Bingo Barge Murder (9 page)

He said, “Kinky died over a truckload of almonds? I suppose stranger things have happened.” He reread the article. “You know, Vincent and Pudge sound kind of like the guys on
The Sopranos
.”

“Yeah.” I shifted in my chair, draping an arm over the backrest to face Coop, who was still standing behind me. “You think Vincent and Pudge are a part of the mob?”

“Could be. Looks like the almond thing has that kind of connection.”

“Holy crap. What if we got Eddy kidnapped by real live gangsters?” I closed my eyes. This could absolutely not be happening. The Mafia? Kidnapping? Murder? Whose life was this? It sure as hell couldn’t be mine.

“Maybe we should go to Detective Bordeaux. I didn’t kill Kinky. Maybe they didn’t find my prints.” A faint note of hope glimmered in his voice.

“No freaking way! Come on, if this really is the Mafia, they’re apt to outfit Eddy in some cement shoes and force her to take a swan dive into the Mississippi if we don’t give them what they want.”

Coop sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. “You’re right. We have to find those damn nuts in less than,” he glanced at his watch, “twenty-four hours.”

Heavy silence filled the room. “Okay,” I said as I picked up a pen and began working the cap on and off. “We need to find out what Rita knows about this mess, and if she has any idea where the nuts are.” I froze for a second, then pulled out all the junk I had stuffed into my pockets, dumped it on the table, and started sifting.

Coop cocked his head. “What’re you doing?”

“Remember the card that was in the video box on the barge?” I finally found it and held it up. “This.”

“Yeah?”

The front of the card read Lazar and Company Dry Storage. The address matched the one Rocky had given us. “It verifies what Rocky said.”

Coop took the card from me and flipped it over. Two lines had been written on the back side:
IN-Wednesday, November 17th
and
OUT-Monday, November 22nd
. Today was Friday the 19th, so the nuts weren’t scheduled to be shipped out for at least a few days.

“Maybe that’s the nutty timeline,” Coop said. He grinned and returned the card.

I proceeded to tuck my pocket detritus away as I shook my head in exasperation. “A wiseass right up to the gritty end, aren’t you? I think it’s time we go check out that storage company.”

“My thoughts exactly. But we better wait for it to get dark before we break in anywhere. I’m still a wanted man. I probably shouldn’t have gone to Popeye’s with you and Rocky.”

“But you didn’t get busted.”

“Nope. And I don’t want to chance it again if I don’t have to.”

I blew out a big gust of air and looked at my watch. It was 2:30, and we’d have daylight for at least another three hours. “How about if I see if I can have a word with Ms. Rita in the meantime. By the time I’m done with that, nightfall will be ours.”

“All right.” Coop pulled the laptop toward him, laced his fingers together, and twisted them inside out in a stretch. His knuckles popped and I cringed. “I’ll see you in a little bit. I’m going to see what else I can find on stolen nuts. Good luck.”

It dawned on me I had no idea where Rita Lazar lived. “Hey, Coop, what’s Rita’s address?”

“Guess that would help.” His fingers flew over the keys. “Pig’s Eye Bingo has a record of all patrons who’ve signed up for a Pig’s Eye Club card. I cracked into that system after my first week.”

In less than three minutes, Coop had Rita’s address, MapQuested it, and scrawled directions on a piece of paper. As I started my pickup and backed out of the garage, I caught sight of Eddy’s old yellow jalopy. My heart twisted and my breath caught. Everything came down to the woman who was the world to me. “Don’t worry, Eddy,” I muttered under my breath as I sped down the alley, “everything’s gonna be okay.”

Rita lived in Tyrol
Hills, a well-to-do neighborhood in Golden Valley. Houses were large, charming, and expensive, with peaked brown-shingle roofs and Swiss chalet windows. Wild ivy crept up white stone walls, the growth more brown than dark green now that the days had grown cooler. The sun shone through mostly bare tree branches, dappling the road in front of me. The streets were curvy and hilly, unlike the grid system of city blocks in Minneapolis.

I tried to follow Coop’s hastily written directions and passed the same street sign for the third time. After a few more erroneous but scenic turns, I spotted the correct house number and pulled to the curb. The three-story house was huge, castle-sized. Arched windows framed with dark walnut-colored wood looked like square, black eyes, intimidating and unfriendly. The yard was immaculate, the grass tenaciously hanging onto every last bit of summertime green, thanks to a rare mild fall in the northland. Expensive lawn ornaments were carefully arranged on its lush surface.

