Eye Wit (21 page)

“Goodbye, Hans,” he said to me. “Better luck next time.”

“Ciao!” he called out as he returned to his little audience, shaking his head. He didn’t bother to look back at me to make sure I was leaving. He couldn’t be bothered.

I left.

Hell, I thought. That could have gone better. At least I had rattled him, if only briefly. I would have to try something different, in a better venue, if possible.

That venue turned out to be Bainbridge Island, an affluent Seattle suburb of 25,000 people who occupy an island the size of Manhattan in Puget Sound—in much less crowded fashion. I arrived on the island on a March Monday, not exactly sure what I would do but knowing I would confront Fellini again, probably at his family retreat on the west side of the island. I found his address the old-fashioned way. I called directory assistance.

The Fellini vacation home, a shingled cottage set a good distance off the road, wasn’t visible until I was halfway down the driveway. No cars were parked anywhere and when I looked in several of the windows, I saw that the story-and-a-half cottage was empty of people but full of old furniture, all of it more utilitarian than valuable, a world quite apart from Fellini’s New York brownstone.

I skirted the house’s perimeter. The place sat on a bank high above the narrow body of water separating the island from the Kitsap peninsula to the west. A long flight of slick wooden steps led down to a tipsy dock that jutted out into a small bay. A sloop was tethered to the dock, looking more than a little weather-beaten. Still, the whole waterfront package was probably worth close to a million dollars just for its placement on prime waterfront.

I drove by the house again that night, but no lights were on, as was true on Tuesday as well. Late Wednesday afternoon, I drove by again just as an old Volvo was climbing the drive. I noted two people in the front of the Volvo, but couldn’t see their faces clearly. I was certain it was Fellini and a young woman though, and I hoped I hadn’t been recognized as I drove past the driveway. A hundred yards further down the dead-end road I pulled my rental car into a neighbor’s driveway to turn around. I waited for the Volvo to pull onto the road and head for Winslow. I knew they were headed to Winslow. On Bainbridge Island, all roads merged in Winslow, the island’s downtown shopping area anchored by the Town N’ Country Market.

I followed the Volvo into town and to the market’s parking lot. I watched Marco Fellini and Iona Duncan emerge from the car. Both were wearing bulky outerwear that looked new, worn over V-neck sweaters. Jeans, running shoes and Seattle Mariners caps completed their attire. Pacific Northwest winter casual. Just like mine, except my hat, a gift from a friend, was black, with “Dirty Bird” stitched in bird-crap white above its bill.

I entered the store a few seconds behind them and grabbed a cart. They headed for the store’s deli and I drifted off into the adjacent produce section, idly hefting heads of cabbage as if I could tell a good one from a bad one.

When I pushed my cart behind theirs at the checkout line, I saw that Fellini had selected a nice filet of broiled and chilled salmon with what looked like dilled new potatoes and a salad of marinated asparagus, red onions and yellow peppers, all from the store’s deli.

“Always good to eat local, eat fresh,” I said to the back of his head. “I’m guessing those pretty asparagus came from Argentina. But then you’re particularly fond of nice things from Argentina, aren’t you, Mr. Bellini?”

Iona Duncan removed herself from the checkout counter and walked towards the market’s door, looking back at me fearfully. I kept a smile on my face.

Fellini/Bellini seemed unsure of what to do. He just nodded at me with a sickly smile and paid for his purchases with cash. He pocketed the change, grabbed the paper bag by its handles and headed for the front door where Iona Duncan hovered uneasily.

“Hold up, Bellini. I wanted your advice on what goes good with crow. I promised I’d provide a more appropriate dinner entrée for you guys, and tonight’s the night to make good on my promise.” The checkout clerk looked at me as if I were speaking gibberish. “I figured we’d start with an appetizer. These pickled slivers of liver look interesting,” I said, holding up a can of tuna and pretending to read its label. “Says here they’re genuine Romani, pit roasted. Probably real tasty on some plain old white water crackers. Whattaya think? Getting hungry yet?”

The checkout clerk reached for the phone and mumbled something into it, probably summoning help.

Fellini turned to Iona and flapped his free hand in a hurry-up gesture. Iona scurried out the door and Fellini followed.

