Menaced Assassin (11 page)

“I’ll get right to the point. The death of Mrs. Dalton.”

“Ah yes. Moll. Tragic.” Gounaris stood, turned to the window as if studying the tragic dimensions of her demise.

“Also very professional,” said Dante. “Which is what brought me in on it and is still puzzling me.”

Gounaris turned to frown at him. “Professional.”

“As in hitman professional.” Dante shrugged, making himself as Italian as he could. “As in Mafia, Mob, Outfit, Organization, Cosa Nostra, the Family, Our Thing. But our task force looks into
any
organized criminal activities that would come under the RICO statutes. Which means it could be linked to Mafia-controlled operations in other parts of the country.” He leaned forward earnestly. “The trouble is, Mr. Gounaris, no matter how hard we look, we just can’t find anything in Mrs. Dalton’s private life that would account for anyone hiring a professional killer to murder her.”

“You come to me because I was sexually involved with—”

“Not at all,” cut in Dante heartily.

He caught it in the eye, the flicker of surprise, maybe even
annoyance, as if this stupid copper wasn’t sticking to the script Gounaris had written in his head for this interview. Because Dante wouldn’t, he’d have to make the obvious connection.

“It is true that Dr. Dalton was very upset…” He lowered his voice. “He walked in on his wife and myself, you know.”

“I know.
Flagrante delicto
, as they used to say. But even if he wanted his wife dead, he could never have found a killer of that caliber. And he hardly would have stopped with her.” Dante chuckled and spread his hands, a typical wop enjoying a good joke. “But here you are, safe and sound, and there Will Dalton is, in Africa.” He paused. “Safe and sound.”

Gounaris chose to get angry. “Are you implying—”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Gounaris. It’s just that nothing’s happened to you, nothing’s happened to him… the two principal players. So—nothing to do with her personal life.”

“I see,” said Gounaris, then added, “Leaving, to your literal policeman’s mind, just her professional life.” He spread his hands in turn. “There I can’t help you, Lieutenant. Moll was an excellent attorney, very independent, so I have very little knowledge of what she was working on at the time of her death. If you—”

“Bed and board strictly separate, as it were,” said Dante.

“Strictly.” His tone was dry as British toast. “But if you feel it would help in your investigation, Atlas Entertainment would be perfectly willing to put at your disposal any papers she was working on when she was killed.”

Meaning the papers would be worthless. “Thank you. I’ll have someone pick them up.” Dante was on his feet. “You have an appointment in a few moments…”

And the brass showed through, as he had hoped it would. When Gounaris spoke again, Dante
knew
he was right that Atlas Entertainment and its president were somehow, someway, dirty.

“You are of Italian blood, are you not, Lieutenant?”

“As they say in Italy, Mr. Gounaris,
Romano di Roma
.”

“That’s what I thought. So I wanted to ask you, did you
get into the investigation of organized crime because you are so sickened by the vicious things men of your blood habitually do?”

Dante smiled. “Organized crime is no longer essentially Italian, Mr. Gounaris. Equal opportunity employer. Irishmen, Jews, African-Americans, Latin Americans…
Greeks
…”

“Just what do you mean by that?” demanded Gounaris quickly, either angry again or faking it again.

Dante would give his fact away, but he would turn it around first. He was suddenly confidential.

“Let me make a suggestion, Mr. Gounaris. You might be wise to stay out of Vince O’Neill’s porn palaces for now. I imagine your sex life must be… somewhat curtailed since Moll Dalton’s death, but even so… they’re in a pretty rough part of town.”

He saw the tiny flicker of alarm mixed with anger in the dark alive eyes, instantly quelled, and spoke even more softly.

“Some unsavory sorts hang around there. Corrupt vice cops under secret investigation by the Internal Affairs Division . . .” He turned from those again-startled eyes, tossing “
Ciao
” over his shoulder as he strode out.

And almost just walked out into the bright San Francisco October sunshine. Instead, thinking about the vile bug juice dispensed at the Hall of Justice, he decided to get a decent decaf at the lobby’s tiny afterthought of a coffee shop.

Kosta fretted at his desk for ten minutes, trying to sort out exactly what he had learned and what he had given away. The damn cop was good, all right; he’d needled so skillfully that Kosta had lost it for a moment, had gotten personal.

He strode from the office, curtly telling the surprised Miss Pym that Taylor should go into a holding pattern until he got back. At the lobby pay phone bank he placed a call to Gideon Abramson in Palm Springs, caught him on the links. Gid kept a cellular phone in his golf cart, so the call was transferred direct from the clubhouse.

“Kosta!” he exclaimed in a delighted voice. “So these two married guys are talking, one of ’em says, ‘You mean you been married twenty-five years and your wife still looks like a newly wed?’ ‘
Cooks
,’ says the other guy in a sad voice, ‘
cooks
like a newlywed.’”

Kosta was finally able to tell him the latest problem: how he’d been chatting with Jack Lenington the day before, how Will Dalton was safely out of the country, and finally how Stagnaro had visited him that morning.

“I agree with you about Dalton—we can just file him and forget him, he poses no threat,” said Gid in his high, chirping voice. “As for Stagnaro, I know him by reputation, he’s highly thought of by Rudy Mattaliano in New York, which probably means he’s a very dangerous man. But what can he do you?”

“He told me Lenington is under surveillance by the Internal Affairs Division, and wanted me to know they saw him and me going into the same porn place. They didn’t see us together, but that’s got to be the end of Jack fucking Lenington.”

“I agree,” said Gid thoughtfully.

“Do we have to tell Mr. Prince?”

