Caught Dead (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

Jon Torcelli had moved back into his apartment in New Haven, getting ready for Yale grad school. When he answered the door, he didn't seem surprised to see Hank and me. This was not exactly typical student housing, I realized, one of those familiar, tumbledown apartments that looked used and thrown together, no matter how hard the new tenants tried to decorate it. True, it was a second-floor walk-up on Chapel Street, near the art gallery, but these rooms were nicely furnished, very tasteful, I thought, some cookie-cutter assembly out of
Architectural Digest
. He may have moved in the day before, but there wasn't a cardboard box in sight.

“It doesn't look like you just moved in.”

“Yes and no. Yes, I moved in yesterday. No, because I've had this apartment since undergrad school and never gave it up.” His hand swept the room. “This is my real world. My music, my games, my books, my sofa. My world.”

“Why do you go home during the summer?”

“I go back and forth. But my mother insisted I come home for the summer. Be part of the family, dysfunctional though it might be.”

“And your father pays for this apartment?”

He smiled. “Why do you think I have to spend time at home? But when Mom was alive, we talked. I
was
happy to talk to her. Dad never came home until late. Mom got lonely. And Kristen is, well, not that good at conversation.”

Inside the living room we sat on IKEA furniture, and sipped iced tea in the ice-cold room. “I like it cold.” He smiled. “I'm not paying for it.”

“Great apartment.”

“Women like it.”

Hank probed, “You got a girlfriend?”

“Is that why Batman and his Robin have flown down I-91? To question my sexuality?”

“No,” I said, “but I want to ask you some questions.”

“About what? I don't know a fucking thing.”

“We were talking to Cindy and Tommy yesterday, and the talk was all about Danny—and drugs.” His eyebrows went up in a here-we-go-again look. “I wanted to hear what you have to say about that.”

“About drugs?”

“Well, it seems to have been a big deal with your Mom and your aunt.”

“Big deal? They were
consumed
by it. I always assumed the tale of the cousin's opium death was the only Vietnamese folk tale carried over on the plane.”

“But why lately?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I really think it's generational—and a little ethnic maybe. Old school. Fresh off the boat. I don't know. They watch too much TV maybe. A hundred years ago Nancy Reagan was their homeland security goddess.”

“You're being flippant.”

“It's what I like doing.”

“It's a way of avoiding answering questions.”

“Or, in fact, answering those questions in an interesting manner.”

“What does that mean?” From Hank.

Jon looked at him. “Figure it out. You're a college grad. You went to that bastion of intellectuality called Farmington College.”

Hank shut up, but I could see he was fuming.

I went on. “In their last days, Molly and Mary were afraid Tommy and Danny were back to using.”

“
Back
? Like they ever left?”

“But they didn't know that. They were in the dark for years.”

“But what's the big deal? It was nickel-and-dime level pot. They weren't importing brick kilos from Colombia, for heaven's sake.”

“But how did it come up?” I asked.

“What come up?”

“How did drugs suddenly become an obsession with the sisters?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

I leaned in. “Frankly, I think you're the one who started to poison the well. You poisoned your mother against Danny…”

“That happened years back.”

“But you made it a big deal now, to use your words.”

“Bullshit.”

“Did your mother tell you she found a joint in Kristen's room?”

He waited a second. “Actually, yes.”

“And what did you tell her?”

He laughed. “She thought Kristen was a goddamned drug addict. Because of one joint.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I told her Danny gave it to her. How could I resist the moment?”

“Why connect Danny with drugs in your mother's mind?”

“Well, the idea was already there from years back. And Asians, like elephants, have long and simple memories. It was the perfect opportunity to, well,
campaign
against Danny, my nemesis. The other dark meat. One afternoon he was sitting in the driveway, waiting for Susie to come out. He picked her up on days she worked late. He was on his cell phone, yapping away, and I think I surprised him, coming around the side. Danny was saying something about profit or percentage or some banker lingo, but he jumped when he saw me, hung up the phone, and looked guilty. I chided him, ‘You breaking some federal laws?' He didn't laugh. So I thought—wouldn't it be nice to get him in trouble?”

“But you didn't.”

“He's too squeaky clean, that puppy, let me tell you. But then I bumped into Kristen inside, and she's all a-titter, with that giddy I've-been-fucked glow, and I think she's just made it with Lover Man, probably in the back seat of the Mercedes. Real classy.”

