Luca Mystery Series Box Set

by Dan Petrosini

  A ton of traffic crawled on Immokalee, and I was tempted to use my siren to speed the ride to see Blake.

  ***

  “He was a jerk, okay? A big mouth.”

  Blake’s anger flush took on a weird hue over his deep tan. No doubt Gabelli riled him up, the question begging to be answered was whether the riling moved to irrationality.

  I said, “You’re not the first person to tell me that. He was a piece of work, huh?”

  “I know it’s not all of them, but these pretty boys, they think everyone’s got to kiss their ass. You know what I mean?”

  As a quasi-member of that club, I didn’t agree but wanted the venom to flow. “And how. What kinda things did he do?”

  “He was a medium player, not a real high roller, but he always called over to the pit bosses and talked like he owned half the place. He was always asking for something.”

  “You mean like a break or something?”

  “No, little penny-ante things, like lozenges, aspirin, a cookie, you name it, he asked for it, and got it. It’s like he wanted to show everybody that he was being catered to.”

  “He really got under your skin, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I hated when he sat at my table. And you know, he knew I didn’t like him, and he’d push my buttons and keep pushing all night.”

  “So that night you lost it?”

  “He kept holding the cards when the hand was over. You can’t do that. I had to call the pit boss over twice, and he tried to make it like I was picking on him. Then he did it again and I yelled at him to give me the cards. And that scumbag Perez, he sided with Gabelli. It was embarrassing.”

  “Customer’s always right.”

  “No, that’s bullshit. I can’t tell you how many times people are thrown out of the casino. We’re trained to death about maintaining order.”

  “But they let Gabelli off the hook?”

  “Like I said, the bastard had a way about him.”

  “What a weasel. I heard you confronted him later.”

  “They took me off the floor, and I spent the rest of my shift at the cashier’s window. When I left to go home, he was outside hanging around. It was like, what, is this guy stalking me? I walked past him to the employee garage, and he just kept busting my balls. So, I got in his face, and another dealer had to separate us.”

  “Wow. He must’ve been going nuts.”

  “I’m not proud of it. I nearly lost my job, had to beg my manager because of that shithead.”

  “So, you got back at him by putting him in Clam Pass?”

  “Oh no, man. I had nothing to do with any of that.”

  “Yeah, well you were at Clam Pass the night he went missing, and his body was found weighed down in the water there.”

  “I told you I went sailing. I swear that’s all. I don’t know nothing about what happened to this guy.”

  “How come you never told me you had a fight with Gabelli?”

  “Look, I hated the guy, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill him. What kinda guy you think I am?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Chapter 37

  Luca

  On the way back, I called Vargas. She asked, “How’d it go?”

  “This guy is either an incredible actor or he’s telling the truth.”

  “What happened with the boat?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Get Finley to authorize a seizure notice and get that Sunfish to the lab.”

  “You saw something?”

  “Nah, it was clean, but unless Blake bleached it, forensics will get something if it’s there.”

  “It’s at Lowe’s, right?”

  “Yeah, the guy’s name is Sammy. I gotta run.”

  “Hold on a sec.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just got a call from the sex crimes unit. Last week they picked up this guy Steven Foster. Seems he was a Boy Scout scoutmaster or something, and a kid, well, he’s not a kid anymore, came forward and filed a complaint against him for sexual assaults that happened more than ten years ago.”

  “Poor kid, but what’s that got to do with us?”

  “This pervert Foster, well, he said it wasn’t him, but he fingered Phil Gabelli as the guy who did it.”

  My wheels bounced off the curb. “What?”

  “I had the same reaction, but I checked with the Boy Scout local, and guess what?”

  “Come on, Vargas!”

  “Gabelli was Foster’s assistant when the assaults took place. I checked with the Boy Scouts, and Gabelli was there when Foster was.”

  “Holy shit! That could be the reason he took off.”

  “Thought the same thing. Maybe he knew this was coming out.”

  “I’m coming straight in. We need to talk to this Foster guy.”

  Feeling like I’d been shot up with three cups of espresso, I hit the siren and popped the light on my roof.

  ***

  I asked, “What’s this guy do that he can afford to live in Tiburon?”

  My partner said, “Teacher at Baron Collier High.”

  “Just great, this clown’s around kids all the time.”

  “I thought there were all price points in Tiburon.”

  “It’s the fees, Vargas. The fees are sky-high,” I said as I turned into the development.

  The entrance to Tiburon was one of my favorites: a long driveway lined with majestic royal palm trees that reached into a cloudless, blue sky. The community was anchored by the Ritz Carlton Golf Resort, making Naples the only place with two Ritz Carltons. Tiburon had two world-class golf courses, a good location, and homes ranging from five million down to five hundred thousand.

  Steven Foster lived on the second floor of a cluster of coach homes called Castillo. If I remembered correctly, they were trading in the seven hundred thousand range. Still a lot of dough on a teacher’s salary. When I saw the tiny size of the elevator, I told Vargas we’d have to take the stairs.

