Stakeout (2013) (8 page)

“MacAullif knows the guy rented the motel room but doesn’t know who he is?”

“That’s right.”

“Then how does he know he rented the motel room? ‘The guy who rented the motel room is dead. I wonder who he is. Let’s ask the motel manager.’”

“Stop, stop, stop.” It was like being stung by a hive of bees. “Alice, all your points are valid. You don’t have to convince me, you have to convince a very skeptical New Jersey cop, who isn’t gonna care that all your points are valid. All he’s gonna care is, someone’s dead, and someone’s messing with the evidence. In his humble opinion, which may be supported by very faulty logic.”

“Can’t you just point out what I did?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not as good at arguing and I don’t have nice tits.”

“Stanley.”

“I’m serious. All the arguments in the world aren’t going to help. The only thing that’s going to persuade this cop is finding out who did it.”

“And MacAullif won’t investigate?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“And he doesn’t want you to investigate for yourself?”

“No.”

“And you feel you have to do what he wants because you got him into trouble.”

“In a way.”

“What way would that be?”

“All, right, that’s how I feel.”

“So you can’t investigate?”

“Yeah.”

“So who can?”

19

M
IKE
S
ALLINGSWORTH LOOKED OLDER THAN
the last time I’d seen him. Which was strange, since I looked exactly the same. I’d hired Mike once, way back when. Now I was looking to hire him again.

Sallingsworth was a private investigator from Atlantic City. It occurred to me that I only hired private eyes when I was in New Jersey. Mike sat at the kitchen table, sipped his scotch, ran his fingers through his rapidly thinning hair.

“I’m retired,” he said.

“For the night?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Mike said. It was two in the afternoon. “I retired three years ago. Got tired of the routine. I got a little bit saved up, enough to spend the winters in Florida.”

“What do you do for excitement?”

“Not work. You can’t believe how stimulating that is. Get up, walk out, take the air. Come back when I damn well feel like it. There is a simple joy in not working that is an activity in itself.”

“How’d you like a job?”

“I would not like a job. I like this scotch. You always did bring me good scotch. On the other hand, you always brought me uninspiring work.”

“It may not have inspired you. It happened to clear up a murder or two.”

“As I recall, I never had to lift a finger.”

“That’s because you’re a wealth of information. I’m wondering if that’s still true. What do you know about the Jersey Shore?”

“I know enough to stay away from it.”

“Why is that?”

“There are two kinds of people on the Jersey Shore. Those that are connected, and those that are not connected. Those that are connected are dangerous. Those that are not connected are dangerous.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you can’t always tell which is which.” Sallingsworth poured another scotch, sloshed it around in his glass. “Can I assume you are talking about people who are connected?”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

“Safe for you. Dangerous for me. Luckily, I’m retired.”

“Just because you’re retired doesn’t mean you don’t know things.”

“Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t like living.”

“I assure you, you won’t be quoted.”

“Can you assure me you weren’t followed here?”

“Why would anyone follow me?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Would it have anything to do with your being arrested for murder?”

“You know about that?”

“Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“No, but this is Atlantic City. We’re talking the Ft. Lee, Englewood Cliffs, Teaneck area.”

“Murder’s murder. And it’s not every day the perp gets caught at the scene.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Clever defense. How’s it working for you?”

“Not so good. The point is the guy who got killed isn’t in the mob. He worked for Aflac in New York.”

“Really? With the duck?”

“Yeah, the duck. If you heard about that you probably heard about Vinnie Carbone. Got whacked yesterday afternoon.”

“So I understand. Only in that case they got no suspect.”

“No, they don’t. I’m wondering if that’s because the cops tread lightly when the mob’s involved.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“With regard to Vinnie Carbone’s mob connection. You wouldn’t happen to know what that was?”

