat, we were quiet at first. Then she waved her drink toward my head. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Racquetball,” I said, the lie practiced.

  “You’re supposed to wear goggles.”

  “I know.” I shrugged. “I don’t always play by the rules.” Then I played my hand. “Mrs. Tate, here’s the thing. Our lawyers have been over the policy and we’ve discovered a mistake.”

  I waited, because if the real insurance company agents had been in touch with her, my ruse was going to flop. But her eyebrows went up slightly and she leaned forward with interest.

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “Your husband had an inclusivity clause.”

  She frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Well, it operates on several levels. For one, it addresses manner of death.”

  “So you’re not going to pay because of the suicide?”

  I shook my head. “No, actually we are. The inclusivity clause includes any manner of death whatsoever. Even the normal exceptions such as skydiving and other dangerous activities are included.”

  She leaned back “You guys don’t show up to deliver that kind of new. Why are you here?”

  “I thought I’d come by in person, since it’s good news.”

  She scowled slightly. “Why would you think that? It’s your job to keep the company from paying off.”

  I shook my head. “No ma’am. It’s my job to make sure the company pays off correctly. Sure, avoiding overpayment or improper payment is what makes the bosses happy, but my responsibility is proper payment. That’s why I’m a salaried employee, not commissioned.”

  “Huh,” Paula grunted.

  I leaned forward. “Mrs. Tate, while your husband was our insured, you are his beneficiary. That makes you my client. And due to the manner of your husband’s death and the inclusivity clause in the policy, there are a couple of unique matters we need to cover.”

  “Like what?” She raised her glass to take another drink.

  “Suicide is recognized by the American Medical Association as being an action taken by someone with a mental disorder or depression. We base our decisions on AMA accepted findings. One of the indicators of suicidal tendencies, in addition to saying farewell to friends and family members, is unusual gifting.”

  “Gifting?” She stared at me over the rim of her glass. I could tell that she was only half following me. I was counting on that.

  “Frequently, when someone is contemplating suicide, he will give away cherished possessions, or sums of money. It’s similar to bequeathing these items in a will, only he does it before his death. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure. But what’s the point?”

  “Because of the medical reasons for these actions, the inclusivity clause allows the beneficiary to add the value of these items to the claim.”

  She blinked, absorbing what I said.

  “Did your husband do anything like this?”

  She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know about him giving anything away.”

  “None of his favorite possessions? Golf clubs, something like that?”

  “Lawrence didn’t golf.”

  “Any items at all.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How about family heirlooms?”

  “No.”

  “Sums of money?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then paused.

  “What is it, Mrs. Tate?”

  She took another drink and then met my eye. “Lawrence saved every dollar he could. Did I tell you that before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he did. And he didn’t trust the banks. He didn’t want to deal with financial statements for campaigning, either. So he kept it in cash.”

  I frowned. “Cash? That’s a little bit more difficult to –“

  “I saw it,” she said. “I know.”

  “Where did you see this money?”

  “In his safe,” she said. “I knew the combination.”

  “And how is this related to his death?” I asked. “Because if there’s money in the safe, that’s clearly yours.”

  “There isn’t any. It’s all gone.”

  I gave her a surprised look, some of which was genuine. “Oh?”

  She nodded. “We had almost a hundred thousand in there. It was our emergency cash. Our rainy day fund. Then, just a couple of days before he died, I found three hundred fifty thousand dollars in there.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is that unusual? I mean, how often do you check the safe?”

  She didn’t seem to hear my question. “The extra money must have come from investments or something. It was all legitimate, I’m certain. Lawrence was a very honest man.”

  “Of course,” I said. “He was a councilman.”

  “Right.” She started to speak, then stopped and stared at me. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all.”

  She continued staring at me in silence. I hoped I looked honest enough to finish off this charade, even with the bruise forming on my eye.

  After a few more seconds, she shrugged and tossed back the remainder of her drink. “Well, good. Because that money was there, and it was legit.”

  “I believe you. But you said it’s gone now?”

  She nodded. “After his death, I checked. The safe was empty.”

  “Do you think he gave it away?”

  She rose and walked toward the miniature wet bar. Her steps were heavy. “Lawrence was clearly not happy with me. He must have done it to spite me.”

  I waited while she mixed herself another drink. “You want one?”

  “No,” I told her.

  When she came back to the couch, she dropped heavily onto the cushion. “So what now?”