“Just that Jack should be eased out.” In a more hearty voice, he added, “Be well, Kosta. I’ll handle it from here.”

Gounaris hung up, feeling better as he always did after he had shifted some dangerous burden to Uncle Gideon, and turned away from the phone.

And stopped dead: sitting in the coffee shop not ten yards away was Dante Stagnaro, smiling and nodding at him like one of those idiotic toy dogs in the rear windows of automobiles.

It was a week before Jack Lenington had his first—and, as it developed, last—interview with Internal Affairs. In the interim, Dante had been busy. Checking phone company records for long-distance calls from the lobby pay phone bank in the Atlas Entertainment building had turned up three calls to the same country club in Palm Springs, one of them placed the night before Moll Dalton’s murder at Bella Figura.

Suggestive but not really indicative, because Tallpalms Country Club had no record of the calls, so of course they could not help with who the calls had been placed to.

Probably not Bob Hope.

Probably not Sonny Bono.

Probably not even Spiro Agnew. There were not as many retired mobsters in Palm Springs as there were in Vegas, but the number was not negligible. And by some strange chance, all of them happened to belong to Tallpalms.

Dante, the eternal optimist, hoped to winnow the possibles for a short list of probables he could work in earnest.

He had also called for everything LAPD might have on Moll’s father, Skeffington St. John, who had arranged her employment with Atlas Entertainment. That was just facts, but for himself he kept returning to the question of whether St. John had molested Moll as a child. Quite a heavy accusation for a man as bright as Will Dalton to level at his father-
in-law unless there was something more than an intuition to back it up.

He kept wanting to ask Dalton more about it, but Dalton was in Africa: he faxed a request to Interpol for any facts on Gounaris instead. Then there was Lenington, corrupt in all the small ways a vice cop could be corrupt, from shaking down pimps to free sex from the hookers, but Dante hadn’t thought of him as involved with organized crime.

Jack was an angry and careful man. All they had was him entering and leaving one of Vince O’Neill’s legal porn palaces at about the same time that a man under investigation for possible organized crime ties had entered and left. Not illegal; merely suggestive.

The I.A. lived on that sort of suggestion, but Dante wasn’t watching through the one-way glass in the adjoining room when Lenington was brought in by the shooflies; he knew a transcript of the interrogation would be on his desk the next day.

Sound of slamming door. Dante flipped the transcript onto his desk and chuckled despite himself. He’d been through the academy with Lenington, and knew him as a mean-minded man and a corrupt cop, but he’d also been on the street long enough himself to enjoy seeing the shooflies eat a little shit from another street cop. Lenington didn’t deserve the name. But he was tough, it would take a lot to bring him down.

Internal Affairs never did bring Jack Lenington down, or even back in for another shot. Jack knew they’d gone through his personal affairs with a vacuum sweeper, had found nothing because there was nothing to find. When he had gone to the Bahamas to set up his offshore numbered account, he’d done it by a small-plane commuter fight from Fort Lauderdale during a family vacation to Florida. Left the wife and kids—small then—at Disney World believing he was in the Keys angling for bonefish.

The I.A. turncoats didn’t worry him. What worried him was that his meeting with Kosta Gounaris must have been under surveillance. The I.A. hadn’t had a tail on him, he knew that; but did Stagnaro have a loose tail on Gounaris? Just like the fucker; and he would have tipped I.A. to the meet.

He’d better tell somebody about it, so they wouldn’t think
he’d
worn a tail to their meeting. They didn’t take kindly to having that sort of dumb fuck on the pad.

So he went to see Otto Kreiger. The I.A. probably knew Kreiger was his lawyer; what they didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that Otto Kreiger, through Vince O’Neill, king of the Tenderloin porn dealers, was also his mob contact. O’Neill had obliquely approached Jack, many years ago, about doing a couple of things for a couple of bucks for a couple of guys he knew. Kreiger was one of those guys, and it had grown into a lucrative proposition that carried, however, its own built-in risks.

He felt he was at risk right now.

Kreiger had offices in the old Hunter-Dulin Building at the foot of Sutter Street, an ornate art nouveau cakebox from the 1920s. Kreiger’s office was an unpretentious suite with windows looking down on Market Street; a far cry from the fifty acres in Woodside where Lenington knew the attorney raised horses. He didn’t know, nor could he have imagined, that Kreiger’s cheapest mare, a purebred Arabian, had been a steal at $758,000.

Kreiger had a brutal, booming voice that was extremely effective in court when carping about violations of his mobster clients’ civil rights. He used it now on Jack. “I hear you had a little chat with the I.A.”

Jack rattled the ice in his bourbon, asked in his angry voice, “Those peep-show machines have fucking mikes in them?”

Kreiger shook his head and chuckled.

“You’re not the only man gets an envelope each month, Jack. I appreciate being alerted to the interview, even after the fact, but if you’ve been reasonably prudent—”

“Woulda looked bad, calling in my lawyer before I’d even had my first interview. I’m not worried about the I.A. It’s something else.”

“Indeed.” Kreiger was a large man with a square face and heavy lips and the coldest eyes with the palest lashes Lenington had ever seen. He interlaced beefy hands in front of him.

Jack said, “I had a meet with a certain guy—”

“I know.”

“I think we were clocked in and out.” To Kreiger’s narrowed eyes, he quickly added, “That’s why I had to see you.
I
wasn’t followed there—Gounaris was. And—”

“How can you be sure?”

“Jesus, Mr. Kreiger, I been a cop for—”

“Yes. Of course. The wolf knows its own excreta. So your feeling is that Mr. Gounaris was under surveillance.”