Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (21 page)

“Much as I hate it, I think we’ve got to call the cops,” Trace said.

“There’s something under the bed,” Chico said. Trace bent down and started to reach for it and Chico said, “No. It might be a weapon.”

Trace lifted the edge of the bedspread and peered under. “I think you’re right,” he said. “It looks like a blunt instrument to me. Some kind of statuette or something. And it’s got blood on one end.”

“Nice,” Chico said. “There goes my appetite.”

“If you think that’s going to ruin your appetite, wait until you see what comes next.” Trace said.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got to call Razoni and Jackson.”

“You know what I hate? Besides you two?” Razoni snarled.

“I’m sure you’ll tell us,” Chico said.

“The way you two beanbags keep pestering us. Don’t you think we have anything else to do but run around after you two?”

“Sorry,” Chico said. “Our mistake. We thought the police would be interested in a murder.”

“The police, the police. Right,” Razoni said. “You get the police by calling Nine-Eleven if the goddamn number isn’t broken. You don’t get the police by pestering Tough and me every chance you get. Do we look like the police?”

“He does,” Chico said, pointing to the burly black detective who was standing next to Trace on the other side of the bedroom door. “You sort of look like somebody from the ten-most-wanted list.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Trace said to Jackson, “They’re at it again.”

“Good,” Jackson said softly. “Keeps them occupied. Did you touch anything, Tracy?”

“No. That looks like the weapon under the bed, but I kept my hands off it. Didn’t even touch the doorknobs.”

“Good. That may make things easier.”

“Chico found out something important, though,” Trace said.

“What’s that?”

Behind them, Chico and Razoni had worked their way up to full-throated shouting.

“Let her tell you. It’ll make her feel good and maybe it’ll cut the noise level in here.”

“Good idea,” Jackson said. He called out, “Miss Mangini.”

Chico stopped in midyell and looked at him.

“What was it you learned?” Jackson asked her.

“I was trying to tell this idiot, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“I don’t listen,” Razoni said. “He’s the listening partner. You want to say something, you say it to him, not to me, ’cause I don’t ever want to have to listen to you again.”

“Suits me, Guido,” Chico said, turning her back on him. “I went downstairs to talk to the doorman,” she told Jackson. “He said he didn’t see anybody coming in or asking for Gloria Charterman. But he said there was a car parked in front, in that no-parking spot near the garbage cans, earlier today. He recognized the car.”

“Oh?” Jackson said. Behind her, Razoni was shifting weight from foot to foot in an obvious wish that she would get on with it.

“Yeah. He said it was a brown Lincoln and it had a bumper strip on the front that said ITALIANS MAKE THE BEST LOVERS.”

“That’s true anyway,” Razoni said.

“Harrr,” Chico said. “Anyway, the doorman’s seen the car before, and so have we. Angelo Alcetta. He’s got a car like that with those bumper strips.” She looked over her shoulder at Razoni. “Another Italian monument to bad taste and poor judgment.”

“Car’s not there now, is it?” Jackson said. “I didn’t see any car.”

Chico answered, “No, the doorman said he saw it just before noon. It was there about an hour and he was thinking of calling the police about moving it.”

“He could have called us,” Razoni said. “All the pests call us. Why not him?”

“I gave him your number so he can do that next time,” Chico said. “Anyway, he said he had to go to the bathroom, and when he came back, the car was gone.”

“You’ve seen the car?” Jackson asked Trace.

Trace nodded. “Alcetta was in the office to tell us to keep looking into his wife’s affairs. When he drove away, we saw the car with that stupid bumper strip on it.”

“Okay,” Jackson said. “I guess maybe we ought to get the precinct cops here and see that somebody picks up Alcetta. You two are going to have to hang around to give statements.”

“Not to to me,” Razoni said. “I’m not taking any statements. I don’t work twenty-four hours a day. I want to go home.”

“We’ll get rid of it when the others get here,” Jackson said. He reached for the telephone, picking it up carefully with a handkerchief.

“When you call them, tell them to book these two for withholding evidence,” Razoni said.

“Get lost,” Chico said. “We didn’t withhold anything.”

“For impeding an investigation,” Razoni said.

“All we did was call you,” Trace said.

“That probably qualifies,” Chico said.

Jackson hung up the telephone and Trace said, “Another thing. We heard from Gloria herself and from that Gildersleeve at the Temple of Love that Alcetta had threatened both the Swami and Gloria.”

“Don’t tell us.” Razoni said. “Tell the precinct cops.”

Jackson ignored him. “It may just be that Angelo’s temper has gotten him into real trouble,” he said.

“That’s the way it is with Italians,” Chico said.