  “Are you willing to sign an affidavit that your husband had three hundred fifty thousand dollars in your safe just two days before he died?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “If it were possessions, we could look at photographic evidence, or take testimony from the recipient. With cash, we’ll definitely need an affidavit.”

  “Then yes.”

  “Do you believe that your husband was of sound mind when he gave
that money away?”

  “Considering he killed himself in our garage two days later, I’d say no.”

  “Do you know who he gave the money to?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “All right.” I stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Tate. We’ll be in touch with the paperwork.”

  I felt her eyes on me all the way to the front door.

  27

  Back when I was on the job, I always felt good after pulling off a ruse. Every time it felt like I’d somehow beaten the crooks at their own game. The end result was justice, even if I’d used deception to make it happen. It could also be that making a criminal look or feel foolish added a bit of poetic justice to the equation..

  Either way, driving north on Division after my encounter with Paula Tate, I didn’t feel as good. Maybe it was because I knew that no matter how you sliced it, Paula Tate was a victim. She didn’t do anything wrong in this situation. Sure, she was a drunk. Maybe she was hell to be married to. But she probably wasn’t a criminal.

  And I’d lied to her. Got her hopes up.

  Clell wasn’t going to like it, either.

  And yet, I also got what I needed. It might not hold up in court, but her statement told me that I was right. Tate was dirty, and he took at least one bribe. A big one, too. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. And I was pretty sure that could only mean one thing.

  “How’s that for Occam’s razor?” I asked aloud, smiling a little.

  I drove to the north side of River City and pulled into the parking lot of Angelo’s restaurant. It was early yet and the lot was only half full. I sat in my car and got my thoughts straight.

  I couldn’t hit up any of the contractors. But maybe I could get Dominic Bracco to admit to backing Beurkens. Or something more. But this wasn’t going to be as easy as fooling a half-looped socialite with greedy eyes. I was going to have to be on my game.

  The danger was obvious. The guy was connected to the Mafia. But if Adam was right, he wasn’t too scary. He was likely trying to keep a low profile in River City. And it wasn’t like he was going to whack me in the middle of a nice Italian restaurant at four in the afternoon. That would be bad for business.

  “So would be getting whacked,” I said aloud. I didn’t smile this time.

  I got out of the car, straightened my tie, and headed into the restaurant.

  I found a hostess right inside. She was good-looking, and wore a tight, stylish skirt white dress shirt. Her breasts strained against the buttons. “Mr. Bracco’s not available,” she told me.

  “I’m with the city,” I said. “I have an appointment.”

  “Oh,” she said. For a moment, she looked confused. Finally, she said, “Then I guess its okay. He’s in the back office.” She pointed.

  I thanked her, found the door and knocked.

  The door opened almost immediately. A pair of hard blue eyes stared at me, a scar the shape of a fish hook under the left one. He had a flat boxer’s nose and still maintained the physique of a middleweight.

  A flash of recognition went through me.

  This had to be the man that Monique had described. The one who beat her.

  My pulse quickened.

  “What do you want?” the man asked. “No job interviews after eleven.”

  I swallowed past the dryness in my throat. “I’m not here for a job.”

  “No?” He looked me up and down. “Well, then delivery orders in the back. Dan will sign the requisition order.”

  “No delivery, either.”

  He paused. “Then what the hell do you want?”

  “Are you Dominic Bracco?”

  He looked me up and down. “Who’s asking?”

  “Allen Pearce. I’m with the city ethics commission.”

  “The what?”

  “Are you Dominic Bracco?” I repeated.

  He started to answer, then the door opened further. A large, obviously Italian man stood behind him.

  “What’s going on, Joe?”

  Joe didn’t turn away from me. “Guy says he’s from the city or something.”

  Bracco’s eyes settled on me. “Really.”

  “Can we talk in private, Mr. Bracco?” I asked.

  He considered, then waved me into the office. Joe stepped aside, but just barely enough to let me pass. My shoulder brushed across his chest and he sniffed disdainfully as I passed.

  The office was cramped. Bracco turned and lumbered back to his desk. He motioned to the only chair besides his. I took a seat and so did he. Joe closed the door and stood in front of it.

  Bracco steepled his fingers in front of his face. His thick brow and paunchy face had a sinister, animal cunning to them. He looked me over once more. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Allen Pearce,” I repeated. “City Ethics Commission.”