“Where are you going with this?” Hank asked.

“She was high, giggly and stupid, and I followed her into the kitchen and asked her. She never said no, but when she went to the bathroom I looked through her purse and found that joint.”

“
You
found it?” Hank asked.

“True confessions, I'm afraid.”

I understood. “And you planted it where your mother could…”

“Horribly, painfully, dramatically, mournfully—find it! Voila!”

“And that's how you got the ball rolling.”

“I'm good.” He sat back, smug.

“A little evil,” Hank said.

“It wasn't like I was making anything up.” Jon locked eyes with me. “I started to tell Dad that Danny was feeding Kristen drugs, but I got no further than, ‘Hello, Dad.' We don't talk much. He looks right through me, in fact. I
am
the other son. So I knew he couldn't be shaken from his ivory-tower view of Danny. But Mom was a different story. She went nuts finding the joint. I told her Danny was to blame, and all hell broke out.”

“She called Mary.”

“To warn her to look out for Tommy. To watch Tommy
and
Danny. To check for needle tracks in the arms, for excessive sweating, for hallucinations, for whatever. Unfortunately it got back to Danny.”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard him protesting his innocence to his mother and Dad in the kitchen, My mother blamed him, and so Dad asked him. Danny lied, saying Kristen got the pot from Tommy. Tommy! I'm sure Daddy told Mommy who then told Mary, who then started a twenty-four-seven surveillance on poor Tommy.”

“You knew it would get back to Mary.”

“Hell, Mary was a busybody, crazy in her own simple way. I knew she'd fuck up Danny.”

“But it backfired, didn't it?” Hank said.

“Sort of. Mary flipped out, Mom flipped out, Tommy got blamed, and Danny, as usual, gets off like a knight in shining armor. Dad actually told me how
heroic
—that was his word—Danny was, trying to straighten things out. I almost hit him.”

“Who? Your dad?”

“Actually either one would do,” he said. “So now you know. I was the joint-bearer in this medieval chanson.”

“All because you don't like Danny.”

His voice hardened. “Dad was talking of bringing him into some family business. That's a no no.”

“And your father doesn't want you to be a part of the business.”

“Dad prefers that I smile and keep out of the way. I don't really
like
the man. Mom—she I liked. Well…loved.”

“But the incident of the joint blew over, no?”

“Unfortunately.”

I caught his eye. “So you must have done something…”

He held up his hand. “Clever, you are. A few words in Mom's ear—like ‘Search her room!' It did wonders. It seems Kristen squirreled away an envelope of stolen joy—doubtless taken from Lover Boy Danny. Mom lost it—ran to me. Wept out of control. I had to calm her down. ‘I'll talk to Kristen,' I promised her.” He laughed. “I actually said to Mom, ‘Kristen may already be an addict. Check her Facebook, her e-mails.' But that went nowhere with Mom, of course. And then I mentioned Danny. Inspired. Truly inspired.”

“Fiendish.” From Hank.

“It is what it is.” He shrugged. “She ran to call Mary. Another day of opium nightmares.”

“Did she tell your father?”

“I don't know.”

I leaned back, watching him, realizing he was a little bit nervous. A line of sweat beaded on his forehead.

“What do you remember the night of Mary's murder?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

“Well, I wasn't home that afternoon. In fact, I was in this apartment, but I drove home later. I called to see if there was going to be dinner, but no one answered. I got back about seven, and the house was empty. Later on I heard Mom's car in the driveway. Anyway, she comes flying in, and she's rattled. I asked her where she'd been, and she said she got lost at West Farms Mall. Okay, I said, what does that mean? She kept saying, ‘I was rushing around because I was late.' For some reason, she blamed it on Kristen. Anyway, I'm trying to talk to her, and she wants to know if I want dinner.” Jon paused. “You know what she said? ‘I've been to the mall a thousand times, and I got lost.' She went on and on, and I walked away.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I went to watch the news on the set in the kitchen. And she came into the kitchen and started taking stuff out of the freezer.”

“What did she say?”

“‘I hate making mistakes,' she said. I remember that. ‘I was late.' Then she looked nervous. ‘Has Kristen come back yet? Just like her to mix things up.' I remember because I said Kristen wasn't home and asked
what
was typical. ‘She's spacey. I'm worried about her,' she said. I figured it had to do with the drug nonsense…you know, tracking her down.”