Trace’s Log
: Three o’clock in the bleeding morning and Chico has finally gone to bed. I know she’s mad because she spent an hour rearranging my mother’s plastic ashtrays and genuine-wood plaques that say WELCOME TO WILDWOOD, NEW JERSEY.

What’s she got to be mad about? So she expected I’d buy her dinner after her own very first case, and so I didn’t get a chance to because we found that stupid body, but it’s not like she didn’t eat. Every cop in New York kept trying to hit on her and bring her a Big Mac. Aaah, she’ll get over it and I’ll buy her dinner tomorrow or sometime. Maybe I’ll get her something nice in a T-shirt. Maybe with the legend ITALIANS MAKE THE BEST LOVERS.

You know, world, when I came to New York on this misbegotten adventure, I thought I might hang up my tape recorder. Put the little frog microphone away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere and never use it again.

Hah! Fat chance. Now I’ve got a jacket pocket filled with tapes and I don’t think it’s ever going to get any better.

Somehow Chico conned them and she doesn’t have to, but the cops have warned me that I’m going to be called before a grand jury most likely. And then the grand jury is going to indict Angelo Alcetta and then I’m going to spend eternity standing up on the bottom of the Hudson River with my feet embedded in cement. Way to go, Trace. Way to go. The only good thing is that the cops tonight were professional and we didn’t have to deal with that lunatic Razoni.

Where is Sarge when we need him? Why is he gallivanting around Puerto Rico or the high seas or wherever he is by now?

So why did Angelo Alcetta kill his wife? Was he that mad that she was leaving him? He killed her. The cops found a button from his jacket on the floor in the bedroom. That and parking that stupid recognizable car of his right in front of the building make a pretty good case.

He must have a temper, but I still don’t figure him for killing Salamanda, even though Brother Gildersleeve told me today that he had threatened the Swami and Gloria too. Poisoned roses don’t seem like the thing Angelo would do. Maybe Brother Gildersleeve killed them all. Why not? He’s from Pittsburgh, and people from Pittsburgh will do anything. Chico’s mother comes from near Pittsburgh, and she loots for the Pittsburgh Pilots or that’s what she tells me. How do I know Gildersleeve’s from Pittsburgh? Aha, and here you thought I wasn’t a great detective. I know he’s from Pittsburgh because he said “pot” and “caught” and pronounced them both the same way, and they do that only in Pittsburgh. Trust me, this is just another one of the things in which I am expert. I have a good ear. Like I know people from Philadelphia say they’re from Full-uff-ya, and if I were from Philadelphia, I’d try to hide the fact too.

It occurs to me I’m going to get my ass hauled before a grand jury and I may wind up losing my private-eye license before I ever get a chance to apply for one. They may put a black mark next to my name and never let me get a gun. I don’t want to live in a world where Chico’s armed and I’m not.

Maybe I’ll be a writer. Antiwar tracts.
Johnny Got His Gat
has a ring to it, doesn’t it?

I think when they try to blacklist me they should take into consideration the fact that I found out about who took that TV tape of the Swami getting killed and I did what a good citizen would do, I told the cops, or at least the Razoni and Jackson contingent of them. That’s a good service. And I made one old lady happy by making her think I was Roone Arledge and I was going to fire Howard Cosell. Do all our acts of kindness go unnoticed in this world?

Gloria Alcetta told me her husband threatened her. I told that to the cops too, and it occurs to me that I have not really bent over backward to protect the best interests of our client, Angelo.

Well, that’s it, folks.
Birinci, icinci
, and
ucuncu
. One, two, three, I’m going to bed. If Chico will have me. I wonder why Angelo Alcetta didn’t close the door behind him when he left Gloria’s apartment.

“You are Mr. Tracy?”

The man who asked the question was courtly and, despite the summer heat, was wearing a homburg and carrying a dark gabardine raincoat over his arm. His almost-dancerly shoes were mirror-shined; his silk handkerchief matched his silk tie; his skin was olive-tinted tan.

Trace nodded and the man said, “I am Armando Alcetta. May I come in?”

“Please do,” Trace said. He rose behind the desk and Chico got up from the sofa where she had been sitting. Alcetta smiled when he saw her. Trace turned on his recorder.

“This is my associate, Miss Mangini,” Trace said.

“Yes. I saw your name in the paper, Miss Mangini. I did not expect you would look quite so…”

“Un-Italian?” Chico said.

“Beautiful,” Alcetta corrected.

“Thank you,” Chico said as she took the man’s raincoat and hat and hung them on the coat rack in the corner of the room.

