Primed for Murder (18 page)

All three of them tore into the pizza. It was delicious. “You know, Toby,” Jean said, mouth full, yellow cheese and red sauce showing on her teeth, “these beds are gigantic. We didn’t need a room with two beds.” She smacked her lips. “Syl and I have slept together before.”

“Last apartment we had, off South Street,” Sylvia said, wiping grease from her chin, “only had one bedroom. With one dinky double bed.” She grinned, still chewing, not a pretty sight. “We got to know each other real well.” She gave her roommate a look. “At least we kept nice and warm during winter.”

Jean returned Sylvia’s glance. “I’ll say!”

They shared a secret laugh. Toby munched silently, trying simultaneously to wipe away and enhance an image of the women snuggling naked together in bed.

The pizza vanished. They slouched at the bottom of a king-sized bed, the two women book-ending Toby. He was full and ready to nod off, but it was too much effort at that moment to go crash in his own room.

“You could have got just one room for all three of us, you know,” Jean said at his left elbow. “With just one bed.”

Toby turned sluggishly towards her as the words sank in. Jean smiled faintly, eyebrows raised in silent invitation.

Sylvia said at his right: “Jean and I don’t just sleep with each other, you know.”

Toby swiveled his head towards her.

Sylvia lay back on the mattress, stretched out her arms as if about to be nailed to a cross. Her breasts sagged softly beneath the thin material of her top. “Look at the size of this thing.”

Jean sank back, too, duplicating her roommate’s motions. “You could sleep six, easy, on this bed.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” Sylvia giggled.

“Try it out, Toby,” Jean said.

Sylvia and Jean each hooked Toby’s shoulders, pulling him backward between them. He was too tired to resist. The young women edged closer, from both sides.

“We wouldn’t mind if you stayed with us tonight,” Jean whispered in one ear.

“In fact,” Sylvia said softly in the other, “we’d be grateful. It’s frightening losing your home and possessions in a fire.”

“Stay, Toby.” One of Jean’s hands crept onto his thigh. “Comfort us.”

“And we’ll comfort you.” Sylvia caressed his neck. “Give us a chance to show our appreciation for all you’ve done for us.”

The bed was soft and their touch soothing. The women smelled clean and fragrant. It wouldn’t take much for Toby to drift away and let Sylvia and Jean do whatever they wanted. But he didn’t need this, with a murder on his hands, his house and everything in a shambles, and the new painting job coming up. He had just enough energy left to struggle upright, dodge their clutches, and stagger towards the door.

“Aw, just when it was getting interesting.” Jean faked a pout.

“Party pooper.” Sylvia licked her lips suggestively. “We’d have a great time.”

“Got to get some sleep,” Toby mumbled. “See you tomorrow.” Ignoring their sorrowful expressions and soft protests, he staggered to his own room and fell into bed.

Chapter 15

Toby’s sleep was deep, dreamless and of too short duration. In what seemed like only a moment after his head hit the pillow he was rudely awakened by the sharp rap of knuckles on metal. He cranked open an eyelid, got his bearings as the sound came again. Someone was at the door. Toby fumbled for clothes heaped by the bed. “Just a sec.”

The knocking became louder, more insistent. Dressed in pants but shirtless and barefoot, Toby unbolted the lock and threw open the door.

The morning sun was blinding. Through squinted lids he glimpsed two man-shaped silhouettes outlined by thermonuclear brightness. He shaded eyes against the glare. “Who is it?”

“Dixon and French, Mr. Rew,” one shape said, bustling past. “Mind if we come in?” The second man didn’t wait for an answer but entered, too, pulling the door shut behind him. Toby could see them now in light filtering around curtain edges. Dixon wore a pale green sports coat that stood out in the dimness. French had on a dark-colored suit that made him fade into the woodwork. Both men smelled of coffee and cigarettes.

“Nice room.” French scanned the surroundings. “A step up from that apartment of yours. Especially in its present condition.”

“What do you want?” Toby yawned. “What time is it?”

“You’ve got it backwards,” French said. “We ask the questions.” He pulled out a chair at the table, a twin of the one in the room next door. “Sit.” He punctuated the command with a sniff. “We need to talk.”

Toby sat where the detective indicated. “Will I need a lawyer?”

“Naw,” French said. “We just have a few simple questions.”

“How’d you find me?”

