Caught Dead (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

Detective Ardolino had left two messages on my machine, one telling me to call him at home. Neither message was pleasant. When I called him back, reaching him at his house, he was eating. He was chewing on something, and he gulped so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “That good?”

“The wife's barbecue ribs. Nothing like it. If I liked you, I'd invite you over.”

“I'm not the one leaving frantic messages on my machine,”

A pause, then a chuckle. “I've never been frantic in my life.”

“So?”

“I thought it was time to get an update from you.” He waited. “You were supposed to share info.”

“What makes you think I have any?”

“Well, I've been talking to some of the same folks you have, and we seem to be covering the same tired ground.”

“Then you know what I know.”

“Maybe you see things a little different. Maybe your people tell you things they don't tell me, an officer of the law.”

“Okay, here's what I know.” I gladly filled him in on my investigation, the saga of the Torcelli-Vu children, the jealousies and temperaments. Even the pot bust back in prep school.

“Yeah,” Ardolino said, “a bunch of freaks, if you ask me. The parents hold that pot bust over Vu's kid like he fucked the pope's daughter. Problem is—a couple of kids got money to burn and they fuck it up. And they all seem to hate each other.”

“But none of this translates into murder.”

“Who knows?”

We talked about Larry Torcelli and Benny Vu. He grunted. “Torcelli's a self-serving money bag, real proud of himself and his little gasoline-powered world. Pissed that someone took his beautiful wife away because he lost a thing of great beauty, like she's a statue in the fucking Athenaeum. And Benny Vu, that cipher, sitting there nodding at me like a skinny Buddha, agreeing with everything I say, and then telling me nothing. Nothing.”

“He's a philosopher.”

“A what? Are you nuts? He sells jars of stuff I can't even identify and probably illegal in the good old US of A. I picked up a jar and he tells me it's toad skin. Another one's powdered deer bone. We should raid the place. I tell you I got a headache from his nonanswers. And he gives me a gift when I leave. Tiger balm.”

I smiled.
“Dau cu la con Cop
. Rub it on your temples.”

“Haven't you people heard of Vick's Vapor Rub?”

“Try it.”

“Give the man a scratch-off lottery ticket, and you've made his day.”

“That's not fair.” I wanted to defend Benny Vu. “He's a simple man who lost his wife…”

“And don't know where to find her.” He chuckled.

“I don't think the Anti-Defamation League is gonna be naming you Citizen of the Year.”

“My job is to catch murderers, not talk pretty.” He sighed. “Look, Rick Van Lam, we're at the same dead end here. The punk Rican that got winged in the first murder is in jail, won't talk, but, I'll tell you, he seems like small potatoes here. I've checked all the snitches, from the North End to Frog Hollow, and let me tell you, the word on the street is that the two murders ain't got no connection to anything going on. Increased gang activity, but everybody laying low. You know the Mayor's civic crackdown, with cops all over the place for pictures in the
Courant
. Well, that good-time-Charlie feeling is still going on. As I said, right now everybody's laying low. What I mean is that the drug lords—not the pipsqueaks on the street corners—don't want no major shit coming down right now. They know the game—wait for the mayor to fall in love with preschool programs for AIDS-infected, drug-addicted mommies and for the
Courant
to rediscover the joys of gubernatorial corruption—and then the drug kings will kill each other.” He stopped suddenly, almost out of breath.

“So it comes back to something to do with Mary and Molly.”

“Or, and this I don't believe, there are new, higher-up players on the scene, trying to take over the territory. But that don't make sense.”

I agreed. I asked him about Danny Trinh. He seemed surprised. “That fellow?”

“You talk to him?”

“Of course. And his I'm-so-happy-I'm-the-American-Dream mama. Neither one likes talking to cops, and the mama complained about you, but she wouldn't tell me why.”

“I asked her if Danny was screwing Kristen.”

Ardolino cracked up, choked, and ended up with a hacking smoker's cough. “You did? Fucking fantastic. Man, I may actually grow to like you.”

“Don't try too hard.”

“What'd she do?”

“She kicked me out of the house.”