Sallingsworth sighed, pushed back the bottle. “Oh, dear. Just when things were going so well. Let me lay it out for you. You lead the cops to me. I give you the name of someone in the mob. You lead the cops to him. The mobster doesn’t like cops being led to him, so he inquires how this might have happened. He traces it back to me, and my retirement comes to a sudden and rather unpleasant conclusion.”

“That sounds like a worst-case scenario.”

“Well, it’s certainly not the best. So, could you think of any reason under the sun why I should help you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do tell.”

“Your theory is if you tell me how to find this mobster and I lead the cops to him, he’ll be able to trace it back to me and therefore to you. Now assume you don’t tell me how to find him. I’m going to find him and lead the cops to him anyway. Then when he starts tracing things back, he’s going to find I called on you. He won’t know if you told me anything or not, he’ll just whack you for practice.”

Mike poured another drink. “Not going to happen. And I’ll tell you why. If you get a lead on the mobster, it will be from someone else. And when he starts looking for the guy who ratted him out, he’ll find that guy, not me.”

“Okay. Try this. If you tell me, I’ll go away and you’ll never see me again. If you don’t tell me, I’ll keep coming back and asking until you tell me or you’re dead.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course not. On the other hand, I don’t really wanna take the fall for murder. All right, look. You don’t wanna give me a lead to the mob, give me a lead to someone who can give me a lead to the mob.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Not really. It’s one more degree of separation. It’s the same thing you just said about finding the other guy first. Plus I won’t give your name to the guy you give me, which breaks the chain.”

Sallingsworth studied my face. “You must be really desperate. What the hell’s going on?”

I gave Sallingsworth a rundown of what happened. When I was done he shook his head.

“I don’t know how you ever lasted this long.”

“I didn’t retire.”

“That’s where you made your big mistake.”

“Can you help me?”

“Nothing’s gonna help you. You best shot is go home, watch TV, pretend this never happened.”

“You forget I have this court date for murder.”

“Your attorney any good? Your best shot is beating the rap. Trying to solve the crime will probably get you killed.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“My pleasure.”

“You can’t help me at all?”

Sallingsworth shook his head. “Wouldn’t be prudent.”

I sighed, got up. “Well, enjoy your retirement, in case I don’t see you again.”

Sallingsworth nodded, raised his glass. “Thanks for the scotch.”

20

A
S IF
I
DIDN
’
T HAVE
enough problems, now I had to investigate a homicide without getting an elderly detective from Atlantic City whacked. It was just the sort of moral dilemma I needed to complete my already impossible situation.

I drove back from Atlantic City feeling mildly irritated that my old friend, Mike Sallingsworth, didn’t really want to die. So who could I ask for advice now? Not Richard. Not MacAullif. Not Alice. All had weighed in with the universally accepted position that I had totally fucked up. I had come to see Sallingsworth because I needed to get a line on the dead man without involving MacAullif. Now I had to get a line on the guy without involving Sallingsworth.

As I came up on the Elizabeth exit I wondered if the cops were done with his house. The thought intrigued me. Would there be a crime scene ribbon across the door?

Could it hurt to just drive by?

I could think of many ways it could hurt to just drive by, starting with MacAullif twisting my head off my shoulders and ending with New Jersey cops gleefully waterboarding me. Neither seemed a desirable outcome, nor did either seem likely. The cops would have no reason to watch the house. It would not occur to them there might be something in it of some value to the killer. Or the man most likely to be cast in the role.

As I got off the New Jersey Turnpike and drove toward the place, it occurred to me I was risking getting indicted for a second count of murder and all I was concerned with was whether I got a couple of other guys in trouble. I figured that made me one hell of a good guy.

Or stupid as shit.

There was a crime scene ribbon over Vinnie’s front door. Aside from that, there was no indication that there had been a crime. There was certainly no police presence, at least that I could see.

Not that it mattered.

I wasn’t going in, was I?

