All the Dead Fathers (23 page)

“Anything's possible, but if they couldn't tie it to her at the time…” She paused. “The name was Lasorda?”

“Right. Same as the Dodgers' ex-manager. That's why I remember. First name Gene, or Gino or something.”

She wrote it down, then said, “So … any ideas where Debra might hole up?”

“Not a clue. The house she was raised in was where she and Carlo lived with an aunt after their mother died. Carlo quit school and basically moped around until Debra took him to Chicago. That's after she went to college … and then
law
school, for chrissake. A very bright, very whacked out young lady. Somewhere in there the house was sold, and that whole block's been bulldozed since then. The Outfit guys her father hung with are scattered. You already know about the uncle in Chicago, Polly Morelli.”

“Yeah, but she wouldn't go there. She and Carlo were cheating him on a drug deal when they got caught.”

“That I don't know about, but he might have finally realized it was
her
who killed his brother. When it happened he insisted it had to be some local rival. Anyway, no one thought she went to Polly. She
might
have gone to Italy for a while, but that's not for sure. And there's no sign of her ever coming back into the country. Which doesn't mean she didn't.”

“Coming and going was easier back then,” Kirsten said. “Before nine-eleven.”

“I guess. Anyway … property? None I know about. The aunt who took care of 'em for a while had a place in Sanilac County … up in the Thumb?… and went back there when the kids got older. My partner and I went to see her when Chicago first called. Near a town called … what?… Water-something. I don't even remember going
through
the town. He drove and I slept the whole way.”

“
Water
-something?”

“Yeah, like Waterville, Waterford … something like that. I only remember
that
much because it rained like hell that day. Anyway, it was a rundown house on a rundown farm. Not worth shit. What the aunt—her name was Angela, I think—what she was doing way up in the country I don't know, but she was a Morelli, and as mental as the rest of 'em. Old hag, three hundred pounds easy. Could hardly walk. Told us she'd ‘cut the fucking slut's heart out'—those were her words—if Debra ever showed up there. The last time you called, I had someone check her out again. She went into a nursing home and her place was sold. I guess to pay the bills. She's probably dead by now.” He shrugged. “'Fraid that's it, sugar. Sorry.”

“Well, it's way more than I knew before,” she said. “And I really appreciate it.”

By this time he was standing again. “Look here,” he said, “if you're staying in town overnight and you're free about eight, there's a new Japanese restaurant over on—”

“Y'know, you've been great and I'd love to,” she said, “but—”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

She smiled. “Right. And thanks. I mean it. Thanks a lot.”

40.

Debra identified herself as “Deirdre Anzelmo” and gave her phony story. The woman on the other end of the line—“Mollie” something—sounded halfway intelligent, but Debra had her script well thought out and stayed one step ahead of her. Pleasant but insistent, that was the approach to take.

“Maybe you don't understand,” Debra said. “I'm a lawyer, and my client lives here in Hartford. But her brother lives in Chicago and he suffered a serious spinal cord injury in an accident there, and my client just discovered that the lawyer she retained in Chicago has done nothing at
all
on the case.
Nothing.
This is a major,
major
case, and the statute of limitations will expire in six months.”

“You've said all that already, and I
do
understand, Miss Anzelmo. If you'd give me your number, one of the attorneys in the firm will get back—”

“I
told
you, I don't
want
‘one of the attorneys.' The man who suggested your office said to speak to the head of the firm.” Pleasant but insistent. “I'll call back,” she said. “When will he be in?”

“He'll be out all week, but one of other lawyers, Mr. Candle, can—”

“I suppose I'll have to try a different firm.” She paused. “You mean there's
nowhere
he can be reached, even on the phone?”

“He's at a trial lawyers' conference in Asheville, Miss Anzelmo. He
does
call in for messages, so if you give me your number maybe he can call you back.”

“I'm a sole practitioner, and I'm in the middle of a trial, and you know how
that
is. I'll be in court all day. If I could just call his hotel, maybe sometime this evening? If he doesn't want to take the call or call me back, so be it. It's not like I don't have other names I've been given. But I have to get moving on this.”

In the end Debra got the name and number of the hotel, and was sure it was the threat of their losing a “major,
major
case” that had tipped the scales in her favor. When she didn't call him that night they'd think she'd gotten impatient and contacted a different firm. There's no reason they'd be suspicious.

He was “at a trial lawyers' conference,” and she could easily find out from the hotel exactly what “all week” meant. Circumstances were again causing a change of plans. One had to be both strong and flexible.

*   *   *

Dugan called Mollie to make sure the ship was still afloat. “Any calls?”

“Pretty slow for a Monday,” Mollie said, and read him a list of about a dozen people.

“Larry can handle all of those,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Some lawyer from Hartford, Connecticut, called about a case she wants to refer. A ‘major,
major
case,' she says.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “Aren't they all.”

“This is such a
major
case,” Mollie said, “that the first lawyer the family hired didn't do anything on it at all, and now the statute of limitations is about to expire. The name of the lawyer who called is Deirdre Anzelmo and I think she's a little flaky.”

“Have Larry call her,” Dugan said.

“Said she was on trial and couldn't be reached on the phone. But she
did
say it was a spinal cord injury, so … who knows? I gave her the name of your hotel. I did
not
promise you'd call her back. That's up to you.”

“I won't,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Nothing going on
here
but work,” she said, with the clear implication that he was neglecting the office.

“Yeah, well, same thing here. We're on the go from early morning till late at night. These kids are sharp. You should see how—”

“Y'know,” Mollie said, “I got two calls waiting, so…”

He hung up.

Even if the case that damn Hartford lawyer called about
did
involve a bad injury, it was an old case. Stale. And probably a case where proving fault on someone's part was impossible, or where the guilty party had no insurance. He didn't need another headache.

