Witch House (20 page)

“Miss Hot Tamale?”

“I told you about her yesterday.”

“The blond,” said Carlos.

“That’s right, young, blond and
beautiful.”

“Did it seem like they knew each other?”

Pete shook his head and continued loading
bottles into the cooler. “No, like I told you, he got her phone
number. If they were acquaintances, I think they would have hugged
or something when they met.”

“Did the woman leave with anyone?”

“Nope. She left alone after only a few drinks
with him. An hour or so later I looked up and he was gone. That’s
the last I saw of him.”

“You didn’t hear anything strange after
that?”

“Like what?”

“A gunshot, maybe.”

“No. You have to figure it’s loud in here
sometimes, what with the jukebox and people talking above one
another. A freight train could pass by outside and I doubt anyone
would hear it.”

I removed the last photo from the envelope.
“Do you know this man?”

Pete smiled as though I was trying to trick
him. “Sure, that’s Sergeant Powell. He’s in here all the time.”

“Did he come in the night before last?”

“As a matter of fact he did. He strolled in
right around closing. He does that often, you know. He will come
in, cruise up one end of the bar and down the other.”

“Why does he do that?”

“A show of presence, I guess. You see a cop
in uniform at last call, you start evaluating your state of
sobriety, maybe think about turning your keys over to someone less
drunk before you leave. He does that at several bars along
Jefferson. I think it’s a valuable service to the community.”

“A regular Johnny do-gooder,” said
Carlos.

I asked, “Was that before or after Landau
slipped out the back door?”

Pete thought for only a moment before
answering, “Before, definitely before.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I remember something kind of strange
he did.”

“What was that?”

“Well, he came in, like I said, walked up
along the bar here, turned around at the end and started back.
That’s when he spotted your boy sitting over there in the corner.
He walked passed his table, pointed at him with his index finger
out and his thumb up and he did this.” Pete gestured, as if
pointing a gun at Carlos and pulling the trigger, his hand jerking
back in recoil.

“He did that to Landau?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you not think that was significant
enough to mention to us earlier?”

“What, you think Sergeant Powell shot your
boy?”

I did not answer him, but Carlos said, “Of
course not. I’m sure it means nothing.”

“Yeah,” I said, less convincingly. “I’m sure
it’s nothing. Thanks, Pete. You have been a big help. We’ll keep in
touch.”

We stepped outside. Carlos asked, “What do
you make of that?”

“About Powell?”

“Yeah,”

“I think Powell lied to us. He said he didn’t
know Landau was out of prison. Clearly he did.”

“What now?”

“Let’s head back to the office; see if
Dominic has anything new for us.”

“Can we stop at McDonalds on the way?”

“For what? You just ate.”

“I know. I want to get one of them iced mocha
café lattes. Have you had one? They are really good.”

I agreed with some reluctance and a
commitment from Carlos that he would buy me one. I was glad he did,
not because they are tasty, which they are, but because while there
we spotted Frank Tarkowski, René Landau’s parole officer. We came
up in the line behind him, and I had to slap Carlos’ hand as he
reached over my shoulder. He was about to pull on the back of
Frank’s toupee to straighten it out for him. Frank turned around at
the sound of my voice and recognized us immediately.

“Tony! Carlos!” Okay, so yeah, I guess we
were on a first name basis now. “How are you guys, getting some
lunch, are you?”

“Hi Frank,” I said. That seemed to please
him. “No. we were just popping in for a mocha latté. Carlos says
they’re good.”

He leaned around me to gather Carlos’ full
attention. “They are good, aren’t they?”

Carlos smiled wide with vindication. “See,
Tony, I told you.”

“Yeah, great, hey listen, Frank, I meant to
ask you. You said René Landau and Stephanie Stiles were engaged to
be married.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Do you know how long they…dated?”

“Are you asking if they knew each other
before he went to prison?”

“Did they?”