“Don't blame her. But you know I sort of liked Trinh. Didn't have much to say. Like everyone he's baffled by the ‘turn of events,' as he put it, speaking in better English than the President. Just seems to be a little too edgy, ambitious.” He paused. “But you obviously don't like Trinh as much as I do.”

“How do you know that?”

“You forget I'm a detective. Years of experience.”

“In fact, I don't.” I told him about Danny's being a player through the years, a cad. A sexual hotshot. I told him how he used Cindy. But I also told him about the old Honda and the apartment on Hartt Street in Frog Hollow.

Silence. “Thanks for saving that thunderbolt until the end.” A long pause. “What's with that?”

I told him what I'd found out.

“You gotta be careful running around that neighborhood,” he said. “Lots of crime there.”

“It's my job.”

“No, it's
my
job.”

“I'm helping you.”

“Yeah, I forgot. I'm the one who called you.”

“I was gathering my thoughts.”

“I'll call you back. I gotta check this address out.”

“For what?”

“I'll call you back.”

And he did, an hour later. “Guess what I learned? That house is
owned
by the guy on the first floor. Binh Ky Trinh. Lives there with his wife and a hundred children and grandchildren. He's sixty-three, one of the Boat People. And he's a cousin of Danny's mom's ex-husband. The third floor is another cousin. And Duong, a.k.a Danny, has been living there for three years, since moving back to Hartford. All in the family.”

“I wonder if his mother knows.”

“The ex-husband walked out on her, but I learned he'd been around town, off and on. Out to San Jose, back here. Dead now, five years. But Danny—Duong—knew him to say hello to. The guy uses the place to chill, most likely. I guess the stress of Mama Susie and Bank of America and Larry Torcelli's vision of greatness can get to a man.”

I was impressed. “How did you find all this out so fast?”

“I told you. I'm a goddamned good detective.” I heard him belch and cough.

“So all this could be nothing.”

“Yeah. Or something. I'm having background checks done on the whole house.”

“But you still like Danny,” I said.

“Hey, the guy has to have a place to bang girls, no? You can't do it with Mama Susie in the next room, blessing herself and saying the Rosary.” He sighed. “Keep in touch.” He hung up.

***

The next afternoon I stopped at Hank's house only to find him out with his mother and grandmother. The crusty grandfather was annoyed when I knocked on the door. He watched me through the screen door, saying nothing, looking as though I woke him from a nap. Did he know when they'd return? He didn't answer. Would he tell Hank I'd stopped in? He didn't answer. I felt foolish, just standing there, so I turned to leave. Behind me, I heard a dismissive grunt. Exiled in a strange land he could never understand, the man would never like me, I knew, blaming me for the death of his serene life in the old homeland, the American soldiers as destroyers of national identity, these same soldiers who brought about the bastardization of his Vietnamese people. And I was one of the bastards.

So I drove back to my apartment, did some paper work, went for a run down past Miss Porter's School, and then returned for a bracing shower. It was a good afternoon for running. Another rainstorm had made the air pleasant.

At six I met Liz at the police station and we drove to a Thai restaurant on South Whitney Street, near downtown Hartford. I stopped at a liquor store so I could pick up a six-pack of Sam Adams, and we sat at the tiny, out-of-the-way restaurant, eating hot basil shrimp and red-curry chicken, the cool beer accenting the spicy food. Liz had on her work clothes, very professional in a light-blue cotton dress and sandals, her hair pulled back so that her prominent cheekbones were even more dramatic. A slight trace of peach lipstick. Pink nails. Toenails. A late summer confection. A beautiful woman, I had to admit. And once my wife.

“You look good.” I toasted her with a glass of beer.

“You always say that.” A heartbeat. “You look tired.”

“I am.”

“It's summer and you should have a tan.”

Liz had news for me. “Listen to this. Mary made a phone call to the to the Hartford police three days before she was murdered. She identified herself as Mary Le Vu, and asked to speak with Detective Eric Smolski.”

I looked blank. “And?”

“Well, Eric Smolski retired three years back. There was no way she could have known that. And when she was referred to someone else, she said she'd call back.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No,” Liz said. “I just discovered this by talking to Detective Ferguson, who got her transferred call. He wrote down her name in a log, but she said she'd call back. She never did.”

“Christ, what does this mean?”

