Witch House (2 page)

“So, how are my two favorite detectives?” he
said. “Carlos, are you eating well?”

Carlos patted his stomach, which, for a man
his age, still looked impressively flat to me. “Are you kidding?”
he said. “Does it look like I miss many meals?”

I think Jack was about to challenge that,
when I interrupted. “He doesn’t. Trust me, though sometimes I do
wonder where he puts it all.”

Jack let it go at that. He reached out and
tapped my arm, gently. “Tony, how’s your father? Is he still down
in Florida?”

“My father?” Funny how I let that catch me
off guard. My first thoughts were images of a man I briefly knew
and thought was my dad. They called him Pops, and he had only
recently passed away at a hospice downtown. I think Jack saw the
unexpected hurt on my face, perhaps even misinterpreted my blank
stare as a cause for condolences. Then I realized he meant me, the
old Tony Marcella who retired to Florida and never looked back.
“Yes!” I said, snapping out of a self-imposed emotional exile. I
smiled, as if recalling happier times. “He is doing great. I talked
to him just last night. He hasn’t changed a bit. I’ll tell him you
said hi.”

“Do that,” said Jack. “Better yet, let me
have his number. I would love to call him and pick his brain. You
know, I am thinking of retiring soon, maybe to Florida.”

“Are you? All right.” I nodded and kept
smiling, although that was getting harder to maintain. “I’ll
definitely get that to you.”

“Okay, can we get this thing wrapped up?”
This from Sergeant Powell, whose mood was decaying faster than our
vic’s corpse. “I’m on overtime, if you don’t mind.”

I looked at Powell, wanting so much to hit
him. I guess it is an inherent condition in young men. I do not
remember being so impatient and impetuous the last time I was
young. Maybe it is because I know now what I did not know then;
that life to too short to put up with bullshit from assholes like
Powell. I bit my lip and pressed forward.

“So, Jack, what do we have?”

He took a deep breath and let it out with a
sigh. Funny how even after all these years, he still feels a sense
of loss for the human condition every time he pronounces another
death. I watched him cast an empathic eye down on the victim.
“Well, we have a White male here, obviously, late forties, early
fifties. He’s got a single gunshot wound to the chest. It looks
like it went through the heart. It’s a large caliber, probably a
.38 or .357. I’ll know for sure after I get him on the table and
dig it out.”

“What is that mark below his eye?”

Jack shook his head. “A nick, something` hit
him. Was long before he died, though. It’s got some scabbing to
it.”

I pointed. “Did you see his wrist?”

“Yeah, it’s all inked up. Looks like a prison
tattoo.”

“It is,” said Carlos. “It’s the Flying
Pegasus gang tattoo out of Walpole. He probably has a couple more,
one on his back and another over his heart.” Instinctively, we all
looked down at the gunshot wound that likely tore right through
Pegasus’ wings. “Once you’re in that club, you’re protected for
life.”

“Sure,” I said, “maybe on the inside.”

“I guess folks on the outside have no respect
for institutional traditions.”

I said to Jack, “Got a T.O.D.?”

He crossed his arms at his chest and gave a
little sigh. “It’s hard to pin it down, what with the cold and
rain, but I would say somewhere between one and three o’clock this
morning.”

I saw Carlos check his watch. “That’s a long
time in the rain. Probably not much in the way of evidence left
now.”

I looked to Powell. “Have you picked up
anything?”

“What, like shell casings?”

“Yes.”

He drew a bead on me as if I had stuck him
with my javelin-tipped umbrella. “You’re just like your old man,
Marcella. Do I look like I just stepped off the short bus? Of
course I haven’t picked anything up.” He did that heavy snort again
and swallowed. “Except maybe a cold. Can we hurry this along?”

I gave my umbrella to Carlos and asked him to
hold it for me while I kneeled down to check our vic’s pockets. I
reached first into his right side pants pocket and pulled out a few
bills and some change. Seeing nothing extraordinary, I put it back.
His left pocket yielded a wad of lint and a balled up bar napkin. I
unfolded the napkin and saw what looked like a phone number with
the initials PTA written above it. “Take this,” I said, handing it
to Carlos. “I want to know whose number that is.”