  I know better than to think I can tell who’s a pedophile by looking at him, but a barefooted Foster fit the bill. He was balding, and whatever hair he had left was dyed shoe-polish black. His eyes were definitely beady and he had a flabby belly. But unless the victim was blind, he’d never confuse Gabelli and this cretin.

  Foster grabbed the doorframe when we announced ourselves and said, “Homicide?”

  “Yes, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Uh, sure, but I don’t know anything about any murders. Please don’t tell me they’re also saying I killed someone.”

  He stepped to the side and we entered. The whole place was floored in white tiles that were too small and laid in a diagonal pattern. It’s supposed to make a room look bigger, but I could never figure out how. It was a bright place that I didn’t think a sleazebag like Foster would like living in. A trio of sliders leading to a lanai let the light and golf course view in.

  As soon as we sat around a glass-topped kitchen table, I said, “I’m going to get right to it, Mr. Foster. The charges against you are about as serious as they get. I understand you claimed the accuser had made a mistake and that this was a case of mistaken identity.”

  “That’s the truth, I swear.”

  Vargas said, “You claimed that the true perpetrator was a man named Phil Gabelli.”

  He shook his head. “Yes, that’s right, it was Phil. He did whatever that kid said happened.”

  I said, “I understand you and Mr. Gabelli knew each other through the Boy Scouts.”

  “We led the same troop. I was the scoutmaster and he was the assistant. He seemed like a good guy, but I guess he deserved what happened to him.”

  I said, “And what was that?”

  “I read the papers. I saw that they found him in Clam Pass. He was murdered.”

  Vargas said, “Who do you think would murder Mr. Gabelli?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but I guess anyone he, uh, messed around with would have good reason.”

&n
bsp; Vargas said, “Do you know anybody in particular?”

  “I didn’t really know him that well.”

  I said, “But you worked together for, what, three years?”

  “Something like that.”

  I said, “So how did you know that it was Mr. Gabelli who did it then?”

  He tilted his head. “I just got this feeling, you know, he was kinda off. You know what I mean?”

  Vargas said, “No, tell us.”

  “I couldn’t put my finger on it, but, I don’t know, it was the way he looked at the boys. Something wasn’t right.”

  Vargas said, “Yet you let him work for three years with the boys you were responsible for.”

  “I, I, believe me, I feel a heavy burden of responsibility for what happened.”

  I had no worries about how this guy felt, and said, “You don’t look anything like Phil Gabelli, who was a fit, good-looking guy.”

  Foster sucked his gut in and said, “Maybe I haven’t aged as good as the next guy, but I’m telling you, we were almost look-alikes.”

  With an obvious smirk, I said, “If you say so.”

  Foster rose, “Hold on a sec.”

  Vargas and I exchanged glances as Foster rummaged through a whitewashed credenza.

  “Here, see, what did I tell you?”

  I took the picture he held and did a double take. It was Foster, maybe ten, fifteen years ago in his Boy Scout uniform. He looked totally different, but I didn’t see much resemblance to the pictures I’d seen of Gabelli. I tried to read into the photo. The silly, yellow ascot thing he had on didn’t help. Anybody wearing that would look strange.

  “When was this taken?”

  “Not sure exactly, but I’d say a dozen years ago. So, you believe me now?”

  “Can we have the picture?”

  “Sure, if it helps to clear me.”

  Chapter 38

  Luca

  Two weeks after the autopsy, a chime announcing an e-mail sounded. It was from the crime lab. Opening it, I read the Gabelli toxicology report. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was nothing found but an alcohol reading. I didn’t understand some of the medical lingo, so I dialed Bosco’s number.

  “Doc, it’s Frank. I got the Gabelli toxicology. He’s the one we pulled out of Clam Pass.”

  “Yes. I’m familiar with the case. What about it?”

  “It says there was no evidence of any illicit drugs in his system.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “That’s impossible. You said so yourself.”

  “Not quite. What I said was that drugs may have played a role as the victim had no evidence of heart disease.”

  “Then there had to be something.”

  “Afraid not, Frank. There wasn’t anything other than an alcohol level that, if I recall, was borderline legal.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. I was sure they’d come up with something. They checked for all substances?”

  “It’s standard practice, and keep in mind we also checked for prescription drugs, like opioids, barbiturates, and amphetamines.”

  “So, it was a heart attack?”

  “It appears to be.”

  “Tell me, Doc, if this guy died naturally of a heart attack, like you’re saying, why would somebody try to hide the body or make it look like he disappeared?”

  “Isn’t that your area of expertise, Detective?”

  ***

  I didn’t get it. Why make it look like murder? What the hell was going on? A heart attack in a healthy male? Wait, there was that crazy case where that woman was put on trial for killing a guy with sex. She’d given the old bastard a heart attack. Gabelli certainly liked the girls. Could it be something like that? But why cover it up? If his heart gave out making whoopee it wasn’t a crime. Unless there was some facet to it that caused his heart to blow.

  Could someone have hired a sex tigress to give him a heart attack, using one of the popper things that race your heart? After he collapsed they panicked, or, who knows, maybe they started arguing and wanted to get rid of the body? But what was there to gain? You kill someone out of jealousy, for love, for money, for revenge. What’s missing is a reasonable motive.

