Mrs Jones

by William Cain

  This time, Addie breaks the silence, the spell, and from her notebook she draws a business card, “This is my number at the stationhouse. Can you give this to your mother and ask her to use it if she remembers any other details?”

  “I can do that,” Frank calmly answers, then adds, smiling and remembering their conversation earlier, “About Mr. Thomas, he was my dad. Nobody ever calls me Mr. Thomas. Please call me Frank.”

  Addie looks at him again and slowly replies, “Frank, yes. Thanks for your time.” She then enters the squad car and drives off, waving goodbye. When she’s a comfortable distance away, she breathes out slowly. She’s deep in thought, and she’s not thinking about the crime on July 18th, either. Looking in the rearview mirror, she sees Frank Thomas watching her pull away. He watches her until she rounds the corner and disappears, and she feels like she forgot something, or slipped away, or she should have said or did or…what?

  Frank watches her drive away, and he waves back. He’s not confused, but he’s not sure why he finds this detective so mesmerizing. The look in her eyes, the way she stared at him. Or maybe it’s the way he stared at her. He realizes he’s almost holding his breath, and he lets it out in one, long escape,

  “Wow.”

  Chapter 10 O’Hare

  August

  Criminals should be punished, not fed pastries. Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

  Henson, on her way to Chicago, looks over the list Juvieux had given her for the fifth time, making some notations next to names she’s interested in talking to. Most importantly, she’s zeroing in on Anthony Spadaro, Joey Riggoti, and the resident of the house she intends to see first, and that is Skip O’Hare. He’s a thug of the worst kind, and, as the plane lands, she tells herself, “this better be worth it.” She doesn’t enjoy flying but finds it necessary. In her neighboring seat, the woman is quite large. She’s spilling over into Henson’s seat and has distinctive body odor.

  After she disembarks, she’s met by a Chicago police officer who takes her to his unmarked town car. He’s to be her escort, partner, and guide for the next few days while she conducts her interviews of Chicago’s seediest criminals. They soon arrive at the home of O’Hare, as expected, and a tall, bald, muscular man steps out from the large house to meet the car as it enters the long driveway. Once it arrives at the front door and stops, Henson exits the car and walks toward the man, noticing a bulge under the man’s sport coat. She makes a mental note about it.

  The police officer remains with his car as Henson is shown inside.

  She’s led down a long corridor to a study and finds Skip O’Hare on his phone talking behind a large, gaudy, polished desk. When he sees her, he’s a little surprised and he shows it. He quickly ends his call. Standing, he leaves the desk and comes nearer to her. He’s a tall, thin, pasty, middle-aged man with a mop of brown curly hair. He gives her a nasty grin and offers her a seat so they can begin.

  She’s already creeped out, but she’s not going to let him see her sweat. Referring to his initial reaction, she tells him, “I get that look a lot. Most people think a detective is going to be imposing, big. When they see me, I don’t fit their description of what a cop should look like. Don’t worry.” She smiles that fake smile she carries around with her for just this purpose.

  “I’m not worried. And I imagine you are tough,” he replies through painted lenses. She can tell his eyes are intense and that he is a dangerous man.

  She deadpans back and begins, “We only have one hour, so let’s make the best use of it.”

  “Agreed. What brings you from beyont? My, ummm, secretary told me there has been a crime in Asheville and that you’re here to investigate.” As he draws out the words in his Irish Brogue, with an emphasis on “investigate,” he sneers.

  Henson overlooks his crass demeanor and gets right to business. “Elsie Battaglia has been murdered.” She registers the genuine surprise in O’Hare’s face.

  The particulars of the crime on July 18th have been sealed until the investigation is completed. Residents of Heritage Hills and the public in general have only been told a crime has been committed. Suspects, however, are treated differently.

  “I understand one of your coworkers surfaced in Lake Michigan,” she tells him, continuing, “He just popped up. Wasn’t tied down that well. Bullet in the back of his head. Nearly blew his face off.”