“You gave the name of this place to an officer at the scene of the fire, remember?” French looked at the door to the adjoining room and leered. “Nice arrangement, with two foxy young chicks set up right in the next room. Cozy.”

Mention of the fire prompted Toby to ask, “How’s Bart, the guy in the first floor apartment who got burned?”

“Oh, him,” French said. “His troubles are over.”

“He’s dead?”

“Extremely. Extra crispy, DOA at the hospital.” Toby sat in silence, picturing Bart’s charred body.

Dixon clicked on a shaded low-watt globe suspended by a decorative chain over the table and slid into the chair opposite Toby. That left French to stand and breathe down Toby’s neck. The older detective rested forearms on the tabletop, pen out and notebook turned to a clean page. “Let’s talk about the fire at your apartment.” Dixon leaned into the fan of muted light and his eyes were lost in the shadow of his brows.

“Where were you when the fire started?” French asked.

“What time did it start?” Toby countered. “It was going full blast when I arrived.” He smelled smoke emanating from the soiled clothing beside the bathroom.

“Where were you coming from?” Dixon asked.

“I was seeing somebody about a painting job.” He needed a cup of coffee, bad. Even a bad cup of coffee would do.

“Name? Address?” French huffed beside his ear.

“Why? Do I need an alibi?”

“Name.” French was close enough that Toby could feel his breath. “Address.”

“I’d rather leave the client out of it.”

“Client!” French snorted. “Name? Address?”

There was no escape. After Toby pronounced the name, Dixon said, “Desdemona happens to be Mrs. Arturo Colangelo.” His voice had an odd, metallic tone.

“You run in some pretty fancy company, Rew,” French commented.

Dixon glanced at his partner. “You get the job?” Toby nodded.

“How much is she paying you?” French demanded.

“It’s a big job. Rooms are huge and need prep work and—”

“How much?” French needed only a bright light and a sap to complete the bad-cop routine.

“Fifteen thousand. Like I said, it’s a big job—”

“What a racket!” French looked at Toby as though he’d admitted to dealing drugs or molesting children. “What else are you supposed to do for the money, knock off somebody?” Toby fumed, but said nothing.

“How’d you connect with Mrs. Colangelo?” Dixon asked.

“She called me a couple nights ago to come by and give an estimate.”

“How’d she get your name?”

“She could have seen my card. It’s tacked up all over town.”

“Mrs. Colangelo’s not the type to frequent establishments where you’re likely to advertise,” Dixon said.

How would he know? “Maybe she got in touch through Sandy Puterbaugh.”

“Sandy?” French’s eyebrows lifted.

“Sandy Puterbaugh and Dezi Colangelo are PTA buddies.”

“Dezi?” French snuffled like crazy. “How well have you gotten to know these women, Rew? You running a stud service on the side?”

Toby ignored the younger man and spoke to Dixon. “Dezi’s got a picture of Sandy in her living room.”

“Do you know who Mrs. Colangelo is?” French asked.

“She told me she’s the daughter of some guy named Giambi.”

“That’s right. Do you know who he is?”

French said, “He’s just a local mob boss, that’s all. The department’s tried to nail him for years, but he’s too slick.”

“Reputed mob boss,” Dixon corrected. “Your client, Mr. Rew, is also the wife of Artie Colangelo, allegedly a Giambi soldier.”

“Allegedly, my ass!” French said. “Colangelo’s a mob errand boy, a stone killer. And not a very bright one at that.”

“True, Artie’s been suspected in several gangland-style murders,” Dixon cautioned, “but to date there’s no proof.” He pinched his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger and stared into the distance.

“What’s all this got to do with the fire at my apartment?” Toby asked. A headache started up behind his eyes.

Dixon snapped out of his reverie. “It was arson.”

Toby had suspected as much. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” French said. “All the telltale signs were there: alligator burn patterns, evidence of accelerant, multiple origins. Neighbors also reported explosions.”

“The investigators found empty cans of paint thinner in the ashes,” Dixon said.

“The same brand you use,” French said.

“There was some in my garage,” Toby said. “Doors weren’t locked.”

“Don’t get all defensive, Mr. Rew,” Dixon said. “Nobody’s accusing you of setting your own apartment on fire.”

“If you had, you’d be guilty of murder,” French said.