“Hey, what’s the hurry, Bellini?” I yelled as I exited behind them. “There’s a great show at Bainbridge Arts and Crafts, inspired by the treasures of Auschwitz-Birkenau. Lots of jewelry, even a few thin-skinned lampshades. You’d love ‘em. They’d be a great fit for your collection, and the prices can’t be beat.”

Fellini paused at the door of his car and held up his phone. “I warned you, Reiniger. I’m calling the police.” He slid into the Volvo and started it up. He backed out of his parking slot, holding the phone to his ear as he cranked the wheel sharply to the left, then back to the right so that he could drive out of the parking lot.

I ran to the front of his car and pounded on the hood, once, twice, three times, harder each time. He rolled down the driver’s window and tilted his head out. “They’re already on their way.”

The window went back up, and I heard the locks click as I reached his door. He shut off the engine and crossed his arms. I beat on the window three times, then felt two strong arms encircle me.

“Easy, buddy,” the cop said, frog-walking me to the back seat of the police car. “Wait here while I get this sorted out.”

The cop slammed the door of the cruiser, then returned to Fellini’s car and spoke through the Volvo’s now-open window. I couldn’t hear what was being said. Too much blood was rushing through my ears.

I ended up spending the night in lockup in the Bainbridge police station. I was Mirandized, finger-printed and photographed, then placed in a holding cell, where I was told I would remain until transported to Bremerton in the morning to enter a plea before the judge. The charge would be disturbing the peace, with other charges to follow, pending a formal complaint from Fellini.

It didn’t turn out that way. I slept fitfully until dawn, then waited, and waited some more. Breakfast wasn’t served. Morning finally became noon before the cell was unlocked and I was handed a legal document on a clipboard.

“Sign here,” the officer said.

“What’s this?”

“Just sign it. You’re being served. It’s a restraining order, signed by the judge. You are prohibited from making contact with Marco Fellini when he is in Kitsap County. Specifically, you are not to come within a hundred feet of Marco Fellini. And you are also prohibited from ever entering T n’ C.”

“That’s it?” I said. “What about disturbing the peace?”

“Count yourself lucky. Fellini declined to press charges, and the DA’s too busy to be bothered with penny-ante shit like this.”

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now you get your crap from the clerk over there and then you get yourself on that boat over there.” He pointed to the ferry terminal down the hill. “You get your sorry ass off this island and don’t come back. When you get to the airport, tell me what flight you’ll be on. Your restraining order doesn’t cover the whole state of Washington, but I promise you that you will find yourself in jail for a long time if you ever show up on my island.”

So I got my crap and drove my rental car to the Captain’s House, a nice little B&B by the marina that I would probably never visit again.

At SeaTac airport, I used my cell phone to give Officer McDonald my flight information. He didn’t bother to thank me for calling.

When I stepped out of the loading chute at JFK, I was met by another cop, who served a second restraining order nearly identical to the one I already had in my coat pocket, this one prohibiting contact with Marco Fellini, Sophia Fellini, or any employee of Fellini Arts.

So much for trying to be Mr. Nice Guy.

As I flew back to Geneva, I reviewed my options. Obviously, I couldn’t confront Marco Fellini again, either in public or private, or I would spend a very long time behind bars.

However, I did have enough information to go public about Fellini, enough evidence to ruin his business and destroy his life, just as his ancestors had destroyed so many lives in my family, my tribe.

That was not enough. I needed more, much more. I knew that now. Fellini had to die. I needed to see him dead. And not just see him dead, I needed to kill him myself. Only then could I willingly join my Brigitta, and my GrandMaMa Luludji.

Further, my “Final Solution” for Marco Fellini needed to be a public spectacle. Fellini’s death had to be memorable, an outsized gaudy tribute to my Gypsy heritage.

My Brigitta was right. I had found a way. Now I knew exactly what to do.

I opened my laptop and began writing a letter—this letter—to my lawyer.

From the bottom of my Gypsy heart, I thank you for reading it.

33

In the quiet of Dan’s hospital room, the discreet tap on the door sounded like a thunderbolt. Yoko jerked out of a restless drowsing. She knew it was urgent that she stop the noise of the tapping but she wasn’t awake enough to know why that impulse jet-propelled her from the chair where she’d been dozing.