  O’Hare glares at her and replies, “News gets around fast. Yeah, I knew him. He worked for me sometimes. I heard he got mixed up in something and it went arseways. Sad,” he tilts his head to one side as if pouting.

  Henson ignores this loser’s attempt at mock grief and inquires, “Looks like someone got upset with you. You want to tell me about it? Did you retaliate?”

  O’Hare’s patience is draining and he appears agitated as he says, “Am I a suspect in Mrs. Battaglia’s murder? Don’t be a fool, nobody’s gonna go after those two. That’s suicide. Sure look it. Besides, my business depends on people like them. You know that. As for Richard, the bloke found floating in the lake, nobody here had anything to do with that, either.” He throws his hands in the air.

  Henson, scribbling into her notebook, then asks, “Where were you on the 18th of July?”

  O’Hare thinks, then pulls his calendar up inside his phone and says, “I was in New York City staying at the Sheraton in Midtown. Business. That night we got ossified.”

  “And your cleaner, Sophie?” she asks, referring to the person he’s known to use to make other people disappear.

  “Sophie was with me. Like I said, business,” he answers while looking down at his crotch with an ugly teeth-bared face, then adds, “You need to go now. Contact my attorney if you have anything else.”

  “Just a few more questions. Besides, we have forty more minutes. It won’t be painful.” She pulls out her smile again.

  He sighs and gestures to have her go on. Besides, she’s not bad to look at. He imagines her in some lingerie. Yes, that’s the look for her.

  The interview continues, and he’s trying not to show his erection. She sees it anyway, thinking, What a loser.

  At last, he stands up, puts his arm out toward the door of the study, and tells her, “I’ll walk you out personally.”

  As they begin to walk down the hall, she’s slightly ahead of him and he’s checking her ass out. She knows it. He’s complete garbage. They all are.

  She turns to the right, and, at that moment, he grabs her arm. She pulls her arm away and he grabs her again and raises his left hand slightly. It’s not much of a threatening gesture, but she’s a trained officer, and her reflexes are on automatic. This time, she turns to face him. He’s around a foot taller than she is. Before he can react, she punches him in the throat, hard, upwards and direct. As he reaches for his Adams apple, she uses two fingers to poke both of his eyes. As his other hand goes to his eyes, she kicks him in the sweets and he goes down without making any sound except a soft thud as he hits the floor. He hurts all over and doesn’t know where to put his hands first, or how to breathe.

  Standing over him, he’s gasping for air. When he’s finally able to get some words out, he tells her, grunting through clenched teeth, “You turned the wrong way, the front door is over there. I was just pointing to it. That’s all.”

  To this, she puts her face down so he can see it, pulls her service weapon, and angrily answers back, “The next time you grab me I will cram my gun up your ass. Got it?”

  He nods, and, as she storms for the front, she calls out over her shoulder to the contorted, beaten O’Hare, “Fuck off, prick!”

  Skip O’Hare can’t even pick his head up yet, he’s lying sideways on the floor. Looking after her as she disappears through the door, he mutters, “Jaysis, what just happened?”

  Chapter 11 Addie

  August

  Love must be as much a light as it is a flame. Henry David Thoreau

  Henson’s been in Chicago for two days, and her last interview is with Spadaro. To see Riggoti, she’s f
lying to Miami tomorrow. It’s hot and humid, and the cool air coming off the lake isn’t helping much. She feels sticky but relieved she’s back in her room, A/C on full blast. She takes a relaxing shower before dinner and sees that Frank Thomas has IM’d her on her gmail account.

  This is odd, that he knows her email. She doesn’t freely give that out, and she’s a little perturbed, but also intrigued at the same time. Looking over to the message, he wants to know how she’s doing. She reflects, thinking cynically, that’s original.

  ah: hi frank, i’m good. you?