“Well, Ferguson said she didn't sound anxious or anything, so far as he could recall. It was brief. Wanting to talk to Smolski. When she learned he'd retired, she sighed, said good-bye. So all he had was her name in his log book, but nothing else.”

“Why didn't this come up before? After all, she was murdered.”

“He's been on family emergency leave, out of state for a month. Mom dying of cancer in Rochester. He returned to work, caught up on the life of crime he'd missed, and spotted the name Vu. It caught his attention. He remembered the call. He told the chief. I got a call out of Hartford from my friend, who put me through to Ferguson. Ardolino also knows about it now.”

I sat back. “So she wanted to talk to a Hartford detective.”

“Not just any detective. Eric Smolski.”

“Why him?”

“Simple,” said Liz. “He's the detective who handled her son Tommy's drug bust back eight or so years ago. He was probably the only detective she knew.”

“Something is up.”

“It brings us right back to that pot bust.”

“Which no one seems to have forgotten.”

“But why Smolski? After all this time.”

“Mary wasn't just placing a friendly call to Smolski. She needed help,” I said.

“And three days later she's dead.”

“And she didn't tell anyone about it. Not even her husband Benny. He would have told me. I don't think he's hiding anything.”

“Maybe she was scared.”

“Or maybe she
did
tell someone.”

“Who?”

“Maybe she told her sister Molly.” I tapped the table. “That makes sense, the two conspiratorial sisters.”

“Which meant Molly had to die, too.”

“But,” I added, “if that's the case, why didn't Molly tell the police—or even me—when I talked to her after Mary's death? If she
knew
something involving Mary's murder, why would she keep silent?”

“Maybe she didn't believe Mary.”

I remembered the flicker of an eye in Molly's eye when I first spoke to her, “Or maybe she was too scared.”

“And then she was dead,” Liz spoke softly.

“And she took that fear with her.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Hank and I sat in my living room reviewing my note cards, juxtaposing one family member against another. He looked up. “Mary knew something that scared her. Okay? And she must have told Molly. She didn't tell the kids or Benny. And Molly didn't tell Larry. She was scared of something—or someone.”

I nodded. “And when Mary got killed, Molly
did
have an idea what happened.”

“But,” Hank went on, “maybe Molly didn't think the matter a big deal until Mary died. Then she got scared.”

“But even then she wasn't scared enough to tell anyone, least of all the cops. She went to that square looking for something.”

“The same thing that Mary was looking for.”

Hank and I looked at each other. “What's there?” I wondered. “You go there for drugs.”

“But that's impossible.” Hank pursed his brow. “The two sisters weren't buying drugs.”

“Then they were looking for a person who had an
answer
they could only find there.”

“The kids?”

“Which kid?” I asked.

“One or more of the kids may have an answer.”

“Why not the husbands?”

“True,” said Hank. “But that's farfetched.”

“So where are we?”

“Well, the murders are tied into the family. That's why Molly wouldn't speak up.”

“What about Danny?”

“He's family, of sorts.”

“Family, but still an outsider.”

He nodded. “But an outsider with a secret life. That apartment in Frog Hollow.”

I sighed. “Maybe it was only a secret to us. Maybe it was the most natural thing in the world for him to want his own space.”

“Still, it's unusual.” Hank flipped the cards as if he were dealing a game of poker.

“But Molly didn't like him. If Danny was involved, wouldn't Molly have spoken up after Mary talked to her? She had no reason to
protect
Danny. Larry liked him. She didn't.”

“Or maybe Danny was connected to one of her kids. Like Kristen,” Hank said.

I breathed in, sat back, closing my eyes for a moment. “A lot of this hinges on what Mary said to Molly. That must have been some visit.”

“Or phone call. I'm calling Benny now.”

“Hank, it's late.”

Hank dialed the phone, sitting on the edge of the chair. I got the extension from my bedroom. Hank spoke in rapid-pace Vietnamese. I understood most of what he said, but my Vietnamese was slipping. Certain phrases, sentences, words flew by me, unknown.

Benny Vu wasn't happy, but he agreed to talk. And to me, too, because I spoke into the phone, letting him know I was on the line.

“Uncle Benny,” Hank began, differentially, “did Mary tell Molly anything out of the ordinary on the day before she died?”

