Let's Fake a Deal

by Sherry Harris

  * * *

  I was home by eleven-thirty, and I fixed a fluffernutter sandwich for my lunch. After I finished it and washed the stickiness off my hands, I sat down to make phone calls. First, I called Vincenzo to see if his investigator had found anything. Since I hadn’t heard from him, I wasn’t surprised when he said no. Next, I called Awesome about the phone number I’d given him.

  “Did you find anything out?” I asked when he answered. There was a pause. Not a good sign.

  “Hang on,” he finally said. “I wanted to get out of the squad room. They found some calls on the phone. A burner that we’re trying to track down.”

  “Did they give you any new leads?” I asked.

  “The only calls on the phone were to you.”

  Now it was my turn to pause. “Me? No one else?” Another letdown. The Greens had planned carefully enough to have a phone dedicated to me. The word diabolical floated through my mind. Followed quickly by why. Why me?

  “Sorry. I know it’s not helpful,” Awesome said.

  “I’m guessing not helpful is the best case. And the worst case, in the hands of the right prosecutor, is that they’ll twist it to make it look like I bought the phone and called myself.”

  “I wish I could tell you otherwise,” Awesome said.

  “You and me both.”

  I’d been deliberately avoiding Mike Titone. Part of me hoped he was on to something, and part of me feared he was. I’d been watching the news closely to make sure two unidentifiable bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere. None had. Since my options were dwindling it was time to check in with him. Calling Mike was usually a hassle of going through different people before finally getting to him. Today he answered after a couple of rings.

  “Any luck?” I asked him.

  “We tracked down a Kate and Alex Green in Indianapolis.”

  Finally. “That’s great news. Were you able to trace them to here?” I asked.

  “Kate and Alex Green are in their seventies. Three sons, eight grandchildren, and they’ve never been to Massachusetts. ‘Why leave God’s country?’ to quote them.”

  “Is there an Alex junior?” Maybe he’d found a love named Kate, too. “One with a comma-shaped birthmark?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  He did sound sorry. Mike liked to fix things even if I wasn’t always sure about what motivated him to. “How in the world have these people buried”—oh, not a good choice of words with Mike—“hidden themselves so well?”

  “No idea. Either they are very lucky or very clever.”

  “What about the picture? Was anyone able to de-fuzz it?” So much for technical terms.

  “You need a miracle to make that photo any clearer. And I’m fresh out.”

  “Not lighting enough candles at church?” I asked.

  “Lighting plenty. They save a whole section just for me.” He paused. “These people are very good at blending in somehow.”

  Even Mike sounded frustrated. If Mike couldn’t find them, what hope did I have? “I guess they’d have to be experts at hiding since it seems like they’ve been getting away with it for a while.”

  “You have anything else for me to go on?”

  I racked my brain. What hadn’t I told him? “I’m pretty sure they are military.”

  “I don’t have a lot of connections in that world,” he said.

  Under any normal situation I would be glad to know that the Mob wasn’t involved with the military. Today it was just frustrating.

  “They also used the last name Fitzwater.”

  “Great,” Mike said.

  “Really?”

  “No, but I’ll run it down. But don’t get your hopes up. It’s probably a family in Poughkeepsie or Timbuktu.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I didn’t know why I was thanking him. He was trying to save his own skin, not mine. I wondered if he’d help me with Michelle, though. In for a penny, in for a pound—whatever that meant. “I have a friend who needs something.” I waited for him to protest. When he didn’t, I quickly explained Michelle’s situation.

  “Fuzzy pictures, grainy videos. Not very helpful,” Mike said.

  “Please,” I asked. “Michelle’s a good person. A good officer. I don’t want to see her destroyed over something she didn’t do.”

  “Send the video,” Mike said. “I’ll see if I can help her out.”

  “Thanks. And I know. I owe you.”

  Mike hung up without a denial. Perfect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  After I’d hung up with Mike, Eleanor called me to let me know that Michelle’s squadron was having a darts tournament at a place called The Tavern, an all-ranks club on base, tonight at eight.