Toby swallowed. He shook off the image of Bart’s fist sticking out from under the cloth on the gurney all stiff and contorted like a lightning-blasted elm branch. He felt another pang of guilt for snubbing his late apartment mate.

“And the poor guy doesn’t even appear to be the target of the firebomb, or whatever it was,” French said. “You were.” The news worried Toby but didn’t surprise him. He already had an idea what Giambi’s associates were capable of.

“Evidence indicates the fire started in the stairwell leading to your apartment,” Dixon said. “It’s possible the arsonist was only trying to frighten you. He didn’t bother checking if you were on the premises.”

“If you had been home,” French chimed in, “you’d be dead. A second incendiary device was planted on the fire escape to cover that exit.”

“The second bomb,” Dixon said, “was powerful enough to collapse an interior wall, trapping the man downstairs in the flames.”

The cops continued talking in tandem, but Toby tuned them out. As he imagined Bart squirming in agony beneath flaming debris, Toby almost blurted out the whole incredible story. He opened his mouth, ready to tell about the smuggling of the ancient Mayan manuscript, about the creation, destruction, and resurrection of a dissertation, about the photographs and Mac and Marta, about the abduction of the Puterbaughs, about the probable identity of a murderer. But he closed his lips and bit his tongue. It all sounded so Sidney Sheldon TV mini-series. Would they believe even half of the story?

There was still a big piece of the puzzle missing, too: the identity of the dead man in the Puterbaugh house. Worse, in telling the tale completely, he’d have to confess to a series of offenses: trespassing, removing evidence from the scene of a crime, eavesdropping, illegally disposing of a body, perjury. Who knows what else they’d dig up to throw at him? There were so many laws on the books it was hard to turn around without committing an infraction. He couldn’t stand the thought of being tossed into jail, cooped up with real criminals. Even if he managed to wriggle out from under the charges, the expense of fighting prosecution in court would not only break him but cost future business as well. He’d have to find a way to let the cops unravel the truth for themselves, as he should have done in the first place.

If only he’d called the police when he’d first found the body in his truck, none of this would have happened, probably. If only he’d gone deaf, he wouldn’t have heard the screams of the man dying in the blue house. And before that, if only he’d told that demented old bird, Mrs. Cratty, to stick the job when she’d called then he’d be home free.

The detectives were still yakking, and their words began to penetrate. “So, Mr. Rew,” French said, bent so his nose was an inch from Toby’s, “who’s after you?” The detective’s breath was really bad this morning. His nostrils loomed like twin barrels of a shotgun. “We know who’s capable of arranging the fire. The real question is why?”

Toby, nerves as taut as wires, shrugged. “Beats me. I’m just a housepainter.”

French snuffed and Toby could almost feel the suction. “A housepainter who witnessed a murder.”

“I reported it to you guys, and what did you do? Nothing.”

French bored on. “A housepainter working for a known mob associate.”

“It’s for his wife. And I haven’t started working yet.”

“A housepainter whose apartment, coincidentally, was just torched.” Toby didn’t have a comeback for that.

“Look, Mr. Rew.” Dixon waved for his partner to back off. “As we informed you, our hands were tied when we first investigated your report of a murder. There was no body, no sign of a struggle. We did all we legally could.”

“Which was zilch.”

“But now things have changed. You see, the body of the dead man you described turned up early this morning.”

Toby fought off a chill that stirred short hairs erect at the back of his neck. “No kidding.” The strangled voice emanating from his mouth sounded foreign to his ears.

French hunched, fists balled. “Go ahead. Say ‘I told you so.’”

“Where’d you find him?” Seemed reasonable to ask.

“Grove Street Cemetery, five miles from the Puterbaugh house.” Dixon interlaced fingers behind his head and leaned back, studying Toby. “He was dressed as you said, in a tan suit. Somebody laid him out neatly on a rug atop an old vault.”

“But he wasn’t killed there,” French grudgingly allowed. “The M.E. said the probable cause of death was a skull fracture from blunt-force trauma. We’ll know for sure when they do the post-mortem. The state of the body and the progress of decomposition were consistent with your story. Time of death seems right.”

“The rug and clothing are being processed,” Dixon added. “The neighborhood around the cemetery is being canvassed. Maybe they can tell us something.”

“Now what?” Toby asked. “You’ll talk to the Puterbaughs again?”