“No. It’s funny, though, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“There is a phenomenon out there known as
prison pets. That is where a woman finds herself a single man
sentenced to prison for a long time, preferable for life, and then
makes him her boyfriend, or if she can, her husband. The thought
among psychiatric professionals is that the woman is probably a
victim of repeated spousal or domestic abuse. She needs the
acceptance and affirmation of an Alfa male, only she is tired of
the beatings and the mistreatment she receives from these bad boys.
By hooking up with a prison pet, she maintains an arm’s length
relationship with him while satisfying her subservient tendencies.
It’s a win-win scenario if you ask me. She gets a man that can’t
ever hurt her, and he gets a little female attention once or twice
a month, something you don’t typically get in prison. I believe it
was his engagement to Stephanie that finally pushed the parole
board to grant him his wish for parole.”

“I see.” I looked to Carlos. He had scooted
around us and placed his order for two iced mocha lattés. “You
know, I met Stephanie Stiles. She does not seem like the battered
spouse type to me.” I tapped Carlos on the back. “What do you
think, Carlos?”

He turned around with his hand out. “I think
I need six bucks. Do you have it?”

“For what?”

“The lattés.”

“Six dollars for coffee? Jesus, Carlos.” I
reached into my wallet and pulled out a ten. “I want change back.”
He smiled, as though he thought I was joking. I thanked Frank for
the info, and for letting us cut in line. He said no problem and
called me ‘Tone’, one syllable, as if Tony is not already short
enough.

Back out in the car, I filled Carlos in on
what Frank told me about women that liked to marry prison pets. “Do
you see Stiles as the submissive enabler type?”

“No,” he said. “I see her as the bitchy bossy
type.”

“Yeah, me, too. I can’t believe she kept
Landau on the line for almost eighteen years only to dump him on
the day of his release.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“I suppose. Come on, let’s get back and see
if Spinelli has dug up anything new for us.”

I think that sometimes I underestimate
Dominic Spinelli. The calls he makes, the channels he surfs and the
rocks he turns over to collect information stops nowhere short of
amazing. In the old days, I used to do the same thing. My tenacity,
often confused for stubbornness, was legendary. The difference is
that my way used to lead me down more dead ends and fewer
throughways than I care to remember. It often took me days to learn
what Spinelli now finds out in only hours. Of course, in my day we
did not have E.I.N.I., that electronic interface gizmo I mentioned
earlier. It is such a helpful information-gathering tool that we
all occasionally take it for granted. Nonetheless, what fruitful
tidbits Spinelli distills from within its circuitry continues to
amaze me.

We spent the first ten minutes upon our
return to the Justice Center filling Spinelli in on our trip to
Pete’s Place. We relayed to him Pete’s positive I.D. regarding
DeAngelo and Chief Running Bear’s photos. Then we told him about
our conversation with Frank Tarkowski. Dominic said he knew about
prison pets, adding that it works both ways, and that
statistically, such arrangements seldom last beyond the first year
or two, and almost never beyond five. “Inevitably,” he said, “the
partner on the outside either regains the confidence of a
subjugated will or resigns to its calling. In any case, she dumps
her prison pet for someone who will either treat her right
or….”

“Or treat her like crap again,” I said.

“Yeah, Pretty much.”

“Okay then, that’s all we got. What do you
have?”

“Only this.” He opened a manila envelope,
removed a small stack of papers and dropped them on my desk. “These
are photocopies of paid receipts for Stephanie Stiles’ rent and
utility bills dating back over sixteen years.”

“Nice, so who is our mystery benefactor,
Kemper?”

“I bet it’s Powell,” said Carlos. “He’s such
a snake.”

Dominic smiled. “You are both wrong. If there
is a snake in the grass, it’s William DeAngelo.”

“Warden Bill?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t get it. Is he dating her, too?”

“It’s hard to say.” Spinelli reached into the
envelope and removed a handful of black and white surveillance
photos. “These are from last night and this morning. Two men and
two women came to see her in that time. One man came alone, one
woman came alone and the other two came as a couple. We don’t know
who they are, but for sure neither of the men were DeAngelo.”