“I am Angelo Alcetta’s father,” the old man said as he shook Trace’s hand, then sat down on the threadbare sofa. Young Alcetta had declined to sit on the couch because he didn’t like its looks and alibied that it might wrinkle his trousers. The elder Alcetta obviously didn’t worry about wrinkled trousers, and looking at him, Trace knew why. His trousers wouldn’t wrinkle because they didn’t dare.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Alcetta?” Trace asked.

“You can prove my son innocent, Mr. Tracy,” the man said wearily.

Trace looked at him for a moment, then glanced away. Through the frosted glass of the office door, he could see the figure of a man waiting outside. Armando Alcetta had not come alone.

“Your son hasn’t been charged with anything yet,” Trace said. It was odd, he thought. Angelo Alcetta tried his hardest to look like a Mafia don and wound up looking ridiculous. His father tried to look like an Italian bank president and wound up looking like the King of Sicily in mufti.

“But he will be,” Alcetta said. “I would want you to help him if you could.”

“I don’t know how I can do that,” Trace said. “You probably know, Miss Mangini and I found the body last night. I’ve been warned I’ll have to testify before a grand jury. I will have to tell the truth.” Trace thought the old man was a real presence because, instinctively, Trace had slipped into Alcetta’s formal speech patterns. It vaguely annoyed him.

“I would not ask you to lie,” the old man said. His fingertips were bridged in front of him on his lap and he had the sleek bulged belly of the elderly well-fed. He looked off at the far wall where the
Playboy
centerfolds had once hung, as if he could see back in time and still saw them and was weighing their qualifications.

“Why me?” Trace asked. “There are a lot of detectives in this town.”

“You are Devlin Tracy,” Alcetta intoned emotionlessly. “You live in Las Vegas, where you own a condominium. You are employed as a freelance investigator by Garrison Fidelity Insurance Company. This agency is owned by your father, Retired Police Sergeant Patrick Tracy. The two of you have the same reputation: that you are honest and trustworthy. On a case, you were both described to me as dogs with bones in their mouth, not letting go until you had chewed your way through. That is not meant to be unflattering, Mr. Tracy. It is a compliment. You will, neither of you, be bought off or run off. My Angelo needs that kind of help.”

He looked up and Trace said, “And you are Armando Alcetta and I suspect that you run a small food-importing business—olive oil, no doubt—and I think I resent you having your henchmen go prying about into my father’s and my business.”

Alcetta held up a hand in a defensive gesture. “Forgive me,” he said. “I understand your feeling. Please try, though, to understand mine. My only son is about to be charged with one murder, possibly two. I want help for him and I want to be sure that that help is good help.”

“Suppose we find that Angelo committed both murders? He was heard to threaten both people. His car was seen outside his wife’s apartment. His jacket button was found in the murder room.”

“I want you to look and find the truth,” Alcetta said. “You will not find Angelo to be a killer. He is innocent.”

“If he has an alibi for the murder, why do you need us?”

“There are people who will swear, truthfully, that they saw Angelo. He was busy on company business. If possible, I do not want those witnesses dragged into this matter and will call on them only as a last resort. There is another reason. I can clear Angelo, but that will not bring about the apprehension of the real killer. You can do that.”

“I still don’t know why us,” Trace said.

“First of all, because you already know Angelo through your work regarding his wife. Second, because you are already involved in the case from having discovered poor Gloria’s body. Third, for the reasons I mentioned earlier. I have cause to believe you will not be frightened from seeking the truth, no matter what handy conclusions the police wish to jump to.”

Trace would have sworn the man used a kind of tooth gloss because his teeth were snow-white and sparkled like pearls. Then he realized that what they were was just a very good, very white set of false teeth. This was an old man worried about his only son.

“Let me ask you this,” Trace said. “Why was Angelo so upset about his marriage breaking up? Lots of marriages do.”

“We select our spouses,” the old man said, “but God selects our children.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that my son is basically a good boy at heart. But he has a loose lip and I suspect that he feared he had spoken to Gloria of things he should not have told her. Family matters. I am sure he feared offending me if she should repeat any of the things that he said in some divorce matter.”

“I don’t think threatening her life in front of witnesses was the way to get her to cooperate,” Trace said.

“My son is not always discreet or wise. Sometimes, the boy is a fool. I wish it were not so, but that is it. And there you have it. Will you take this case for me?”

“My father is the senior partner in the firm,” Trace said. “I think I should talk to him first.”

“What do you think his answer will be?” Alcetta asked.

Trace thought of the company’s ridiculous ledgers inside the center desk drawer. “I think he’ll say take the case.”

As Alcetta rose, Trace said, “But with one proviso. If we find Angelo innocent, we’ll tell you. If we find evidence that makes him guilty, we will tell the police.”