“And then?”

“And then the two of us made dinner together. I poured her a glass of wine and she relaxed. When I was clearing the dishes, I noticed her reading a slip of paper she took from her pocket.”

“What did it say?”

“I didn't pay attention. She tore it up into little bits and threw them into the trash.”

“She didn't add anything?”

She said she needed a good social secretary. And she laughed. ‘I ended up in the wrong place. So I came home.' She said she wasted her time.”

“That's it.”

“I was on my computer and heard the phone ring. The news that Aunt Mary was dead. And Mom collapsed in my arms. And that took care of the rest of that evening.”

Chapter Thirty

“What was Molly late for?” I said to Hank as we drove back to Farmington.

“She was going somewhere at the mall. Some store? Maybe to meet someone? Kristen, perhaps. She'd written down an address, but she was late.“

“But could Molly going to the mall have anything to do with Mary's murder?”

“Well,” Hank said, “it got her out of the house.”

I dialed the Torcelli home. No answer. I reached for a folder on the back seat. “Hank,” I slid him the folder, “look up Susie's home number.”

Susie, it turned out, was home, her day off. Her voice was cool and guarded. “What do you want?”

I mentioned how Molly had gone to the mall the day Mary was murdered. She seemed to have an appointment, but somehow things got mixed up.

“Yes,” Susie said. “I remember. She told me the next day. She was running late, and then she blamed herself for going to the wrong place.”

“Where was she going?”

“She'd gone to pick up Kristen somewhere, then do some shopping for a dress, but they got their signals crossed. Miss Molly went to the wrong place, I think. Or, I don't know, she was late. I can't remember.”

I thanked her and hung up. “She was going to pick up Kristen, but…”

The phone rang, Jimmy calling.

“I got the stuff I promised you. I got financial information. The money-talks information. I don't know if it means anything, but you gotta hear it.”

I told him that Hank and I were headed back to the area, planning to meet Liz for lunch in West Hartford center, at the Blue Back Café. He could join us.

“Isn't that place pricey?”

“I'll treat.”

“You better.”

Hank spoke when I hung up the phone. “What if that note Molly tore up was
left
for her? What if she didn't write it herself?”

I nodded. “That's a possibility. There may have been wrong information on that note.”

“And she tore it up.”

“In frustration.”

***

Hank and I sat on the roof garden of the Blue Back Café, tucked under spacious, cooling umbrellas and munching on bread sticks. We stared down at the sidewalk shoppers. Liz arrived, and then Jimmy, who wasn't happy. “I don't like eating outdoors.”

“And why is that?” Liz asked.

“Reminds me of Vietnam. In battle, in trenches, flies all over you, bullets whizzing, wet food, dysentery.”

Hank grunted, “They don't allow flies in West Hartford.”

Jimmy glared. “No, just pests.”

Hank and I summed up our conversations with Tommy and Cindy and earlier that morning with Jon. I told Jimmy, “Liz went to Bank of America to look at Danny.”

“He's gorgeous.” She fanned herself.

Jimmy frowned. “Studies have shown that women never believe a man is guilty of anything if he's good looking.”

“Makes sense to me,” Liz agreed. “If you're good looking, you don't need to commit a crime.”

“Hey,” Jimmy grunted. “I'm wasting my time here. Sex has nothing to do with this case. I came with information.”

While the waiter hovered and we gave our sandwich orders, Jimmy pulled out a wrinkled stack of sheets from his back pocket. Jimmy believed in taking notes the old-fashioned way, sitting in the business section of the Hartford Public Library, hours at a time, digesting year-end reports, news clippings, sheets of statistics, stock indices. In the process he'd made enviable contacts in metropolitan Hartford over the years, a man whom people gladly talked to. I can whiz through computer search engines, but Jimmy can still find stuff I miss. His practiced eye can sift through pages and pages of aimless jargon and corporate dreck, culling the nugget of wisdom buried deep inside.

We waited, sipping sodas, while he took his sweet time, organizing the papers. Jimmy had to perform on his own stage with his own rhythm.

“I checked whatever financial histories I could find, believing, as I do, that money…”

I interrupted. “Is the source of all crime.”

He smiled. “You learn well. Anyway, I had to call in a few favors because some of this ain't public information. It helps to know people.”

“So you're saying you got this information illegally,” Hank wondered.