“They talked all the time, Hank.”

“But were you around—did you ever hear her say anything unusual in their conversations?”

A pause. “They talked of family, mostly. Let me think. They talked mainly of how they feel, the children, a charity Molly had put Mary on.”

“How did Mary feel about that?”

“Mary just wanted to stay home. She wasn't a public lady, you know.”

“But Molly insisted?”

“Yes, Mary told me she did it because Molly wanted her to, but her heart wasn't in it. She didn't like the company of strange women.”

“But she did it.”

“Of course. Family. The only thing important to Mary was family. You know that.”

Hank took a breath. “Then could family be a reason she was murdered?”

A long silence. “I thought about that.” Benny's high-pitched Vietnamese was gravelly and raw. “But why? These are simple families, ours.”

“Did you know that Aunt Mary tried to reach a detective a few days before she died. She called Detective Smolski.”

He was surprised. “Smolski? From years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She didn't say. But he's retired and she hung up.”

The news surprised him. I could hear his breathing getting heavier, shorter. “She didn't tell me.”

“No idea what she wanted to ask him?” Hank asked.

“Or tell him,” I interrupted.

Again, the contemplative thinking. Finally, slowly, “No. This bothers me. We had no secrets, the two of us.”

“Maybe she was afraid to tell you something.”

Hank added, “Maybe something happened to—well, maybe Molly told
her
something.”

Benny's voice was getting raspy, agitated. This was not going well. But finally he remembered something. “Mary did say Molly was a little different lately.”

“Like what?”

I could almost hear him shrugging. “I didn't pay attention. Molly always unloaded her
troubles
on Mary. The hard life of the rich. After a while, I couldn't listen. Mary said Molly was depressed about Kristen, who was doing nothing with her life. But they'd had that conversation before, I know. Over and over. Molly complained about Kristen lately—and how Larry indulged the vain and silly girl.”

“So this wasn't something new?”

There was a long, long silence. Then Benny recalled scraps of overheard talk. “They had one conversation that left Mary depressed. I know she started to talk about it, but I didn't like hearing about Molly's world because Molly world's was always more important than anyone else's. And Mary usually felt the same way. I mean, she'd listen to Molly's whining—or bragging and celebrating something—and then, when she put down the phone, she'd forget about it. Sort of like—oh that Molly! But there was one time recently Mary
did
want to talk about it, and I shut her out.” A pause. “That was a mistake.”

“So you don't have any idea what Molly said?”

“Oh, but I do. It had to do with Kristen again. It was always Kristen lately.”

“What this time?” Hank asked.

“Drugs.” Benny's voice got low. “Molly got it into her head that Kristen was experimenting with drugs. But I thought it was just Molly's—well, craziness.”

“My God,” I said into the phone. “That's probably why Mary tried to reach Detective Smolski.”

Hank added, “The detective who arrested Tommy.”

Benny interrupted. “Mary would not intrude on Molly's life that way. Molly would be furious.”

“But what if Molly
asked
her to?”

“What? Arrest Kristen?”

“No, maybe get information. Mary didn't know—and Molly, too—where to turn to. Mary saw Smolski as a help line. He'd been a decent guy way back when.”

“But wouldn't she tell me she was calling him?” Benny asked.

He'd just admitted to closing Mary out, refusing to hear yet another Molly complaint, but I kept my mouth shut.

“So it comes back to drugs,” Hank said.

I asked Benny, “Do you remember why Molly thought Kristen was on drugs?”

No answer. Then, “I never asked.” He sighed. “I turned away from her.”

Hank spoke to me. “Nobody pays attention to Kristen because she's dumb.”

“Except Daddy, who treats her like a little girl.”

“Which,” Hank concluded, “could be why no one noticed anything about her.”

“Except Molly.”

“Who then told Mary.”

“And Mary,” I went on, “had a special hatred of drugs, given what happened to Tommy. As did Molly—her worst fear.”

“So,” Hank ended, “if this is true, you have two women who didn't understand what was happening, trying to solve a problem they couldn't fathom.”

Benny's voice came over the line, tinny now, sad. “And maybe that's why they're now dead.”

Quietly, he hung up the phone.