  “Darts?” I asked.

  “It’s all the rage on base right now.”

  “What happened to Texas Hold ’Em?”

  “They still play that, too. I think darts is some weird test of their manliness.”

  “Or womanliness?” Lest people forget there were plenty of women serving, too. “Let’s just go with their warrior skills,” I suggested. Military people were competitive, and this was probably one more way to one-up each other.

  “It’s an all-squadron event, but spouses are invited.”

  “Is it one of those mandatory team-building activities that everyone hates?”

  “You’ve got it,” Eleanor said.

  “Yeah, I’m guessing if members of the squadron are killing each other, they might need something more than a darts game to resolve their issues.”

  Eleanor laughed. I wasn’t sure I was trying to be funny.

  “I thought there might be a chance that Joy and the other two wives you wanted to grill might be there.”

  “Grill seems so harsh,” I said.

  “But oh so true. If you want to go, I’ll sponsor you on.”

  “And go with me?” I asked. Otherwise I’d stick out like the proverbial thumb.

  “Of course. It’s always a pleasure to see you in action.”

  * * *

  But first I was due over at Kitty’s house. It was almost twelve thirty, and I had promised her I’d be there by then. I grabbed my keys and hustled out.

  As soon as I got to Kitty’s house, I broke the bad news to her about the print. She was wearing leggings decorated with tiny white cats playing with each other. Her shirt had one big white cat with red and green balls of yarn. It looked like kids’ clothes for adults.

  “I figured I wasn’t going to get it back. I hope the owners do.”

  “They should,” I said. Eventually. “I’d better get to work.”

  “Me too,” Kitty said.

  Once Toulouse and I were all set up in the basement, I grabbed a box. The first one I opened was full of records. As was the next and next until I had seven boxes of albums ranging from jazz to rock to folk to classical. I went upstairs with Toulouse hot on my heels and called up to Kitty.

  “I found seven boxes of records,” I told her.

  “I forgot those old things were down there. I kept meaning to donate them somewhere.”

  “Vinyl is hot right now.” The Greens had bragged to me about their love of vinyl and their large collection. Probably all stolen. The Greens. I wasn’t any closer to finding them than I had been a week ago. Next week was my pretrial conference. Next week.

  “Sarah?” Kitty asked. “Are you okay?”

  Loaded question. “Yes. Fine. Sorry I was just thinking about records.” The one I was going to have if I didn’t find the Greens. “Old records are popular. I think you should sell them. They would be a great draw, too. Something for people who don’t love cats.” I looked down at Toulouse, who meowed. “Sorry, Toulouse. I’m not talking about you. Everyone loves you.” Good heavens, I was talking to him now.

  Kitty cocked her head to one side, then looked down at Toulouse. It seemed like they had some kind of communication going on. Kitty straightened and looked back at me. “Okay. Great idea. Let’s sell them.”

  After I priced the albums,
I lifted a box and moved it over closer to my chair. It was heavy. I slit open the box with a box cutter and unwrapped a bunch of newspaper, wondering what weighed this much. It was an adorable cast-iron doorstop. A girl and boy kitten that looked like they were from the thirties with their rosy cheeks, bright smiles, and colorful clothing. I looked at the bottom. It was marked HUBLEY. Hubley, a company from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, was famous for their cast-iron toys. I examined it carefully. This could be highly collectible. I knew prices for these ran from forty dollars to five hundred dollars online. A prickle of excitement, the kind when I’d found something cool, swept over me. The downside was there were lots of reproductions out there.

  I looked to see if it was one piece or two. Two didn’t necessarily mean it was a reproduction. But the kind of screw used might. In newer reproductions they usually used Phillips-head screws instead of regular slotted ones. I also checked the paint job and the roughness of the edges of the doorstop, and looked for the markings Hubley used. After a thorough search, I decided this was indeed an original.