A shiny tan Audi sat in the driveway, and I hoped it belonged to Rita. I had little time to chase the woman down. From the appearance of her house and vehicle, she didn’t seem like the type to haunt a rundown, blue-collar gambling boat. Maybe that’s one way the rich got their kicks. Take a ride on the wild side, mix with the rabble.

I took a deep breath, stepped out of the truck, and cut across the lawn to the front door. The dense grass cushioned my steps. It had been mowed very recently, and I sucked in the earthy smell with a pang of end-of-warm-days-and-start-of-long-nights sadness.

The dark front door towered over me, all planks and black metal, coming to the same sort of peak that followed the style of the windows. The place was cold and medieval. It probably had a dark, moldy dungeon where visitors were regularly chained and beaten. Before I lost my nerve, I stabbed the doorbell and heard a melodious gonging within.

I was about to push the button again when the door swung open, revealing a short, small-boned woman dressed in a dark blue pantsuit and punishing pointed-toe high heels. Her black hair was swept up in a stylishly messy ’do that probably cost a month’s utilities at the Rabbit Hole. Her skin was bronzed, but it was hard to tell whether she worshipped the electric sun bed, had just returned from some exotic location, or if the color was her natural skin tone. The showstopper was a huge brown and black speckled mole on her chin sprouting pitch-black whiskers. The monstrosity had to be the size of Rhode Island. I wondered why someone with so much money hadn’t had the unsightly thing removed.

She regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. She said in a controlled voice used to giving orders, “If you’re here for the yard, the company’s already sent someone.”

“No, actually, I’m wondering if I could talk to Rita Lazar about the business she owns on Washington Avenue. My name is Shay O’Hanlon, and—” Uh oh. Fatal error. I hadn’t thought of a passable reason for questioning her. Hastily, I babbled on. “I work for the Minnesota Storage Facility Inspector’s Office, and we’re working on coordinating the inspection of your commercial property for proper insurance, licenses, and a rodent-free building—ah, pest control, actually.” As soon as
rodent-free
popped out of my mouth, I figured she’d see right through me and kick my butt right down the stately steps.

Instead, she said, “I’m Rita Lazar.” Her narrow dark eyes peered at me through the frown on her otherwise smooth face. I pegged her for late forties, maybe older if she’d had a face lift, which was a distinct possibility since her eyes were slightly pulled at the corners, giving her a cat-like appearance.

She slowly extended a dainty hand with French-manicured nails. Her grip was cold and exactly what I imagined uncooked lutefisk would feel like. I released it quickly.

Rita took a step back, the clatter of her heels loud on the polished stone floor. “Come in, then,” she said, her tone both regal and disdainful, as if she were allowing a contaminated serf into her august palace. I crossed the threshold, and Rita swung the door shut behind me.

I hurried to keep up as she strode across a foyer larger than my apartment and through a room that out-sized Eddy’s two-car garage. The room was devoid of furniture and lined with empty, built-in walnut bookshelves. Nice library for a book lover, but too dark for my tastes. I wondered if she was redecorating or perhaps moving in or out.

Rita kept trucking, heels clacking like mini explosions, through to another room that adjoined the library. This room was as bare as the first. Indentations on an expensive Oriental rug looked like they may have come from a heavy table resting atop it.

I followed her into a nook that actually appeared lived in. Sunlight cast dusty beams through spotless floor-to-ceiling windows. A round table with four chairs was tucked in one corner. A wine-colored leather couch faced a gigantic flat-screen TV, and a recliner with a built-in vibration mechanism sat next to it. My stressed out muscles gave me an urge to give that hummer a try, but I figured Rita wouldn’t be very happy to have a stranger playing with her gizmos.

Two paintings hung on the wall facing the window. I did a double take when I saw them. One was a black and white silhouette of the Minneapolis skyline, and the other was a rendering of the same skyline in full color, ablaze in a gorgeous sunset. “Nice paintings.”

Rita waved a hand toward the couch, and I took a seat. “Yes, they’re original Rodriguez. She’s an up-and-coming local artist.” Rita eyed my faded jeans, Nikes worn-down-at-the-heel, and maroon U of M sweatshirt with its frayed cuffs. “I doubt they’re anything you’d be interested in.”

Nice woman. She’d probably have a stroke if she knew that I not only considered Alexandra Rodriguez a good friend, but she had painted the interior of the Rabbit Hole, and we had a number of her pieces on display. I couldn’t wait till I had a chance to tell Alex where some of her work was hanging.