“I’ll call it in to Dom,” he said, slipping
it into his overcoat pocket. Dom is Dominic Spinelli. Carlos
handpicked him as my replacement after I retired. He is a young
guy, eager, bright and in every way the product of a
technologically driven society. In no small way, it is thanks to
Spinelli that I got my job back as lead detective after my return
to prime. His courage and wizardry with E.I.N.I., the electronic
intelligence network interface system, at the Justice Center made
it possible. After I graduated from the academy—for the second time
in my life—he was able to somehow merge my official entry into the
force with my previous records as a senior detective and have it
spit out a legitimate title for me. To the computer, I am an old
acquaintance. To the rest of the guys on the detective’s floor, I
am Tony Marcella Junior, son of a local legend; and that’s just the
way I liked it.

The next pocket I fished through was on his
blazer. There I found a woman’s diamond ring, like an engagement
ring. Carlos whipped out a small plastic evidence bag and collected
it. Someone called out for him to hold it up. I saw a flash, heard
a click and a polite thank you from a police field photographer
standing behind me. He continued snapping pictures without
introducing himself. Powell mumbled something about it taking long
enough for him to get there. Carlos and I let it slide.

The other pocket on the blazer turned up
nothing, but his wallet yielded plenty. Inside was forty two
dollars in cash, a business card from a local lawyer downtown named
Paul Kemper and a prison ID card. Now our vic had a name: René
Landau.

“Well, Carlos, you were right about Walpole,”
I said. “This guy just got out.”

He nodded lightly. “Bet he didn’t know that
getting out was a death sentence.”

I shook my head. “No, I bet he didn’t.”

The rain had begun to let up, but the cold
that had crept under my skin now worked its way down to my bones. I
handed the wallet to Carlos, who dropped it into a second evidence
bag. I said to Jack, “I’m ready for some coffee. Can I buy you a
cup?”

“Thanks,” he said, waving off the offer, “but
I have to get back and prep Mister Landau. Jeffery, my assistant,
is away on his honeymoon.”

“Is he? How nice for Jeffery.”

“Yeah, but listen,” he gestured a wave over
the body. “If I find any surprises I’ll let you know.”

“That’s fine.” I turned to Powell. “Sergeant,
do you know what time the bar opens?”

“Why?” He smiled crudely. “You need a
drink?”

“No, I want to interview the bar owner.”

“Oh, I don’t know, after one I guess.”

“All right, then. I trust you’ll let me know
if you find anything interesting.”

He pitched me a look of total apathy.
“Please, Marcella, this isn’t my first homicide.”

“Of course not.” I turned to Carlos. “You
ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

“Jack?” We shook hands. “Always a
pleasure.”

“Same here,” he said, and as we started away,
he called back to me. “Tony!” I glanced over my shoulder. “Don’t
forget, I want your father’s number.”

I waved and smiled at him. “I’ll get it to
you.”

Carlos leaned in under my umbrella and
elbowed me lightly. “How are you going to do that?”

“Forget it,” I said. “Give me the keys. I’ll
drive.”

“Why?”

“I want you to get on your phone and call
Dominic. See what he can dig up on René Landau. If he just got out
of prison, he should have papers. Find out who his P.O. is, or was.
Also, give him that phone number on the bar napkin. See who owns
it.”

“You got it.”

“Oh, and that business card?”

“The lawyer’s?”

“See what we can find out about him, too, and
tell Dominic to hurry. I don’t want this case growing any colder
than it already is.”

“I’m on it. So, where are you taking us, the
office?”

“No, somewhere dry where I can find a decent
cup of coffee. Now start dialing.”

I no sooner got back in the car from a 7-11
stop for coffee, than Carlos informed me Spinelli called with
information about our vic, René Landau.

“You were right about the parole officer,” he
said. “Landau got out of prison yesterday and missed his first
appointment with him this morning.”

“He had a good excuse,” I said. “Did you get
the P.O.’s name?”

“Frank Tarkowski. He’s got an office at the
Justice center.”