“Interesting.” I picked up the photocopied
receipts and began thumbing through them. “In our interview with
him, DeAngelo told us that Stephanie Stiles had only just started
visiting Landau at the prison, leading us to believe he barely knew
her. Stiles, however, claimed she started seeing Landau almost
since day one. Why would DeAngelo lie about knowing Stephanie
Stiles, and why is he fronting her tab for a riverfront
apartment?”

Carlos said, “It’s the oldest arrangement in
the book, isn’t it? She’s his mistress.”

“No, there has to be more to it than that.
Otherwise, why would he allow her to visit Landau in prison, and
for conjugal visits at that?”

“Maybe he didn’t know about the visits,” said
Dominic. “I’m sure the Superintendent of Operations can’t concern
himself with every single visitor that comes to the prison.”

Carlos and I both gave him
the
look.
“You don’t think he would know about Stephanie’s visits over
seventeen years?” I asked.

He backed down easily. “Not all of them.”

Carlos said, “You suppose that’s what
DeAngelo and Landau argued about the other night in the bar? Maybe
DeAngelo found out that Stiles and Landau were engaged and so he
went there to kill him.”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t go there to kill
him. Otherwise, he would not have made a scene at the table. But he
could have waited out back to kill him later, after getting plenty
pissed during the argument.”

“All right, then.” Carlos clapped his hands
clean. “There you have it: our first viable suspect. DeAngelo had
motive and he had opportunity. What more do you need?”

“A murder weapon would be nice.” I turned and
said to Dominic, “Do you think we have enough probable to get a
subpoena for DeAngelo’s gun?”

He gestured affirmatively. “Between his
statements to you, Pete placing him in the bar and these
receipts…yeah, I think so.”

“Good, then do it. What about Paul Kemper and
Chief Running Bear? Can we get their guns, too?”

“Those will be harder. You don’t have
anything on Kemper, and if Chief Running Bear wants to throw a
roadblock up, all he has to do is petition the Bureau of Indian
Affairs, tell them you’re harassing him and they will shut you down
quick.”

“I don’t care. Try it anyway.”

Carlos said, “Speaking of Chief Running
Bear.”

“What?”

“Well, if DeAngelo killed Landau, what do you
think the big beef was between Landau and the chief’s two thugs
earlier that evening?”

“The money,” I said. “I don’t think anyone
believes it has gone up in smoke. I’m guessing that the chief
wanted to lean on Landau, maybe make him give up information on its
whereabouts.”

“If he refused to tell, then that might have
gotten him killed.”

“So what are you saying, Carlos? So now Chief
Running Bear killed Landau?”

“Maybe.”

“So, it wasn’t DeAngelo?”

“I don’t know. It could have been.”

“Maybe they both killed him,” I suggested,
jokingly.

Carlos seemed happy with that. “Yes! They
both killed him. They both had motive.”

“Ah, but Landau died from a single gunshot
wound. So, which one pulled the trigger?”

“Which one….” He made a face, something akin
to the one he makes when he tries to calculate a fifteen percent
tip on a twenty-two dollar lunch tab, which is not often, since he
seldom pays for lunch. I thanked Spinelli later for offering up an
argument for Chief Running Bear’s plausible deniability.

“Insurance,” he said.

Carlos blinked his brain clear of the
complicated scenario he had devised to explain two killers but one
shot. “What’s that?”

“Insurance. You asked me to check on it. Both
the casino and the armored car carrier had it. Between the two,
they covered the entire loss incurred in the robbery.”

“All right then,” I said. “That takes away
Chief Running Bear’s motive for murder.”

Spinelli said slyly, “Or does it?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means what it means.”

I smiled. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

Carlos said, “I don’t. What’s it mean?”

I said, “It means that just because insurance
covered the casino’s losses, it doesn’t take away the fact that
everyone believes there is still six million dollars out there.
Chief Running Bear would love to get his hands on it just as much
as anyone else would. After all, it was his to begin with.”

Spinelli said, “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Probably nothing, but it is
interesting.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, remember how Chief Running Bear told
you that the reason the casino was moving all that money around was
because of a remodel they were doing to the vault?”