Rita perched on a chair next to the table. “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke.” On the tabletop, a dinner-plate sized ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts.

I shrugged. I wasn’t about to say anything combative to a woman from whom I needed answers.

Rita fired up and sucked in a lungful. She propped her elbow on the edge of the table, held the cigarette daintily between two fingers, and squinted at me through the smoke. “So what can I do for you?”

Showtime. “Ms. Lazar, we wanted to follow-up on some information that our office came across in the last couple of days.” I kicked myself. At the very least, I should have thought to bring a clipboard or something that would make me come off even mildly official.

“And what information would that be?” she asked dryly, eyes flicking up to study the glowing end of her cigarette.

I was mesmerized by the quivering mole on her chin and had to force my gaze away, back to her squinty eyes. “We have information your facility accepted a load of California nuts, but your licenses don’t allow for storage of foodstuffs.”

Her manicured eyebrows arched delicately, and Rita took another long puff. She sucked so deeply and held the smoke in so long that I wondered if she was used to puffing a whole lot more than cigarettes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with my husband about that.” As she spoke each word, fumes puffed out of her mouth.

So Rita was married. Ms. Rita was all I’d heard since Rocky had uttered her name. “Actually, what we’re hoping to accomplish today is to secure permission to complete an inspection of the building, and then we can go ahead and issue a license for food storage.” I surprised myself by coming up with such a realistic-sounding crock of shit.

Rita snorted, and then cleared her throat, like a baseball player getting ready to lob a snot ball. I barely contained a cringe. “The nuts aren’t there anymore.”

Not sure what to say to that, I simply nodded. I so loved sailing by the seat of my britches. “We understand the product is no longer there, but we could make the license retroactive, and then you’d be legal for that and any other shipments of nuts in the future. We’d also like to inspect the nuts, unless of course they’ve been shipped out of the state. Do you have any additional shipments coming in?” I was doing so well, I was on the brink of believing myself.

Rita scowled, as much as her botoxed features would allow. “I don’t think there’ll be any additional shipments. My husband and I are planning to move back to Portugal, where I’m originally from.” She must have come from Portugal some time ago since I couldn’t detect an accent. That also explained the reason for the empty rooms. “In fact,” she added, “we’re planning on leaving a week from now. So, if you don’t have any other questions, I have to continue packing.”

I thought folks in this neighborhood would have packers and movers taking care of such menial tasks. She stood, and I followed suit. “I do have one last question, Mrs. Lazar. Where did the nuts ship from your site?”

Rita stood still, and I watched her left eyelid twitch. “I don’t know,” she said, and her eye twitched again, and she touched a finger to it. “You’ll have to ask Luther.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” I made a play of checking the time. “Where can I find him? It’s running late, and I’d like to get this squared away as soon as possible.”

“He should be at the Washington Avenue warehouse. We have a couple of other storage facilities, but I think that’s where he’s working today.” Her eyes narrowed on me again. “You know, I don’t think you showed me any credentials earlier.”

Oh, shit. Trying to think fast, like the con artist I wasn’t, I patted my waist and managed a weak, “It seems I forgot my ID card in the car. If you’d like to step outside with me, I can show it to you.” Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” With that, Rita turned and steamed out of the room with me hot on her tail, her still-burning cigarette forgotten in the ashtray. She charged into the foyer, and as she was about to open the fourteen-ton front entry, the deep, echoing gong of the doorbell sounded. She pulled the heavy door open, and three kids stood on her stoop, freshly scrubbed and looking as nervous as I felt.

A chubby boy with a red crew cut and smattering of freckles across his nose stepped forward and said, “
Hola
. We’re part of the Burnside Middle School Spanish Club, and we’re trying to raise money for a trip to Mexico in the spring and we’ve got …” The kid droned on. I took the opportunity to slip around the group while they had Rita’s attention.

As I hot-footed it to the truck, Rita shouted, interrupting the redhead who was still working on one of the longest sentences I’d ever heard. “Hey, you! Shag, Shaw, O’Hanly … whatever, I want your ID—”

Luckily Rita was trapped by the kids, who weren’t budging off her front steps. They must have really wanted to go to Mexico. I hopped into the truck and quickly backed down the street and into a neighbor’s drive, and turned my truck around. I mashed the pedal to the floor and beat hell out of there.