“Frank? Sure, I know him. So do you. He’s the
guy with the funny toupee. You always see him hanging around in the
courtyard.”

“The smoker guy?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know he was a parole officer. I
thought he was maintenance.”

“Maintenance? Carlos, the man carries a
gun.”

“Yeah well, those maintenance people are
tough. Have you ever tried leaving the courtyard without taking
your cafeteria tray?”

“No.”

“Ha! Don’t. That’s all I can say about
that.”

Unfortunately, that was not all Carlos could
say about that. The entire ride out to the Justice Center, all he
did was complain about the Gestapo tactics employed by the
maintenance department to keep the courtyard, cafeteria and
restrooms clean. He even went so far as to accuse them of
installing security cameras in the john to make sure people didn’t
drop paper towels on the floor after using them to open the
restroom doors on their way out.

“Why would someone use paper towels to open
the door?” I foolishly asked.

“Are you kidding?” He seemed to think I was.
“I wouldn’t touch the door handle after washing my hands in
there.”

“Why not?”

“Fecal matter, Tony! That’s why not. Why
can’t they make those doors swing out, anyway?”

“Maybe you should suggest it to them.”

He looked at me as though I had just
discovered cold fusion in a bottle. “Yes! I think I will. That is a
great idea. See, we think alike, you and me. You know, nobody gets
me like you—nobody.”

“As if anyone would want to,” I said.

He took that as a compliment.

We had just pulled out onto Jefferson from
the 7-11, when I told Carlos I would get it. He looked at me as if
I was crazy. Two seconds later, my cell phone rang. It was Lilith.
I figured she probably thought of another reason why I was a
selfish, thoughtless, pig-headed, chauvinist slob and she just
wanted to call to let me know it. I asked Carols to hold my coffee
so that I would not accidentally pitch it somewhere while I was
driving.

“Hello, Lilith, did you forget
something?”

Her voice came back surprisingly sweet. “No.
I just wanted to call and tell you that Ursula and I are going out
house hunting.”

“House hunting?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it’s sort of sudden, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, I’ve been thinking about it for a
while. I just wanted to let you know that if you come home for
lunch and we’re not here, there are some cold cuts in the
fridge.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and plenty for Carlos and Dominic,
too, if they’re hungry.”

“Carlos hungry? Do you hear yourself?”

“Yeah I know, what am I thinking? Anyway,
I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling.”

I flipped the phone shut, wondering who the
hell I was just talking to. Carlos saw the expression on my face
and snapped his fingers in front of me to make sure I was watching
the road.

“Y`all right?” He asked.

I smiled, as if just getting it that someone
had played the most awesome practical joke on me. “That was
Lilith.”

“Yes?”

“She and Ursula are going house hunting.”

“Oh?”

“Weird, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Does that mean you get to keep the
apartment?”

My smile evaporated. I swear Carlos can be
such a buzz kill sometimes. I took the events of the last two
minutes and stowed them in a corner of my mind so dark and deep
that I might never think of them ever—or at least until Carlos
brings it up again.

Frank Tarkowski saw us in right away. He
seemed genuinely surprised and saddened when I told him about
Landau. I watched him settle into the chair behind his desk with a
blank stare, his mouth opened just enough to see the top row of his
cigarette stained teeth.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I just talked
to him.”

Carlos and I took our seats across from him.
“When was that?” I asked.

“Yesterday, not twenty-four hours ago, as
they readied him for release from prison.”

“Did he say anything to you about being
worried or frightened about anything?”

“On the contrary, he was excited. He was in
prison for over seventeen years, you know. That’s an awfully long
time.”

“I’m sure it is. Can you tell us what sent
him there?”

“Armed robbery, resulting in a death.”

“Whose death?”

“The armored truck driver’s. René and another
man robbed the truck of a small fortune in casino gambling
money.”

“How small?”

“Six million dollars.”

“That’s not small,” said Carlos. “That’s
large.”

Tarkowski agreed “Still, not worth a man’s
life.”

I asked him, “Did Landau kill the guy?”

“No, René was the get-a-way driver. His
partner pulled the trigger; used a shotgun—nearly blew the man’s
head clean off. What a shame.”