This damn workshop was enjoyable, but it took a lot of intense work. What he needed right now was a fifteen-minute nap.

He put the Hartford lawyer and her bullshit case out of his mind.

41.

Leaving the Clinton Street police station, Kirsten hurried back to the Impala. At this point she wouldn't bother with newspaper archives about the murder of Father Lasorda. Frontera's statements that the priest was cut up pretty bad, and that there were rumors of him messing around with little girls, seemed to tell the tale. Besides, right now the big questions were: Where was Aunt Angela's farm? Who owned it? Who sold it? And to whom?

It was just past six o'clock. Traffic was heavy and it would be getting dark soon, so she just headed out of town as fast as she could. She'd never heard of Sanilac County, but she knew the “Thumb” of Michigan was straight up from Detroit.

She took I-94 northeast, got off when she'd left the city behind, and cut back west and then north. At I-69 she stopped for gas and a look at the road atlas. She found Sanilac County, and then Waterton, which had to be the town Frontera meant. It was a dot on a thin gray line with no route number. North of Decker, which was west of Sandusky. Those last two towns sounded familiar for some reason, but she couldn't think why they would.

Probably the easiest way to find Debra's aunt's old farm would be to talk to local law enforcement at Waterton. Except they'd want to know what she was up to, and word might get back somehow to the FBI and she didn't want those two idiot agents trying to get her PI license pulled. She had a little clout of her own, and didn't know how easily they could do that, but since 9/11 and the Patriot Act the feds had more power than ever and she didn't want to take a chance. So, no cops.

She had over fifty miles still to go. By the time she got up there it would be dark, and most people more easily put up with annoying questions from strangers in the light of day. The best time was in the morning, when the whole world seemed a little more open and optimistic, and a little less suspicious and hostile.

Actually, she thought, maybe all that time-of-day stuff was in her own mind. But at any rate, she was tired of driving, and she wanted a comfortable place to call Dugan from. She didn't plan to tell him where she was. He didn't have to know everything that was going on.

There were several motels near the interstate and she picked a Red Roof Inn.

*   *   *

It was a warm, sunny morning. Waterton was a bigger town than Kirsten had expected. The downtown was an old-fashioned square. She drove the perimeter, with stores on her right and a well-kept plot of grass with a statue of a soldier and some benches on her left. A lot of the stores were vacant, but there seemed to be a resurgence trying to take place, for the most part cutesy gift and antique stores. There was, though, a real grocery store—a Kroger's—and a drugstore, an appliance store, a diner, a hardware store, and … yes … a real estate office.

BAGGS' REALTY
was painted in an arc on the window and there were a dozen photocopied notices of properties for sale, with fading black and white pictures of houses and farm buildings taped to the glass facing the sidewalk. The front door was held wide open with a piece of clothesline looped around the handle and then over a hook in the wall.

The office was very small, and the woman at the first of two desks—no one sat at the other—looked up from her computer monitor. She was maybe fifty years old, with short gray hair and a bright, helpful smile. A copy of
The Tao of Pooh
sat on the desk, and under it a
New Yorker
magazine. “May I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so,” Kirsten said. “Although I have to say I'm not looking to buy or sell any property.”

The eyes took on a what-else-is-new look, but the smile faded only a trace. “Rent, maybe? We handle some nice fishing cabins along the river.”

“Maybe next summer,” Kirsten said. She introduced herself and said she was a writer. “A freelance journalist, actually. I'm working on a story about the history of organized crime in Detroit, and about the homes in the country some of the gangsters used to have … to sort of get away from it all.”

Before Kirsten had finished, the woman was up and walking across the little room to a coffeemaker on a table against the opposite wall. She turned. “Have a seat,” she said, and nodded to a chair beside her desk. “Coffee?”

“That'd be great.” Kirsten sat down and noticed a game of solitaire on the computer screen. “No cream, no sugar.” She took the large white ceramic mug the woman gave her and sipped. “Wow!” she said. “That's delicious.”

“Thank you.” The woman sat down again and sipped her own coffee. “It
is
good. My name is Eleanor Baggs, and I don't know a thing that could help you at all in your search.” She sounded refreshingly truthful, and not just trying to avoid something. “But that must be so
interesting.
To be a writer, I mean.”

“I always thought so, too,” Kirsten said. “But truthfully? I'm
not
one.” She dug her ID out of her purse. “I'm a private investigator, from Chicago.”

The woman stared, wide-eyed, at the card in the folder, then handed it back. “Oh my,” she said.

Kirsten nodded. “Um … if you want to kick me out, Eleanor, wait until I finish this coffee, would you?”

“The part about gangsters' hideouts? That was true, right?”

“Pretty much so.” Kirsten smiled. “But I'm looking for just one place. It's a—”

“Gangsters I'm not so sure of, but I moved here from New Jersey last year to help out my uncle, and found out they have more than their share of crazies around here. Militia groups, skinheads, extremists who think Armageddon's around the corner.” Eleanor clearly felt like talking. “People say maybe it's something in the soil, or the water. Remember Timothy McVeigh? The Oklahoma City bomber?” When Kirsten nodded she went on. “One of his buddies lived not far from here.”

“Decker,” Kirsten said, knowing now why the name had seemed so familiar. The address on McVeigh's driver's license had been Decker, Michigan.

“Yes. It's a shame, too.” Eleanor shook her head and sipped her coffee. “A lovely little town, and the only thing the world knows about it now is—”

“Memories fade,” Kirsten said. “But I'm looking for a farm where a woman named Morelli lived. The address is Waterton.”

“Is she a gangster?”

“Her brother was. I understand she had a place up here. At least she did until as late as four years ago. I'm told it's been sold since then.”