Jimmy ignored him, clearing his throat.

“First of all, the life and financial times of Benny and Mary Vu. The store barely makes a living, just enough to pay the mortgage on the little house in East Hartford. But the guy knows how to stretch a buck, let me tell you. I think they live on rice and more rice. Anyway, there's no money there. Even the cars are old and clunky. Except a year back or so Benny deposited ten grand into his saving account, and pretty quickly used it to pay overdue bills, get a little ahead in the mortgage, that sort of thing.”

“Ten thousand in one payment?” I asked.

Jimmy smiled. “That took a little probing. It turns out he won it at the Indian casino at Mohegan Sun. He plays blackjack and, according to my sources, is real lousy. Make a hundred here, lose a hundred, lose another hundred, and lose another hundred. Lots of the debt he has is due to losing at the casino. But he hit it big one night—you gotta sign papers if you win over ten grand—and he came home with piles of wampum.”

“Did Mary gamble?” Liz asked.

“Dunno, but she was there that night. They both claimed the money.”

“Any left?”

“Not much. Used a buck to bury Mary, I'm afraid. The rest went to house taxes, that stuff. Right now he's clear—no big bills. That won't last long.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because he can't stay away from the gaming halls.”

“How about the kids?”

“Cindy and Tommy? Pittance, low rollers through life. Working at this half-assed job and that. Minimum wage kids. Tommy probably siphoning a few extra bucks from daddy's till but there's not that much to siphon off. Cindy lives at home but seems to hide in her room, I guess. He lives with two buddies in Elmwood and the rent is dirt cheap. They got enough to buy cigarettes, CDs, and condoms. The essentials.”

I laughed. “Wasn't that an FDR New Deal project? CCC?”

“FDR wouldn't put up with this shit.”

“What shit?”

“Like eating on a roof in the middle of August.” He sighed. “A good man, that FDR.” But he kept going. “Neither kid has ever come close to a savings account.”

The waiter placed platters of sandwiches on the table, and for a few minutes we ate, giving our attention to the food. Jimmy nodded his approval and signaled the waiter for another soda. “Not bad for expensive bread with a slice of bologna inside.” He was smiling.

“And then,” I said dramatically, putting down my sandwich, “we go to the other end of the world, the Torcelli money.”

“Big, big money,” Jimmy roared, smiling. “The kind of money people would
kill
for.”

“Uh oh.” Liz in a stage whisper. “Editorializing from Jimmy.”

“I'm just presenting the facts,” he explained. “Larry Torcelli inherited his motorized empire from his father, who made the first money. It seems his father, however, was brighter and swifter when it came to bucks. Over the years Larry has had a rush of dips in his fortune, almost declaring bankruptcy many, many years back. The problem has to do with ambition. He keeps expanding the empire. His dad left two dealerships, and millions. Larry now has five. The last one—in Greenwich—was added two years back. What I'm saying is he has constant cash flow problems, but he has no trouble getting backing, elsewhere. He's
stable
.”

“Stable?” I asked.

“The business community sees him as a rock.”

“Despite the fluctuations?”

“You know, even Donald Trump sinks and then rises. That is, part of the empire goes bust, then he recoups.”

“And the last dip?”

“Well, the new dealership required megabucks. It's Greenwich, the Gold Coast. So he throws a lot of cash into it, and then the economy tanks, the stock market starts to slip, and he can't pay creditors. He wasn't worried, but he had to shuffle funds around.”

“Where are you going with this?”

Jimmy fidgeted. “Don't be impatient. All I'm saying is that Larry likes to take chances. He's a little like Benny, in some way, a gambler. And when you're a gambler in the business world, you can get yourself in trouble. Last year he came close to the edge.”

“But he's okay now?” Hank asked.

“Now the Ferris wheel is on the rise again. Lots of money. The place in Greenwich is solvent. He actually has
more
money than before.
That
gamble paid off.”

“Sounds about right.” From Hank.

“Things are good. Molly and Larry bought a cottage in Stonington, right on the water, in sight of Fort Trumbull.”

“That's pricey,” said Liz.

“That's four mil.” Jimmy held up four fingers. “It's a rich man's cottage. At one point they even thought of buying Katherine Hepburn's old estate at Fenwick, but Molly balked. Too much repair needed, she said.”

“I'd buy it for the memories.” From Liz.

“The kids?”