  I punched in a number into my cell.

  “Doc, it’s me again. Say, I’ve been thinking about Gabelli and his heart attack. Could it be that he was using or someone gave him a popper during sex?”

  “You mean Amyl Nitrite?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Amyl Nitrite is a vasodilator; it causes the blood vessels to dilate. As a result, the user’s blood pressure drops quickly, while at the same time the drug causes the heart to race.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Like all drugs, it is.”

  “Could it have caused Gabelli’s heart attack?”

  “Difficult to say. There’ve been cases of cardiac arrest with its use. But usually it’s a habitual use thing that over time weakens the heart muscles.”

  “Did you check for it in the toxicology workup?”

  “No, it’s extremely difficult to pinpoint it as it dissipates very quickly. We could try running a test and see what comes back, but I didn’t see any evidence the victim was a user.”

  “How could you tell if he was using?”

  “Typically, small crusty, yellow lesions are found around the nose and mouth. The nasal cavities are also inflamed.”

  “You said his nose was inflamed. Remember?”

  “Yes, but it’s my opinion that Amyl Nitrite was not the cause. Like I said a moment ago, if it were, there would be signs of use.”

  “Can you do me a favor? Run whatever report you need to see if you can find any traces of Amyl Nitrite.”

  “If you insist, Frank. I’m heading to the Keys tonight for a week. I’ll do it when I get back.”

  “Can’t you get to it before you head out?”

  “I’ve got that six-month-old baby who died, that the parents say was sudden death syndrome, to autopsy, as well as an eighteen-year-old who overdosed. Therefore no, I can’t.”

  “I hear you, Doc. Have a good time. Just promise me you’ll do it as soon as you get back.”

  ***

  The more I thought about it the more frustrated I became. How did Gabelli really die? Was it just a heart attack? If that was it, what the fuck was he doing submerged at Clam Pass? If it was murder, then dumping the body is normal. But If it was a natural death, why was he dumped, and who was responsible for it?

  ***

  As I headed into the office I knew the Gabelli riddle had to be put on hold at least until we got the advanced blood work back. Vargas and I had no other active case besides Gabelli, and we’d hit a wall. It’d take at least a week after the doctor ordered the extra toxicology workup to come in. We had two boring weeks ahead of us. If I hadn’t already used up all my time recovering, it would be a perfect time to take a vacation.

  That made it time to do what I hated, going through cold cases. I know some detectives love the opportunity to uncover a fellow officer’s mistakes or omissions and solve a dusty case. But to me, and I know it sounds strange, I’d rather leave a sleeping bear alone. It was just more evidence of how flawed we are, and I certainly didn’t need any more reminders.

  Knowing I would be putting in time on old cases was the only thing that made me hesitate taking the job down here. Reviewing cold cases was boring and time-consuming. Interviewing people years later, whose memories and recollections were muddied by time, took a great deal of patience, a trait I was currently low on.

  I couldn’t understand why Kayla hadn’t called me back. I had called that night and left a message. Waiting for the callback was adding to my frustration. If she didn’t call me back in a day, I’d try one more time and then, well, let’s see what happens.

  Chapter 39

  Luca

  Robin was really unnerved when I told her what was going on. She swore up and down it was a vicious lie. I wanted no part of the emotion, I just w
anted an old photo of her husband. After six requests, she finally paused her venting and got me a picture. It was a good one, nice and sharp. I assured her I’d get the mess cleared up, keeping it out of the papers, and said goodbye. Getting into my car, a text alert from forensics said that the report on Blake’s boat was ready.

  Putting the phone away, I held the pictures of Gabelli and Foster side by side. They had similar builds, but Gabelli was at least two inches taller, according to the DMV. Foster’s hair was also darker and a lot shorter than Gabelli’s was. It wasn’t the time between haircuts. If anything, Gabelli’s, though longer, appeared recently trimmed.

  I put the Gabelli photo on the dashboard and took a closer look at Foster. His beady eyes stared right back at me. This guy was creepy, but if they were both wearing those blue Boy Scout uniforms, could a kid mistake Gabelli for him?

  It was tough for me to buy the mistaken identity thing. I could tell they were very different people, even though I’d never met Gabelli. Foster was mousy, and everything I learned about Gabelli classified him as an overconfident extrovert. My gut was telling me Foster was looking to pin a crime on a dead man. But I couldn’t discount it, much as I wanted to.

  No matter who it was, though, there was a killer still out there. To focus the hunt for the murderer I’d need to know if it was an abuse-revenge thing or not.

  I called Vargas, asking her to get behind the wheel of the backhoe and start digging immediately. I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning and wanted to get to the forensic lab before they closed.

  ***

  It was raining so hard I waited in my car for more than ten minutes. As soon as it slowed, I jumped out and puddle hopped my way into work.

  Speckled with wet spots, I fanned my shirt as Vargas finished up a call.

  “Get anything on Foster?”

  She frowned. “Good morning, Frank. How did your doctor visit go?”