“That is fair enough, Mr. Tracy,” Alcetta said. He handed Trace a business card. “I can be reached at that telephone number twenty-four hours a day. I will not interfere with your conduct of the case. However, as a concerned parent, I wish you would keep me abreast of anything you may find.”

“Assuming my father says yes,” Trace said.

“Of course.” Alcetta withdrew an envelope from inside his jacket. “Against that likelihood, I have a retainer for you in here.” He put the white silk-threaded envelope on the desk in front of Tracy. “There is five thousand dollars in there. I trust that will suffice for a start. Please let me know when you need more.”

He extended his hand and Trace shook it. It was a firm hand, dry, not sweaty, surprisingly large.

Alcetta took his hat and coat from the rack, nodded to Trace, then stopped at the door and said formally, “Miss Mangini.”

“Mr. Alcetta,” she said.

He let himself out. Chico started to speak but Trace silently shushed her with a finger across his lips.

He waited a full thirty seconds, then went to the door and looked out into the hallway. Satisfied there was no one there, he went to the front window. Chico joined him, looking down into the street, where a large black Lincoln limousine was slowly pulling away from the curb.

Chico jumped up into the air and squealed, “I love it,” she said. “Michiko Mangini, Mafia detective. You think he can help me get a gat?”

“I think he could probably help you get a Sherman tank,” Trace said.

“He seems like a nice man,” she said.

“You always respond to threats that way?”

“What threats?” she asked.

“Do you really think he did all that research just to satisfy himself that we were pure heart and clean hands?” Come on. The next sentence out of his mouth would have been ‘Ve know vere your family liffs.’ All that courtly bullshit. It’s all threats.”

“Oh, come on, Trace. You’re paranoid.”

“When you deal with the Mafia, it doesn’t hurt to be paranoid.”

“I think he’s just worried about Angelo,” Chico said.

“I don’t doubt it. I just don’t know if Sarge will want anything to do with these people. It might not be good for his reputation.”

“Talk him into it. Mangini, Mafia detective. Talk him into it. Besides, we need the money.”

She was standing at the desk. She had fished the yellow rose Sarge had given her from the waste-paper basket where Trace had tossed it. She pressed the sharp angle-cut stem against Trace’s throat. “Otherwise you’re really in trouble,” she said.

The telephone rang and Trace said, “You get it. It might be the ex.”

Chico said, “Mangini and Tracy investigations,” then said, “Hello, darling. Yes, I changed the billing. Whoever answers the phone gets top billing. It’s Sarge,” she said to Trace, handing him the telephone.

“Hello, son, from the sunny isle of Puerto Rico. How’s it going?” Sarge said.

“Terrific,” Trace said. “I’m having my ass hauled before a grand jury and I’ve got you a great new client.”

“Who?”

“The Mafia,” Trace said.

“Don’t take any checks,” Sarge said.

“Levity. I’m going before a grand jury and what I get is levity.”

“I think maybe you ought to explain what’s going on,” Sarge said.

“Remember the dead Swami we had when you were here?”

“Right.”

“Well, now we’ve got a dead Gloria Alcetta.” Briefly, Trace filled his father in on the facts of the case.

“So they’re going to book Angelo?”

“It seems that way. Unless we get him off the hook for the old man.”

“Your client is going to be arrested, the woman you were watching is murdered. You’ve done real well in your first case, son,” Sarge said dryly.

“I don’t need you abusing me,” Trace said.

“And you’re really going before a grand jury?”

“The cops told me I probably would,” Trace said.

“Hallelujah,” Sarge said.

“Hallelujah? I’m going up the river and I get hallelujah?”

“You’re not going up the river. And yes, hallelujah, because now I have an excuse to get on the next plane and come home.”

“Cruise is that bad, huh?”

“Son, you never saw the like of it. Five hundred fat women who look exactly like your mother and their miserable husbands playing horse-racing on the deck with six-inch-square dice and brooms with horses’ heads on them.”

“How you doing?” Trace asked.

“I’m behind six dollars. And then they eat. Seven times a day they eat. And don’t skip a dessert or you’re being cheated. I sweat cholesterol. I’ve got to get out of here before I die. Everybody on this ship has had a coronary bypass already. I’ve got to get home before I’m next.”

“Sarge, I need you. Come home,” Trace said.

“I knew you’d understand,” Sarge said. “Let me ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you think Angelo did it?”

“I don’t have a better suspect,” Trace said.

“What does Chico think?”

“She thinks no,” Trace said.

“I’m on her side,” Sarge said. “Five thousand dollars, you say?”

“In hundreds.”

“I’m on my way, son. Don’t spend it till I get there.”