  The next thing I pulled out was a boot scraper. Also cast-iron. The top part was a thin sleek black Siamese cat with a base to keep it steady while you cleaned the bottom of your boots or shoes. These were also very popular with collectors right now. After several more hours of work I glanced at my watch. It was already three thirty. All these cute cat things made me happy. Such a nice contrast to everything else going on in my life.

  * * *

  I was stuck in traffic on Great Road—rush hour could be brutal, as Great Road was a major cut-through from one freeway to another. But I didn’t expect the traffic to be this bad at three forty-five. I finally remembered one lead I hadn’t ever followed up on. The man who’d tipped off the police that his neighbor’s household goods were being sold while they were away. I weighed the pros and cons of approaching him. Pellner had warned me not to. The man was obviously a law-and-order kind of guy, one who cared about his neighbors and neighborhood. I thought about his grim look, the folded arms. But maybe he knew something he didn’t know he knew.

  Or maybe he would call the cops if I showed up on his doorstep. The thought of meeting up with Officer Jones chilled me. By the time I finished arguing with myself, I was parked in front of the neighbor’s house. It was now or never, because if I just sat in my car out here, he’d definitely call the cops.

  The front door opened as I walked to his porch. I looked the man over and didn’t see any guns or other weapons on him. He had a closely cropped Afro with a bit of gray mixed into the dark brown. His cheekbones were high, clothes neat, stance erect, and he looked to be in his seventies. Possibly former military. Maybe I could appeal to him on that level.

  “Sarah Winston.” He barked my name like he was giving orders.

  I guess he recognized me from the day I’d been arrested. I resisted the temptation to snap into the attention stance like I’d seen so many men and women do when CJ was active duty. I did answer with a respectful, “Yes, sir.”

  “Come in, come in. I’m Ralph Garrett. I owe you an apology but didn’t know if I should reach out or not.”

  We’d settled in a family room with big comfy furniture and a fire in the fireplace. “You owe me an apology?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I was astounded. In the scenarios I’d run through my head as I’d driven over here, I’d never pictured this one. “Please call me Sarah.”

  “Okay, Sarah. I figured you would be pretty darn mad at me for calling the whole thing in,” Ralph said.

  “No.” I leaned forward. “I would have done the same thing if circumstances were switched around. You’re the kind of neighbor everyone wants to have.”

  “I thank you for that. I’ve read the stories in the paper and believe you’re innocent. I’ve known Officer Jones since he was a little boy, and he’s always been bullheaded. Not to mention impulsive.”

  “Thank you. I hope there’s a lot more people like you out there.” Especially when it came to a jury of my peers. The ones I’d be facing after a trial date was set.

  “Now, I haven’t even let you tell me why you’re here,” he said.

  “I just thought maybe there was something that you’d seen or heard that might help find the couple who set me up.”

  “I’ve pondered that very thing myself. Daily.” Ralph frowned. “No one was eager to have our neighbors turn their house into a hotel, so to speak. It kind of turned neighbor against neighbor—those who thought it was fine and those who didn’t. Then this happens.”

  “Did your neighbors ever meet the Greens face-to-face?” I asked.

  “Nope. I called them after the police left. They did everything online. Even gave them a code to the fancy lock they have on their front door. It was a disaster waiting to happen.”

  I’d used a number of SuiteSwapzs over the years, so I knew that most of the time there wasn’t any kind of disaster. Although with the statistics Luke had gathered, disasters happened at least part of the time.

  “Did you ever talk to them? They went by the name Green. Alex and Kate,” I said.

  “I didn’t. Not much help, am I?”

  “Did you see what kind of car they drove?”

  “Just the big rental truck they hauled everything over in.”

  All of this was so disappointing. I’d sort of pinned my hopes on this being my big break. I should have known better.

  “Was anyone else ever around with them?”

  Ralph leaned forward. “A young fellow did stop by the night before the sale. Pounded on the door and walked around the house before he took off.”

  I wondered what his definition of “young fellow” was. To me it was someone in their twenties, but to my grandmother it was someone my parents’ age. “How old was he?”

  “Hard to tell.”