“Kristen has a savings account, no checking. Not much. Jon has both, and plenty of money when he turns thirty—a trust fund from his grandfather when the old man died, earmarked for number one son. Kristen didn't get any.”

“And what about Danny and Susie?”

“Susie has the house, in her son's name by the way, and modest savings. Torcelli pays her well. A little too much, but she has been with the family for years. Danny is interesting. No college debt, since the scholarship and Larry covered that. His job at the bank is fast track to big money, but he's new at it, young. A decent salary. Larry gave him an allowance through school. But his savings account is pretty average, maybe a little above average. The only problem is that he occasionally drops in lump sums of a thousand or so into it. I can't find out where the money is coming from. Not big change, to be sure, but sort of regular, and odd.”

“Embezzling from the bank?” From Hank

“Not likely. He's real careful at the bank.”

“So everything is what it's supposed to be?”

“At least on the surface,” Jimmy said.

“Let me ask you this,” I jumped in. “What bank handles the Torcelli moneys, personal and business?”

“Bank of America,” Jimmy said. And then, with a smile, “I was saving that piece of news for last. Guess who's in charge of those massive accounts?”

“Danny!” I hit my fist on the table.

“Bingo. It's a little unusual, but maybe not. Someone on Danny's level would never handle such large accounts, but Larry requested Danny, and so of course the bank agreed. Had to, given Larry's power, though Danny has a senior mentor who reviews
every
transaction to avoid problems. Larry trusts Danny.”

“Does the bank like that?”

“The last audit showed not a single problem. In fact, Danny was commended for thoroughness of his dealings with Larry's money.”

“Well, where does this leave us?”

“But I think,” Jimmy talked over me, “that Danny is calling some of the shots—or at least feeding Larry advice. Larry is director of an operation called AsiaAuto Investments, part of some larger corporation called AsiaConcepts Enterprises. And it was Danny who did the research on it, putting together a prospectus. With Larry's connections in the automotive world and his history and knowledge of the industry, it seemed a sure investment.”

“What's it all about?”

“Well,” said Jimmy, “best I can figure out is that AsiaConcepts is a kind of broker. You know, many U.S. corporations are exporting electronic trash to China because it's easier to unload it there than deal with the chemicals, toxins, you name it.”

“Yeah,” Hank was nodding, “I read how some Chinese cities are ringed by huge heaps of American appliances, electronics, and stuff. Corporations pay China to accept untreated trash, and the Chinese see it as a way of getting scrap metal cheaply, a source of raw material.”

“But,” said Jimmy, “the broken TVs, monitors, keyboards, traveling by way of Hong Kong, are ruining the health of Chinese children, respiratory problems, and so on.”

“And AsiaConcepts does what?” From Liz.

“Some big corporations handle their own deals, but lately some small industries, burdened by U.S. environmental laws, want to get rid of trash, but they're small potatoes. AsiaConcepts brokers it, deals with the politicos in China, arranges delivery, and pockets a hefty percentage.”

“Sounds like a good deal, if ethically questionable,” I said. “But what does AsiaConcepts have to do with Larry?”

“Nothing, really,” Jimmy said.

“So?”

“But AsiaConcepts has diversified. You know, China has one-fifth of the world population, with an economy growing at ten percent a year. They're coming into their own with electronics, even automobiles. Since they've become part of the World Trade Organization, they're blossoming. It's a foreign investor's dream. World Bank. Asian Development Bank. They want to be a player on the world scene but are plagued by acid rain and coal-backed pollution. They recycle little, creating trash heaps of their own—plastics, glass, metal.

“So Larry comes into this how?” I asked.

“China wants to be a leader in automobile manufacture. Already they're third, behind America and Japan. Cars are everywhere. China has decided to make car manufacturing one of its four pillars of development. They're getting ready to create a car that will be exported worldwide—even to the U.S., rivaling, eventually, Japan.”

“That seems farfetched.” From Hank.

“No, not really. They got the push behind them.”

“And Larry?” I repeated.

Jimmy smiled. “So AsiaConcepts created a division called AsiaAuto Investments, an offshoot managed by Larry, who, with his knowledge of the industry, is perfect. Like the parent company, small-time investors, especially Larry's auto-world friends, can pool investment monies—fifty grand, even up to a half million maybe—and AsiaAuto uses the money to help develop China's car culture. Long-range hopes of a big payoff.”