  “Ethics, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m an investigator.”

  He pointed to my bruised left eye. “You get that investigating?”

  I reached up and touched it. “Uh, no. Racquetball.”

  “Yeah, huh? Well, excuse me for asking, Mr. City Ethics Investigator, but what the fuck do you want?”

  “Well, sir, I’m investigating Councilman Tate.”

  Bracco gave no reaction. Not even a flicker. “The fag, you mean?”

  I was surprised. “You knew?”

  He shrugged. “Not much in this town I don’t know about.” He smiled tightly. “Mr. Pearce.”

  I probably should have known the gig was up right then, but I didn’t have any choice but to forge ahead. Joe was standing in front of the door and if I’d tried to leave right then, all façades would drop.

  “Well, actually, it’s not that aspect of the late councilman’s life that I’m interested in. It’s his financials.”

  Bracco didn’t reply.

  I went on. “He came into a large sum of money shortly before his death. We believe we have traced that money back to its source.”

  Bracco remained silent, staring at me.

  “It’s you, Mr. Bracco. Through an intermediary, sure, but it’s you.”

  The words hung in small rooom. Joe shifted from a casual stance into a menacing one. Bracco’s glare was unmistakable. I forced myself not to blink or swallow. My palms itched. How the hell was I going to get out of this?

  “That’s one hell of an accusation to make,” he growled at me.

  “It’s not an accusation, sir. It’s simply fact.”

  “Fact, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.” I leaned forward slightly. “I’m not looking to cause problems for you, Mr. Bracco. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I believe that we can help each other.”

  “Really.” Bracco chuckled lightly and leaned back. “How?”

  “Did you know that the city is self-insured?”

  He shrugged. “The fuck I care?”

  “Right. Most people don’t. The thing is, we have a policy that covers up to a million dollars in damages. After that, it comes out of the city coffers.”

  “So?”

  “So, my staff and I have discovered that Councilman Tate was taking bribes. You probably weren’t aware that your investment money was being used for that purpose, but it was. And as soon as the other contractors involved in the bid for the Looking Glass Condos discover this, there will be a lawsuit. Probably several. And we’ll lose them all. It will definitely cost the city more than a million dollars.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It is.”

  “But it doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  “Well, it does, actually,” I said. “I’d like to get a statement from you that your money was supposed to be an investment in the project itself, if the bid was won by Mr. Beurkens. But if I can’t get that from you, then the assumption will be that the money was for the purpose of a bribe. Your business license will be revoked and any existing businesses
will be audited. That could cause you difficulties, to say the least.”

  Bracco actually grinned. “You little twerp. You’re shaking me down.”

  “No,” I said. “I just want to insulate the city as much as possible. The more I can show the corruption existed between two people, Mr. Beurkens and Councilman Tate, and only those two people, the less culpable we’ll be. We may pay out, but we hope it will be under the million dollar cap.”

  Bracco nodded his head like he was listening, but when I finished my sentence, he looked over at Joe. “Throw this piece of shit out of my restaurant.”

  I stood. “That won’t be necess—“

  Joe shuffled toward me like a striking snake and threw a short uppercut into my stomach. Air whooshed out of my lungs and I crumpled. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back. His fist was cocked.

  “No,” Bracco said, almost gently. “Not in here. In fact, not at all. Just toss him out the back.”

  Joe’s fist lowered. Behind it, I could see a disappointed scowl. He pulled me to my feet.

  “Check him for a wire.”

  Joe ran his free hand over my body roughly, pressing and grabbing at all the obvious locations.

  “Nothing,” he finally said.

  Bracco wagged a finger at me. “Listen, small time. I don’t know what you’re up to. I don’t know what you think you know or who’s telling you what kind of bullshit. But I will tell you this. You don’t know who you’re fucking with here. And if I see your face again, and I mean ever, I will crush you like a bug. I don’t care if we bump into each other at the grocery store or at a goddamn parade. I see you, you’re fucking dead. You get it?”

  I nodded.

  Bracco motioned to the door with his head. “Outside. And easy.”

  Joe hauled me out the door and through the kitchen. I had to walk fast and even hop along to keep up with him. Men and women clad in white kitchen garb studiously ignored us both.

  When we burst out the back door of the restaurant, he shoved me into the side of the green dumpster. My shoulder rammed into it and I fell to a knee.

  “Up,” Joe said.

  Reluctantly, I stood.