  “How did you know he was young?” I asked.

  “The way he moved,” Ralph said.

  I’d been hoping for something more. “Was there anything that stood out about him?”

  “It was darn near dark when I noticed him out there. He saw me lookin’ out the window and headed out.”

  I stood. “Thanks for your time.”

  “I sure do wish I could have been a bit more helpful.” He walked me to the door.

  “Did you notice what kind of car the man drove?” I asked.

  “He was on a motorcycle. And don’t ask me what kind. Unless it’s a Harley, I’m hopeless.”

  I patted his arm. “Me too. I don’t suppose you saw a license plate number.”

  Ralph was shaking his head again. “If only. Maybe I could help you out of this mess then.”

  I dug in my purse and gave him my business card. “If you or one of your neighbors thinks of anything, please let me know.”

  “I’ll ask around again.”

  “Thanks, Ralph.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  * * *

  A glass of wine and a good hearty meal were all I needed to restore my spirits. Which is why after I parked my car at home, I walked over to DiNapoli’s. This was a great time of day to be here, the lunch crowd was long gone, the after-school kids had dispersed, and the dinner crowd had yet to arrive.

  “Angelo made something special for our dinner tonight,” Rosalie said as soon as I dragged myself in. “Come. Sit. Eat with us.”

  Seconds later I was seated at a table with a glass of red wine, a basket of hot bread, and a steaming plate of risotto in front of me. I took a bite. “This might be heaven,” I said.

  Angelo beamed. “I agree with your assessment.”

  Rosalie shook her head. Angelo’s statements made Rosalie shake her head a lot, but they made me laugh. There were bits of sweet potato, chicken, pancetta, and asparagus in the creamy goodness.

  “If food can be love, this is it,” I said. Then, oh jeez, tears formed. I blinked as hard as I could to fight them back. But of course the DiNapolis noticed. They both leaned forward.

 
“I’m just tired,” I said. “I worked hard today.” Rosalie and Angelo just watched me. “Okay, okay. And it’s the arrest. And the arraignment.” My throat felt full. “And I have a pretrial conference next week.”

  “Your eyes can’t be beautiful if you haven’t cried,” Angelo said. Then he repeated it in Italian.

  “That’s beautiful, Angelo,” I said.

  “He’s paraphrasing Sophia Loren,” Rosalie said.

  We all laughed.

  “Hey, you can do worse than quoting a woman who says she owes everything to spaghetti.” Angelo pointed his fork at me. “If you need anything, you let me know.”

  “Let us know,” Rosalie added.

  By the time I left, my stomach and heart were full. I carried home a box of risotto that I didn’t plan to share with anyone. I wasn’t looking forward to this evening, but I had to meet Eleanor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The dart games were in full swing by the time I arrived at eight. Darts were flying everywhere—not everywhere, but it felt that way to me, and it made me want to run away. Frankly, I’d avoided darts since I was a child because of a near miss involving a drunken uncle. The whiz of the dart by my ear still gave me nightmares.

  Eleanor sat at a table in a dark corner to one side of the bar with a pitcher of beer and an extra mug. I slipped into the chair across from her. My back was against the wall and about as far away from the dartboards as you could get without working behind the bar. The perfect place for observing the room. Five dartboards were set up on the other side of the room with three-foot intervals in between. Darts zoomed towards the boards. As I watched, a woman made a wild throw, and the dart embedded itself in the wall. I repressed a shudder. She cheered along with her friends. Someone handed her a half-full mug of beer. She chugged it down. Great.

  “That’s Joy,” Eleanor said, lifting her chin toward a redheaded woman on the far side of the room catty-corner from us.

  The captain who’d been with Blade had an arm possessively around her waist. She had a lush figure like a fifties Hollywood starlet. Her enviable red hair tumbled in loose waves around her shoulders. As I watched her, she pulled away from her husband, swished past a group of young, single officers in a tight dress that seemed unsuited for darts, and winked at someone as she made her way toward the bar in three-inch heels. She didn’t teeter or wobble on the heels.