  After a few minutes, Frank replies.

  ft: hard day in the office, time to unwind now. i’ve been thinking

  ah: can you tell me how you got this email?

  ft: called your office

  ah: nice try, they wouldn’t give you my private email. tell me or i’ll have you arrested ☺

  ft: guilty, when I was younger i worked as an investigator. i know how to use the internet to find stuff. am i creeping you out?

  ah: a little, if it were anyone else it would

  ft: really

  Her answer emboldens him, and he wants to ask her something. He also wants to make sure he doesn’t scare her away. These next few steps are important for him.

  ah: I don’t know why I said that.

  This is so unlike her. She asks him,

  ah: so, what have you been thinking?

  ft: can you answer a nagging question for me honestly?

  ah: am I under oath?

  ft: come on, really, be serious for a minute

  ah: i’ll try, what’s the question

  ft: did you like meeting me

  She thinks, “That’s a weird question. He does know he’s talking to a detective. Let’s string his little ass along for a while and bust his chops.”

  ah: Yeah, sure you and your mother were nice enough to meet

  ft: i meant me. i almost never have an instant attraction to anyone

  ah: you were nice enough i guess

  ft: i don’t think you know what i mean. i’m telling you i was attracted to you and i think you were to me

  ah: well, it was a warm day. like you said, it was nice out, it’s probably just the weather, ha ha

  ft: ok, detective, let me be more direct and ask you a yes or no question. when we met you i felt something, a connection, with you. did you feel the same?

  And he thinks, there, it’s out there.

  ah: after a few moments … yes

  She’s shaking a little bit. This is not normal for her. Before she says something stupid, she asks him, “call me in a couple of hours? i have to go out.” And she gives him her personal number.

  After she returns, and almost two hours later to the minute, her cell rings and Frank is on the other end. They begin to talk and tell each other about their family, family pets growing up, their cars, places they’ve been, stories about their past, how they feel about politics, big cities, food they like, people they like and dislike and why…it goes on and on.

  They’re on the phone for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 12 Spadaro

  August

  Illegal is always faster. Eoin Colfer

  Still in Chicago, Detective Henson’s last big interview there is with Anthony Spadaro. He doesn’t work for Battaglia, like O’Hare does, and unlike O’Hare, he’s a made man, and so are his guys. Spadaro’s Family is smaller and is considered to be associated with Battaglia. As a consideration for running his own business in the company of the DiCaprio Family, he pays the Family a percentage of the business he completes. Like all of them, Spadaro and his men are sociopathic and don’t have many feelings for anything or anyone. When Addie ends her day later, she’ll take a long, hot shower to scrub her pores clean and become a human being again. For now, her escort pulls up to the mansion, and, in typical fashion, she’s met by some huge house boy with a gun under his jacket and she’s shown inside.

  It’s huge and gaudy inside, with statues—imitations, really—and all kinds of clutter lining the hallways and rooms. Thickly lacquered, shining wood. And a lot of red. Addie’s comical impression is, “The only old world Italian touch missing is plastic covers on the sofas and armchairs.”

  After a few moments, a housemaid appears and asks Addie to follow her. She takes Addie to the rear of the huge, cavernous home and they walk into a pool area where they find a number of people talking and lounging, swimming and drinking, and eating. Some of the girls are nude and sunbathing, drenched in oils or rubbing oil on each other, chatting and laughing. If any of them have clothes on, they’re wearing Gucci or Armani and thick, dark, sunglasses—yesterday’s fashions favored by the mob elite. One thing they all have in common is that they’re loud and they curse a lot, dropping the F-bomb in every sentence, uttered with heavy accents and voices hoarse from a lifetime of screaming, fighting, and yelling.

  Finally, the maid comes to a stop before a large, overweight, greasy man. “Mr. Spadaro, the detective from Asheville is here. Detective Henson, let me introduce Mr. Spadaro.”

  Addie extends her hand, “Mr. Spadaro, I am Detective Henson. I understand we have an hour, so if we could get to it?”