Her sleep fog cleared and she realized where she was. To her relief, she saw that Dan was deep in sleep—the tap on the door by the polite nurse who had just entered to take his blood pressure hadn’t disturbed him. Nor had the pressure of the blood pressure cuff. Sleep was healing and it was pretty much all he’d done after the hours of emergency surgery he’d undergone. Nurses were in and out constantly, monitoring his vital signs.

Yoko hadn’t been able to stop herself from reliving what had happened in the underground tunnels. The attack had been deliberate and Dan had almost been killed. He’d been hurrying after Sophia and Jessica and had caught the sound of the hollow echoes of their footsteps. He moved as much on instinct as on logic, relying on the sounds to guide him through the warren of possible paths.

When the sounds stopped, Dan slowed to a cautious walk, stepping quietly, knowing full well that the women he was following were armed with bows and arrows stolen from the display at the National Arts Club. He knew Sophia Fellini and Jessica Ware were dangerous because now it was clear Marco had been killed by one of them. At the back of his mind, Dan also questioned the attack on the balloonist. What the hell was the connection?

“I got to where a couple tunnels opened up and felt a rush of air on my face from one, like the two women were moving down it, so I took it,” he managed to tell Yoko in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. “They were waiting in a side tunnel and came up behind me.”

“So one of them got a clear shot at your back,” Yoko said.

Dan gave a small nod and winced. “I know who. It was Jessica,” he said. “I heard Sophia Fellini say, ‘Good shot, Jessica.’ Would you believe the bitch thanked her?”

Dan’s wound would have been lethal if Yoko and Zoran hadn’t been close on his heels. When they caught up to where Dan was lying face down on the ground, moaning in agony, Yoko tried to call for help but couldn’t get a signal on her cell phone in the maze of tunnels carved from Manhattan’s solid rock underpinnings.

“I will run back to the entrance,” Zoran said.

“Call Dante as soon as you get through to the ambulance,” Yoko said. She knew that it was terribly possible that the arrow sticking out of Dan’s back had penetrated clear through his body, perhaps being forced back when he fell face down. She shuddered to think of the hideous internal damage that would have been inflicted. “Let Dante know it’s the same type of injury he saw on Fellini. Ask what he suggests.”

“It looks bad,” Zoran had told Dante Nicosian, breathless after his headlong rush to the tunnel entrance. “The arrow shaft protrudes from Dan’s back yet the bleeding does not seem heavy. Yoko asks for your medical guidance.”

He listened attentively to what the ME had to say then headed back down the tunnel to where Yoko knelt by Dan’s side.

“We definitely must not try to take the arrow out,” Zoran said.

Yoko gritted her teeth. Zoran’s pedantic approach always was irritating but now doubly so. As if she’d try to remove the arrow or let anyone else attempt to do so. God, a child would know better.

“Dante is alerting the hospital to have a doctor and team waiting. Here,” Zoran handed Yoko his tie. “He said for you to pack that around the arrow shaft. Apply gentle pressure on the tie but do not press too hard. Do your best to avoid actually touching the arrow.”

Yoko nodded her understanding. She knew it was unlikely Zoran could bring himself to touch Dan. Fine by her. She layered the tie around the arrow where it had pierced Dan’s back through his blue windbreaker and pressed gently on the fabric. In the dim light of the flashlight the two fugitives had dropped, she saw it was a handsome silk Armani with an Escher-like pattern, one of Zoran’s favorites. Her annoyance with Zoran melted. Dan was his partner, they’d been together for some years, of course Zoran was upset, he just didn’t show it like anyone else.

Out of the corner of her eye, good peripheral vision, she saw that Zoran was shrugging out of his light gray jacket and vest. Turning away from Yoko, he unbuttoned his white cotton shirt and handed it to her. He put his jacket back on over his under vest and stood over Yoko, shifting uneasily as he watched her press gently on the fabric. Seeping blood changed the white fabric pale red.

“I am confident that the instructions from Dante are as medically on target as the arrow protruding from what is very possibly the immediate area of the renal artery,” Zoran said. “Now I will return to the entrance to guide the ambulance people.”

“Hurry,” Yoko said, trying to ignore the visual picture Zoran’s words created.