The front door opened and a young woman came out. An absolute knockout in a cheap and flashy way. That was prejudiced on my part, predicated no doubt on Vinnie’s Jersey Shore connection, but there’s cheap and flashy and there’s cheap and flashy. The girl had big boobs, featured in skin-tight spandex in a manner that seemed to imply she spent some money getting big boobs just so she could flaunt them in this fashion. Her blond hair looked like it came out of a bottle. She wore false eyelashes, thick eyeliner, and too much eye shadow. Her bright red lipstick was the only eye-catcher between the eyes and the boobs.

She slipped under the crime scene ribbon, looked in both directions, and came down the front path. If she hadn’t glanced around furtively I might have seen the manila envelope in her hand for what it was, a manila envelope, and not for something she had just pilfered from the crime scene.

She hopped into a red Prius and took off.

I followed at a discreet distance. At least that’s what I keep reading in detective stories. Actually, I’m not quite sure what a discreet distance is. I think it’s one where you don’t get spotted on the one hand, or lose the person on the other.

I followed her about fifteen miles south to a beauty parlor in a strip mall. I wondered if she was getting a haircut. It occurred to me she could use it. I chided myself for the thought. I was trying not to stereotype the woman, but it was hard.

It was harder when it turned out she was a hairdresser. I mean she not only looked like that, her job was making other people look like that.

Perhaps I was misjudging her. The first woman she worked on didn’t have teased hair at all. She had a wavy shag sort of thing, and from what I could see the Jersey Girl was giving it a perfectly conservative trim.

Watching the woman cut hair was not exactly the optimal outcome I’d hoped for when I’d seen her coming out of the dead guy’s house. I wondered if I should get a haircut. That seemed a poor option. There were four women working, so I’d have to do some pretty nimble-footed maneuvering to make sure I got her. And I wasn’t sure they cut men’s hair. There wasn’t a guy in the place. Breaking the gender barrier didn’t seem the best way of being inconspicuous.

I thought of calling Alice and asking if she needed a haircut. I can’t begin to tell you all the reasons why that seemed like a poor idea. It occurred to me if I were a real detective I would have a female operative I’d call in for just these occasions. Of course, if I were a real detective I probably wouldn’t blunder into such awful scrapes.

I thought of my old buddy, Fred Lazar, the guy who actually got me into the game. He’d have had a female operative, only he, like Sallingsworth, was retired.

I’d have retired too, if I didn’t need the money. Not that I minded working, but being a fall guy was wearing me down.

So what could I do now?

Watching the Jersey Girl as she wielded her scissors, there was one thing that occurred to me.

When she went through the beauty parlor door there was nothing in her hands.

The Prius was parked out of sight from the beauty parlor window. At least out of sight from chair number three, which was where Jersey Girl was working. The hairdresser in the chair closest to the window could see it, but then it wasn’t her car.

I strolled down the street, walked casually by the Prius. Wondered how to get in.

A clothes hanger down the crack between the top of the window and the doorframe used to be an option, back in the days when door locks were round and had a little heads on them you could get under and pry up. Jersey Girl’s door locks were shiny as a baby’s bottom with nary a lip of any kind. So Car Thief Trick number 101 was out.

A police slim jim might have worked, since that didn’t grab the knob but slid right into the mechanism of the lock. Only I didn’t have a slim jim on account of not happening to be on the police force.

I wondered if MacAullif had one.

I wasn’t standing there thinking all this, by the way, I had continued on up the street. It was taking me away from my objective, but I needed a plausible reason to turn around.

No, you don’t, I told myself. If I wasn’t being followed, no one could possibly give a damn. If I was being followed, they were already on to me, so what if they saw me change direction?

I turned around, walked back to the car, tried the passenger side door.

It opened.

No coat hangers, slim jims, car thieves, or police officers involved.

I slid into the passenger seat, popped the glove compartment. It was the first place I looked, largely because it was right in front of me. I found an owner’s manual, still in plastic, most likely unread, and a mountain of receipts. I wondered if knowing what this young woman had bought could possibly help me.

I slammed the glove compartment, turned around, looked in the back seat.