  Spadaro, not bothering to stand, takes Addie’s hand and squeezes it. He’s an ugly mess, with a chewed-up cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth. He smells, reeks, and replies, “We can talk here. We’re far enough away from the others they won’t hear what we’re talking about,” then adds, eyeing her up and down, “if it hits you, I can have a few swimsuits brought out for you to choose from. You have the kind of figure my boys like, and, well, it’s hot.” He gags a gross chuckle.

  She stares back, not expecting anything different from him. He notices her stare and concludes, “you decide.”

  As he turns to face her, his robe casually falls open and she see he’s naked underneath. He doesn’t bother to catch it and leaves it there, waiting for her reaction.

  Loud enough to be heard, she offers up a little laugh and declares, “You have got one ugly dick.” Some of the girls within earshot giggle and stare. The men are grinning and fighting off the urge to look in his direction. He’s embarrassed, and he looks around to see if anyone saw this. He then gives her an ugly look. “You have ten minutes.” He scowls and draws his robe tight.

  “One hour,” and she begins. “I spoke with your former Consigliore Mitch. He’s ruled out.” She tells him about the crime in hushed tones. She knows she’s being recorded anyway.

  The discussion goes on, and they cover his and his men’s whereabouts, his “problem solvers.” When the interview is concluded, she takes her cue to exit and is escorted out by the housemaid, the same one that had shown her in.

  During her exit, when they begin to pass through a small room, the maid stops and turns to her. Henson looks at her quizzically.

  “This is one of two rooms in the house that aren’t bugged,” the housemaid explains. And, as Addie continues to look at her, the housemaid adds, “I know a hit was ordered a short time ago. I don’t know where or who or exactly when, but it was ordered to be done in July. The hitlady is a nasty, mean person known only as Helen to me. I’ve seen her a few times here, and that is one person whose radar you don’t want to be on.”

  Addie skeptically asks, “Why are you telling me this? Isn’t it kind of dangerous for you?”

  The housemaid almost laughs out loud but raises the back of her hand to her mouth and says sarcastically, “He’s an idiot. The FBI leaves him alone and in charge of his own crew because he can’t do anything right and he keeps on giving them information accidentally. I’ve been helping them for years.”

  Addie just stares at her in disbelief. The housemaid continues, “He didn’t know it, but he had a close friend of mine murdered years ago. So, I just help things naturally along. One day he’ll get screwed royally. Until then, though, he’s useful.”

  Addie, continuing to look at her, simply hugs her and tells her thank you. The housemaid then shows her out and waves good
bye.

  Finally, someone with a heart, Addie thinks as she drives away.

  ◆◆◆

  Later that night, while she’s packing, Frank IM’s her.

  ft: hi Adelaide—been thinking about our call last night

  ah: you can call me addie, everyone does… now about that call, you sure do a lot of thinking and even more talking… i think i wore my phone out ☺

  ft: yes, I’m a bore, sorry… listen, i’m coming down soon to asheville… can i ask you to show me around and let me maybe bore you some more over dinner?

  She thinks that’s an interesting play on words.

  ah: oh wow, you’re coy! you asking me out big boy?

  ft: ok, i’m not that smooth…I’d like to take you on a date

  ah: that’s better… i’ll be back in town in three days, why don’t you come in for the weekend, i’m off sunday and monday

  ft: that works… maybe i can get you to pick me up at the airport if I promise i’ll behave?

  ah: nobody’s asking you to do the impossible ha ha – just send your flight info and show up

  ft: K, looking forward to it, gnite

  ah: nite

  For a while, Addie gazes into space, “What is happening here? My last relationship ended like all the others, one month or two years and then poof. That’s why I never married. Here I am at forty-six and I’m still stabbing at the boyfriend game. What’s wrong with me? Am I that much trouble, or is it that hard to find someone I can tolerate, enjoy being with, that isn’t a loser or user? I’m not tired of this yet? Is Frank going to turn out to disappoint? Or me him?”

  “Something always gets in the way,” she sighs.

  Good for her that she can sleep on a plane, because she didn’t get any shut-eye that night.